The Great Filter [IC]

[Voshkod]

February 2, 198X

There are certain constants in briefing rooms. Underlit. Overcooled (or perhaps overheated). Whiteboards. An overhead projector. And, in this case, a tinny sound system.

"Churchill en route, Churchill en route, this is Clipper seven one, over."

A pause.

"Uh, Clipper seven one, this is Churchill en route, we copy, go ahead."

Static. The Major coughs. He seems to be fighting a cold. He's a florid man, a uniform a little too tight. Been putting on weight. Looks nervous.

"Churchill, we have traffic at our one o'clock, over."

The gray man sits silently, like always. Gaunt, bald, gray of suit, gray of skin, gray of eyes. He's watching the Major dispassionately.

"Ah, Clipper seven one, negative on traffic, we have nothing on radar, over."

You are seated in a fake leather chair that's seen better days in the depths of a basement under a nondescript building at Fort Leslie McNair on the Potomac. Behind several locked doors, behind a hundred armed guards. In the belly of the beast.

"Understood, Churchill, but we have traffic, two lights, at our altitude, one o'clock, over."

You don't know the people with you. Yesterday, you were in training. Today, they're about to throw you into a mission.

"Understood, Clipper seven one, wait one. We have no transponder and no, ah, no radar returns near your position, over. Change altitude and heading at pilot's discretion to, uh, avoid collision if necessary."

And now you're listening to air traffic control tapes from Churchill, Canada. You're not sure why, but you know you signed away your life, your privacy, your freedom, to sit in this cheap imitation leather chair and listen to a tired air traffic controller talk to a Pan Am 747 somewhere over Canada.

"Roger that, traffic is parallel to our position and . . . ." Static. ". . . closing, traffic is closing . . . pan pan pan . . . ."

The Major snorts into a handkerchief.

"Roger your pan call, Clipper seven one, please advise . . . ." A long pause. "Clipper seven one, we have lost your transponder, over . . . ." A sound of footsteps on the recording. "I'm getting some secondary radar returns. He's going in . . . . he's down . . . . calling Goa Haven to scramble SAR . . . ."

The Major turns off the tape recorder. He clears his throat again and takes a sip of water. "At approximately 23:14 local time yesterday, Pan Am Seven One, a direct flight from Washington to Moscow, went down over the Canadian arctic. One hundred and eighteen passengers, ten crew. Temperature on the ground, with windchill, is about twelve below zero."

"Very sad," says the gray man with a whisper. "Tears will be shed, I'm sure."

The Major twitches slightly. "Yes. Yes, I'm sure. On board the aircraft was a State Department inspection team. Presumed dead. One of them was one of our people from the Aleph unit."

The Aleph unit. The 'forward-facing' part of the Department. The closest thing to a public face, analysts, researchers. You're in the Bet unit. The operators. And then there's the Gimel unit. The executors.

"The President may even make a touching statement," the gray man says with a dry chuckle. "For our honored dead from Foggy Bottom."

The Major closes his eyes, clutches the bridge of his nose. "Yes. Our man was . . . screened against certain influences we thought might be present in Moscow. We need his body back. Quickly. You'll be going in as part of a crash response unit from the National Transportation Safety Board. They've been informed that we have a . . . national security interest at stake, so they won't ask any questions. You'll meet with a representative from the Canadian services. Give him the cooperation necessary, but nothing more. Secure our man's body, get it home."

"Pack for the cold," the gray man says.

"NTSB is scrambling out of National in four hours. You'll be on the flight," the Major says. "Questions? He passes around some requisition forms.

[Ragnar Lodbroke]

Wilhelm Richter

Wilhelm straightened himself in his chair.
He pressed his fingers against his eyes, to try to regain focus.

During the last 15 minutes, he had been on the verge of falling asleep, as it always happened to him during briefing sessions.

I wasn't that he was bored, or disrespectful. He thought it had something to do with the whole situation. The dim light, the off-voice that wasn't really talking to him (Or wasn't refering to him at all), the bad quality cigarettes (Which weren't as bad as the ones he had in East Berlin, save for Cuban cigars)... And the coffee. God, the coffee.


But, despite his stunned aspect, he had been able to listen to the important pointers in the mission. As always.

