Arctic Wargame (Justin Hall # 1) (15 page)

Thule, Greenland

April 13, 1:40 p.m.

The angel had gray-blue eyes like Carrie, but black hair like Anna. The musical voice of this heavenly creature whispered sweet words into Justin’s ears. Her warm, soft hands began massaging his forehead, slowly and gently, in such a delightful way he felt his entire body responding with a soothing feeling of deep relaxation. Justin stretched his legs, enjoying the coziness of the fresh sheets, the warm blanket, and the overall comfort of his soft bed. His pillow felt much smoother than the ice where he recalled resting his head the last time he fell asleep.

The ice! The ice floe!

As he began remembering the ice floe, Justin’s memory started the unpleasant and irreversible vortex. The angel’s face became blurry, the pampering stopped, and the sweet voice disappeared. The image faded quickly, its pieces falling as if from a jigsaw puzzle. When he opened his eyes, all he could see was a white wall. His entire body felt a constant chilling pain.

“Welcome back, Mr. Hall.”

There’s nothing angelic in his voice. Oh, what a dream.
Justin sighed. Then he smiled.
At least they brought me out of the freezing cold. But where did they take me? Who are they?

“I see this is some kind of a hospital and you’re a nurse,” Justin spoke softly to the young man in scrubs.

He was lying on a bed, in an emergency room, connected by a wire to a cardiac monitor. A couple of gel pads were in place on his left arm. Intravenous lines were attached to his hands. Two metallic shelves, stashed with a variety of medical boxes and bottles, were lined up along the other wall. “Where is this place?” Justin asked.

Before the nurse could answer, Justin glanced beyond the glass door and noticed a Stars and Stripes flag on a mast in the hall. “That’s the American flag. Are we . . . is this the United States?”

“Technically speaking,” the nurse replied. “We’re in a territory under the jurisdiction of the US. The US military, to be exact.”

“The military? And where is this territory?”

“We’re at the air base in Thule, Greenland,” the nurse replied. “How are you feeling?”

“OK. I feel like I have a hangover. My entire body aches, especially the joints.”

The nurse nodded. “That’s normal. You’re recovering from frostbite. I’ll let your regain your strength. I’ll be back in an hour or so.” The nurse headed for the door.

“Wait a second. How did I get here? Where are Carrie and Anna?”

“That’s the rest of your crew, I imagine.” The nurse turned around. “You were rescued on the coast of Ellesmere, somewhere south of Cape Combermere. Everyone is doing well. Relatively well, considering your body temperature had dropped to ninety-three degrees when our rescue team found you. We stabilized everyone in the medical chopper before the flight back.

“When you got here, our only option was to perform active and passive core rewarming procedures. I’ll save you the medical lingo; all I’m saying is that you were almost dead, but now you’re no longer in danger.”

Justin lifted his arms to look at his hands, carefully not to detach the intravenous tubes. He disturbed the injection site on his left arm and winced in pain. The catheter’s sharp bevel pierced his skin.

“Stop. Don’t do that.” The nurse reached for Justin’s hand and rearranged the catheter and the tubing.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to. I was just checking for frostbite blisters.”

“There are none. Hypothermia seems to have left no physical scars on your body. The same is true for your friends. No hemorrhagic blisters, no dead tissue, no permanent damage to your skin or muscles. I guess you’re a lucky crew. A few days of rest and, if there are no complications, you should be on your way. However, not before talking to our commander. I don’t guarantee you’ll come out without any psychological scars after
his
interrogation.”

Chapter Thirteen

Thule, Greenland

April 13, 5:30 p.m.

Colonel Richard Clark was the commander of the 821st Air Base Group at Thule. The man in charge of the entire base, who had ordered the rescue mission, and saved the lives of Justin’s team. The commander’s receding hairline had spared a few bushy white patches around his large ears. His crisp navy blue uniform, white shirt, and matching blue tie indicated his utmost attention to detail. When Justin had asked earlier, the nurse had described the man with a few words, concealing the fact that his short stature matched perfectly his short patience.

