Man on Ice

by Humphrey Hawksley

  ‘We paid three cents an acre to buy Louisiana off the French in 1803 and they’re not complaining,’ said Swain. ‘Have we located the treaty yet?’

  ‘They’re saying this is it,’ said Stephanie. ‘The issue of the lost treaty arose when I was in Moscow. Neither you nor they could find the original document.’

  ‘We need to move on,’ said Swain. Prusak muted the TV screens. Stephanie sat down.

  ‘Prime Minister, how far will Britain and the rest of Europe support us?’ asked Swain. ‘If we can come up with a united policy, we can see this problem off. If Europe divides, we’re in trouble.’

  ‘It depends what you plan,’ said Slater.

  ‘If you’re not with us, we’ll do whatever it is without you,’ said Holland.

  ‘Hold off on the swagger,’ said Swain.

  ‘Europe is geographically closer to Russia, so it’s more complicated,’ said Stephanie. ‘We burn Russian gas to keep warm, more than thirty percent in Europe and seven percent in the UK.’

  ‘Mr President,’ said Prusak. ‘The Defense Secretary asks if he can update us for a couple of minutes.’

  ‘Can it wait?’ said Swain.

  ‘He says not.’

  A Secret Service agent opened the door and Michael Pacolli walked in. Prusak opened a darkened screen to a map of Europe.

  ‘The Russian navy has been put on a high state of readiness, sir,’ Pacolli said, as two circles appeared on the screen. ‘It’s the equivalent of our DEFCON 2. There is increased activity in Kaliningrad, the Russian military enclave between Poland and Lithuania, and down here in Crimea.’ He pointed to the areas on the map. ‘Two Novorossiysk submarines left Kaliningrad on January 10th and two more went out from the Black Sea Fleet in Sevastopol the next day. Within the past hour, they have brought three stealth T-50 fighter aircraft into Kaliningrad and four to the Baherove airbase in Crimea.’

  ‘Where are the submarines now?’ asked Holland.

  ‘These are diesel-electric vessels. With engines off, running on batteries they are near impossible to track. The Novorossiysk is the quietest naval vessel in the world.’

  ‘Answer my question, Mr Secretary. Where are they now?’

  ‘We don’t know, sir.’

  ‘You didn’t track them?’

  ‘We don’t have those resources.’

  ‘And damn you, Christopher Swain, for denying us the money to protect America.’ Holland pressed the palm of his right hand hard into the table.

  Part of Holland reminded Stephanie of Harry, her ex-husband, the use of anger to get what he wanted. Harry imagined himself enveloped in hostility from everyone around him, including his wife, and dealt with it by lashing out. She worked out, far too late, that his temper was a cover for fear. Outside of his general unhappiness, Harry posed no threat. As President-elect, Holland did. His aggression might be pre-inauguration nerves, which were fixable. Or, like Harry, it might be embedded within his mental template, in which case America was in trouble.

  Holland drummed his fingers loudly as if waiting for an order to be obeyed. Pacolli stood by the door, ramrod-straight. Prusak’s eyes shifted from his tablet to the screen. Slater drew columns on the notepad in front of him. Then, after three minutes of silence, the President sat back, arms folded and said, ‘Mike, give me strike options on both Kaliningrad and Crimea.’ Pacolli looked relieved to have clear instructions.

  Swain continued, ‘We screw down Russian companies operating here. Use IRS, RICO, FBI, with the whole toolkit – bank accounts, parking tickets, visas.’

  He turned to Holland. ‘Bob, Prime Minister Slater advised you to get your ducks in a row. So, I’ll tell you how they line up. In Latin America, we will have allies in ten of the twenty governments. Africa, I wouldn’t count on more than five and none of the big hitters – South Africa, Nigeria, Kenya. India will stay neutral or side with Russia. Pakistan is with China and China is likely to side with Russia. Southeast Asia will be split. South Korea and Japan are with us. In the Middle East, we may have Saudi Arabia, Bahrain, Qatar, and the Sunni states. But those are fragile monarchies that could flip the other way at any time. Syria and Iraq will be with Iran and Russia. We have Israel, of course.’

  ‘And if things go from diplomatic to hot?’ asked Stephanie.

