Book 1: The Anomaly
The Norport Anomaly — The Williams Account
By Richard Hardenburg
British Salmoa Times Correspondent
Steve Williams, the son of the late Colonel James Williams—a highly decorated veteran of the Great Second War—contacted our editorial office after reading about the Norport Anomaly. We agreed to meet at the Noir Café in downtown Norport.
I was curious. Colonel Williams is a well-known hero of the city, and I couldn’t help but wonder how his legacy could possibly be linked to the strange incident that had emerged from a scientific article published by a professor at the University of British Salmoa.
“How does your father’s story converge with the Norport Incident?” I asked.
“My father served with distinction and gallantry during the Great Second War,” Steve began, “and was awarded the Lionheart Cross—the highest honor—for his bravery and leadership in combat. He served as a lieutenant in the 2nd Rangers, right here in Norport, where his battalion was deployed to defend the west coast in case of an enemy invasion. When I read your article, I remembered a passage in my father’s war diary.”
As he spoke, Mr. Williams produced a journal that showed visible signs of damage. The cover was charred, the edges burned, and dark stains blotted the pages.
“My father’s blood,” Steve clarified, noticing my curiosity. He handed me the journal carefully, saying, “I want you to read what he wrote on December 7th, 1942.”
The pages were brittle with age, the pencil writing faint in places. There were sketches, notes, and diagrams—some scarred by time and burn marks. As I searched for the date, a small object slipped free: the discolored petals of a Lily flower.
“My mother,” Steve said softly. “Her name was Lily.”
He smiled faintly, and I nodded. Then, with his permission, I turned to the entry dated December 7th, 1942.
Lieutenant James Williams — War Diary
December 7th, 1942
0445 hr.
It is cold and dark. Last night’s snow is sticking. Here comes the company commander—I might not have time for coffee.
2020 hr.
What a day. How do I begin? Everyone’s still on edge.
Commander Thompson met with me early today and said enemy scouts had been spotted down the coastline by Bravo Bulldog Company of the Marines. They couldn’t engage them—lost contact. Thompson believed the scouts were coming our way and stated clearly they needed to be neutralized. All units were put on alert. Whatever appeared by the treeline on the west side of town—my sector—was to be treated as hostile.
At 0510 hr., I ordered Sgt Ramos to take two riflemen, the .30-caliber Browning gunner Corporal Nowak, and plenty of ammunition. Their task: set up the Browning in the church bell tower behind our position and open fire at first sight.
Behind the church, the 3-inch mortar platoon was ready to support us. The west flank of the city was secure.
We waited more than two hours, eyes fixed on the treeline, searching for the smallest movement.
At 0752 hr., I made a round to warn the guys and told them to keep their eyes peeled, as the enemy were professional soldiers, not to underestimate anything.
At 0754 hr., with the first light of day, Ramos shouted: “There they are!”
Then the Browning opened up—hell on earth. I glanced back toward the church tower and saw the muzzle flashes—beautiful, I thought.
Ahead of us, tree branches and snow exploded upward, mud flying everywhere.
“Fire, goddamn it! Let them have it!”
The mortars joined in, raining destruction across the front.
At 0759 hr., Captain Thompson’s voice broke through the chaos: “Hold your fire! Hold your fire!” It took nearly thirty seconds to halt the barrage. The air was thick with smoke and gunpowder. Everyone was shaken, but unharmed.
Then Thompson came to me and asked, “What were you shooting at?”
I turned toward the church tower. “Ramos! What were you firing on?”
For a moment, no answer. Then Ramos called back, voice uncertain: “Lieutenant… they were there, right in front of your position.” He turned to Nowak. “Tell him!”
Nowak muttered, “Yeah. Didn’t you see them?”
Thompson frowned. “There was nothing there, Ramos. Nothing!”
Ramos climbed down from the tower, frustrated, his M3 slung over his shoulder. He crossed our line toward the trees. “They were right here,” he said, jabbing at the ground with his index finger, as if dotting every word.
We spent the entire day searching the area. No enemy. No footprints. No sign of engagement.
Captain Thompson wasn’t angry—but he looked deeply unsettled.
When I lifted my eyes from the journal, Steve said quietly, “Sgt Ramos served with my father in several campaigns. Bravery didn’t begin to cover him—I swear CAM must have run out of medals. Every time something strange happened, he’d squint and ask, ‘Lieutenant, did you see that tank? It was coming right at us, right?’ And my dad would just shake his head and laugh, ‘Yeah… you did not take the wooden nickel!’ The whole thing's in his journal.”
Sometimes, journalists are presented with stories that resist explanation. This was one of them. To seek answers, I reached out to Professor Marino-Albernas, who has been studying Sasquatchus anonymus.
“I know that incident,” the professor said. “It’s the only recorded combat operation in Norport where no enemy was ever found. Military psychiatrists at the time dismissed it as stress, no fault of the troops.”
He paused before continuing.
“I can’t dismiss it so easily. We’re currently investigating S. anonymus—a species potentially capable of manipulating the refractive index of its surroundings through neurometabolic processes. In theory, it can alter how light interacts with molecular structures, effectively rendering itself—or other entities—invisible. It’s possible, as a working hypothesis, that Sergeant Ramos observed them from a refractive angle that revealed what others could not see. The same might have occurred with the Marines: they saw them one instant, and the next, they vanished—but they were still there.”
He leaned back. “Science still has much to uncover.”
As Mr. Williams and I parted ways, I couldn’t shake the feeling that what his father saw wasn’t madness or illusion. Perhaps, as the professor suggested, the invisible still move among us—waiting for the right light to reveal them.
The Severnaya Expedition: In Pursuit of the Norport Anomaly
By Richard Hardenburg
Starting next month, this reporter will join the Severnaya Zemlya Expedition team as they venture into one of the most remote and forbidding archipelagos on Earth—Severnaya Zemlya, in the high Arctic of Russia—to investigate a possible connection to the Norport Anomaly. I will provide a firsthand account of the challenges and discoveries of this journey, offering our readers an exclusive look at the work unfolding at the edge of the known world.
