First Pages - Tides of Conflict

[John Stafford]

 

1

Marquette, MI

 

The destination is a hardship.  The agenda cries out with despair. But in this disquieting season of fear, one must learn to overcome adversity. 

The remote enclave on Lake Superior would not normally be considered central by anyone, except perhaps the hardy upper-Midwest university students and ship captains that patronize its frigid shores. 

Unexpectedly in these last few years, Marquette’s isolated geography and access have become desirable. A largely unforeseen and unwanted calling card. Landowners and homebuilders, real estate agents and restaurant owners are rushing to keep up with demand. 

On this Tuesday morning, the lake-effect fog slowly gives way to subtle streams of morning sunlight.  The conventioneers, mostly in small groups, in hushed conversations, in languages known and unknown, hurriedly traverse the campus grounds and enter the stadium.

Many are in uniform.   

The bulletin suggests there are eleven thousand leaders from twenty-six countries attending; last year had been four thousand, the year before seven hundred. The previous conferences had been located in San Diego, and it was everyone’s plan to return there again this year.  But of course, San Diego is no longer possible. 

Inside the dome, a young man takes his place on one of the wooden, white folding chairs arranged neatly in rows on the football field. Unwittingly, he contributes to a disheartening mixture of nervous discomfort and manifest loss rising from the assembly. 

He is hopeful. No, anxious. No, desperate. Shouldn’t the best and the brightest, in combination with military might and political resolve, be capable of finding a solution? Or at least a sustainable fallback position?  

Like most, he prepares himself for the stark truth. Misplaced hope is unlikely to overcome the unmistakable reality.

 

2

Litsvyanka, Siberia

Late afternoon waves slap quietly against the wooden docks, superimposing a soft and steady rhythm upon the silence. Dense alpine mountains descend to reach breathtaking accord with the cliffs and rocky outcroppings that hold back the inland sea. Darkness encroaches, swiftly capturing the cove. 

The icy breeze stiffens.  Weathered and weary locals secure the last of the day’s workboats in the secluded marina.   If their faces were visible, they would reveal the handsome, chiseled features fashioned from generations of Mongolian and Russian heritage.

Two well-dressed Caucasian men in long coats step onto the lakeside patio of the Mayak Hotel.  They cup their hands and stand close together to shelter the dancing butane flame that lights their cigarettes. 

Three hundred meters away in a non-descript fishing vessel, she watches and listens.   She is accustomed to far more advanced surveillance tools, but “when in Rome.”  Her local contact covertly equipped her with the boat, ancient binoculars, a map pinpointing her location amidst the thirteen hundred miles of desolate Lake Baikal coastline, and the decades-old, parabolic receiver. 

Icons of tradecraft past. 

Nonetheless, she is in the right place at the right time with targets in view.  The archaic, line-of-sight receiver is performing well. She fights off the exhaustion of too many time zones and too little sleep, and focuses on her landmark mission. “Gotcha,” she whispers to no one.

“Amazing that no one has ever truly understood the untapped power of this place,” one of them exhaled and began. 

“That will soon change,” his brother replied.