Wilhelm raised his hand and said:

"Herr Major, I have a few questions"

He cleared his throat and went ahead:

"First, where has ze plane crashed? How far away is it from civilization?"

"Second, is there any authorized information on ze cause of the crash that might concern us to improve the mission's chance of success?"

Wilhelm smiled after that question. American officers shared classified information with almost the same joy than KGB ones.

And he was sure that the cause of the crash was classified.

A flying object that is seen from the plane but not detected by the radar from the Control Tower?
And that coud be blamed for the "accident"?


"Third, are there any guidelines ve have to follow vhen dealing with survivors of the crash, if any?

Fourth, How should we proceed if the Aleph member is alive?"

Fifth and last, if an enemy faction gained access to he body of the Aleph member, should we recover untouched despite circumstances or destroy it?

Wilhelm reclined against his seat, waiting for the answer of his superior officer.

[Shieldheart]

Aidan Greene

Aidan sprawled in his chair with his eyes closed, chewing on the stub of his cigarette. He listened to the recording with only half a ear, letting the drone of the voices become a buzz at the back of his head. He didn't like to listen to dead men talk, 'specially since finding out the hard way that sometimes, dead men didn't stay dead. Whatever he needed to know, he'd be told after.

So he opened his eyes and sat up a little when the Major turned the recorder off and started talking, nervous and officious as always. Aidan absorbed the info in bite-sized chunks.

Pan Am. Moscow. Canadian Arctic. Temperature 12 below 0.

His eyes flicked to the gray man when he spoke; his lips twitched. Spook. Scared the crap out of Aidan, even after everything he'd seen already. Didn't trust him as far as he could throw him.

Aleph Unit. 'Measures Against Influences'. NTSB cover. Retrieval mission.

Aidan sat up proper, stretching the kinks out of his neck and shoulder. He took one of the requisition forms and jotted down his usual - rifle, handgun, backup, cold wear, ration pack, etc. etc., while he kept half an ear on what the German with the ridiculous accent was asking. Russian defector. Double agent? Well, Aidan wouldn't take chances.

He tapped his pen against the form and looked up at the German.

"I'd like to lead on from that." He said and turned to look at the Major. "What kind of enemy presence, if any, are we looking at? You got any intelligence about local terrain? Any beasties we need to look out for?


He paused for a moment and went ahead with the question he had in mind. "What can you tell us about why you need the body so urgently, so far as it would affect our safety and the success of the mission?

[Voshkod]

"Good questions, Richter," the Major says. "The plane is down on King William Island in the Canadian Arctic Archipelago. No population centers for a few hundred miles. The crash is a mystery. The Canadians are on the ground now, starting their air crash investigation but, since the plane was ours, we get to put our people in as well. As for survivors . . . ." The gray man smiles widely, and the Major continues. ". . . as for survivors, there won't be any. If there are, though, somehow . . . well, help them out and find out what they saw. If our boy is still alive, get him to the Dolce Mountain facility. If, somehow, someone else gets him, destroy the body."

"With fire," the gray man adds.

"Yes," the Major says reluctantly. "Greene, no sign of the Soviets being there - if they are, that's an act of war. Not likely. No known . . . other presences there either. Terrain is ice, tundra, and crap." He pauses. "You don't need to know why we need the body so quickly."

"You're not cleared for that program, gentlemen," the gray man says quietly.

[Morbis Meh]

Archibald just merely listens, finding it odd that they are sending a scientist out on a recovery mission but he disregards the matter and begins to think of what useful experiments he can conduct whilst out there. He could certainly test out his nerve and chemical agents to see how they work in sub zero temperatures (which would be useful if they had to go to Russia for an invasion). His interest was slightly piqued at the glossing over of the body... he was rather familiar with biology, more particular the human anatomy and how it reacted with chemicals. He glances down at the form, he muses on what he can get away with requesting: Grenades x10, 5lbs of C4 complete with detonators, 1 Gallon compressed cylinders of VX, Cyanogen Chloride and CX (Phosgene Monoxide), a shot gun and a spray gun that would shoot out the contents of the cylinders. He sighed, disliking government paper work but filled it out nonetheless. Looking up from his form he inquires "Shall we also recover the black box from the aircraft? Also the Churchill area is known for polar bear sightings, should we be concerned?"

