H.M.S. Unseen

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It was a morning of savage cold. The raw, ravenous January wind hurled snow at the driver’s side of the car as it crunched along a freezing man-made ravine, between drifts plowed 12 feet high. It had been snowing now for more than three months in Newfoundland, as it usually did. But Bart Hamm did not care, and he chuckled at the local radio DJ’s banter as he pressed on through the howling polar blizzard of his homeland, heading resolutely for the big transatlantic air base outside the eastern town of Gander.

Bart had been working there for ten years, and he was used to the steadiness of the job, the routines, and the regimentation. Unlike most of the coastal population of the island, he never had to worry about the cold. All through the autumn and winter, the weather in Newfoundland is unthinkable, except to a polar bear, or possibly an Eskimo. But Bart was guided by one solitary thought. Whatever the disadvantages may be to this job, whatever the freedoms I have sacrificed, it’s a helluva lot better than being out in a fishing boat.

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