The 69th parallel incide.., p.1
The 69th Parallel Incident, page 1
The 69th Parallel Incident
A Jesse Thompson Cold War Suspense Novel
H. Paul Doucette
Digital ISBNs
EPUB 9780228636601
Kindle 9780228636618
Coresource 9780228636625
PDF 9780228636632
Print ISBNs
Amazon print 9780228636649
Ingram Spark 9780228636656
Barnes & Noble 9780228636663
BWL Print 9780228636670
Copyright 2024 by H. Paul Doucette
Editor S. Peters Davis
Editing Supervisor JD Shipton
Cover artist Pandora Designs
2025 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
Disclaimer
The place names used in this story are real, and the references have been drawn from historical research on declassified and academic documents. The events and names of the characters used are fictitious and the product of the Author's imagination. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, during the story's time frame, is purely coincidental and unintended.
Dedication
To the adventurous few who braved Canada’s northern frontier.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Epilogue
Chapter One
THE AIR WAS BONE-CHILLINGLY cold, but it did not bother the old man kneeling over a trap, carefully releasing the large, plump, dead snow rabbit. He thought it was a good night, pulling the animal free and laying it beside three others. It was just another night providing food to feed his family and good fur for clothes.
He casually looked around, peering into the darkness. He always stayed alert for any sign of a polar bear on the hunt or a seal lying on the ice near its blowhole. The seal would be a bonus; the bear, not so much. His rifle lay near at hand in the sled ten feet away, just in case. Setting a trap line this close to the white man's place was a risk, but it was also a good area for trapping prey.
Suddenly, the silent stillness of the night was broken by the sound of a motor. He instinctively looked up, slowly turning his head as he eased his hood back in an attempt to locate the direction. His keen hearing and knowledge of the area put the sound about two hundred yards off to the left. A moment later, a faint outline of a large, black object slowly emerged from the darkness; he recognized it as a huge snowmobile. It moved slowly over the ice, finally coming to a stop. He watched as a man exited the vehicle. At that exact moment, he heard a plane approaching. A minute or two later, he watched it emerge from the darkness, descending slowly to the ground and touching down on the skis attached to the landing gear. It stopped twenty feet from the other vehicle, and the pilot climbed out.
He decided to move closer to see what was going on.
The two men spoke for a few minutes; the first man passed something to the pilot, who turned and headed back toward the plane. Suddenly, the pilot stopped halfway and pulled a gun from his parka, pointing it at the first man, and opened fire. The bullets ripped through his thick parka and into his chest, killing him instantly.
Then, nothing but silence.
Fifteen Minutes Earlier.
THE NIGHT SKY WAS ALIVE with multi-coloured waves of light undulating across it: the aurora borealis, nature's light show. The only other sight to instill such awe and wonder is a clear moonless night sky at two in the morning in the middle of the ocean.
The light show did not matter to the man sitting in an old Bombardier B7 snowmobile. The engine was idling with a steady, low-droning sound, keeping the flow of warm air passing through the vents.
He hated this part: sitting out on the tundra with nothing but the stillness and silence outside, which always felt oppressive, leaving him feeling insignificant and isolated. He could not get used to the lack of sunlight and constant darkness. The only good thing was that he would hear any approaching vehicle. Ten minutes later, that was exactly what he heard.
His name was Andrew Walters, a radar technician at the DEW Line radar site at Shingle Point in the Yukon, one of many similar sites formed in the DEW Line. The next nearest site was located at Tuktoyaktuk in the Northwest Territories. In reality, he was also a paid Soviet mole. He was not a committed communist; he was mostly apolitical. He was doing this for the money, and they were generous.
It was while he was still in the States that they approached him.
Her name was Isobel, a fresh-faced undergrad at the local college in her third year; he was in his fourth. They hit it off from the start and soon became lovers. Not long after, she let him know she was a devoted communist and worked for the embassy as an interpreter. Then, she suggested he consider coming to their side and working with them. That was two years ago. They were no longer together, but he did not mind, since he knew women like her would never hitch themselves to a man like him on a long-term basis.
Just then, he heard the sound of an approaching plane. Straining his eyes, he looked intently in the direction of the sound, and suddenly, a shape appeared out of the darkness. It was a small bush plane dropping quickly to land.
Several minutes later, the plane taxied to a stop twenty feet away. A door opened, and the pilot stepped onto the strut and headed for him, leaving the plane's engine idle. He opened his door and got out, carrying a briefcase-sized package. "You're late," Walters said once the new arrival was close enough.
"I had a bit of a problem getting away," the other man said tersely. “Do you have the package?"
Walters passed the package he held over to the man.