  ‘Fewer allies, far fewer, and a lot will depend on China. Many are in Beijing’s pocket, which is why I would strongly advise against the President-elect thinking along the lines of a “for or against us” choice.’

  ‘I’ll make that decision with my team,’ said Holland.

  Swain ignored him. ‘Phones, corridors, embassies, trade, education, aid, threats, muscle – use them all.’ He turned to Slater. ‘Prime Minister, can you deliver Europe?’

  ‘If there’s no more combat, I will give it my best shot.’

  ‘Then we hold everything until Prime Minister Slater and I address our people.’

  ‘We don’t address “our people” in the UK,’ said Slater. ‘The monarch does that.’

  ‘An interview. The BBC at the embassy?’ said Stephanie.

  ‘No,’ said Slater.

  ‘Where then? It can’t be at the White House.’

  Slater brushed the inside of his wrist with his finger, a habit Stephanie saw several times when he was thinking hard. ‘I’ll ask Jeff Walsh to set up a session with union workers. Against a Manhattan backdrop. The Nine Eleven memorial. That’ll be recognizable to a British audience and the dockers will be a familiar audience for me. I’ll do it better.’

  ‘That would be the Port of New Jersey,’ said Prusak as Stephanie’s forehead creased with doubt. It wouldn’t work, she thought. How could it? An unknown, left-wing British Prime Minister suddenly talking to dock workers in New Jersey. She understood Slater’s thinking. His stirring off-the-cuff oratory among blue-collar, working-class backdrops, factories, housing estates, closed coal mines had won him the popular support that propelled him into the top job. Speaking live on television would put him at the heart of the crisis, a British and European leader convincing Americans to do what was right, no stuffy formal interview, the night shift at a container terminal. In one way it was brilliant. But it was too subtle for today’s media and therefore very high-risk, the location so surprising that no one would remember a word of what Slater said.

  ‘We need to see your speech,’ said Holland.

  ‘I don’t know yet.’

  ‘Then let me guess,’ said Holland. ‘You’ll talk about negotiations that will invite Lagutov’s Red Army into Europe.’

  ‘We need to trust Kevin on this,’ said Swain.

  Holland disagreed. ‘Europe will cave in, then they’ll be on the phone asking Americans to risk their lives to get the Russians out.’

  Slater pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘I’m a plain-speaking man, Mr President-elect, as are you,’ he said. ‘I hope, one day, we might respect each other for that. But right now, I’ll remind you not to fuck with me, because if you do it will damage America and your legacy will go to shit.’

  Holland’s face reddened. ‘I’ll remind you that you are a guest in this room!’

  ‘Matt, fix a plane for the Prime Minister,’ said Swain.

  ‘From New York, I will go straight back to London and report to the House of Commons.’

  Stephanie got up to leave with him, but Slater said, ‘Stay here, Ambassador, where you’re needed. My staff can handle this, and I will have Jeff Walsh with me in New York.’

  ‘A message from the Alaska Army National Guard,’ said Pacolli, scrolling down his phone. Swain shook Slater’s hand and walked him to the door. As he turned back, Pacolli said, ‘Don Ondola has arrived in Wales from Goose Creek Correctional Center.’

  ‘The scout?’ said Swain. ‘The prisoner?’

  ‘Yes, sir. He’s inspected the ice. He says there is a risk of casualties, but he can get our troops across.’

  The room fell quiet. In their long history of hostilities, there had never been overt, direct, intentio
nal combat between Russian and American ground troops. As soon as they set out from Wales to Little Diomede, that was likely to change.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Little Diomede, Alaska, USA

  Savage winds buffeted Rake as he edged along the ridge on the southern lip of Little Diomede. In the summer, this was a dirt track used for gathering sea birds’ eggs and wild vegetables. In the winter, it hardened with frost, then iced over, and now was covered in snow. More came at him in blinding sheets, so thick that he couldn’t see his hands.

  The bad weather was as perfect as he could have wished for. Swirling snow and fog would keep him invisible. In the lulls, when the wind dropped and the fog vanished, he could see above him a glow of lights: the Russian soldiers were setting up an observation post on the roof of the island. So far, he’d counted three of them. He expected five or six.

