The Americans – just four kilometres the other side of the island. They watched each other. That’s what they did, while the rest of us did the work.
The men were cheerful at breakfast and cheerful as they went to work, and the headman jovially told him he could stay and help wash the dishes to pay for his keep. He shovelled snow in a bucket and put it on the stove and observed the day’s chef cocking an ear.
‘That’s funny – there’s one up there,’ the man said.
‘A helicopter?’ Faintly now he could hear it himself.
‘Yes. Not one of the island’s, though.’
‘You can tell the difference?’
‘It’s from the mainland. A big one, going there and back, can’t you hear? No business being up in the fog.’
Porter moodily cleared the tin plates and scraped leavings from the pot.
‘Fat and rinds go in the basket. It’s bait,’ the chef told him. ‘Hello – they’ve started up now!’
A harsher clatter was suddenly rending the air.
‘The island?’
‘That’s them. Going up in the fog!’
‘Where is it, the island?’
‘Out there … What are you doing with your skis?’
He was strapping them on. They had all removed their skis as they’d sat round the trestle for breakfast.
‘I’ll just go out and take a look,’ he said.
‘You’ll see nothing in this … The island’s over there, past our first hole, a straight line. Jesus – more going up! Hey, stay inside the lights! It’s easy to get lost. Don’t go more than a hundred paces!’
‘Okay.’
For the first fifty paces he couldn’t see the dimly lit hole, and then he saw it. At the hole the men were busy hauling in and didn’t notice him. Looking back he could just make out the dim haze of the camp. He started counting again. He counted fifty, and sixty, and seventy; and looking back now could see neither the hole nor the camp. He had not moved his skis as he turned, and when he started again he kept on in the same straight line, and he also kept on counting. His paces on the skis were just about a metre, so after a thousand he had done a kilometre; the air black; the blackness now all roaring.
59
By 4 a.m. the airbase reported that the man was not in the mine, not on the site, that no vehicle had been removed from the site, and that there was no sign whatever that he had ever arrived.
The flight controller went further. He had been growing steadily more sceptical all night, and he now said that they had wasted enough time and he wished to withdraw his men.
The general considered this. Unable to talk to the godforsaken camp himself, his communications had been entirely with this little air force shit; who was becoming a peremptory shit, and an increasingly insolent one.
‘How many men have you got there?’ he said.
‘Twenty-four. In three helicopters. Eight-man squads.’
‘Isn’t there one among them who can mend a telephone?’
‘There’s a signals staff, yes. But they’re in a blizzard there. The line could be down anywhere.’
‘Have they tested the one in the building?’
‘I’ll ask them. But this is your last request, General. I will give it one hour.’
‘Request? What request? It’s an order! You will report to me in one hour,’ and he had slammed the phone down.
But the man was right, he knew. Four hours of air force time wasted … And the bastard had slipped away again, it was certain; could by now be halfway to Magadan.
He decided not to speak again on the phone himself.
But when the next call came, in under the hour, he took it most eagerly, having heard where it came from.
‘Mitlakino! You’ve found the fault?’
‘Yeah. A break. See, they have this conduit, running into a junction box, and what we –’
‘Was it cut?’
‘Well, it doesn’t look frayed. Only nobody said –’
‘All right. You. What’s your rank?’
‘Sergeant, sir.’
‘Stay by that phone. Tell the director of the camp, from me, to check his vehicles again. Every one of them has to be checked. He is to inspect them himself, including anything they have at the mine. He will report to me personally, and he had better not miss any. Do that now. I’m waiting here, I can hear you. When you’ve done it I have another order.’
The other order was for the civilian aircraft on the air strip to be inspected again. It was to be inspected from nose to tail, every centimetre of it; every seat, under every seat, the cargo space, the toilets, any hollow part of the fuselage.
‘But stay by the phone yourself. Somebody will talk to you. If they don’t talk, still stay on the phone. Keep this line open. Don’t let anybody else use it.’
This was at five o’clock.
At five-thirty the director of the camp asked permission to come on the phone, and the general gave it.
‘Well?’
‘General, there’s no actual vehicle missing –’
‘What actual? What are you talking about?’
‘Not a vehicle. We checked them all hours ago. It’s just – a snow plough isn’t here. It could have broken down and the driver be spending the night at Tunytlino. They don’t have a phone there but what I’ll do right now is send –’
‘Tuny what? Have they any vehicles there?’
‘Yes, they have vehicles. They have special tracked vehicles for going out to −’
‘How far to Magadan from there?’
‘To Magadan?’ There was a puzzled silence. ‘Well, I don’t know. I would say maybe – two thousand kilometres?’
‘Two thousand –’
For the first time the general was aware he didn’t know exactly where Mitlakino was. Since nothing of note existed there and it wasn’t on Tchersky’s maps nobody had given him the location. But the airbase had the location. He had thought the airbase was near Magadan. He had thought Mitlakino was …
‘Where the devil are you?’ he said.
‘Where am I?’ the director said in a strange voice. ‘I’m at Mitlakino. Above Lavrentiya. Below Cape Dezhnev.’
