Under the Ice

“That’s because this little course change is all part of a carefully planned scenario,” offered Ben Wagner, whose silver-gray hair glistened in the muted green tones thrown off his computer display terminal.

“It’s all too obvious what the Reds are trying to pull off here, Tom.”

“So you still think the Russkies are utilizing the It76 as a tickler?” retorted CINCNORAD.

“That’s affirmative,” answered Wagner.

“We all know the Russians have been dying to find out what frequencies Polestar transmits on, ever since we first went on-line. Can you think of a more perfect probe than the Flying Kremlin? Assuming that we wouldn’t dare question a Mayday coming from a plane carrying their Premier, the Reds are gambling that we’ll turn on Polestar to track this so-called crippled aircraft, while meantime that Bear records the exact frequencies Polestar operates on. Then when it comes time to initiate a future attack, they’ll know just how to jam our most sophisticated Arctic radar station.”

CINCNORAD nodded.

“Sounds convincing, Ben.

But do you really think the publicity-shy Russkies would dare send the Flying Kremlin on such a mission?

After all, I can’t think of a much more high-profile flight than this one. Why every news service on the planet is covering it.”

“All the more reason for them to think they can pull it off,” Wagner shot back. He scanned the central display map and suddenly saw a pair of blue flashing lights become visible just off the northwestern coast of Greenland.

“It looks like the ceiling has finally lifted in Thule, because there’re those blessed Eagles we’ve been waiting for all morning!”

This hopeful statement was accented by the shrill, distinctive ring of a telephone. Briefly catching his subordinate’s concerned stare, Thomas Laird reached down to the console and picked up the sole red handset.

“Yes, Mr. President,” greeted CINCNORAD. “…I understand, sir. But if you’ll just give us another fourteen minutes, we’ll have this mystery solved once and for all. You see, those F-15’s we’ve been waiting to launch have finally gotten airborne.”

A worried expression crossed Thomas Laird’s face as he intently listened to his Commander in Chief.

“But Mr. President, what about that Bear recon platform that’s still circling the Pole? We feel it’s all too obvious that what we’re witnessing is not a mechanical breakdown at all, but a deliberate attempt by the Russians to further probe our air-defense system.”

Thomas Laird winced as the voice on the other line came through even stronger. There was defeat in CINCNORAD’s hushed tone as he humbly replied.

“Yes, Mr. President. I understand your position.

We’ll do so at once.”

As he hung up the receiver. Laird solemnly addressed his second-in-command.

“Get back on the horn with Oilie Paxton, and tell him to crank up Polestar.”

Looking on as disappointment registered on Benjamin Wagner’s face, CINCNORAD grimly mumbled.

“I hope to God the President is right. Because if this isn’t a legitimate air emergency, the Russkies are about to reap a god damned intelligence field day!”

The night that had just passed had been one of the longest of Ootah’s young life. Kept awake by his father’s worsening cough, both Ootah and his wife did everything they could to relieve the old man’s discomfort. Extra fat was thrown on the lamp in an effort to sweat the evil spirit out of Nakusiak’s diseased body. With the assistance of several fur blankets, his fever broke, yet the hacking cough that continued to bring blood to his lips seemed to further intensify. It had gotten so bad that it was difficult for the old man to even breathe properly.

Unable to get down any of the walrus meat, Naku siak’s strength continued to ebb. His cheeks and forehead were sallow, and it took supreme effort for him to sit up and relieve himself.

Remembering the sorrow that had crossed his heart when his mother had died, Ootah became desperate.

In no mood for another burial, he racked his mind in an effort to come up with a cure. It was Akatingwah who suggested making a trip into Arctic Bay to bring back one of the white medicine men.

Ootah was seriously considering such a drastic move when Nakusiak forcefully intervened. Between violent fits of coughing he implored them to keep such a sorcerer far from their igloo.

“Please son!” he pleaded between gasps of air.

“You mustn’t dirty my soul now that I’m about to be visiting our ancestors. If I must die, let it be amongst my own people.”

Ootah did not dare go against his father’s iron will, and gracefully backed down, suggesting instead that he go and fetch Powhuktuk, the shaman. Nakusiak gave him his assent, and off Ootah went on this desperate mission of mercy.