Deep Ice by Karl Kofoed

Cobra’s radio was shielded.”
    “Bottomline it for me, Grimes,” said the general.
    “Too soon, sir,” said the SEAL. “The geologists will take days to figure this out.”
    “Weeks or even months,” injected Henry, to Hayes’s surprise. “I assume you’re talking about assessing the impact on the ice. Correct?”
    Hayes nodded. “We’re the ones President Kerry will be asking for when the calls get through. You know, of course, that the nuke’s electromagnetic pulse knocked out all the electronic gear in the place?”
    “Know it? Shit, we saw it in the chopper,” said Henry. “And I just talked to Josh Wallis. The main generator’s kaput, he says.”
    “The thing we’re trying to sort out here, Henry,” said Grimes, walking to the table and pointing at the map, “is that we have a hole in the ice a thousand feet deep. We have a billion tons of radioactive steam flowing in towards the pole. And, most of all, we have big ice that’s. . .”
    “. . . about to start floating?” interrupted Henry. “I don’t think so. Not after only one blast. This ice is too big to be melted with nukes. That’s a harebrained idea.”
    “You sound pretty sure of yourself,” remarked Grimes.
    “Well, Henry,” said the general with a bleak, humourless smile, “I’ll just hand you the phone when the President calls and asks for our evaluation, shal I? But didn’t the announcement at the UN specify more than one nuke in the deep ice? What’s your expert opinion on that ?”
    “Even with three. . .” began Henry.
    The general lost his temper. He slammed his fist on the table. “I’ll do the briefing, here, Gibbs,” he said.
    “Your duty as an American is going to be to keep your opinions to yourself. . . on everything other than the faces of those terrorists you saw.”
    “With all due respect, sir. . .” Henry began. Then Kai Grimes caught his eye. The SEAL shook his head slightly, indicating Henry was close to pressing all the general’s wrong buttons. At the same moment a small voice at the back of Henry’s mind told him that whether he was a civilian or not didn’t matter any more. These were special times: hard times for the world. Looked at that way, he had to admit that, when his nation call ed, he had to answer like any other American. He’d have expected it of anyone else. So he bit his lip and let the general brief him.
    When Hayes had suitably vented his stored-up adrenaline he waited for Henry’s retort. When it didn’t come, he smiled and apologized for barking.
    Henry looked at Grimes, then back at the general.
    “I’m sorry, sir. You’re absolutely right.”
    The mood in the room seemed to mellow a bit after that. But deep in Henry’s mind he yearned to get the hell out of there. He walked to the window and looked towards the east. The mushroom cloud was gone, but in its place a cloud of rising steam clearly marked the site of the blast. He wondered what would possess a person to take such action against the world.
    The door opened and a woman in a green flight suit and helmet entered the building. She looked pale. The men in the room smiled in unison when they saw her. Henry figured they were all wondering about the diapers.
    The general held out his hand. “Sarah Jordan French, artist, I believe? FBI? I hope you had a pleasant flight.”
    The woman took the general’s hand and looked around the room, examining the faces of the men. Her eyes rested for a moment on Henry. Then her gaze returned to the general. “Yes, sir.”
    From the moment she’d entered the room, Henry had been unable to take his eyes off her. She removed the helmet and red hair spilled onto her shoulders. I guess I’ve been too long on the ice, he thought, if a woman in a flight suit is a turn-on.
    “May I get cleaned up, sir?” the artist was saying to Hayes.
    “Quickly,” he replied. “We’ll need you to get to work sketching as soon as you’re ready.”
    He tersely told his aide to take her to a