Ice Hunt

The prisoner had the decency to glance down. “That was back in the thirties. A long time ago.”

“It didn’t stop in the thirties,” Viktor corrected him. “Nineteen-forty, Chicago. Four hundred prisoners are intentionally sickened with malaria so experimental drugs could be evaluated. It was this very experiment that the Nazis used later to justify their own atrocities during the Holocaust.”

“You can’t compare that to what the Nazis did. We condemned the Nazis’ actions and prosecuted all of them.”

“Then how do you justify Project Paperclip?”

The man frowned.

“Your intelligence branches recruited Nazi scientists, offering them asylum and new identities, in exchange for their employment into top-secret projects. And it wasn’t just the German scientists. In 1995, your own government admitted doing the same to Japanese war criminals, those who had firsthand involvement with human experimentation on your own soldiers.”

By now, the color had drained from Pike’s face. He stared at the Inuit boy, beginning to comprehend the truth here. It was painful to have one’s innocence ripped away so brutally. “That was long ago,” he mumbled, struggling to justify what was too hard to accept. “World War Two.”

“Exactly.” Viktor lifted his hands. “When do you think this base was built?”

Pike simply shook his head.

“And don’t delude yourself that such secret experimentation upon your own people was ancient history, something to be dismissed. In the fifties and sixties, it is well documented that your CIA and Department of Defense sprayed biological and chemical agents over major U.S. cities. Including spreading mosquitoes infected with yellow fever over cities in Georgia and Florida, then sending in Army scientists as public health officials to test the unwitting victims. The list goes on and on: LSD experiments, radiation exposure tests, nerve-gas development, biological research. It is going on right now in your own backyards…to your own people. Does it still surprise you it was done here?”

The man had no answer. He stared, trembling slightly—whether from his recent near drowning in the Arctic Ocean or from the truth of what really had gone on here, it didn’t matter.

Viktor’s voice deepened. “And you judge my father. Someone forced at gunpoint into service here, torn away from his family…” Viktor had to choke back his anger and bile. It had taken him years to forgive his father—not for the atrocities committed at the station, but for abandoning his family. Understanding had come only much later. He could expect no less from the man seated before him. In fact, he didn’t know why he was even trying. Was he still trying to justify what happened here to himself? Had he truly forgiven his father?

He stared into the face of the boy on his lap. His voice grew tired, fingers waved. “Take him away,” he called to the guard. “I have no further use for this man.”

The motion startled the little boy. A tiny hand raised to a cheek. “Papa,” he said in Russian. The child had imprinted to him like a gosling after first hatching.

But Viktor knew it was more than that. He knew what the child must think. Viktor still had a few worn pictures of his father. He knew now how much he looked like his father did. Same white hair. Same ice-gray eyes. He even wore his hair like the last picture of his father. For the boy, fresh from his frozen slumber, no time had passed. He awoke to find the son had become the father. No difference to the boy.

Viktor touched the child’s face. These eyes looked upon my father. These hands touched him. Viktor felt a deep bond with the child. His father must have cared for the boy to engender such clear affection. How could he do any less? He ran a finger along one cheek. After losing all his family, he had finally found a connection to his past.

Practicing a smile, the boy spoke to him, softly. It was not Russian. He didn’t understand.

The American did. “He’s speaking Inuit.” Pike had stopped by the door, held at gunpoint, staring back.

Viktor crinkled his forehead. “What…what did he say?”

The man stepped back into the room. He leaned toward the boy, bowing down a bit. “Kinauvit?”

The child brightened, sitting straighter and turning to Pike. “Makivik…Maki!”

The man glanced to Viktor. “I asked him his name. It is Makivik, but he goes simply by Maki.”

Viktor pushed a wisp of hair from his face. “Maki.” He tried the name and liked it. It fit the boy.

The child reached up and pulled a lank of his own hair. “Nanuq.” This was followed by a giggle.

“Polar bear,” the prisoner translated. “From the color of your hair.”

“Like my father,” Viktor said.

Pike stared between them. “He mistakes you for your father?”

Viktor nodded. “I don’t believe he knows how much time has passed.”

Maki, now with an audience, chattered blearily, rubbing an eye.

Pike frowned.

“What did he say?” Viktor asked.

“He said that he thought you were supposed to still be sleeping.”

“Sleeping?”

The men stared at each other, realization dawning on both of them.

Could it be?

Viktor’s gaze flicked off in the direction of the outer hall, toward the circle of frozen tanks. “Nyet. It is not possible.” His voice trembled—something it never did. “A-ask him. Where?”

Pike stared silently at him, clearly knowing what he wanted, then concentrated on the child. “Maki,” he said, gaining the boy’s attention. “Nau taima?”

The exchange continued, ending with the boy crawling off Viktor’s lap.

“Qujannamiik,” Pike whispered to the boy, then in English. “Thank you.”

Viktor stood. “Does he know where my father might be?”

As answer, Maki waved. “Malinnga!”

Pike translated. “Follow me…”

7:18 P.M.

OMEGA DRIFT STATION

Amanda sat at the table as the decoding of the journals continued. Jenny read from the text, translating the Inuktitut symbols, speaking slowly so Craig could decipher the spoken Russian.

The first book was skimmed. It was the history behind the founding of the station, dating back to the infamous tragedy of the Jeannette back in 1879.

The U.S. Arctic steamer Jeannette, captained by Lieutenant George W. DeLong, had been sent to explore for a new route between the United States and Russia, but the boat became trapped in the polar ice cap, frozen in place. The steamer remained icebound for two winters until it was crushed by the floes in 1881. The survivors escaped in three life rafts, dragging the boats over the ice until they reached open water. But only two boats ever reached landfall in Siberia.