As I board a plane bound for Ottawa for a visa interview with the First Secretary of the Russian Federation Embassy, Mr. Anatoly Leonov, my thoughts drift between anticipation and unease. In a letter from the Embassy, Mr. Leonov outlined the agenda for our meeting, which includes signing a Non-Disclosure Agreement. During an earlier telephone conversation, he explained the procedure—one this reporter found somewhat intrusive to the principles of free reporting—but he assured me I would be free to publish all findings, provided they were peer-reviewed by the Scientific Review Board (SRB), a condition for joining the expedition.
The mission itself is organized by the Russian Association of Microbiology Sciences and Discovery (RAMSD), a venerable institution regarded as the scientific heartbeat of the Russian Federation. Its legacy is tied to generations of pioneering scientists, including the illustrious polymath Mikhail Lomonosov, who personified the Enlightenment-era dedication to rational inquiry. Like the Royal Geographical Society once backed the great polar expeditions of Sir Ernest Shackleton and Robert Falcon Scott (1901–1904), RAMSD stands behind this venture, signaling a profound national commitment to pushing the boundaries of knowledge.
The roster of experts accompanying this expedition is as distinguished as its destination is remote: Professor Marino-Albernas, Professor Ruderburg, and Dr. Tanaka—from Canadian universities and the Kanagawa Institute of Subatomic Research (KISR), respectively. Another notable member of the team is Steve Williams, son of the late Colonel James Williams, whose wartime experiences intertwined with the Norport Anomaly and were recounted in one of our earlier reports.
For the sake of transparency, it is important to define my role in this story. As both observer and participant, I will offer a human-centered account of the expedition’s progress. To ensure accuracy and accountability, my reports will be reviewed by our editor, Lilla Marin, and managing director, Rachel Hátszeghy, at the British Salmua Times.
What lies ahead remains uncertain. But one thing is clear—the Arctic has never yielded its secrets easily, and the Severnaya Zemlya Expedition may soon test where human curiosity meets the limits of endurance.
Mr. Leonov
By Richard Hardenburg
British Salmoa Times Correspondent: Bureau – Ottawa, Ontario
The flight from Norport to Ottawa was uneventful—first class, thanks to my editor’s good efforts—which gave me time to prepare for my meeting with the First Secretary of the Russian Federation Embassy in Canada, Mr. Anatoly Leonov.
Autumn in Ottawa is vibrant yet fickle; the air had already turned sharp and restless by the time I stepped outside the terminal. “Toto,” I muttered, “we’re not in Norport anymore.”
A taxi carried me to the Fairmont Château Laurier, not far from the Russian embassy. After a quick refresh and a tie adjustment, I set off to meet Mr. Leonov.
At the embassy, I was greeted by a poised young woman.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Hardenburg,” she said. “My name is Natalia Korsakova. Mr. Leonov is expecting you in the library. Welcome to the Embassy of the Russian Federation.”
I thanked her and followed through a well-lit corridor adorned with tasteful Russian art.
“The library is just ahead,” she added. “Please make yourself comfortable. Mr. Leonov will join you shortly.”
The library was magnificent—oak shelves, Persian rugs, and at its heart, a large painting of Peter the Great astride a white horse. The Tsar’s gaze seemed to follow me with regal intensity.
“A gift from Catherine I,” came a voice behind me. “It’s an original.”
I turned. “Ah! Mr. Leonov, I presume.”
“Welcome,” he said warmly, extending a firm hand. “To this humble Russian sanctuary of diplomacy. Please, make yourself comfortable.”
Mr. Anatoly Leonov appeared to be in his mid-thirties—fit, perfectly groomed, with the posture of someone guarding a mausoleum, and possessed of the polished English of an Oxford man. As we sat across from one another, he smiled and said:
“Mr. Hardenburg, you must realize that you could have been interviewed by a lower-ranking official to process your visa. Instead, we are meeting here.” He reached for a maroon leather folder, opened it, and handed me my passport. “Your visa is approved.”
“Thank you, Mr. Leonov. It’s an honor to be here.”
“You are very welcome,” he replied, leaning back with an amused glint. “You may call me Tolya... but not quite yet. For now, Mr. Leonov will do.” He paused, then added, “Mr. Hardenburg, your dedication to your craft is noted. To travel so far, into such… primitive conditions, simply to observe. You understand, of course, that RAMSD’s primary concern is scientific integrity. The data must be pure.”
“I understand, Mr. Leonov. My intention is to document the process transparently for the public—a human perspective on groundbreaking science.”
“Of course. A human perspective. A noble goal. But the Arctic is a difficult mistress. It offers clarity—and distortion. When the cold tests endurance, the mind can… see things. As a journalist, you must rely entirely on facts verified by the Scientific Review Board, yes? Not on instinct or prior belief.”
I thought carefully before answering. “I rely only on what I can verify and what the data supports. My editors expect nothing less.”
“Excellent. Accountability is key. And speaking of accountability… I see you report to Ms. Marin and Ms. Hátszeghy at the British Salmoa Times. Very good. No other parties hold claim to your findings? No private consortia? No competing interests from other nations—perhaps the United States or Germany?”
“Only to my readers,” I replied with a smile.
“Excellent!” His expression brightened. After a pause, he continued, “Regarding the NDA—we are also interested in your species of study, Sasquatchus anonymus, though we name it differently…”
“Almasty, Chuchunaa, Leshy…” I said.
“Exactly. You know your subject.” His tone deepened. “We also have our own Colonel James Williams, and the expedition will visit a sensitive site. I hope you understand, Richard... May I call you Richard? Can we shake on that, as you Americans say?”
“Of course!” I said, shaking his hand. “But I’m Canadian—”
He cut in smoothly, “Born in Kansas City, to American parents. Your mother is Presbyterian, your father Jewish Orthodox - not practicing - married to a beautiful Canadian woman, and you have two daughters... Shall I go on?”
