Under the Ice

Each of these flattened, octagonal-shaped radars was as large as a seven-story building, and was pointed northward. An enclosed walkway had been mounted on top of the permafrost. It connected the four separate radar arrays to a central structure. This massive building housed the control room, living quarters, mess hall, recreation room, and power plant. Though all the comforts of home had been included inside its thick walls, Graham still felt suffocated. Thus the reason for this morning’s early, subzero constitutional.

No stranger to cold weather, the young ensign surveyed the bleak landscape and disgustedly spit. Last night, thoughts of desertion had actually crossed his mind. Yet in this isolated, godforsaken wilderness there wasn’t even anywhere close by to desert to!

Shivering when a cold gust of Arctic wind hit him full in the face, Graham turned back toward the compound just as a high-pitched whistle broke the frigid air. A single individual wearing a bright orange parka could be seen standing beside one of the structure’s entry ways waving his arms. As he put his ungloved hands to his mouth, this figure’s deep, bass voice clearly boomed out.

“Hey, Canuck, are you going to join me or not?”

Only then did Graham remember his earlier promise to have a drink with one of his coworkers. Signaling that he had heard himself called, the Calgary native began his way back to the compound.

“I heard that you Canadians were a hearty lot, but this is stretching it a bit,” greeted Air Force Master Sergeant Jim Stanfield.

“Do you realize that with the wind chill it’s twenty degrees below zero out here?”

As the likable New Yorker led them inside, Graham replied, “Your blood just needs a little thickening, Sergeant.”

The interior passageway that both of them were soon walking down was so well heated that Graham had to remove his parka to keep from sweating.

“See anything interesting out there. Ensign?”

quizzed the American, who continued leading the way.

“Actually, I was just taking in the sunrise,” returned Graham.

“Pretty soon, we’ll be losing it altogether.”

“Ah, the infamous black Arctic winters,” reflected Stanfield.

“I always was a night person, so this should suit me just fine.”

They passed by a bisecting corridor that led to the central control room, and the American continued.

“I know some would say it’s a bit early, but are you still up for that drink? I don’t know about you, but after that nine-hour shift we just completed, I certainly need to unwind before hitting the chow line and then the rack.”

“I think that I could manage a nice hot toddy,” answered Graham, who followed his escort into the recreation room. Part health club, part library, the rec room was currently deserted except for a single portly figure grinding away on an exercise bike.

“That’s the way, Smitty,” greeted Jim Stanfield playfully.

“Maybe next time you’ll think twice before taking a second helping of Cooky’s pie.”

“Up yours, Stanfield!” managed the sweat-stained bike rider, between gasps of air.

Grinning at this response, the American master sergeant ducked into yet another corridor. Graham Chapman remained close on his heels. The lighting was subdued in this portion of the complex, and in the distance echoed the spirited sounds of recorded reggae music.

The corridor led them to a narrow entranceway.

Here the door had been removed and replaced with long ribbons of green crepe paper that extended from the top portion of the frame. A bamboo sign was hung above this portal. It read. The Golden Ussuk Club-Member’s Only!

Inside, a warm, clublike atmosphere prevailed.

Tropical plants lined the walls, and a half-dozen cozy bamboo booths were set to the side of a central bar behind which was an expertly rendered mural of Waikiki beach.

Two khaki-uniformed figures sat in one of these booths, sipping their beers and in the midst of a spirited conversation. Jim Stanfield gave them a brief wave before leading Graham over to the bar and commenting.

“Sounds like Jonsey and Pops are talking football again. You know, a damn war could break out, and those two would still be carrying on about whether or not the Bears’ defense was overrated.”

Graham chuckled at this and sat down on one of the bamboo bar stools while his Yank drinking companion walked behind the self-service bar, donned an apron, and asked in his best imitation cockney accent.

“What will it be, mate?”

“A hot buttered rum would certainly warm the cockles of my heart,” answered Graham.

“Sounds good to me. In fact, I’ll join you. Two of Doc Stanfield’s famous hot rum toddy’s on the way.”

While the American expertly mixed their drinks, Graham glanced up at the series of nine-inch-long, rect angularly shaped bones that were hung on the wall just above the mural. There were two dozen altogether.

Though their scientific name was Ussuk, the natives knew them simply as walrus penis bones.