‘Cape Dezhnev!’ The general’s flapping hand had summoned maps. ‘Dezhnev … Dezhnev. You mean – the Chukotka peninsula?’
‘Yes, certainly. The Chukotka peninsula.’
‘I see a lake. And a marsh, is it?’
‘The lake and the marsh. Yes, General, we’re between them.’
‘With Tuny – Tunytlino, away on the coast?’
‘Thirty kilometres away. That’s where I think the driver of the snow plough –’
‘The coast of the Bering Strait?’
‘Certainly the Bering Strait.’
‘Good God! Good God!’ the general said. ‘He’s not going south. He’s going – Is that sergeant there? Give me that sergeant.’
By six o’clock, the helicopters were airborne again and making for the string of coastal villages between Tunytlino and Keyekan. Their orders were to land at the villages and search them.
By six-thirty all were reporting dense fog over the coastal area. They could see nothing on the ground, and nothing of each other. They asked permission to return.
‘No! Refused. Absolutely not!’ the general told the airbase. ‘They are to land at those villages.’
‘But they can’t see the villages.’
‘Let them go down lower and look.’
‘General, I can’t endanger my men or their aircraft in these conditions. You’ll see on your map there are hills in that vicinity.’
‘And you’ll see on yours there’s also a strait there. The Bering Strait! Let them fly over it, a little offshore. The villages will have lights. If they get out on their feet they’ll find them.’
By six forty-five a helicopter had found Tunytlino.
It reported that nothing was known of the man there but the villagers had heard a vehicle passing in the night. It had passed soon after 2 a.
m. It had passed in the direction of Leymin.
Shortly afterwards Leymin called in.
Nothing of the man there, either, and no vehicle had passed through.
‘He’s made his try in between, then,’ the general said. ‘Or he went inland a bit.’ He was tracing the route on his map. ‘Let them search both villages. But I think he went on to the next, Veyemik. From there he has a clear run, due east, to the islands. But not with the snow plough – too soon detected. He’s on skis. He took them with him! But on skis he couldn’t have made it yet. And in the fog … I think he’s still there. He’s either spun them a yarn or he’s hiding there. He’s in Veyemik!’
At six fifty-five Veyemik called; and the general’s heart sang.
A stranger had come in the night to Veyemik. A terrified stranger. He said a vehicle had chased him. It had chased him from the mines at Mitlakino where he had been accused of stealing money. He had been in fear of his life and they had taken him in. Their menfolk were looking after him. Had they done wrong?
In no way! Lay hands on him immediately; subdue him, take him back to the base, keep him bound at all times! And promptly report his arrival. He would come himself as soon as notified.
Very good. One squad would remain there until the fog lifted. Then they’d go out and get him. The menfolk of Veyemik were presently at their fishing station. The man was with them.
He was where?
It took some minutes, the babble going there and back from the helicopter, for the general to gather that the fishing station was fifty kilometres out in the strait. That it was only ten kilometres from the first island. And that the party would not yet have reached it. They had left twenty-five minutes ago.
Twenty-five minutes!
‘Go out now!’ the general said. ‘Go immediately, don’t delay! He’ll slip off – this is what he’ll do!’
Go where? How could they find the fishing station in the fog? The Eskimos found it by beacon. The beacon was controlled from the island. The helicopters couldn’t be directed to it by the island because –
‘All right. I’ll manage the island. The helicopters are to take off immediately – all three of them. Sweep behind him, go due east. He’s still in a car, going there! From fifty metres they’ll see the car, even in a fog. Get them down to twenty metres! I’ll call out aircraft from the island. You’ll find him between you. If he tries to slip away and go left or right he’ll miss the island, and he’s lost in the fog. Then we pick him up at leisure. How long is the fog due to last?’
The fog was due to last, according to latest information, another two to three hours … But if aircraft took off from the island there could be mid-air collisions – visibility was zero! The best instrumentation couldn’t –
So arrange a corridor. The fishing station was fifty kilometres out? Fly forty-five. The island would be informed accordingly. Keep communication with them. He was contacting them himself immediately.
Which, immediately, he did.
From the island, after a few minutes’ delay, he learned that the Eskimos’ vehicles had already arrived at their fishing station. Three vehicles had been monitored arriving. Yes, island aircraft could reach the station very shortly. With the beacon, fog was not a problem.
The general asked what mobile forces were available on the island.
Twelve helicopters, he was told; augmented in winter by a company of patrol jeeps. Also sixteen personnel carriers, half-tracks, in four platoons. Four vehicles to a platoon, four men to a vehicle. Sixty-four men.
The general ordered a deployment of these forces.
The helicopters would surround the fishing station and search it. If the man had already skipped they would lift off again and support the surface force of personnel carriers. The surface force would leave at once. Six kilometres from the island it would assume its blizzard formation: the troops off – boarded fifteen metres apart. With the vehicles they would form a line of one kilometre, to sweep forward at ski-walking pace.
In case the man tried to slip back to the mainland, air force helicopters would sweep the area between. To avoid risk of collision in the fog, five kilometres would be kept between the two forces.