I paused, half amused, half unsettled. “I think we’re on the same page, Tolya.”
“Yes...” he said, looking into my eyes, “I believe we do. See you in Moscow, Richard.”
Visiting the Embassy of the Russian Federation in Ottawa was an experience in itself. What awaits in Moscow—and beyond—I can only imagine. But at that moment, I had no inkling that Mr. Leonov would accompany us. But one thing my readers can be sure of: I remain pledged to the truth.
Form Norport To the White North
By Richard Hardenburg
British Salmoa Times Correspondent
Having returned briefly to Norport after my meeting in Ottawa, I found the city cloaked in the quiet anticipation of early November. Last night, the city was washed in a cool, refreshing mist, and the early hours of November 1st found me completing my final preparations before my anticipated trip to Russia. I packed light and must have checked my carry-on a thousand times, ensuring that nothing essential had escaped me.
Going to sleep well past midnight was no excuse for rising late on the morning of my departure, nor forgoing the customary jog with the woman I call my wife. Before stepping out, I slightly opened our daughters’ door to see them sleeping deeply, their breathing soft and steady beneath the faint light filtering through the curtains.
Our route holds a beautiful monotony, though today it feels strangely silent. The air is crisp and clean—the kind that hints at frost soon to come. As we stride along the trail, crushing the fallen leaves beneath our shoes, the lights of Heroes’ Park glimmer through the branches. Even at this hour, our devoted city workers move with quiet purpose, polishing the park as though preparing a bridal princess for her radiant groom—the Sun.
As we follow the trail unnoticed, the sky turns auspicious as dawn makes its first appearance. Presently, there it is—our Chief Kitchi-Saskwa Lake.
Our city, too, has a rich history. Chief Kitchi-Saskwa was a legendary figure who united his people by the edge of this magnificent lake, which still nourishes our region with its gifts.
Precisely at 7:01 a.m., the sun rises over the land, unveiling droplets on leaves of many colors as though they had been dusted with diamonds. The colors of the season are so vibrant in Norport! I fancy the city whispers: “Godspeed, my friend—return soon.”
As the trail bends at the Old Willow—a tree whose soul has witnessed many promises—we turn toward home. As we approach, the cadence of our steps is broken by my wife’s voice.
“Come back to us.”
I cannot answer; there are no words. We continued.
Tonight, at 7:00 p.m. PT, my plane will depart Norport International Airport for Istanbul—the first leg of a remarkable journey toward the Russian Federation, where I will join the Severnaya Zemlya Expedition.
Editor’s Note:
Mr. Hardenburg departs today on assignment with the Severnaya Zemlya Expedition, where he will provide exclusive field reports for The British Salmoa Times. His correspondence will appear in forthcoming issues under the series title “Letters from the White North.”Letters from the White North: Istanbul
By Richard Hardenburg
British Salmoa Times Correspondent – Bureau, Istanbul, Turkey
On November 2nd, stepping out of the airport after an eleven-hour flight from Norport to Istanbul felt liberating. The taxi ride to my hotel—the JW Marriott—took me from broad, orderly highways into narrower and narrower streets, as though the city were compressing a great human current through its ancient arteries.
The driver’s voice never lifted above the hum of the engine, as if trained to sound incurious. Only his eyes, briefly meeting mine in the rear-view mirror, betrayed a quiet alertness.
“First time in Istanbul?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“You are lucky,” he said. “The past few days were cloudy and rainy, but today—sunny, nineteen degrees. We will move slowly; rush hour.”
“Your English is excellent,” I offered.
“I study journalism,” he said as the car slowed before a light. “Only part time, at the university. Sometimes I drive foreign visitors. I like to hear stories.” Then, with a faint but deliberate curiosity, he added, “And you… what brings you here?”
“Tourism,” I said, too quickly, and opened my notebook as if to write. I hoped the answer would end his curiosity, though I could not shake the impression that he was probing—perhaps a bit too deliberately—into the purpose of my visit.
I turned through my notes, pretending to read, though his last remark still echoed faintly. My thoughts drifted to the questions that had carried me here:
What brought me here? The Norport Anomaly.
What is Dr. Marino studying at the University of British Salmoa? S. anonymus.
Why was Steve Williams, a physical education instructor from a Norport high school, invited to join the expedition? Colonel James Williams.
Where are we bound? The Russian Arctic.
Each of these questions forms a node in a growing web of inquiry, all connected by invisible threads—each leading, ultimately, to the same question: Why?
“Your hotel, sir,” the driver said, breaking my reverie.
The JW Marriott stands on a rise with a privileged view of the Bosporus—an apt place to rest before the northern journey. Yet as I crossed its threshold, any notion of quiet recovery dissolved. I was back among familiar faces, but something of that quiet probing still clung to me.
“Hey, Richard!”
I looked up to see Dr. Marino and Steve, arms raised in greeting.
“This is fabulous!”
That evening, over dinner, I would finally have the chance to ask Steve what I truly wished to know—but for now, the Bosporus lay before us, gleaming beneath the November sun.
The Night at The JW Marriott: Plot Thickens
Hello Lilla, Rachel,
You may or may not decide to publish this installment describing the extraordinary events that unfolded last night. I lost my connecting Aeroflot flight to Moscow this morning, but I have been reassured by the local authorities and the airline that I will be able to depart for Russia on the next available flight, as soon as the present matter is resolved.
If the editorial board decides to make omissions to this report, I would understand.
Best,
Richard
By Richard Hardenburg
British Salmoa Times Correspondent – Bureau, Istanbul, Turkey
Nothing could have prepared me for the extraordinary events of international consequence that unfolded before me on the night of November 2nd at the JW Marriott Istanbul Bosphorus.
