She ignored the ring, which replaced the vibration, and looked outside the double-glazed window at the snowstorm. The walls and the roof of the one-story mobile structure squeaked and groaned under the whip of the blowing snow and the strong wind gusts. So, my friends were able to ask for help by using a distress signal. And they did this under my own freaking nose! Stupid beacon! I wonder what else they’re doing instead of freezing and dying. Stubborn little bastards! I should have shot them in the head.
She cursed her choice and swore that if the weather did not kill them, she was going to make sure she finished her job with her own hands. She walked to the bathroom and kicked open its door. Kiawak lay on the floor, blindfolded and handcuffed to the bathroom radiator. Alisha removed his blindfold and checked his eyes. They were droopy, bloodshot, and narrow because of the injection she had administered to him twice in the last thirty minutes.
A small doze of the sodium-based sedative cocktail impaired the target’s judgment, numbing his senses and instincts. Most importantly, it proved to be a reliable source of harvesting information from unwilling subjects. The substance destroyed all defense mechanisms in the victim’s brain, releasing every true fact and detail stored in their memory.
“Kiawak, Kiawak,” Alisha whispered next to his ear.
“Hhhh,” Kiawak groaned, his head jerking left and right, and his eyes rolling up and down. “What? Who?”
“It’s me, your grandma. How are you, my boy?”
“OK, OK, grandma, but it is cold, a little cold.”
“Your girlfriend called earlier. She wants to see you.”
“Tania? She’s here?”
“No, she wants us to visit her. Can you tell me where she lives?”
“Eh… eh… I don’t know.”
“Please, Kiawak, where does she live?”
“OK, her house is the second from the…”
Chapter Eleven
Domingo, one of the technicians on duty at Satellite Tracking Station Four, was returning from his coffee break. The only thing in common between the cafeteria’s coffee and the Starbucks gourmet he used to enjoy back at his home in Seattle was the color. Two weeks into his new job as a Satellite Communications Assistant, one of a few dozen civilian contractors in the 821st Air Base Group in Thule, he was still suffering withdrawal from his preferred espresso dark roast.
“What’s up, hombre?” Technical Sergeant Bryan greeted him, as soon as Domingo stepped inside the station’s control room, a small, windowless cube. An array of cables snaked around two tables covered with electronic gadgets and notepads. He fought with them for a place to lay his paper cup, before stumbling into his chair.
“Crazy time to get this… this dark piss they call coffee. Anything interesting happen while I was gone?”
“Nope, nada.” Bryan pointed at the monitor on his workstation that displayed data signals from satellite dishes mounted above the station. “As you can see, it’s too cold even for Russian bears to roam outdoors.”
Domingo gave the screen an indifferent glance. “Do you ever wonder what we’re doing here?”
“Work. For a living.”
“No, I mean, our troops here in the air base. The 12th Space Warning Squadron, the Security Forces Squadrons, these ballistic missiles all over the place, and a thousand or so people working like ants, day and night.”
“Do you want me to repeat our patriotic mission statement?” Bryan sat straight up in his chair but did not bother to stand up. “Our mission here,” he said, deepening his voice, “is to perform support for tracking and commanding operations of the United States of America and—”
“No, not that. I want Bryan’s no-bullshit answer.”
“All right then, since you’re asking for it. But no complaining after I’m done, if the truth hurts.”
“Give it to me straight, buddy.”
“We live in the new oil rush era. We’re literally sitting on a pot, no, millions of pots, barrels, of black gold. It’s all about the oil, baby. We’re here so Uncle Sam can claim it.”
Bryan put his feet up on the corner of his table, ignoring a notepad whose pages began to crinkle under the heel of his boots and crossed his hands behind his head.
“That’s it?”
“No complaining. I warned you.”
“That’s your best explanation?”
“Sorry, my poor dreamer from Seattle, but that’s the only logical explanation. What else do you want me to tell you? The Russians are going to attack us? If they held back when that crazy Khrushchev was doing the Cold War dance, why would they start a war now, when they’re not even half as powerful? Besides, you know how much defenses and satellites we have in place here? No? Well, let me tell you.”
Bryan lowered his voice. “I’ve been here three years and I’ve seen every corner of the base. This place’s a fortress. It was built in just three months in 1951 in total secrecy. The Blue Jay operation they called it. The base was built extremely fast but also exceptionally well. Some of the buildings, this one included, we still use today. At the peak of the Cold War, in 1961, this place had ten thousand people, ten thousand trained soldiers and airmen. Can you imagine all that? Jet fighters, icebreakers, a full army. We were ready to begin our assault against the Soviets and send enough bombers to blast Moscow like it was the apocalypse. The Kremlin would be pulverized before a comrade could ask, ‘What the hell was that?’“
Domingo soaked up Bryan’s explanation, acknowledging his attention with the occasional nod.
“On the other hand, our DEW, the Distant Early Warning system, had over seventy radar stations, communication centers, radio signal interception towers, the works. From Nome, Alaska in the west, and all the way to Thule, Greenland in the east, no snow goose could flap its wings without beeping its position on our radars. Regardless of the ongoing dismantling, we still have countless eyes in the sky, our stealthy satellites. So, what do you think?”
“Fascinating, but I still think we’re here for a higher mission.”
“Dude, the only thing high here is you.” Brian deepened his voice again and dragged his words as he said, “You sure that’s only coffee in your cup, and you didn’t sweeten it up? Huh, you know what I mean?”
“You’re hilarious, you know,” Domingo replied with an annoyed groan.
“I thought you were acting stupid when you first asked your question.”
“The one about what we’re doing here?”
“Yeah, bro, yeah, that one,” Bryan continued in his mocking voice.
“No, I’m really curious. I wonder if the Russians are ever going to make a move. If this is, as you say, the new oil rush, shouldn’t they be here already, to beef up their claims?”
“Oh, the Russians are here, all right. There’s always a submarine or two in international waters and sometimes in the Canadian waters. They’re just like sharks, circling around their prey, waiting for the right moment to clamp shut their jaws. I’ve no idea when and if all hell will break loose, but I hope it’s not on my watch. The thing is the Russians know it’s a war they can’t win. We’ll kick their ass in the end, of course, but the blood cost will be so high, I don’t think our generals we’ll send us into battle. Unless, the Russians throw the first punch, but, like I said, that’s unlikely.”
“So, what about the oil then?”
“Oh, the Russians are trying their hand by launching all kinds of scientific expeditions, geological, topographical, measuring the continental shelf, and all that science bull. They’re playing nice, for the time being.”