  He could bypass them and head across to the base on Big Diomede. Those were his orders. He knew the terrain and footholds that would get him around the island. But the weather could clear at any time, making him and the American troops coming across from Wales vulnerable. The Russians would pick them off like ducks at a funfair.

  If he were to take the Russians, it would have to be at close quarters. If there were steady wind speed and direction, he could try with the rifle. But in weather like this, wind speed could change from zero to forty miles an hour in a few moments, swinging from northerly to easterly and back again without pattern. The only way to get a clean shot was in the seconds when the wind dropped completely. Even then he doubted he could make six kills, silently, without raising a radio alert.

  The track followed a zigzag route towards the top to ease the gradient for climbers. Rake ignored it and went straight up. Even though the rock face was hidden by snow, he knew how to spot hand- and footholds. He grasped the rounded edge of a rock and hauled himself up. He leant in, catching his breath. The straps of his pack bit into his shoulders.

  He tried to find his footing to the next level, but clumps of snow stuck to his boots making any grip impossible. Holding tight with his hands, he kicked it off just as the wind changed direction threatening to pull him away completely. He held himself still, waiting for the wind to drop, seeing nothing except a swirling whiteness. To go back down now would be as dangerous as to keep going. The wind softened. Its howling energy lessened to buffeting gusts that he could handle. His stolen Russian military gear was good. The gloves didn’t tear. The goggles stayed tight. He could feel sweat running down his back. It trickled into his eyes too, underneath his goggles.

  His muscles tore with pain as he pulled himself higher, feeling his way with his boots for the next ledges. He reached a familiar point where the hillside rose vertically above him. Twenty more feet and he would be over the edge and on a level with the soldiers. He faced a deep crevice. Above it, within hand’s reach, was a rock that jutted out like a pole. He clasped it with both hands and hauled himself higher, fighting the weight of the pack that was tilting him backwards and pulling him down. Fresh feathery snow covered his goggles. He could only see a spinning vortex of white driving into the dark hollow of the crevice. He felt forward with his left hand searching for another hold and found one over the lip. Using both arms, he heaved himself over the top.

  He lay in drifted snow, catching his breath. Up there he was exposed, and the wind hit him viciously across the face like a fist. In front was a line of rocks against which the snow had drifted enough for him to hide and watch.

  Now he counted six Russians. They were unfamiliar with the island, but were well trained in cold-weather warfare; the way they held their weapons, their respect for exposed metal and how it could stick to human skin and tear it in the cold, how they looked out for each other.

  Eskimos had their own way of dealing with the cold, and during the early days of his military training Rake had learned more about Arctic survival, how clothing can slip and how quickly body heat is sapped from exposed parts. Blood freezes so its warmth can’t compensate. Circulation stops and frostbite moves in. The victim will not feel a thing until he gets warm. The pain then can be so great that men have told how they prayed to die.

  The primary task of the Eskimo Scouts was not fighting, but surveillance. Rake was to be the eyes and ears of America on its sub-zero icy border. Combat was for other units. He had applied and won a transfer to the 19th Special Forces group in Washington State. They taught him how to shoot and kill men in the cold. In return, he had showed them how to read the Arctic wind and ice. It was this unit that had taken him to Afghanistan, where he met Carrie and where he learned the skills he was about to use now.

  Rake laid down the pack, pressed himself against the boulder, and used the night-vision scope. The soldiers had brought up two general-purpose machine guns, powerful night-vision scopes, a satellite dish, and what looked like rocket-propelled grenades. To operate in both directions, east towards Wales and west across to Big Diomede, they had separated into groups of three.

  Rake watched for many minutes. From what he could see from the way they acted, how they moved slowly, planning, watching, the Russians were not expecting an attack. He took two M14 carbines from his pack with thirty rounds in each magazine, giving him ten rounds for each target. He shouldn’t need that many. It would be fast and at close range. Ondola had lubricated them well. The mechanisms were doing their job. He arranged one weapon on each shoulder.

  At some stage, the Russians would gather to eat, to plan, to receive orders. He needed all six in a single cluster.