After my arrival from the airport, Steve, Dr. Marino, and I arranged to dine together at the hotel restaurant, which overlooks the Bosphorus — that dark, restless strait where Europe and Asia exchange their secrets. At half past six, we were seated by the window, the city lights trembling upon the water like a constellation in motion.
“Professor Ruderburg and Dr. Tanaka are already in Moscow,” Dr. Marino assured us, lifting his glass. “They arrived today. Important Russian scientists are participating. The Russians are concerned about our physical readiness.”
We laughed at that, laughter more of relief than amusement, just as a waitress approached our table.
“Are the gentlemen ready to place their orders?” she asked politely.
Dinner was as fine as the view, lamb medallions, sea bass, and delicate Turkish wines. Yet I must dedicate the remainder of this report not to the cuisine, but to the conversation that followed.
“Steve,” I began, “did your father ever talk much about the December 7th, 1942 incident?”
“Many times,” he said. “And the story was always the same. I remember as a child, he would tell it, and afterward he’d grow quiet, withdrawn, almost haunted.”
As he spoke, the waitress returned to ask whether we would like anything from the bar. I ordered a local beer, Efes, I believe, and my companions followed suit.
“I believe your father opened a diner near Highway 7 and Shaughnessy, close to Hero’s Park,” said Dr. Marino. “Great food! I’ve been there.”
We all nodded, murmuring our agreement.
“Was your father in sound health?” I asked, as the waiter set down our beers.
“He was,” Steve replied. “However, as a veteran, he would have regular checkups, and in his later years — as technology advanced, they found a possible reason for his constant headaches and brief lapses of confusion.” He paused, then added, “I thought it was his age, but no. Medical tests conducted at the Ottawa Militia Nuclear Medicine and Research Hospital found a protein in his plasma that had only been detected before in patients exposed to neutron bombardment.”
“Do you have access to those medical reports?” interrupted Dr. Marino.
“No,” Steve said quietly. “The actual report is classified - a militia secret. He never spoke much about this finding, and never noted anything in his diary. In fact, he stopped taking notes a few months after the war ended,” he concluded, placing his hand on the left side of his chest, over the inner jacket pocket.
“Fascinating,” Dr. Marino murmured, setting down his glass. “In February 1959, in the northern Ural Mountains, a young group of Soviet hikers led by Igor Dyatlov met a terrifying end. Their injuries were… unaccountable. Inquiries and autopsies concluded that the damage could not have been caused by human hands. Some hinted that the Almasty, the Russian Sasquatchus anonymus, might have been responsible.” He leaned forward slightly. “Radiation was found at the site.”
A faint hum seemed to rise from the restaurant floor, as if the building itself had drawn a breath.
“Excuse me, sirs,” said our waitress politely. “The bar will close soon. Would you like to order any additional drinks?”
We declined; we had to rise early to catch our flight to Moscow.
“I’ll charge your rooms,” she said with a smile. “Good night.”
We said our goodbyes and headed to our quarters, promising to meet before dawn, at five-thirty in the morning, to depart for the airport by the hotel shuttle bus.
As I entered my room, my mind lingered on Steve’s remarkable story. Yet his tone gave me the impression he was holding something back. “Whatever it is, it will unveil itself,” I thought, and went to bed.
As I drifted toward sleep, the faint sounds of the city seemed distant and unreal. Then came a frantic pounding at my door.
“Richard! Richard!”
It was Dr. Marino.
I opened the door to find him pale and shaking, his face completely transfigured by horror.
“It… it’s Steve!” he stammered. “I think he’s dead!”
With an exclamation of “Good Lord!” I seized Dr. Marino by the arm and ran with him down the corridor toward Steve’s room, shouting, “Help! Help! Police! Someone call a doctor!”
Editor’s Note:
After careful consideration, and law expert consultation, the Editorial Board of the British Salmoa Times has decided to publish Mr. Hardenburg's exact journalist excerpt, which in our opinion will help protect his persona. Mr. Hardenburg's family has been notified prior to this publication.
Shadows Over the Bosphorus
By Richard Hardenburg
British Salmoa Times Correspondent – Bureau, Istanbul, Turkey
The troubling events of the previous night lingered vividly in my mind. I resisted the urge to speculate, unwilling to let my thoughts drift into conjecture without firmer ground. Before pursuing that line, however, I turned my attention to the gentleman whose air of commanding self-confidence distinguished him as he issued instructions in the local tongue to several men in plain clothes who nevertheless bore the demeanor of law officers.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said with a heavy local accent.
“I am Agent Demir, from the regional Intelligence Division. We were contacted by the Crime Division to look into this incident.” He gestured with a measured hand. “Perhaps we should move to a meeting room for more privacy.”
As Dr. Marino and I followed, a uniformed officer with an MP5 fell in behind us.
“Do not worry about him; we are taking no chances after what happened last night. I’m sure you understand.” He opened the door to a conference room. “Please, come in. Make yourselves comfortable. Just one minor detail—I’d like you to sit next to each other, not across. Is my English clear?”
As he said that, we entered the meeting room and took our places next to each other. Agent Demir sat at the end of the table, tilting his head slightly to face us. He spoke.
“The police officer who attended the initial call concluded that, given the nature of the guests involved and the circumstances of your trip, this was not a medical emergency. Foul play could not be ruled out.”
As he said that, I felt as if the room temperature had dropped.
He continued, his tone even, his composure unbroken. “We inspected Williams’ room carefully and took everything we needed. Nothing appears to be missing... although there is a sense of spotlessness that drew my attention.” He tapped his pen lightly against the notebook. “That is what troubles me.”
His gaze steadied. “For me, that makes this more than a local incident.”
He set a compact voice recorder on the table and straightened his posture. “Start from the beginning,” he said quietly, pen poised.
Agent Demir was a man in his late forties, with a thick mustache, dark complexion, and a slightly heavy build. He listened with unwavering attention as we explained that we had arrived in Turkey to board a plane bound for the Russian Federation, where we were to join the Severnaya Zemlya Expedition.