“I’m glad to see you’re doing well,” the commander said. His deep voice was warm, and his black eyes displayed a real concern about Justin’s condition. “The doctors have done a great job.”

“Thank you, Commander, for everything you’ve done.” Justin rearranged the pillows behind his back. He adjusted the angle of the bed frame, in order to sit up straight when talking to the commander.

“Can you tell me what was it you were doing in the middle of the ocean?”

Justin had anticipated the question, fearing the commander would be able to see through his well-planned lies. As a CIS operative, he could disclose neither his profession nor the nature of his Arctic mission.

“Our boat capsized and became useless. So we scrambled to build a raft.” Justin worded his reply briefly and kept it vague, tricks he had learned since the early days of the CIS training.

“Uh-huh,” the Commander said and squinted, as if checking the truthfulness of Justin’s words by studying his facial expression. “And you were sailing the High Arctic for what purpose?”

Justin swallowed before replying. “We were collecting data on a research project, Commander.”

“I see. And whom do you work for?”

“I’m with the CRI, that’s the Canadian Research Institute, out of Ottawa.” One of the front organizations the CIS used for cover operations.

“So you’re scientists, you and your colleagues?”

“Yes, we’re geologists.”

He paused to think about Justin’s reply. “And you were gathering data on . . .”

“Our project is related to . . . hmm . . . the study of ice thickness and its melting rate over the last year.”

“Oh, I see.”

The commander’s eyes continued to search Justin’s face for any hints of pretense. Justin wondered why he was taking so long to call his bluff. The odds of Carrie and Anna concocting the same exact tall tale were slimmer than being struck by lightning in a submarine.

“I don’t believe I asked you for your name.” The commander began pacing at the end of Justin’s bed.

I hope he’s not starting the interrogation from the beginning.

“My name is Justin Hall.”

“What was the purpose of your mission to Ellesmere Island?”

Justin blinked and did a double take.
That’s exactly where he’s going, back to the beginning.

“I told you, Commander, we were gathering information for our research project on—”

“Geological ice thickness. I heard you lie to me once,” the commander interrupted him. He leaned over Justin’s bed, drawing closer to his face. He was so close Justin noticed a thick blood vein pulsating on the commander’s right temple.

Justin flinched. In a flash, he was back in his Libyan prison cell, the interrogator’s hands clamped around his throat.

The commander’s voice, erupting in a stern roar, brought Justin back to reality. “Here, I’m measuring the thickness of your bullshit.”

“Huh, what?” Justin spread his hands, his face feigning utter confusion. “I don’t understand, sir.”

“I took the same crap from your associates. They fed me the same lies about your boat crashing or sinking or capsizing, while three helpless geologists or meteorologists were working their asses off collecting data on ice thickness or weather patterns, depending on which one I chose to believe.”

Justin shrugged in silence. He decided to make a last-ditch effort to cover up the truth. “We struck a piece of drift ice and that’s why our boat—”

The commander cut him short. “Enough with this crap! Your story doesn’t add up. It doesn’t explain the fact that your clothes were dry when my men found you, and why there were no IDs on any of your crew members. No radios, no PLBs, no satphones, nothing. It looks like someone robbed you and left you to die.”

Justin took a deep breath before opening his mouth, but the commander held up his right hand as he stood tall again. “I’m not finished. I don’t know many geologists or meteo-whatever-ologists who from scrap can build a fully functional raft, manage to keep it afloat in ice-infested waters, at seventy-seven degrees North latitude, and guide their team to safety until rescue arrives. I don’t know about in Canada, but, back home, we have a name for such folks. We call them ‘special agents.’”

Justin tried to voice his objection, but the commander shook his head. He asked, “Are you Canadian, Justin?”

“Yes, and let me explain—”

“Are you a Canadian secret agent?”

“No, I’m not a secret agent.”

“Don’t lie to me!”

Justin drew in a quick breath. “Sir, if what you’re saying is true,” he said quietly, “about the odds of simple geologists surviving an Arctic shipwreck, then you know I can’t admit anything to people without a security clearance.”