Shifting his weight he examines the grey man curiously and says "I believe we should be informed about the body, if it is carrying some kind of contagion we should be aware of it also we should know what it looks like at the very least."

He looked to the others assigned to his unit, a German, and some military type. He unlike others, had respect for the Germans and their scientific works, but he was neutral when it came to soliders... less likely to think for themselves but handy when they were needed.

[Ragnar Lodbroke]

Wilhelm smiled. It had happened again.

American, russian, german or whatever, officers and government suits were always the same.

He had learned that he should not be too angry about their (Sometimes outright dumb) reluctance to share information that could be critical to the mission.
It was the Cold War in effect. Everyone was paranoid, because everyone could be a traitor. Hell, even traitors like him could be still be working to the other side, and only pretend to be traitors to...

Of course, that's what the agent always wanted his former employees to think.

And this was a thing that he didn't like about Americans: A lot of grunts thought they weren't grunts. They thought they were entitled to know what was going on. And so, every briefing turned out like this.


He didn't complain, though. In the past, he had accustomed not to ask too much, by seeing what happened to the unfortunate souls who did.

"At least they don't send you to Siberia for asking too much questions around here he thought. "Then again, they are sending us to the Artic"


Wilhelm wrote a few things on the requisition form.

- Cold wear. Sleeping bags, or whatever was good to sleep in the cold.
- A gun (He specified a .38 revolver, his favourite, with a box of 60 bullets).
- A submachine gun (He wasn't really good with those. But hey, if they had to ask...)
- Flares.
- 2 highpowered lanterns.
- An extra can of fuel oil. If they were going to burn bodies, they could at least do it with stile.
- Night vision goggles. The Artic was probably cold, and they may not want to use lanterns all the time.
- Radios (Actually he scribbled over that and wrote "Good quality, long range radios. Battery operated, preferably").
- Rations and drinking water (It was surprising how unhealthy was to melt ice), enough for 6 people, to last 3 times the expected mission time.
- Fire-starting supplies, and fuel (He didn't want to depend on the Canadians).
- Batteries, lots of them.

- A set of lockpicks (He hated to have to ask for those every time, but such were the rules)
- Other tools: An axe, a crowbar, some electrician tools like pliers.
- Some ropes with some grappling hooks.
- Climbing equipment.

Wilhelm didn't sign the list. Instead, he waited to hear Herr Major's answer to the last question (Made by a really quiet man, who looked a bit out of place to Wilhelm. Too... Intellectual).

Of course, that might actually be good.

[The_Admiral]

Walter rubbed his eyes in tiredness, his body aching from being dragged out of bed too early. His eyes started adjusting to the bright light as he heard the major's briefing. Seeing the requisitions form, he wrote down several requests.

- An EM scanning kit.
- Cold weather gear
- A Glock 17 Pistol.
- A Box of Ammunition
- A dynamo
- Radio's that can be powered by dynamo's in a pinch
-Some good Binoculars

Peeking over Wilhelm's shoulder, he scratched out a few redundant request and placed the form on the table.

Raising his hand he ask's Why us?

[Voshkod]

"We have three teams right now in Bet. You're the third," the Major says, answering Walter first. He sneezes. "The second is in the field."

"Looking for the remains of the first," the gray man says calmly.

"They're not cleared for that," the Major snaps. The gray man merely rolls his eyes.

"As for the black box, the Canadians will probably have retrieved that already. Get it from them if you can without causing an incident. Otherwise, make sure you hear what's on it. There may be bears. Bring some large rounds." The Major starts reviewing the forms.

Walter's request is approved in full, as is Wilhelm's, with a comment about keeping the SMG out of sight unless absolutely necessary. He studies Archibald's request with open disbelief. "We're not going to violate the Chemical Warfare Convention by sending that stuff into Canada!" His voice cracks as it rises. "No grenades, no C4, this isn't a war zone!" The shotgun is approved though, subject to keeping it out of sight.

[Ragnar Lodbroke]

Wilhelm nodded.