Dr. Marino recounted the night’s sequence in careful detail. After leaving the restaurant shortly after midnight, he watched Steve walk toward the elevator to his room. As was his habit, he glanced around the table and noticed Steve’s reading glasses left behind on the edge. He lingered a few more minutes, finishing his beer and taking in the view of the canal. When he finally went back to return the glasses, he found Steve’s door open just a sliver. He entered and called his name softly—no answer. Venturing further into the room, Dr. Marino found his friend lying face down. Leaning over and turning him, he feared the worst—that Steve was dead. He then ran through the hotel corridors seeking help until assistance arrived.
“Unfortunately, your plans, as of now, cannot proceed,” Agent Demir said. “Dr. Marino, in your case, you will need to surrender your passport and remain within the confines of the Marriott.”
“Am I under arrest?” asked Dr. Marino, visibly upset.
“You are not,” Demir clarified evenly. “However, we need to rule everything out, and you were the last person who saw Williams.” His eyes studied us in silence, weighing each reaction for clues that might warrant deeper questioning.
As Dr. Marino handed over his passport, the Agent added, “I advise you to contact the Canadian Embassy or Consular Attaché to inform them of your situation.”
“I will do that,” Dr. Marino said, when a light knock at the door drew our attention.
Agent Demir instructed the person to enter. An armed officer stepped in and whispered into his ear. Demir nodded, his expression unreadable.
“The officer just informed me that Williams is alive,” he said evenly, while the officer remained in the room, facing us.
“Thank goodness!” Dr. Marino exclaimed, his voice trembling with relief.
“It is good news, right, Agent?” I asked.
“Well,” he replied with a faint, dry smile, “alive is better than dead—but he is in a deep coma. He has been stabilized by medics and will be transported to a trauma center. We do not yet know how serious his condition is.”
As he stood, signaling the end of the interview, he said, “Dr. Marino, you will be escorted to your room by an officer who will remain outside your door.” Then, moving his hands slightly, he added, as Dr. Marino was exiting, escorted by the officer, “This is for your own protection. All right?”
Turning to me, he continued, “Hardenburg, I have no reason to ask you to remain in Istanbul, but it would be very decent of you to stay—for moral support to your countryman. Would you do that?”
“I wondered what I could do to help Steve and Dr. Marino. I am convinced of Marino’s integrity.”
“Very noble of you, Hardenburg, but I have everything under control.” Shaking my hand firmly, he added, “You seem like the right person to have as a friend in a moment like this.”
As I left Agent Demir, my thoughts lingered on the items from Williams’ room. Some things are worth more than their surface appearance, and I had the uneasy feeling that one small detail—one overlooked object—might yet prove crucial in ways I could not imagine.
The Missing Forty Seconds
By Richard Hardenburg
British Salmoa Times Correspondent – Bureau, Istanbul, Turkey
Seeing Dr. Marino placed under “house arrest” by a Turkish intelligence agency left me deeply unsettled. I suspect Agent Demir wanted me to feel that way—to prompt me to do something revealing. After all, he had no reason to restrict my movements, yet he made sure I understood that I had not been ruled out completely. Hence, he suggested I remain in Istanbul, under the pretext of offering moral support to my countrymen. His reasoning seemed sound enough, but I was not entirely convinced.
At the hotel lobby, I left a message for Agent Demir stating that I intended to have lunch at Pepo Restaurant, a well-reviewed steakhouse. During lunch, I found myself more preoccupied with glancing over my shoulder for a hotel messenger than enjoying my meal.
The walk back to the hotel seemed interminable. However, as I was about to enter the elevator, I heard a voice calling my name.
“Mr. Hardenburg, Agent Demir summons you. There are new developments.”
As we walked together, he added, “He is waiting in the hotel’s security office.”
As I entered the office, Agent Demir exclaimed, “Ah, Hardenburg! What a find! My enthusiasm might seem insensitive to you, but we’ve made remarkable progress!” Then, beckoning me closer with his index finger, he added, “Come, let me show you something.”
On the computer screen before him was a document labeled KLASSIFIZIERT.
“Let me introduce you to your waitress.”
The file was written in German and depicted a photograph of a young woman in her early twenties, with high cheekbones and deep blue eyes. Her hair was short and red—practical, as if she were a soldier.
“Meet Helga Sophie Dittmer,” he said, “an agent from the Bundesamt für Strategische Operationen—the BSO.” Then, tapping the photo, he noted, “She does not look like that—that’s her academy picture.” He continued, “Her dossier says she’s forty-two and was born in Dresden.”
He paused, turned his gaze from the screen to meet mine, then looked back before continuing to read aloud.
“Her specialties include: clandestine operations, counterintelligence, tactical planning, interrogation resistance, tradecraft, explosives, and small arms.”
I was speechless, and he continued.“Current status: Rogue/AWOL. She is credited with the assassination of President [REDACTED] of the Republic of [REDACTED]... warlords... traffickers... and... the list is endless.”
“How can you assert that our waitress is this... assassin?”
“Biometrics,” he said, and continued, “Of course, we are not one hundred percent sure—it’s more like eighty, according to our analyst.” Then he nodded. “I am sure it’s her, one hundred percent. You do not see any resemblance between your waitress and Helga because she is an artist of disguises—it’s part of the trade!”
He concluded, in a tone of victorious self-confidence, “The boys from Crime would have never got this far!”
“Why is she so interested in Steve Williams? His story is in the public domain.”
“Good point. We do not have that answer yet.”
“Does this new finding clear Dr. Marino?”
“It does...” He waved his hand as if to hold back my racing thoughts. “The security footage will show you what normally goes unnoticed—even by the trained eye.”
What I was preparing myself to see next filled me with an inexplicable rush of panic and thrill.
“Look at Camera 2—from the hallway, facing the restaurant,” he said, pointing at the video. “I have been studying these videos all night.”
“Can I take notes?”
“Yes! You can publish your article, but wait—we still do not know if Helga is a threat.” And, gazing into my eyes, he said, “Keep a close look at the timestamps.”
