Dominic Conlon - Arctic Firepath

The Presidents look at each other coldly, barely acknowledging each other’s presence. They were punctual, but the Russian President was already checking his wristwatch.

‘I won’t keep you long, gentlemen.’ The PM contemplated the two men. ‘You both have had success in leading your respective nations, and I compliment you on your efforts. But some recent developments have given me grave cause for alarm.’

He checked to see he had their attention. ‘I believe that both your countries are making a ‘land grab’ for the Arctic. I have certain documents that prove beyond doubt that both your governments have engineered a confrontation in the Arctic in order to establish your right to extract hydrocarbons there.’ The PM gestured to the table where three files lay. They were coloured blue, red and black.

The PM picked up the blue file and flicked it open. He quickly scanned the first page, and then picked up a TV remote. He switched on a large flat-screen TV on the wall. It came up showing a map of the Arctic, with all the countries surrounding the Arctic sea. He pointed to an area off the most northern part of Norway.

‘This is the village of Ny-Ålesund on the Svalbard archipelago. It’s the only pure British research station in the whole of the Arctic. They have been researching cosmic rays for some years.’

The PM saw both Presidents looking at each other, no doubt wondering where all this was leading. ‘I will get to the point gentlemen. As part of this research, the scientists there make recordings of several regions of the electromagnetic spectrum, included the frequencies on which the Russian satellite navigation system GLONASS broadcasts.’

The PM turned to President Donahue. ‘I’m sure you know that this is the Russian equivalent of your GPS system, and it’s used by the military for navigation and tracking.’

The American President nodded.

‘Normally these frequencies are discarded by the researchers — they are more interested in extra-terrestrial particles. But nearly two months ago a researcher noticed a distinct change in the way the GLONASS signal was being transmitted. He sent the recordings on to an expert — Professor Ian Watkins at the University of Edinburgh. To cut a long story short, the Professor became intrigued. He ordered some heavy-weight computing power to try and “crack the code.”’

Both Presidents appeared to be puzzled and bemused by Ashdown’s introduction.

‘Well gentlemen, I can tell you now that the Professor succeeded.’

Donahue looked at his watch. ‘I’m sure this is very fascinating to a technical audience, but I do have an immanent appointment.’

The Prime Minister held up his hand. ‘Don’t worry, I am coming to the point. The Professor found that for a short period of time, and limited to an area in the high Arctic, GLONASS signals were faked.’

Ashdown used the remote control to play a video on the large wall-mounted TV. It showed a track, arching from southern Russia to the Arctic. ‘This is the path taken by two Tupolev TU-160 bombers from Engels Air Base six weeks ago.’ The PM studied the Russian President. ‘We know them as Blackjacks in Europe and America. They turn north and fly on a straight course for almost ten hours. Their route carries them over the Barents Sea, past our listening post on the Svalbard Islands, across the geographic North Pole, and then South towards the Beaufort Sea.’

The PM paused and pointed to western Canada. ‘We know that two CF-18 fighter-interceptors scrambled out of Canadian Forces Base Cold Lake in northern Alberta. They met up with the Russian planes over the Beaufort Sea, 200 km north of the mouth of the Mackenzie River. I’m told that normally the Russian and Canadian pilots would wave at each other, and then turn their planes around. They’re only there to check each other’s air defences.’

The PM pointed to the trail. ‘The “Blackjacks” change course towards Russian soil. After several hours, for some unknown reason, the Blackjacks turn again on a heading to Alaska with orders to test American air defences. The weather is bad with a raging Arctic storm which has lasted the best part of three days.’

The PM indicated Alaska territory on the map. ‘NORAD radar picks up the deviation, and Eielson AFB is notified. However the Americans are slow to respond, and eventually put up two F16s from the base.’

The PM scrutinised both of them. ‘Everything I have said is documented, and I will make this available to you both. Remember, the Russian planes were operating within storm clouds, and the navigators cannot see any ground reference points.’ The PM checked to ensure Donahue was taking in the message. ‘Then the Americans transmit new satellite signals, created by their own systems at the same time as blocking the Russians satellite navigation GLONASS system. The pilots think the storm is blocking their signals, and their equipment automatically turns to a new frequency. From their instruments they know they are well outside American territory.’

The PM showed the path of the bomber planes looping back towards Alaska. ‘The dotted line marks the path the pilots believe they are following — look how much nearer their actual track is.’

Pavla Duskin crossed to the TV to get a better view.

‘When the Blackjacks cross the Alaskan 12 mile boundary, the F16s order them to land at Eielson.’ The PM eyed the Russian President apologetically. ‘I don’t have cockpit recordings, more’s the pity, but I imagine the language would be ripe. I also understand that one of the Blackjacks tried to turn back, but was eventually persuaded to follow the F16s to base.’

Ashdown noticed President Donahue’s face had gone pale. He resumed the story. ‘They are both escorted to Eielson and land safely.’

‘I want that documentation now’ demanded Duskin.

‘Not yet, Pavla. The point is, those signals were falsified for a very specific reason — to lure Russian planes overflying the Arctic into straying across American airspace.’

Robert Donahue appeared dumbfounded, shaking his head. ‘I don’t believe this is true.’

The Prime Minister turned to him. ‘I can assure you that the Professor’s work has been checked and double-checked by his peers. The signals were changed at a time when Russian aircraft were in the area.’ The PM addressed them both. ‘In such a way as to give a false reading to those pilots.’

‘Are you saying that we deliberately deceived Russian bombers?’

The Prime Minister turned to the American President. ‘Yes. Without a shadow of a doubt.’

The A400M Atlas descended to 15,000 feet and the load-master returned to prepare Sean and Khostov.

‘Gentlemen, we still have a depression over the landing zone, so we will have to drop you well clear. Even so, you’ll find the winds are gusty and visibility is not good.’ He turned to Khostov. ‘Have you parachuted before?’

‘No.’ Khostov looked helpless.

Sean clapped him on the back. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll look after you.’ He winked at the load-master. ‘I need to deliver this fragile package right side up.’

He checked Khostov’s harness and rigging line and gave the thumbs up. In turn, the load-master double checked Sean’s parachute.

The bay door began to open, and immediately a freezing wind filled the interior.

‘Here,’ shouted the load-master, clipping a black box, the size of a match-box, to their webbing. ‘It’s a homing beacon, so the Yanks can find you.’

The ramp was now fully open, and snow blasted into the cabin. They hustled along the ramp.

‘What do I do?’ Khostov’s voice quavered.

‘Don’t worry about your chute,’ explained Sean. ‘It will open automatically. I’ll be right behind you. When you get near to the ground, make sure you put your legs together, and bend them at the knees. Don’t try to resist the ground when you meet it. It’s perfectly alright to fall — just remember to keep your legs together and your knees bent.’