"Ok then... In that case, should ve add some hermetic body bags and a few Bio masks to the list of equipment?" And how will ve recognize our colleagues vhen we find them?"

"Oh, and I'm not fond of big guns. I leave them to more... military tipes. Be sure I vill only use it if necessary"

Wilhelm took a little sip pf coffee thinking:
"Dreadful. Totally dreadful. And this mission is probably worse"

"I have 4 hours before the flight.. Maybe I could use 20 minutes to find out something about this... At least to diminish the surprise when we encounter the devil. I should look for sources around here. Too bad that both Herr Major and Herr Suit seem unwilling to colaborate"

[Shieldheart]

Aidan Greene

"Of course." Aidan smiled and leaned back, having anticipated that response. 'When what we don't know comes back to bite us in the a**, I'll just say I'd told them so. That'd show them.', he thought wryly.

He glanced at the rest of the team. Civilians all, by the look of them. Great. It was going to be his job to babysit the lot of them. It was strange, though. What were so many civilians doing in a retrieval mission? Ideally, this would be a purely military effort. Get out in the field, locate the body, retrieve or destroy it. He didn't see what East German defectors and scientists could contribute to the mission objective. Another irritating puzzle.

Aidan tuned the others out and turned his attention back to the requisition form. He dithered over whether to add his sniper rifle to the list. What could he possibly need it for? In the end, he chose against it.

Weapons -

Ruger Super Redhawk Revolver - 1 (40 bullets)
Smith & Wesson M69 Pistol - 1 (60 bullets)
Colt Assault Rifle -1 (40 bullets)
Switchblade - 1
Hunting Knife - 2

Gear -

Binoculars (Night Vision) - 1
Ice picks
A detailed map of the region
etc. (everything Wilhelm picked out)

He glanced over at the man the Major was berating as he turned in his own form. It was always amusing to see the Major so worked up. He could understand the Major's anger; they couldn't antagonize their allies on their own turf. He did, however, like to be prepared; he'd seen the things that lay in wait out there. Some grenades would have been highly appreciated dealing with that beast they'd captured in Alaska a few months back.

He caught the mild disdain in the German's voice when he spoke of 'military types' and raised an eyebrow. A quip held itself ready at his lips, but he decided not let it loose. It was best not to antagonize team-mates before they even left the briefing room. Besides, both civs and plain-clothes operatives often held a healthy contempt for soldiers. Aidan believed it was 'uniform-envy'. He'd learned to deal with it.

"I expect we'll be dropped over the field? Where do we report to after we've retrieved the body?" He asked as he finally threw the cigarette stub away.

[Voshkod]

"We'll provide you a bioshield bag and equipment," the Major says. "As for recognizing him . . . ." He glances at the other man.

The gray man stands. There's a chain running from under his right sleeve to a briefcase. He pops open the briefcase and pulls out a folder. "Fingerprints. DNA. Hair. Distinguishing physical characteristics. Dental." He tosses the folder on the table and a series of photos and papers spill out. One of them shows the agent's back, a series of dots running up the spine, eight on each side, an inch apart.

Aidan's list is quickly approved. "You'll be flying in with the NTSB team," the Major says. "Once you have the body, work with our Canadian liaison to extract it." Another folder from the gray man's briefcase. A picture of a woman, Chinese-heritage perhaps.

"Brenda Lin. From Canadian intelligence. She'll know you're on the scene, but she does not - and can not - know what you're after," the gray man says. "We'd hate for you to have to kill her, after all."

[Shieldheart]

Aidan Greene

Aidan leaned over and picked up some of the spilled photos. He ran through them quickly, pressing the basic details to his memory. He paused at the photo depicting the agent's back and raised an eyebrow. "A tattoo enthusiast, I see. Can't say much for his taste, though." He muttered, passing the photos on to the others. What 'influences' had this guy been modified for? Best he never found out.

He gave a short bark of a laugh at the Suit's morbid little joke and picked up the photo of the liaison, scanning in her face as well. Brenda Lin. If she did have to die, the job would fall to him. Or...he glanced at the German. The Stasi did have a reputation for making people disappear. Their German friend would likely take the job on happily.