CAM Lobby–2
00:10:23 – The waitress approaches a table next to a window where Steve, Dr. Marino, and I are seated. She makes a polite reverence and leaves.
00:10:42 – Steve gets up and leaves. CAM 5 picks him up in the lobby, waiting for the elevator.
00:10:47 – I get up and leave the restaurant. CAM 5 records me entering the lobby restroom.
00:11:05 – Dr. Marino is still in the restaurant.
ELV2–CAM1
00:10:52 – Steve enters the elevator, joining a cleaning service lady.
00:11:07 – Steve leaves the elevator on the second floor, turning left from the camera’s angle.
00:11:12 – The elevator door closes, and the cleaning lady continues.
00:11:42 – The cleaning service lady leaves the elevator on the third floor.
Agent Demir paused the videos. “The cleaning lady is never seen on the third floor. There is no recording on CAM 3... a full twenty seconds are missing! It is Helga!”
“She must have taken the service stairs to Steve’s room,” I noted.
“Exactly! Watch on.”
CAM 2–E Corridor
00:11:08 – Steve exits the elevator, walks to his room, uses the security key, and enters.
CAM Lobby–2
00:14:01 – Dr. Marino can be seen at the restaurant. I leave the restroom and walk toward the elevator, taking Elevator 1. Nothing extraordinary: I exit on floor 2 and go into my room, a few doors from Steve’s.
00:23:10 – Dr. Marino is seen picking up something from the table and exiting the restaurant, walking across the lobby and taking Elevator 3.
CAM 2–E Corridor
00:23:40 – Dr. Marino exits the elevator and walks in the direction of Steve’s room. The spectacles are clearly visible in his left hand.
00:23:47 – Dr. Marino is seen stopped at the door, back side to the camera. His left hand, holding the glasses, pushes the door open gently. He enters abruptly. The door remains wide open.
00:23:57 – Dr. Marino leaves the room frantically, running in horror to room 305—my room. He pounds on the door.
00:24:03 – I grab Dr. Marino by the arm and drag him into Steve’s room. A door from room 310 opens momentarily, then closes quickly.
00:24:12 – Dr. Marino is seen leaving the room, running toward the stairs.
“All cameras are missing forty seconds after Marino leaves Steve’s room,” Agent Demir noted. “I believe Helga executed her next move. I suspect she was still in the room while you were assisting Steve.”
A chill ran down my spine. I was in the bosom of a viper—and lived to tell the story.
“This clears Dr. Marino!” I said, visibly affected by the events before my eyes.
“Yes, indeed!” As he said that, his mobile rang, and he answered in Turkish.
“Steve has woken.” I could not avoid feeling joy for my countryman.
“He seems out of danger. We’ll take Marino along with us. You are not out of danger yet! We do not know where Helga is.”
Editor’s Note
Mr. Hardenburg’s latest dispatch from Istanbul reaches us amid developments still under official investigation. His report stands as submitted, pending confirmation from Turkish authorities.
Postscript by Richard Hardenburg
In recounting these events, I have begun to sense that my role as observer has grown perilously thin. The boundaries between witness and participant, between the recorded and the lived, have blurred. One writes to make sense of disorder—to impose reason upon what resists it—but in doing so, one risks becoming part of the very intrigue one seeks to understand.
For now, I remain in Istanbul, awaiting clearance to travel. Whether by design or circumstance, the story seems determined to inhabit me as completely as I inhabit it.
Dark Station Wagon
By Richard Hardenburg
British Salmoa Times Correspondent – Bureau, Istanbul, Turkey
With Dr. Marino’s name officially cleared, our goal was simple: leave Istanbul and put both physical and strategic distance between ourselves and Helga Dittmer.
“Your passport, sir,” said Agent Demir, handing it to Dr. Marino. “I apologize for the unpleasant hours, but it was my job.” His smile was polite, restrained. Professional. Unreadable.
Outside, a dark station wagon waited, engine humming. The driver, composed and precise, wore a communications earpiece. Agent Demir said it would take us to the hospital. He took the front seat; Dr. Marino and I sat in the back. Agent Demir spoke briefly in Turkish over the radio, then said, “I am alerting the agents we’re on our way.”
The car threaded swiftly through narrow streets. Blue lights sliced the evening air. My eyes were forward, but my mind cataloged every detail—the positioning of officers, the likely routes, the subtle rhythms of the city at night. Every element mattered. For the first time, that very night, I wondered if we'd already lost the game and did not know it yet.
The hospital district was a fortress. Heavily armed officers held corners, a canine unit prowled the grounds, and a SWAT truck waited beside a communications van. Every detail screamed caution; no mistakes were permitted.
As the car halted, three SWAT officers appeared with mechanical precision, opening the doors. We moved through the emergency access, where armed personnel lined the walls.
“Williams is in a special ward reserved for VIPs,” Agent Demir said. “No precaution is enough for Helga.”
The sterile corridors amplified every sound—the hum of lights, the echo of boots. Steve’s condition reminded me how precarious life can be. One misstep, one invisible hand, and it ends.
We passed masked officers and reached an elevator flanked by two more.
“This will take us to Williams,” Agent Demir said.
At the ward, we complied with security checks. Weapons, keys, and badges were placed in trays; belts were undone. After passing through a metal detector, signatures were recorded, and blue lanyards were issued, bearing a bolded Z for "Visitor" in Turkish, I presume.
The ward was calm, decorated with photographs of flowers and open fields. Agent Demir led us to a private room.
A doctor in a white coat greeted us. “Hello, my name is Dr. Arslan.”
Steve sat up in bed, a faint joy lighting his face. “Fellows!” he said weakly. We embraced him.
“Please, don’t excite him,” said Dr. Arslan. “We still need a few tests.”
“Steve, how are you feeling?” Dr. Marino asked.
“Alive,” he said. That was as good as it got for now.
