World War III

“Yes, I love you too, dear.” He handed her the empty punch glass. “My flight leaves at 0130. I hope I see you before I go. I would kind of like one of those old-fashioned airport send-offs. You know, wife kisses husband with tear in her eye as he marches off to duty. I know it’s utter melodrama and shamelessly sexist, but what the hell… I’m a sonofabitch like George Pat-ton, a workaholic like George Marshall and an egomaniac like George Custer. What can you expect?” Then he kissed her lightly on the cheek and left.

JONES’S STRIP NORTH SLOPE 0830 HRS

Remnants of a wind sock flapped violently as snow flurries whipped across the small runway. In the distance, above two abandoned metal hangars, the outline of Mt. Doonerak was barely visible through the haze. At the near end of the runway smoke escaped in swirling gusts from the chimney of a tiny log cabin attached to a Quonset hut. The only other sign of life was a Husky pawing for better refuge against the wind beneath the skeletal remains of a Cessna tail section.

The Pathfinder patrol leader gave a quick hand signal. Several meters away, what appeared to be a lump of snow moved. Then another. They made no sound in the lash of wind.

Arnold Jones adjusted the squelch on the shortwave set, making a face as a piercing bit of static blasted from the speaker. He was sitting before what his wife called his “radio things,” though more accurately they were a considerable investment in high-and low-band-frequency radio transceivers. Jones had been a ham operator for more than thirty-five years. He’d developed lasting friendships with people he’d never met from Cape Town to Perth. He’d spoken to Albert Schweitzer at his Lambarene hospital in 1948 and to Dr. V. E. Fuchs at the South Pole on his historic first land-crossing of Antarctica in 1958.

He’d talked to folks tens of thousands of miles away, but at the moment he was having trouble getting the powerful station at Fairbanks just 260 miles south of his little strip.

The voice Jones had lost finally returned but it was still weak, competing through storm-inspired static with severe high-band twang. “Fairbanks to Poppa seven-niner-zero. Fairbanks to—… ven-niner-zero.

You still—… oppa?”

“Hel-lo, Fairbanks,” he said with exaggerated enunciation. “You-are-weak-and-break-king-up. Howdo-you-read? Over.”

“Same-same,” came the fading voice. “Better—… this fast. What is your sit—… tion? Over.” Jones noted the wind gauge mounted on the wall over the radio. “Reading eighteen knots from the southwest. Gusts to twenty-five. Looks like a dandy on the way. Over.” He stared at the speaker several moments waiting for a response. The interference was heavy enough to cut with a knife.

“Say again direc—… please.”

Jones held the microphone closer to his lips. “Southwest-at-one-eight. Again. Southwest-at-eight-teen. One-eight-knots. Over.” Martha Jones walked sleepily from the bedroom. She went to her husband, yawned, folded the top of her flannel robe together and kissed him on the forehead. She was sixty-four yesterday and they’d celebrated the event last night in bed after a dinner of turkey and beans and red wine from California.

Just like they’d done every year since she was twenty-two.

Martha settled into a nearby chair. “Fairbanks?”

Jones nodded.

“I copy.” The radio voice crackled. “One-eigh — ots. You folks—… kay? Over.”

“Fine, thanks.” Arnold winked at his wife. “Over.”

“Tell them what a sexy old goat you are, Arnold William Jones,” Martha teased.

“I’m the one should still be in bed,” he whispered.

“Better throw another log on the fire, folks,” the voice announced in a sudden burst of clarity. “Better batten down up there. We’ve got a low-pressure front moving north through the Aleutians. Most—” The rest was drowned out as the interference reasserted itself.

“Young fella thinks we never saw a blow before, mother,” Jones said. He flipped on his microphone. “I-read-you-Fairbanks. Thanks-for-the-warning. Poppa-down. Seven-niner-zero-out.” Jones set the mike back in its place and switched off the sets. “Well, that’s it until Thursday.”

Martha walked to the kitchen side of the cabin. “Hungry?”

“Like a bear.” He rubbed his back. “Sore, too.”

“You’re an old man.” She started water in the sink. “Pancakes or eggs?”

“Both, I think. Suppose I could shave before breakfast?”

“Ten minutes, then I start without you.”

He got up from his chair and was nearly to the bedroom when the Husky suddenly started barking.

Jones stopped at a window, rubbed a circle in the foggy glass. “Damn.”

“What is it?”