Crisis In The Cold

CHAPTER 1

CRISIS IN THE COLD

BY G. R. DANIELS

ISBN Canada 978-1-9994867-1-6
Copyright ©2019 Awareness Communications Inc. All rights reserved

This book is a work of fiction. Similarities to actual events, places, persons or other entities are coincidental. 

CHAPTER ONE

It was midnight on the nineteenth day of February and Georgian Bay was almost frozen over. This was no small feat of nature because the bay is huge, almost a Great Lake. Jackson Phillips thought about this arcane fact as he looked out through the 20-foot high windows in his cottage on Shield Island. Beams from the full moon reflecting from white ice turned night into day.

Jackson rose from his favorite leather chair facing the wall of windows and went to the open plan kitchen. He collected a sparkling water and padded back across wooden planks in his warmest slippers.

Looking out on the moon-lit bay, he froze as still as the ice outside, his water bottle halfway to his mouth. Where there had been an unblemished white surface a minute before, there was a dark mound that looked distinctly like a human body.

It took Phillips a few seconds to recover from his shock. He got up once again., this time with much more purpose. Jackson shucked the slippers and put on a pair of hiking boots from the closet in the mudroom. Over wool pajamas, he threw a Canada Goose coat from the same closet, jammed a pair of gloves in his coat pocket and opened the back door. The crisp cold took his breath away and he thanked nature for the lack of wind.

Crossing shoreline buried in a foot of snow, he stepped onto the ice. It was so thick, the ice didn't even creak as he strode quickly toward the form lying about 20 yards from land.

The body was that of a man. As Jackson bent over the body, Jackson saw the man was dressed in a dark blue, one-piece snowmobile suit that was old, stained and baggy. His head was bare; his dark brown hair was speckled with snow and the tips of his ears were pure white. The man was pale-skinned and had a dark mustache now frosted with ice. No injuries were apparent. Jackson felt his neck for a pulse but found nothing.

The man's eyes were closed but, as Jackson watched, they slowly opened to slits. They were glazed over but at least there was a glimmer of life.

"Can you hear me?" Jackson asked.

The reply was a gasping mumble. It sounded like, "Tee tee wooned."

"I can't understand," Jackson leaned closer to the man's mouth. "Tee tee ... Wooned."

Jackson wondered if the man were First Nations. The words could be in Ojibway. The man's eyes remained open but they were fixed now. Jackson removed his glove and moved his hand to the man's mouth but couldn't feel any breath. Again, Jackson felt for a pulse in the man's neck. There was nothing. Jackson had been a soldier for 20 years and a spy for another 20. He had seen death many times. This man was on a journey where ice and cold were as nothing.

Police would have to be called and it wouldn't help to haul the body ashore. The ice was thick and no new snow was expected in the next few hours. Jackson returned to his cottage and made a call. His call, however, didn't go to the local detachment of the Ontario Provincial Police. Jackson's call was answered by an officer at Royal Canadian Mounted Police headquarters more than 150 kilometres away in Toronto.

"RCM Police. How can I help you?"

Jackson gave his name and asked to be connected with Sergeant Allan Tremblay.

Jackson Phillips was not only a retired Brigadier General with service in Canada's special forces. He was also a retired executive and, in the past, a frequent undercover agent of the Canadian Security and Intelligence Service (CSIS). More importantly at the moment, Jackson was the retired CEO of his namesake company which produced advanced software for many armed forces around the world.

Not long ago, Phillips had returned to Jackson Phillips Inc. as interim CEO following the shocking death of the company's top executive. Jackson knew a great number of secrets and was an important player in military circles. He was a person designated for special protection from the country's national police service.

Sgt. Tremblay returned the call to Jackson's cell within three minutes. He sounded alert and concerned.

"Good morning, Jackson. What's the problem?"

"Morning Allan. I'm not sure. I have a dead body on my doorstep and I need your people."

"Okay, we can have officers on scene ..." Tremblay consulted his duty schedule "... in about 15 minutes."

"Uh, probably longer," Jackson interrupted. "I'm at the cottage." Jackson kept a condo in downtown Toronto within a few minutes of RCMP headquarters on Jarvis Street and this was where the sergeant had expected him to be.

"Ah, yeah. A little longer. Like hours. Will this keep?" Tremblay was wondering if the OPP might be a better responder in the circumstances.

"It'll wait," said Jackson but there was no humour in his voice when he added, "He's on ice."