Agent Demir addressed him with measured precision. “Williams, I’m Agent Demir, Turkish Intelligence. Do you recall anything—anything that might help us?”
“I’m sorry… no,” Steve whispered. “Just a warm hand on my forehead… then darkness.”
Dr. Arslan indicated the puncture on the back of his neck. “A tiny needle, which could have been mistaken for a mosquito bite. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing.”
Vitals stable. MRI showed no damage. Bloodwork revealed no irregular metabolites.
Agent Demir pressed. What could someone want from Steve?
Then the PA announced:
“Code Black, Emergency Room. Code Black, Emergency Room. Code Black.”
“Helga!” Agent Demir said sharply. The name carried a chill - not fear exactly, but the recognition of a mind that moved three steps ahead of everyone else.
We exchanged glances. Facing Helga was never routine. The idea that despite all these security precautions and deployment, Helga still managed to infiltrate the hospital was inconceivable.
Agent Demir paused at the doorway, hand raised, listening to his radio, he responded.
“Acknowledged." And turning to us, he said. "A small package was found in the Emergency Room. The tactical team, with an explosives expert, is examining it.”
“Code Clear, Emergency Room. Code Clear.”
“They are bringing the package here!” He announced. The room held its breath. Every second stretched taut.
An officer entered, placing a small package in Agent Demir’s hands. Wrapped in brown waxed paper, it bore the inscription “Steve Williams.” Agent Demir opened it carefully.
“A book?” he said. Turning to Steve, he added, “It is for you.” He extended the package to him. I recognized it instantly: Col James Williams’ war diary.
“My dad’s diary?” Steve said, surprised. “He served in the Canadian Armed Militia during the Great Second War. This is his war diary.”
A small envelope slipped free. Agent Demir looked at it and handed it to me.
“Anything missing from your father’s diary?” he asked.
“No…” Steve muttered, curiosity flicking across his tired face. “Wait… the lily petals are missing!”
“Dr. Marino, what do you make of this?” I asked.
“Intriguing, fascinating! The pages of Col James Williams’ war diary are chemically processed cellulose, but the flower retains its cellular structure. That difference is critical.”
I leaned closer. “Are you suggesting the flower's possible exposure to the same neutron source Col James Williams encountered could retain information of value, and that’s why it became the target of a sophisticated operation?”
Dr. Marino nodded. “Exactly. The flower may have acted as a biological sponge for the neutron source, revealing characteristics of the particle accelerator or isotopic mix used. Whoever orchestrated this was seeking information encoded within the very biology of the flower. Strategically, it is priceless.”
Steve added, “Mr. Leonov, during my visa interview at the Russian Embassy in Ottawa, requested I bring my father’s diary to Moscow. I complied.”
Agent Demir glanced at me. “And the envelope?”
I paused, turning the note over in my hands, and read aloud. “Hello Richard, I hope Steve Williams’ health is improving. Perhaps one day you can write my story. Until then, Helga.”
I turned the note over, tracing the ink. A part of me wanted to burn it, but the rest was compelled to understand the precise, chilling intent behind every word. I caught Agent Demir's eye and saw the same unsettling recognition: we were close to a masterpiece, terrifying in its purity.
In that quiet room, reality unveiled itself. We were no longer simply observing the plot; we had just officially become part of it.
Opinion: Why Now?
“An Expedition of the Century - and a Question of Timing”
By Richard Hardenburg
British Salmoa Times Correspondent, Istanbul, Turkey
The Kremlin calls it The Expedition of the Century. The Severnaya Zemlya Expedition, we were told, seeks to revive the daring of the early cosmonaut era, epitomised by Yuri Gagarin. Its aim is to venture into the high Arctic during the Polar Night, face extreme risks, and return with discoveries of scientific significance. The ambition is clear. The question remains: why now?
Geopolitics
European geopolitics have shifted markedly since the Russo-Valkarian war began in 2014. The front line remains largely static but violent. Both sides suffer heavy losses, and while Valkaria benefits from Western support, Russia produces its own artillery at a scale reminiscent of the Second Great War.
These circumstances form the backdrop to the expedition’s timing. They do not, however, explain it.
Severnaya Zemlya
Severnaya Zemlya is a remote Arctic archipelago, flanked by the Kara Sea to the west and the Laptev Sea to the east. At this time of year, it lies in darkness under the Polar Night. Temperatures fall between minus thirty-five and minus forty-five Celsius, reaching minus fifty or more with wind chill.
The islands are largely uninhabited and subjected to strong winds, sometimes reaching hurricane force. Having witnessed extreme cold in the Himalayas, I can attest to its effect on the human body. Against this setting, the question is unavoidable: why now, and not during the brief Arctic summer?
The Expeditioners
Based on leaked personal commentaries, even the Russian organizers harbored concerns regarding the readiness of the expeditioners. Their apprehension is justified.
Specialized winter gear, for instance, is insufficient for Arctic survival. Success requires Cold Weather Field Training, which includes the vital skill of establishing "Survival Camps" on moving ice. Even when a ship serves as one’s primary base, one must prepare for the eventuality of being stranded. Furthermore, firearm training is a mandatory requirement for anyone stepping onto the ice—a grim necessity for defense against polar bear attacks.
But the deficiencies go deeper.
Standard protocol demands at least two months of Marine and Survival training to achieve certification. Beyond this, a full month is typically dedicated to team integration and drills with the icebreaker crew to ensure seamless cooperation under pressure. Then, there is the matter of medical certification.
In Russia, the Medical Commission is notoriously strict. One could be the world’s preeminent scientist, yet be disqualified by a minor heart murmur or even a decaying tooth. These rigorous standards exist because, in the Russian view, evacuation during the Polar Night is "an act of war against the elements."
Yet, as of now, and despite these exacting specifications, every expeditioner— national and international alike— is approved. Preparations continue regardless. Among the team, there was a growing sense that time itself had become the primary adversary, echoing Marcus Aurelius’s reflections on the nature of urgency. The Anomaly under investigation appeared to demand immediate attention, even at the cost of basic survival.
