Absently gazing out to the eastern horizon as the Arctic dawn continued to take shape, Graham mentally calculated that he had at least one hundred and eighty days left at this icebound outpost. After that time, command had promised he’d be transferred back to Esquimalt with a full rank’s promotion.
Though it didn’t seem like that long a time, six months was an eternity here at the distant early warning station known as Polestar. Making matters even worse was the fact that he was the only Canadian in a complement of fifty-five grubby Yanks. Why the only thing he had to look forward to were the weekly trips into Arctic Bay to pick up supplies and the mail. And even those trips were depressing, for the so-called town was little more than a collection of dilapidated Jamesway huts, holding an odd collection of squalid Eskimos.
If only his work was interesting, at least that portion of his stay would go quickly. But most of his duty time was spent perched before a radar screen, waiting for a Russian sneak attack that in all probability would never come to pass.
Polestar was the newest addition to the legendary DEW line, that was first built in the 1950’s to monitor the approach of Soviet prop-driven long-range bombers. Since that time, the character of the enemy’s strategic forces had drastically changed, and it was the threat of a surprise attack by the so-called Stealth aircraft that most concerned them.
To track these sophisticated planes from their takeoff phase onward, Polestar relied on a revolutionary new technology known as Over-the Horizon-Backscatter, or OTH-B for short. The system could cover airspace for a distance of over 2,000 miles. It did so by projecting a high-frequency signal off the ionosphere.
The reflected echo returned to the sending installation by a similar route, and was all but resistant to enemy jamming because the Soviets were still confused as to the exact frequencies that were being utilized.
Though Graham didn’t doubt the system’s effectiveness, what he did have misgivings about was the necessity of such an installation’s existence in the first place. Just as the strategic delivery systems had changed over the years, so had the statesmen that controlled them. Unlike in the 1950’s, today every responsible citizen of the planet understood the folly of nuclear war. Such a conflict would have no winners, for the resulting radioactivity would poison the atmosphere and create a living hell for any unlucky survivors.
A new generation of enlightened leaders was currently changing the character of enemy number one.
The Soviet Union was no longer the evil empire it had been rumored to be in the past. Socialism was gradually mutating, blending in capitalism and free enterprise to insure its future survival.
Currently leading the Soviets into the twenty-first century was an energetic, charismatic Premier by the name of Alexander Suratov. Graham liked the man from the very first time he saw him speaking on the evening news. He was young, dashing, and full of vigor.
Publicly admitting that the unparalleled arms race that had taken place during the last four decades was decimating the Soviet economy, Suratov was an exponent of total nuclear disarmament. To begin this long, difficult process, he advocated creating nuclear-free zones throughout the globe. One of the first regions he’d picked to ban such weapons was the Arctic. And to prove the seriousness of his intentions, he was about to embark on an unprecedented journey to Ottawa, where he was scheduled to meet with both the Canadian Prime Minister and the US President to sign an Arctic demilitarization treaty. This was a bold first step, and Graham prayed that the three leaders would reach an accord quickly.
Well aware that the plane carrying the Soviet Premier would soon be showing up on their radar screen, Ensign Graham Chapman turned to take in the installation that would be tracking this aircraft. Polestar was comprised of four massive OTH-B radar units. 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.