“This will be the last delivery for a while. The station is undergoing a security review.”
“They suspect something?”
"I don't think so. It is a snap inspection ordered from Washington. It happens whenever something is about to be changed or added to the system. We've been expecting something like this for some time. Tell Control that I will contact the usual source when I have something. I better be getting back."
"Alright. I have been instructed to inform you that one of our submarines will arrive shortly to insert some agents. This should not be a problem for you. This is just an alert, nothing more."
"Okay, thanks," Walters said. "That's it?"
“Yes.”
Walters stood momentarily, watching the man walk back to his idling plane. Halfway there, he stopped and looked out into the darkness. Then he reached inside his parka, pulled out a pistol, and fired three shots in rapid succession.
Walters looked in the direction where he had fired and saw the shape of someone falling onto the ice. He ran to the pilot, who was putting his weapon away.
“Jesus Christ,” Walters said, fear in his voice. “What...?”
“No witnesses,” the pilot said calmly. “You know the orders.”
“But...but, what about that?” He raised his arm, pointing to the fallen body.
“What about it?”
“You can’t leave it there. Someone from the station could find it and report it.”
"I don't think so. Once the bears get the scent of the blood, they'll take care of it. They have to eat, too, after all."
“Oh God,” Walters said, his mind filled with horrible images.
“I’m taking off. You’d better get back.”
Walters took a few steps away as the pilot opened the cockpit door and climbed in. He then turned and ran back to the snowmobile. He heard the plane's engine roar as it took off, passing overhead.
Forty-five minutes later.
FRANK DESMOND, THE pilot of a passing bush plane flying about a hundred feet over the land, spotted the dog sled on its side with two huskies hitched to it. He dropped below in the dim Arctic morning light to fifty feet and circled the area twice to check it out. His first thought was that some poor native or maybe one of the men from the radar station had been attacked by a polar bear. He turned, widening his circle, and, within moments, spotted the remains of a body lying on a dark patch of what he assumed was blood.
He pulled back on the yoke and regained his cruising altitude. Then he turned on his radio, setting the tuning dial to the right frequency for the RCMP detachment at Sack’s Harbour. Once he established contact, he radioed in to advise the duty constable.
“Give me the location again, over.”
RCMP Constable Rene Dion was the duty officer at the detachment in Tuktoyaktuk. He had been posted there three months ago as the support and liaison law enforcement officer between the small Inuit community and the force's headquarters on the mainland in Yellowknife, Northwest Territories.
"About twenty minutes south-southwest of your location, over."
"Thanks, Frank. Can you land, enter the detachment, and give an official report? It's over."
“Sure thing, over.”
“Thanks. Out.”
Dion put the receiver down and went into the living quarters at the back.
“Corporal,” he said, gently shaking the sleeping man in one of the bunks. Corporal Jean Marchand was in charge of the detachment.
"I just received a call from Frank Desmond. He was flying over an area southwest of here." He gave a set of map coordinates based on Desmond's estimated position. "He reported seeing an abandoned dog sled with two dogs still hitched and a dead body a short distance from it. He's going to touchdown to make an official report. Should be here in fifteen minutes."
“Okay, thanks,” Marchand said, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. “The coffee on?”
“Yeah,” Dion said. “Made it ten minutes ago. “I’ll get a mug ready for you.”
“Thanks,” he said again as he pulled his mukluks on.
Rene stopped at the door and looked back at his boss.
“Didn’t we get a call from one of the families reporting one of their men as missing? Think there’s a connection?”
"Possible. Looking into it and letting Yellowknife know might be a good idea. I will send them a report after we talk to Desmond."
"Can I take a couple of the locals to those coordinates and let you know if we find anything?"
“No, that’s okay. Let’s wait until we finish with Desmond.”
Yes, sir.” Dion turned and left.
Later that day, Marchant finished writing his report, including the statement from Frank Desmond, and made it ready to send to headquarters in Yellowknife. This situation was well above his capabilities and duties here, and he would likely need a trained investigator to come up and deal with it.
He went over to the radio set and sat down. Setting the dials to the right frequency, he picked up the microphone and pressed send.
* * *
ANDREW WALTERS WAS not brave; he knew it but did not care. He had been employed for knowledge, not his 'guts.'
He was thirty years old, single, and considered boring by his colleagues. Not that handsome or even good-looking, he made little impression on most of the women he knew, which sometimes bothered him. Slightly under six feet tall, he had a soft, pudgy body and was beginning to show signs of his hair receding. But none of this mattered to him; he had another side that very few ever got to see—his vices.