Timing, Not Accusation
To be clear, I do not suggest political motives, nor that any nation seeks to exploit the Anomaly for purposes it does not yet understand. Such claims are beyond what can be responsibly stated.
What can be said is that the timing is unusual. Launching an expedition of this scale in the depths of the Polar Night is remarkable and invites scrutiny. Perhaps the explanation is straightforward: some scientific opportunities do not wait for better conditions. Nature, unlike geopolitics, observes its own schedule.
Conclusion
The question persists: why now?
Letters from the White North: On To Moscow
By Richard Hardenburg
British Salmoa Times Correspondent – Bureau, Istanbul, Turkey
As I write this dispatch from Istanbul, one thought weighs heavily on me: for each of us—no matter our wealth, title, or trade—there comes a moment when we must choose a lane. Such choices can change a life; sometimes, they end one. The events of the past three days in this restless city are living proof.
At dawn, I watched the sun climb above the Bosphorus from my room at the Marriott. The air was clean and new, but my thoughts were not. In that first light, I asked myself: What is a correspondent? The answer felt larger than words, larger than print. It was a quiet pulse that filled my chest, an echo from those who came before us.
Across every age, it was the recorders—the witnesses—who preserved the words and deeds that shaped humanity’s belief and destiny. Without them, the story of who we are might have been lost to silence.
Today, that duty has not changed. We are still bound to the truth, to hold power in the light, to speak when it would be safer not to. It is a heavy obligation, but the only one worth carrying. History has shown more than once that the printed word can bring down walls, expose deceit, and remind the powerful that someone is watching.
The mission that brought us to Europe—the Severnaya Zemlya Expedition—has not escaped trial. My colleague Steve Williams, whose life was saved by extraordinary hands, has been ordered home to Canada for further medical care. His absence will be deeply felt.
As for me, I have sought counsel from my family and drawn strength from their belief in what we do. With their blessing, I will continue. In the early hours of November 6th, 2025, Dr. Marino and I will board our connecting flight to Moscow, where I will go on writing—perhaps not fearlessly, but faithfully—the truth.
CANADIAN EXPLORERS SAVED!
As family members, colleagues, and readers across Canada and the world anxiously await news of the international Severnaya Zemlya Expedition in the Russian Arctic, breaking reports from the Russian Federation Foreign Ministry confirm that Canadian members of the expedition are being airlifted to safety aboard the USCGC Healy by Northern Fleet Russian Air Force helicopters.
At the time of this report, the British Salmoa Times does not have a list of evacuees or their medical status. The explorers are being airlifted from the deck of the S.S. Severnny Polyus (Arktika-class LK-60Ya), a Russian icebreaker.
Given the gravity of the situation, and after consulting with family members, we have decided to publish this editorial.
What We Know
On November 7th, when our correspondent Richard Hardenburg failed to submit his excerpt for the section Letters from the North - following a four-hour-and-thirty-minute flight from Istanbul to Moscow - and in light of recent events, the British Salmoa Times felt compelled to contact the Canadian Federal Foreign Affairs (FFA) Minister, Ms. Margaret Thomas.
A few hours later, Ms. Thomas’s office received a direct call from the Foreign Minister of the Russian Federation, Mr. Viktor Kasakov. He explained that shortly after the flagging ceremony of the Severnaya Zemlya Expedition at the Kremlin Palace on November 6th, a security incident occurred within the palace grounds. He added that Professor Marino-Albernas, Professor Ruderburg, and Mr. Hardenburg were present at the ceremony and were unharmed.
Pressed for clarification, Mr. Kasakov stated that Russian security forces had thwarted an attack carried out by a Valkarian special-operations unit. Moscow believes Valkaria has a strategic interest in the Arctic, and that the assault was a deliberate attempt to destroy or disrupt the expedition. He further maintained that all Valkarian operatives were neutralized and that no members of the expedition were injured. According to Mr. Kasakov, Russia assumes Valkaria is operating under the mistaken belief that the expedition has a military research objective—an assertion the Kremlin categorically rejects as “nonsense.”
The Russo–Valkarian conflict began in 2014, when the Russian Federation occupied a northern Arctic region of Valkaria, claiming the operation was necessary to protect local ethnic Russian communities.
Historically, Valkaria - positioned between Western Europe and Russia - has navigated competing spheres of influence. A mountainous northern nation with extensive tundra and forest zones, it was once part of the Soviet Bloc before gaining independence in the early 1990s. Initially committed to neutrality, Valkaria gradually expanded cooperation with Western countries through the late 2010s and early 2020s in Arctic exploration, natural-resource development, and defense coordination, particularly after Russian forces established control over several border districts and strategic transit areas.
Mr. Kasakov explained that during the early hours of November 8th, all members of the Severnaya Zemlya Expedition were transported to the port city of Murmansk, where they would board the S.S. Severnny Polyus to begin preparations and training for the mission. He added that, in light of recent events in Istanbul and Moscow, the Kremlin had determined that the expedition itself could be postponed until the risk level was more manageable - but that training remained essential to ensure the mission’s success.
When asked about the communication blackout from the S.S. Severnny Polyus, Mr. Kasakov said it was necessary to preserve the safety and integrity of expedition members, given recent events.
The Next Few Hours
Many questions remain unanswered. We anxiously await news from our countrymen and hope that all members of the expedition return safely to their families.
About Our Correspondent: Richard Hardenburg
Richard Hardenburg is a British Salmoa Times correspondent currently based in Europe. Over the past decade, he has reported from Europe, the Middle East, and Central Asia, covering political, cultural, and human-interest stories.
A graduate of Columbia College, New York, in the early 2000s, Richard is known for his careful reporting, attention to detail, and commitment to presenting events clearly and accurately. He has a long-standing interest in international affairs and strives to provide readers with a thoughtful perspective on complex developments.
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