"If that is all, sirs, I request permission to take my leave and prepare." He announced to the Major and the Suit, standing up. He had some guns to clean.

[Ragnar Lodbroke]

"I really don't like that look"
Wilhelm tought.

He was wieving the photos, and catched the American soldier's look.
soldiers tended to be patriots, and patriots didn't like people like him. He would have to be careful.

However, it didn't look like an agressive look.
He obviously didn't like him, but it looked like he was... Measuring him. But what for?


Wilhelm focused on the pictures. This was complicated enough without thinking of his new comrades.

"I'm going to like the guy who asked for the Nerv gas. He would've given the KGB bigjobs a heart attack with a list like that!"


Watching the dots on the target's back, he thought: "Very strange. The dots at every side of the spine... Maybe they are tatoos, like he said, but maybe....

Wilhelm gave a quick look at his new colleagues. Scientists, at least one of them. Maybe they could figure that out.

And Brenda Lin... She was foreign intelligence, and Canada was not reknown for its Soviet agents... But best to be careful. He didn't laugh at the Suit's joke, for he knew it was no joke.
He prefered not to get to that point, but whatever it took to avoid the apocalypse.

He hoped to have a few words with her, to see if he could figure out Canadian agents like he did with Russian, German, and Americans.

However, he did a small mental note...

"Lin. Chinese last name. Careful."

Wilhelm nodded at the last words of the American soldier:

"I agree vith you, sir. I will take my leave too, unless there is something else to discuss"

Spoiler

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Can we use the OOC thread yet? I wanted to ask the GM something

[Voshkod]

Spoiler

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OOC thread is here. Always feel free to ask questions there, particularly when I start using jargon.

"Dismissed," the Major says to the group. "Wheels up from National in four hours."

Spoiler

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Please drop a post in OOC thread if you're ready to move on.

[Voshkod]

OOC: Oops - wrong OOC thread above. Try this:

http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showthread.php?t=236099

[Voshkod]

The Twin Otter is battered by heavy winds, lurching up and down unpredictably, skittering to the side, pushing the packed-in passengers against each other. Even one or two of the experienced NTSB flyers have reached for a bag, much to the amusement of their companions.

National Airport to Winnipeg, Winnipeg to Churchill, and now three hours plus in this cramped Otter, nary a bathroom in sight. Suddenly it's clear why the NTSB crew refused the coffee offered back in Churchill.

"Hey, boss, I bet I can write up the report on this crash - you know, when our plane crahses - before it even happens!," one of the NTSB officals shouts over the noise of the props. A particularly nasty updraft hits, the wind sings against the wings, and the wings bend upward visibly. "Pilot error, continued into inclement weather, aircraft overloaded with spies!" Most of the NTSB folks laugh.

Brian Vetter, NTSB lead investigator, laughs as well, then snaps. "Shut up, Bob. OGA is not on this flight." Everyone laughs again, staring at you all.

Out of the front window (no cockpit here) you see mostly white and black. White ground, black sky, and when the snow builds up too much the black sky turns gray and ground and sky become nearly the same. The pilot and co-pilot seem to be in a constant wrestling match with the controls. "You see that?" the co-pilot yells.

"Yeah, I got it," the pilot replies. "Runway in sight." Out through the snow you can see two lines of bright flares, marking out a smooth patch of ice for the ski-equipped Otter to land on. "This may be rough, people, so belt in!" All around you, the NTSB team starts strapping in even more tightly.

[Ragnar Lodbroke]

Using the propeller noise and the laughter to his advantage (And while grabbing his safety belt), Wilhelm made a small sign to his nearby companions and said in a low voice:

"Gentleman, I zhink it's time to introduce myself in case you didn't catch my name before. You may call me Wilhelm. If this thing ever lands and we don't die, we need to have a meeting to discuss our affairs ASAP"

Wilhelm locks his belt without waiting for an answer. Now it's not the time.

[The_Admiral]

Noticing the spy's negativity, Walter put's down his head and starts muttering the Hail Mary in German.