He loved to gamble and indulged his passion at various casinos whenever he was on leave. He also had a taste for hookers and cocaine, all of which required cash, lots of money. He was also staunchly apolitical, having no sense of patriotism or loyalty. Taken as a whole, he was the ideal candidate a Soviet agent dreamt of reaching.
Shortly after graduating from Yale University in Connecticut five years ago with a Master's degree in Physics, specializing in the theoretical uses of radar signals, he was recruited by the federal government to work on a top-secret defence project in the far north. He spent the first four years working at various laboratories in several States before being assigned to one of the key installations comprising the DEW Line as a senior technician.
What the government missed was his gambling addiction and penchant for the darker side of life: booze, women, opiate use. He could keep these activities under control and never indulged anywhere near where he lived or worked. While he was away for one of his 'long weekends,' he met Isabel Perez. Always on the hunt for easy sex, he was known to talk a bit too freely about his work to impress them.
They entered into a torrid affair that lasted four weeks. During that time, she introduced him to Alexi Puskin, a trade officer attached to the Argentine Embassy who was, in reality, a Soviet agent. The long and short of it was that he found himself working for the Soviets in exchange for substantial paydays.
Now, he was in too deep to get out.
He had driven the snowmobile away from the meeting site in a daze. His mind filled with the image of Casey Frissell, the pilot, killing a man, then casually getting in his plane and flying away.
He had never seen anyone killed before, at least not in real life, and it rattled him as much because it brought home just who he was working for. It was one thing to sell secrets; that was just business, but now, he was an accessory to a cold-blooded murder. And then, he remembered Frissell's last words, which sent a shiver down his spine: 'Don't worry about it. Some bears will take care of it. They got to eat, too.'
His thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of the station’s exterior lights in the distance.
The station consisted of single-story buildings stretched out beneath a raised steel platform on which sat the large geodesic dome that housed the radar array. A couple of communication dishes and a Doppler antenna were nearby, typical of all the other sites. They maintained a flat surface section close to the site, which was cleared for air traffic.
He slowed down and pulled into the parking area.
"Where have you been?" Fred Herschel, another technician, asked when he entered the living area. “The boss was looking for you. Are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Huh? Oh, nothing's wrong. I had a touch of cabin fever, so I took a ride. I had to stop for a leak. Halfway through, I spotted a bear. Nearly shit myself."
"You and your rides. One of these days...," he said, leaving the line hanging.
"What did he want?" Walters asked, slipping the fur-padded pants off.
"Who? Oh yeah, right. One of the systems was acting up. Turned out to be a flutter, and it fixed itself." A flutter was what we called a power surge.
“So, does he still need to see me?”
“I don’t think so. Just the same, you better check in with Davidson.”
“Okay, thanks.”
Davidson is part of the site's security staff. We are supposed to let them know whenever we leave or return.
Herschel turned and left the coat room. A few moments later, Andrew followed in search of Davidson and headed to the cafeteria for a coffee. His nerves were finally starting to settle down.
He was about halfway through his coffee when Charlie Kline came in.
"There you are," he said as he stepped to the table. "Where the hell have you been?"
“I needed some air and to get out of here for a break,” Walters answered, looking at him.
For some reason, they didn't get along that well. He could not pinpoint their problem, but right from the start of his rotation, he and Kline seemed to rub each other the wrong way.
"Well, next time, let someone know. We had a small glitch that needed your attention. Fortunately, it was only a light power surge this time."
“So, everything’s okay?”
"That's not the point, and you know it. If this assignment is too much for you, arrangements can be made to...," he left the comment hanging.
“No, I’m okay,” Walters said. “I’ll let the duty security guy know if I leave again, alright?”
"See that you do. When you're finished with your coffee, I need you to look at one of the radar monitors. The incoming signal looks odd."
“Odd? Whaddya mean, odd?”
"You'll see when you take a look at it. There's no immediate rush; the backup is covering the incoming signal. Let me know what you find out when you're done."
“Okay.”
Kline turned and left the cafeteria.
* * *
CASEY FRISSELL GUIDED his plane lower until he felt the gentle bump of the skis touching down on the ice. He taxied over the slightly bumpy runway to the aluminum Quonset hut, where he made a three-sixty turn, stopped forty feet away, and shut down the engine.
He opened the side door and stepped down, reaching inside for the package Walters had given him. He closed the door and headed for the building.
'Walters was becoming a problem,' he thought as he walked to the hangar. He was beginning to think he could no longer trust the man. His killing of the stranger had spooked Walters.
When he entered the hangar, he ran into one of the other bush pilots on his way to his plane.
“Did ya hear the latest news?” the pilot asked, approaching him.
