Under the Ice

Not bothering to take the time to question the American, Graham wiped the sleep from his startled eyes and rose to dress himself. Minutes later, he was standing in the control center, along with some other concerned technicians. All eyes were focused on the main display screen, where a single red star was visible directly over the North Pole. Glancing up to the large digital clock that was mounted above the screen, Graham spoke.

“I don’t get it. If that’s the correct time, why hasn’t the Flying Kremlin progressed farther than that? I thought that they’d be flying almost directly above us by now.”

“They most probably are,” replied Jim Stanfield succinctly.

“Then what’s that red star doing above the Pole?”

continued the confused Canadian.

“That, my friend, is a Soviet Tupolev Tu-20, Bear-E reconnaissance plane,” returned Stanfield.

“We first tagged it a little over two hours ago, right before the Flying Kremlin began altering their flight plan.”

Looking again to the giant display screen, Graham again queried.

“What do you mean, altering their flight plan? Has something happened to the Premier’s plane?”

Stanfield shook his head.

“Right now, we just don’t know. All we’ve got for certain is that approximately twenty minutes ago, the Ilyushin-76 carrying Premier Suratov left its prearranged cruising height of 42,650 feet, and began steadily descending. Since Polestar was scheduled to go off-line at this same time. Captain Schluter contacted Cheyenne Mountain and received permission to remain active, for as long as it took to get a firm lock on the Premier’s plane. We thus remained briefly on-line, and what we subsequently learned shocked the dickens out of us. For the Flying Kremlin was located flying less than twenty-thousand feet off the ice pack’s surface, and headed straight for us!

“Needless to say, with that Bear recon circling nearby, we immediately went silent. What you’re seeing now is being relayed to us by Thule.”

“Maybe they’re just having mechanical difficulties of some sort,” offered the optimistic Canadian.

Nodding thoughtfully, Jim Stanfield pointed to the glassed-in balcony that directly faced the glowing display screen.

“Though I seriously doubt that’s the case.

Right now those two are the only ones around here who most likely know what the hell is going on up there.”

Looking up to the balcony, Graham spotted two seated officers. One of these bespectacled figures was Captain Carl Schluter. Sitting close beside him, his bald scalp shining in the bright track lighting, was the base commander. Colonel Oliver Paxton. With a red telephone handset cradled close to his ear, Paxton seemed to be in the midst of an animated conversation.

“I’ll bet my pension that the old man is on the horn with CINCNORAD. He most probably wants to know if Polestar should go active or not.”

Graham nodded, and with his eyes still glued to the glassed-in balcony, watched as Captain Schluter picked up a white telephone. Seconds later, the phone at the monitor console that lay directly beside Graham began ringing. An alert technician quickly answered it, and with his palm covering the phone’s transmitter, began frantically scanning the lower portion of the control room. He halted his search when his gaze locked in on the gangly figure that stood beside the coffee machine.

“Hey Kowolski, the captain wants you on the double!”

cried the seated technician.

Graham watched as Sergeant Vie Kowolski hurriedly made his way over to the console. The two had played chess together, and Graham had been some49 what surprised to learn that Kowolski had been born in the Soviet Union, though his parents had emigrated to the United States when he was but a youngster.

Kowolksi was the type of individual who always seemed to be in some sort of disciplinary trouble, yet he was on his best behavior as he took the telephone from the technician, listened to what the caller had to say, mumbled a brief reply, and hung up the receiver.

As he addressed the airman who had called him over to the phone, Graham scooted over closer so that he could hear for himself what the Russian-born sergeant had to say.

“The colonel wants me to contact the 11–76. Can you get them for me, Smitty?”

“No trouble. Vie. Hang on a sec while I give them a ring.”

Reaching up to activate his transmitter, the technician expertly dialed a large, black frequency knob, waited a second, and then turned to give Vie Kowolski a thumbs-up. Without hesitating, Kowolski picked up a lightweight headset and began speaking fluent Russian into its miniature transmitter. As he pressed the speakers to his ears to listen for a response, he somberly shook his head, and tried yet another burst of Russian into the microphone. He tried several more times before giving up and reaching for the intercom.

“It’s useless. Captain. I can get through to them all right. But all they give me is some frantic, garbled crap saying that their radio is on the fritz. It certainly doesn’t sound kosher to me, sir.”