A tense silence hung in the small room. For a moment, Justin found it hard to breathe, as if all oxygen had been pumped out of his lungs. A nurse knocked on the glass door and made her way in, dragging a meal delivery cart. She sensed the tension and looked at the commander for instructions.

“Leave!” he ordered her with a dismissive glare.

The nurse pushed away her cart.

The commander said, after waiting until the nurse slid back the glass door, “You can’t tell me who you are or what you were doing freezing to death. Can you give me anything about your situation?”

The moment of truth, but not of the entire truth.

“We’re in grave danger, Commander.” He chose his words carefully and pronounced them in a friendly tone. “And we desperately need your immediate help.”

The commander’s thick eyebrows arched back. He asked, “Who is we? What grave danger? Can you be more specific?”

“Canada . . . and the Unites States. The immediate threat comes from Danish troops—”

“Danish? Seriously?” the commander burst out in a good-spirited laughter.

“Yes, Commander, I’m not joking. I’m talking about Danish troops. We’ve always waved them off as little more than a political pain in the butt. But they have the capacity of launching a military attack against Canada, and they’ve already started their attack.”

Seriousness returned to the commander’s face. “Do you have any evidence to back up your allegations?” he asked. “Are you aware that my air base is on Danish soil, and three Danish senior officials are a crucial part of my staff? I can’t allow you to drag their good reputation through the mud.”

“That’s not at all my intention, sir. With all due respect, I don’t think those officers would know anything about these plans.”

“Lieutenant Colonel Eichmann with the Royal Danish Air Force is not a simple officer.”

“It doesn’t matter, Commander. I believe the Danish operation is top secret. Very few people would know about it.”

The other man folded his arms across his chest. “Let me ask you again, Justin, what is your evidence?”

“The raft. We built the raft out of logs found in the debris of a Danish depot. The Siriuspatruljen, which store supplies and—”

“I’ve met a few of the Siriuspatruljen. Brave men, and I know about their excellent job. What were they doing on Ellesmere Island, if that’s what you’re insinuating?”

“We found a military radio and other rubble, which assert that Danish troops have, at the very least, violated the Canadian sovereignty, by setting foot in our land without authorization.”

“Where is this alleged radio? Or did you lose it when your boat tipped over?”

Justin sighed and bit his tongue. He could not tell the commander how Alisha had backstabbed them. It would raise more questions and doubts in the commander’s already skeptical mind. “I don’t have the radio any longer, Commander.”

“So, let me clarify this: All you have is a far-fetched story about a disappearing military radio, on which you base a mountain of crazy accusations. You know what I have? I have three uninvited and unwanted guests, who require extensive and expensive medical attention, lengthy reports and explanations to my superiors and to the Canadian authorities about my search and rescue, and this nonsense about an invasion from Denmark, of all places.”

Justin decided to reveal another piece of information, in an attempt to persuade the commander. “We’ve found a lot of weapons. Danish machine guns, Let Støttevåbens. They’re planning an attack against Canada. I’m absolutely sure about this.”

“Now the plot is getting thicker. Let me guess the answer to my own question, you don’t have any of these guns, do you?”

Justin heaved a sigh of defeat. “They . . . hmm . . . I know where they are.”

“Did you find these machine guns in the depot?”

“No, but witnesses have confirmed the origin of the weapons, which is Denmark, the Royal Danish Army.”

“Are these witnesses available for questioning, and will they corroborate your story?”

“No,” Justin said, shaking his head. “I’m afraid they’re not.”

“No? Why not? Have you
lost
them too?” The scorn was very clear in the commander’s voice.

“The witnesses are gone. They’re dead.”

“You know, Justin, you would make a great storyteller. You’re just making up this entire story to distract me from whatever you and your associates were cooking up in Ellesmere, aren’t you?”

“No, no, of course not. You’ve got to believe me. This is real. It’s all true. The Danish are not stupid. They wouldn’t start an all-out war. Difficult to keep that a secret. The probability of being detected by the Canadians or the Americans is reduced to a minimum if the Danish Army is planning a single and isolated attack.”