The Wife Who Saved Greenland

Nuuk, Greenland. Maren punctuated the end of the argument by slamming a cast-iron skillet onto the stove.

"Lars, you’re an old fool! The fog is so thick out there, even the seagulls are walking! What do you expect to catch? Pneumonia?"

Lars only sighed, pulling on his salt-crusted parka. "I have to go, Maren. Olaf is already waiting."

"Of course he is! You’re only going out so you don't have to fix that fence!"

Maren tossed a plastic bag at her husband’s head. "Take that Temu junk of yours too! At least your hand won't freeze to your beer can while you're 'working'!"

* * *

More than thirty miles away, on the bridge of the USS Gerald R. Ford, Captain Miller stared out at the icy swells in the dim, blood-red light of the command center. Barely two weeks ago, they had been off the coast of Venezuela, engaged in "gunboat diplomacy" where the entire point was to be seen and heard. There, visibility was the mission.

This, however, was different.

The order had come directly from the Vice President, known in the wardrooms only as "No Chance Vance." They wanted Greenland, and the strategy was insultingly simple: "It’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission." The plan: land the Marines in total secrecy, plant the flag, and wake the Danish government the next morning with an "unbeatable offer" and a fait accompli.

Miller hated it. But he hated it even more that the latest "security purity sweeps" had stripped him of his best sonar technician, Rodriguez. In his place was Petty Officer Parker—a kid from Nebraska whose only qualification seemed to be a "pure" and "spotless" family tree.

Especially now, under EMCON Alpha, the safety of the entire ship depended on those two green ears...

* * *

Three old friends had been shivering in the boat for hours: Lars, Olaf, and the Tuborg Grøn. Lars gave a slow, weary nod, and Olaf began hauling in the longline. But as the hooks broke the surface, they brought nothing but a few clingy starfish and a single, tattered gray Walmart bag.

"The Americans sent us a bag for the fish," Olaf remarked, tearing the plastic from the hook. "Truly kind of them. The only thing missing is the fish."

"Let’s go around that iceberg. We’re bound to find something at the shelf break," Lars said, his voice grumbling in unison with the engine, which he’d finally kicked into life.

The old diesel’s shaft was bent in every possible direction. It made a rhythmic, metallic racket—like someone had dumped a handful of pebbles into a coffee grinder that had seen better days—but it had never let them down.

Little did they know that they weren't the only ones listening to the old engine's clatter that night...

* * *

Petty Officer Parker hadn’t signed up for combat. It was supposed to be four years of service for the GI Bill and a guaranteed degree—that was the deal. When he’d enlisted, the Navy was still about stability. But by the time they reached the North, the fleet was no longer a peacekeeper; it was an aggressive real estate agent in the Arctic.

Only yesterday did it all truly hit home.

He’d been rushing out of the shower for a surprise drill—wet hair, a lopsided tunic, bare feet shoved into boots. In a cramped passageway, he’d rounded a corner and slammed right into someone. The Master Chief hadn’t screamed. He just stood there, measuring the recruit with a frost-bitten gaze.

"Do you even know the name of this ship, Petty Officer?" "USS Gerald R. Ford, Sir!" Parker barked, trying to snap to attention. "To you, maybe, son. But we aren’t at home anymore. Out there, in the dark, this ship has only one name: Target. Stop running around half-dressed and do your job."

Parker rubbed his eyes in front of the console. Target. The old man’s words echoed in his head. Then, suddenly, at bearing zero-eight-two, a thin, sharp yellow line slashed through the blue of the monitor.

[CLASSIFICATION:UNCERTAIN][POSS.SOURCE:NON-MILITARY/BACKGROUND NOISE – 85%]

Parker’s eyes narrowed. The computer was reporting "background noise," but he could hear the grinding of metal.

"No, that’s not noise," he muttered. "It’s too rhythmic."

"Combat, Sonar! New contact, surface, bearing zero-eight-two!" he shouted into the mic. "Strong narrowband signal, heavy mechanical beating. Acoustic profile unidentified, likely using individual masking. Based on signature characteristics, this is a large displacement combatant or a heavy submarine snorkeling with advanced cloaking. Bearing is constant, range is closing rapidly. We are on a collision course!"

* * *

Meanwhile, the “heavy submarine” reached the shelf break. Olaf dropped the anchor into the water with the routine of a seasoned admiral.

Until two years ago, he had been the commander-in-chief of the Black Sea Fleet, until a devastating Mediterranean cyclone brought his brilliant career to an end. The cyclone was named Kendra. In her short but all the more noisy rampage through Olaf’s life, Kendra hadn’t just reduced the entire Black Sea Fleet’s 1:5000 scale model collection to splinters with a single well-aimed soup tureen; she had also wiped out his self-esteem and his sincere admiration for Mediterranean women.

Lars quickly lowered the hooks, then, under Olaf’s watchful eye, noisily fished a plastic bag out of his pocket. Finally, he took out a small black rectangle and pressed a button. The little black box emitted strange, high-pitched sounds, like a bagpiper with a cold.