  Minutes passed. The wind dropped. The fog and driving snow cleared. He could see the looming dark ridge of Big Diomede and the moon’s glow against a cold black sky. The surface at the top was flat, rocky, snow-covered, and treacherous. The soldiers trod cautiously as they arranged equipment, a machine gun on each side, ammunition boxes hauled up on a sled, a satellite dish, protectively encased, erected on the westerly edge.

  Nearby, a soldier was being treated for an injury. The way the medic was checking him, taking off the flak jacket, it looked like frostbite. Rake counted five gathered around this westerly machine-gun post, leaving one out of sight, presumably manning the easterly machine gun which he could no longer see.

  It wasn’t perfect, but it was as good as it would get.

  He slid out from behind the rocks and eased himself towards the group. Hunting on the ice was all about the kill. You didn’t wound. Silently, invisibly, he moved through the snow until he was close enough. In position, he chose his order of targets, judged flak jackets, anticipated moves. The wind remained cruel, the snowfall a blizzard. It would muffle the noise of gunfire.

  He squeezed the trigger. A soldier’s head disintegrated, spraying bone and brain around him. Another fell, splitting his head on an exposed rock, blood spilling out on both sides like cut fruit. The frost-bitten soldier with no body armor took a straight torso shot. The spill of crimson told Rake he had hit the heart. The medic treating him turned as three rounds cut through his skull. His legs buckled and he folded onto himself, shoulders slumped, feet skewed and barely a face to speak of. A fifth man managed to fire back, but wildly because he had no target. He died a second later.

  Rake kept his finger on the trigger until they were all down and the magazine empty. He switched weapons and trod across the rocks to where they lay sprawled, skewed and awkward in snow that was turning dark red and melting with the warmth of their blood. This was an NCO unit, led by a sergeant. He took the radio and reloaded the first M14.

  The fog was thick, and to find the sixth soldier he would have to go towards the easterly edge and hope for luck. He crawled on his elbows, fifteen feet at a time, checked, saw nothing, and crawled again. The radio stayed silent.

  A lull in the weather brought his target into vision. The moon appeared like a searchlight illuminating the flat barren whiteness around them. The soldier was barely fifty feet away and coming towards him. The man walked carefully, knowing something wasn’t right. He held his weapon in h
is right hand and reached with his left towards the top of his uniform, which Rake guessed would be the radio button.

  Rake fired, but it wasn’t a clean shot. The soldier stumbled, tried to get his balance, missed his footing on a rock, and fell. Rake pressed the trigger again. The weapon jammed. He fumbled for the second M14, but the soldier, from the ground, already had his weapon raised. Rake twisted away just as bullets hissed by his ears.

  Sudden, new fog cut his vision. The soldier was close, but he no longer saw him. Rake drew his double-bladed knife. The fog would lift just as suddenly, without warning, at any second. When it did, one of them would have the advantage. Or the soldier would fire blindly and give away his position. Rake stayed still, barely breathing. Through the fog, he could just make out the darker shape of the soldier edging towards him.

  Rake uncoiled himself and rammed the butt of his jammed weapon into the soldier’s mouth. His head jerked back, but his right arm clawed, ripping away Rake’s face mask. Rake hit him in the neck, then in the temple, and fell to the ground with him. He pulled away his weapon and broke the radio cable. Even hurt and down, the soldier still had enormous strength. The knife was in Rake’s right hand. He needed to get it up to the neck, vulnerable above the body armor where death would be near instantaneous. But Rake couldn’t. The soldier held Rake’s arm in an unbreakable grip. His mask was torn and Rake could see his enemy’s face and eyes clearly.

  ‘We don’t have to,’ whispered the Russian.

  But they did have to. There was no other way. Rake’s expression softened and he loosened his left arm enough to let the Russian believe he was listening. He stopped trying to bring the knife up which the soldier was resisting, instead shifting his strength to lower it as if relaxing the attack. He saw a flash in the soldier’s eyes. Yes, they did have to. With a clockwise turn, Rake plunged the knife downwards, sliding it under the soldier’s flak jacket and up through the ribcage. The body arched and the grip fell away. His face contorted in pain as Rake pushed harder and the blade cut through his lungs and other vital organs towards his heart. Blood bubbled from the man’s nostrils and mouth and froze. The body went limp.