[Shieldheart]

Aidan Greene

Aidan sat clutching the sides of his seat, his face pale and his eyes shut tight. This wasn't his first time braving storms in a flimsy plane; he'd thought he'd gotten over puking his guts out in such cases. But this flight was really taking him to the edge. So far he'd filled two bags and dry-retched into another, before crumpling it up and tossing it down the aisle. Now he sat with an empty stomach that churned and swooped with every tumble the plane took.

The laughter of the NTSB folk was a distant noise. Normally, Aidan would be laughing and joking along with them, but now he was occupied with trying not to feel too sick. Hopefully, the burst of cold that was going to greet them back on land would pick him back up.

He nodded weakly at Richter's words, too tired and sick to be sarcastic. The pilot's words affected a more energetic response. Aidan tightened the belt, unpleasant though the pressure was on his empty stomach and clutched harder at the leather, gritting his teeth. If they did crash, at least he would be free of his misery. That was the only hopeful thought in his head as the plane went careening down towards the ground, fighting the manic winds the whole way.

[Voshkod]

The skis touch down on the ice and the plane begins to slow as the spoilers deploy. A wave of relief washes across the NTSB team as they visibly relax, just in time for the wind to scream. Not howl, not blow, but scream, a primal noise of an animal being torn to pieces. The plane banks hard to the left, the wingtip catches on an icy hummock.

There's a tearing noise as the wing comes away and the airplane begins a spinning skid down the runway. Astonishingly cold air tears into the cabin, ice crystals forming sharply in your nose when you breathe. The lights go out, a pungent smell of avgas floods your senses. You're hanging from your harnesses, looking down at a flare guttering in a snowbank, as fuel drips from the ruptured wing tank, puddling into the snow.

Spoiler

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Luck rolls for all, please.

[Shieldheart]

Aidan Greene

Aidan screamed as the plane banked hard left and with a hollow, ripping noise, the wing tore free. Terror churned in his stomach. The wind that burst into the open cabin was so cold, it choked him. The sudden change in temperature was a shock to his system. That, the shock of the crash and the weakness caused by the motion sickness was too much for him. He lost consciousness.

When he awoke, moments later, his body was straining against the harness. He groaned, not entirely happy that he was still alive. An instinctive attempt to breathe in only induced a coughing fit as the horribly cold air seemed to scald his insides. Aidan tried to focus. He needed to find out if he was injured and if so how badly. It would be a cruel joke if he stayed alive only to bleed to death afterwards.

Spoiler

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Aidan's Luck is 50%

(1d100)[25]

[Ragnar Lodbroke]

"SCHEEEEE***!!!"

Wilhelm screamed as the plane tore open.
He didn't have time to know what happened next.

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Wilhelm's Luck is 60%

(1d100)[89]

[Morbis Meh]

Archibald hated flying, he saw zero reason for him to be here with these people, he was a god damn scientist not a soldier. Hell he been denied almost everything he had requested, but goes to show when you have idiots at the top that have no understanding of the value of experimentation. As the plane is ripped open, Archie curses allowed, this was no god damn Polar bear... damn brass not allowing him to properly equip themselves.

Spoiler

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luck roll (1d100)[4] 80% luck rating

[The_Admiral]

As he mutters his prayers he notices the plane falling apart. He grabs the closets object and holds on for his life.

Spoiler

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Luck
(1d100)[8]

[Voshkod]

Walter and Aidan, after quick inspection, find that they are uninjured, but shaken up. Archibald is not only unshaken, but is sitting right next to the newly created emergency exit. Wilhelm, not quite so lucky, is have some trouble moving his left arm.

Vetter, the lead of the NTSB team, has pulled out an ugly looking knife with a serrated edge that he uses to slice through his harness. "OK, people, we have a fire hazard here. Let's get the hell out!" He checks out the pilot and co-pilot, who are either dead or unconscious. Outside, the wind has died down. Through the port-side windows, which now face skyward, you can see the clouds rapidly tearing apart, star-studded blackness emerging from behind them, and wispy green and red tendrils moving in the sky.

[Shieldheart]

Aidan Greene

He didn't feel very well at all, but it appeared he wasn't wounded. Relieved, Aidan followed Vetter's example. With some twisting, he managed to unhook the strap on his jacket and unsheathe his combat knife. The blade cut through the harness smoothly. Aidan dropped to the ground, the steel chill enough to be felt through his heavy boots.