“What’s that? A pocket radio?” Olaf asked suspiciously. “A hand-warmer,” Lars replied resignedly. “And why is it singing?” “I don’t know. Maybe they swapped the box in Xiangdonghuangsung.” “Chinese?” “Yes, but it could still work, couldn't it?”

The hand-warmer was now trying to imitate an amateur organ tuner, but Lars quickly grew tired of it.

* * *

The AN/SLQ-32(V)7 antenna system was unfazed by the fog swirling around the USS Gerald R. Ford; it saw right through it — perhaps too well.

Captain Miller heard the EW technician reporting a weak detection of a wide-spectrum search radar from bearing 081 to the Tactical Action Officer.

“Advanced stealth propulsion, unidentified radar pattern... Who are these people? No known NATO forces in the sector. A Russian Yasen-M? Perhaps the Swedes? Their Gotland-class would be capable of such tricks, but they don't play hide-and-seek in allied waters...”

“Silent alert,” Miller commanded the TAO. “Set the ship to Condition Zebra. Helmsman, ten degrees to port. Slow turn, maintain twelve knots.”

“Then who?” the captain wondered. “The French? Impossible... The Chinese?”

Miller recalled the intelligence reports on China's Arctic ambitions. Whoever it was, they wouldn't be scanning so boldly in active mode if they were alone.

“Are we late, or were they waiting for us?” he asked himself while watching the bearing. One wrong move, one hasty active ping on the radar, and we’ll go down in history as the ones who triggered a war with Red China.

On the digital chart table, the red line began to drift. As the Ford turned, the bearing shifted from 081 to 080, then 079.

“Target is stationary, sir. It is not following the maneuver.”

Miller was about to respond when the red spike on the display suddenly disappeared.

“They’ve gone dark,” Miller whispered. “They’ve spotted us.”

* * *

“What’s that noise? A helicopter? In this fog?” Olaf asked.

“Must be the VIKING,” Lars shrugged. “You know Erik… ever since he bought that beat-up old bug-sprayer chopper, he’s been up every night.”

“Ford Center, this is Spartan 701. Approaching position, preparing to lower dipping sonar.”

“Spartan 701, Ford Center. Copy that. Be advised, negative contact on target. Good hunting!”

“He’s out of his mind flying in this weather. Let’s help him out before he splashes,” Olaf said, digging a flashlight out of the emergency kit.

Olaf clicked the Super-Tac 5000 on and off, over and over. Then he started banging it against the boat’s gunwale. As usual, that didn’t help at all. It didn’t help much either that he began listing the entire family tree of the Super-Tac’s manufacturers using several unflattering adjectives. The only thing the persistent banging achieved was a spreading crack in the casing—and a faint buzz from somewhere inside.

At that moment, barely 300 meters to their south and 30 meters higher, a small indicator light flickered on, and the helicopter's cockpit was suddenly filled with the rhythmic shrieking of the RWR.

“Ford Center!” Thompson’s voice jumped two octaves. “I’m locked on! Repeat: active targeting from the north!”

Before Ford could respond to the pilot’s frantic message, Lars glanced at the open emergency box and had a bright idea.

“Drop that piece of junk, Olaf, the batteries must be dead,” he said, pulling a distress flare from the kit.

Inside the helicopter, the FLIR monitor exploded in white. The infrared sensors were momentarily overloaded by the thousands of degrees of heat erupting in close proximity.

“Ford Center, missile in the air!” the pilot screamed into the radio, pulling the collective lever with all his might. “DEPLOY FLARES!”

A sequence of magnesium decoy flares launched from Spartan 701’s side dispensers. The blinding white orbs hissed as they fell into the sea, while the helicopter surged upward, desperate to evade Lars’s lethal missile-flare.

“Good Lord!” Olaf laughed. “Look at that, Lars! He’s doing fireworks! You think it’s his birthday?”

“I don’t know,” Lars grumbled, “but it’s hard to imagine a more effective way to scare off the fish.”

* * *

“Well? Where is it? Or do I need to help you haul it in?”

“Where’s what?” Lars asked tiredly, taking his seat at the kitchen table.

“The catch, Lars! The fish!”

“Oh, Maren… we didn’t catch a thing. I don’t think I would’ve even gone out if you hadn't made such a fuss about it.”

“I fried you some fish sticks. Frozen. I knew there wouldn’t be any catch today,” Maren said, her tone softening slightly.

“That damn Erik and his helicopter scared off all the fish… he was even doing fireworks out there!”

“Erik? Haven’t you heard? He’s been in Copenhagen for days! He was picked for the Eurovision Song Contest.”

Lars just hummed, lost in thought, absently fiddling with the short-circuited hand warmer.

“Let me guess: it didn’t work. Just like that self-stirring mug you got me last time,” Maren said.

The man gave a long, defeated sigh. “Maren… why are you always right?”

“Can I throw it out then? The house is starting to look like a flea market.”

Lars thought of the strange helicopter and the lights.

“No… who can say what destiny this may yet hold?”

---

Written by Erik Green