The fog was expected to last two to three hours. In that time the man could make a try for the American island. But first he had to find it; which he could only do from the Russian side. Was any audible signal used by the Americans in fog conditions?
No, no audible signals were used. But when the fog lifted the island was easily visible, only four kilometres away. Its masts and aerials had blinking hazard lights, and the satellite dishes were clearly illuminated.
But there was also another factor. The island was four kilometres away, but the international line was only two kilometres. On skis it could be reached in no time.
The general agreed another plan.
In one hour’s time, if the man had not been taken, all forces would proceed at speed to the other side of the island. The man must not be allowed to leave it. If he made a dash for the American side he was to be brought down – brought down, not killed. At all costs he had to be taken alive.
While he was still speaking, urgent news arrived. The helicopters had reached the fishing station, and the man was there! He was washing dishes, in a tent, with the chef. A moment later this report was amended. He had been washing dishes, but at sound of the helicopters he had gone outside to have a look at them; he didn’t seem yet to have returned.
When had he gone? When?
Three or four minutes ago, the chef thought. On his skis.
‘Good God!’ the general said. In the rapid turn of events he had been saying it repeatedly, but now he said a few things more. From two days he had reduced the gap to two hours, and then forty minutes, and then twenty-five. Now it was only three or four! If they merely hovered over his route, they would catch him now. How far, in three or four minutes, could he have gone?
60
At his second kilometre the roaring in the air was deafening and continuous. They were directly over his head now. Hovering; going on a little; hovering again.
The rotors thrashed away, a shattering row, but disturbing the fog very little. He could see the yellow haze of their searchlights. He couldn’t see the machines. And he knew they couldn’t see him. They were keeping altitude. And he now understood the reason why. The same reason was giving him problems.
The strait was no longer flat. Towards the centre of it huge hummocks had begun to appear, windswept snow funnelled between the mainland and the islands, now turned into pillars of ice. They loomed suddenly, disappearing up into the fog, very high, high enough anyway to keep the helicopters off him. But in sidestepping them he had lost his track.
Twice when the racket above had gone ahead he had taken a risk with the torch and shone it back to see the ski marks, had even gone back to check them. But the ice pillars were enormous, ten metres wide at least, and in pacing sideways from them he couldn’t be sure he was still parallel.
Now, the ground itself was exhausting him. The stubby skis were too short, sinking into the recent snow. The row, the exhaustion, the uncertainty had addled his brain, as he suddenly realised. He didn’t have to worry about direction. The bloody helicopters were directing him.
Their job was to stop him rounding the island. They knew that first he had to reach it. Only eight kilometres to go. The two kilometres he had done in under ten minutes, despite the conditions. He was sweating under the anorak, could feel it trickling under his fur cap. He gulped the freezing fog, poled himself rapidly on, one ski after the other; still counting.
980 … 990 … Another kilometre. Seven to go.
The machines hammered and swished above his head. Hovering; advancing; hovering. Hazy blurs, bobbing there, searching. Keeping pace with a man on skis. When he was too close to the island they would have to land and face him. Or if the ice was flat, come at him at ground level. And they surely wouldn’t be alone. The place was a garrison. Men could be lining up there n
ow; a final barrier. But what else was there for him? No other place to go now.
Because there was no other place to go, he planned this one. He had scarcely any idea of it. A kilometre of rock, the Eskimos had said; and on the other side of it, the American island – only four kilometres farther. When the fog lifted it should be visible. But when the fog lifted, he would also be …
Well, to hell. While there was fog he had to use it − at least get himself in position …
First ski within reach of the island.
Then turn left or right, to the end. And go round it and up the other side. At five hundred paces the opposite island would immediately face him. If trouble was waiting there, other noise, the Americans would probably respond with their own, which also could direct him. Even now he was only minutes away. Another kilometre had passed, the fourth. In under the hour he could be over the international line.
He was aware suddenly that there was other noise. Not aircraft noise. A steady rumbling ahead. And dimly through the fog saw the hazy glow of headlights; and in the same moment recalled what the Eskimos had said. There were vehicles on the island. They came out on ice manoeuvres. They had come out for him.
He went flat on the ice immediately. And immediately saw a line of them ahead. In line abreast ahead, not more than a hundred metres ahead. And in the same instant, from the ground, saw that something was happening to the line. The two sets of headlights facing him had stopped and the others were fanning out. From the vehicles facing him lights began to flicker, hazy stars descending in arcs; which after a moment he translated into men with torches. They had jumped out of the vehicles, were strapping on skis.
He was rapidly getting out of his own skis – spreadeagled too obviously on the ice. And also out of his anorak – too visible on it. He swiftly got the white fleece lining uppermost and went flat under it. The men on skis were spacing into a formation. The other vehicles had faded into fog, only the two facing him now visible. And they too were spacing out. The men, the machines, seemed to be placing themselves fifteen metres or so apart. Lining up for a ground sweep. Jesus! He’d been right to drop. A moving figure would soon enough have been seen. He couldn’t outflank vehicles. Half-tracks, he now saw, personnel carriers. But what now?
Kolymsky Heights Page 40