The Soviet Premier's airplane suddenly veers off course, far above the frozen Canadian wilderness — and shockingly close to a brand new, state-of — the-art NORAD radar installation. Is the Soviet action a simple error or a tactical slap in the face?A squadron of crack F-15 interceptors and a squad of Canadian Arctic rangers race to the region where the plane has disappeared. Simultaneously, the new Baffin Island radar station goes active, showing NATO's hand, but poised to fend off a global crisis with the highest stakes. The U.S. Naval Arctic Weapons lab provides support with an untested surface scanning fathometer mounted in the hull of the U.S.S. Defiance, skippered by Captain Matt Colter and monitored by the device's inventor, Dr. Laurie Lansing.The Soviets counter by rushing an awesome Akula class attack submarine in the hand of young Captain Sergei Markova to search for signs of the plane beneath the Canadian pack ice — that is, unless the NATO forces get there first. With all of the technological might of East and West homing in on the pressure point in the icebound Davis Straits, cracks appear in ice and men, and a showdown unfolds with terrible stakes — the fate of humanity itself.
“The lure of the North! It is a strange and powerful thing. More than once I have come back from the great frozen spaces, battered, worn and baffled, sometimes maimed, telling myself that I had made my last journey thither…. But somehow, it was never many months before the old restless feeling came over me. And I began to long for the great white desolation, the battles with the ice and the gales… the silence, and the vastness of the great, white lonely North.”
“Star Wars will not work without the early warning system, and that depends on Canada. There is no military scenario in the northern hemisphere in which Canada (or at least Canadian real estate) does not play a crucial role.”
“Our doubts are traitors, And make us lose the good we oft might win By fearing to attempt.”
The author wishes to thank Calgary’s Glenbow Museum, and the staff of Banff Centre, who helped make my stay at the Leighton Artist’s Colony a comfortable, enjoyable one.
The wind blew in cold, northernly gusts. Oblivious to the icy chill, Ootah directed his gaze solely at the narrow pool of open water that lay at his feet.
Warmed by his double-thick, caribou-skin parka, the twenty-nine-year-old Inuit hunter patiently waited for a ringed seal to surface and breathe. When one of these sleek mammals showed itself, he would spear it with the ivory-tipped harpoon that he carried at his side. And once again his mouth would be filled with the sweet taste of fresh, red meat.
It had been three days since he had last eaten, and his stomach growled noisily. Since he hadn’t been forced to choose the life of a hunter, he had long since learned to live with his hunger. Yet could he say the same for his wife, young son, and sick father who waited for him back at the igloo? Surely they had consumed the last of the seal meat, leaving them with nothing but frozen snow to fill their empty bellies. It was thus for his family’s sake that Ootah remained at his icy vigil, with nothing but his hunger and the howling wind for company.
Silently staring into the dark blue depths, Ootah projected his will downward, into the liquid realm of the elusive creature he so desperately sought. It had been his father who long ago taught him the utter importance of treating one’s prey as an equal. To insure a successful hunt, the hunter had to make contact with the animal’s spirit. For it was well known that if animals are not treated with respect, both when alive and dead, they will not allow themselves to be killed.
Ootah couldn’t help but wonder what force was keeping the seals away. Open water was a rarity in this portion of the ice pack. Even with the constant probing of his harpoon, it was a constant battle to keep the pool from freezing over. Since the seals were dependent upon fresh air, there could be no more convenient spot for them to ascend and refresh themselves.
With this hope in mind, he began mumbling a sacred prayer designed to call the seals upward.
The words of his chant came from deep in his throat, and were delivered with a hoarse resonance.
As the monotonous, atonal chant broke from his chapped lips, he searched the water’s surface with a renewed intensity. Bending over at the waist to get a better view, he momentarily lost his balance when a particularly violent gust of wind hit him full in the back. For a single terrifying moment he found himself teetering on the edge of the ice. To fall forward into the frigid waters of the pool meant almost certain death, and he desperately struck out with his harpoon to regain his balance.