Aidan swayed a little, feeling weak and nauseous, his body aching after the beating it had received, being jostled about while the plane broke apart. He took a moment to gather his bearings, trying to ignore the hellish cold threatening to freeze his nose off. He stamped his feet and rubbed himself up and down. The warmth was minimal, but it would have to do. They didn't have time to dawdle.

He moved first to Walter, seated beside him, now dangling from his harness. "Hold on." He muttered and started to cut through the straps.

Spoiler

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Do I roll for this? Just in case - from the damage stats for my knife

(2d4+2)[9]

[Ragnar Lodbroke]

Wilhelm Richter

Wilhelm didn't understand what had happened during the crash... maybe he had hit his arm against the window.

He managed to take his knife and cut his harness with his right hand.

"Aaaagh"

He dropped to the floor, in pain.

My arm... It doesn't feel broken, I hope it's not dislocated.

One of Wilhelm's buddies had dislocated his shoulder back in East Berlin. They ended up nicknaming him "loose cannon" (Or something like that, Wilhelm didn't remember exactly) because his arm never really came back to its rightful place.

Every once in a while (Normally when it was less convenient) the arm would just dislocate again.


Wilhelm sat up, holding his injured arm with the healthy one, trying to ignore the pain.

He took a second to put his knife back in its holster, and took his bag from the wreckage, putting it on his right shoulder.

"Iz everybody allright?"
He asked, trying to cover his pain.

However, it was obvious to everyone who looked at him. He wasn't going to be able to move much like that, without tending to his arm.

But they had to get out of there first.

And maybe he could get out of the plane with a little help.

[Voshkod]

"Go, go, go!" Vetter is screaming. The mostly uninjured NTSB crew evacuates like the professionals they are, assisting Wilhelm as necessary. Outside, the cold, still air is a slap to the brain, yanking away any disorientation from the crash. Someone is kicking snow over the flare near the gathering puddle of avgas. Several snowmobiles come roaring from the east, lights blazing. Within minutes, everyone is doubled-up on a snowmobile, rushing back toward the light and warmth of several large polar-style tents, leaving the wreck of the Twin Otter behind.

There are four tents, strung together with poles and ropes at waist height. Behind them you can see several spotlights shining down on the carcass of a 747. You are all ushered into the largest tent, where the smell of hot coffee is a welcome relief.

After a quick examination, Wilhelm determines that he's suffered extensive bruising to his upper arm and shoulder, but no breaks or dislocations.

"I didn't expect you to give us another crash to examine," says a man. "Martin Tadros, Transportation Safety Board of Canada. Welcome to nowhere, population us and a hundred plus frozen corpses. We welcome our American colleagues, but remind you that this is our crash scene and our jurisdiction. Respect that, and we'll all get along."

Hot stew is being served to everyone, and Wilhelm has been given a sling for his arm. "We'll get your gear off the Otter in daylight," Tadros continues. "Our current set-up is this - main tent, which we're in, for meals and work. Medical tent was set up for survivors, but it's pretty empty. We had one survivor, he's in there now. We were going to fly him out on the Otter, but that'll have to wait. One tent for gear, final tent for sleeping. Ice toilets out back. We have twelve on the ground, you have twelve, that's twenty-five with our survivor. When the radio interference clears up, we'll call Churchill for a recovery plane. We'll lead you out to the crash site when the sun rises. As it is, get comfortable, if you have to move between tents keep on hand on the rope line at all times. Always use a buddy system. The Arctic does want to kill you, and it is very good at it."

A woman is standing behind Tadros. She's scanning the faces of the Americans, comparing it with a folder in her hands. You recognize her from the picture - Brenda Lin.

[Ragnar Lodbroke]

"Well, Zat's going to hurt tomorrow"

Wilhelm tried to laugh, and nodded at Tadros's instructions.

He wasn't planning to get on the bad side of his new Canadian "colleagues" unless absolutely necessary.


Wilhelm saw Brenda, and approaching her, said:
"Excuse me, miss. Do I know you from somewhere?"

[The_Admiral]

Well then, I'm going to stow my equipment, Walter said, eager to enter the relative warmth of the tents.