Kolymsky Heights

by Lionel Davidson

  His account of what happened here is not totally coherent. But he knew that, although he couldn’t see it, a tape recorder was running at the time and that his words, necessarily distorted, would all the same be subjected to careful analysis.

  He was in this last place some time after half past nine. (The gilt-wrapped disk, containing the data, he had just hidden. He had got away from it fast; but now he was wondering whether he should bury the silver one too.) The helicopters were then still grounded but he could hear their rotors slowly turning; also the sound of vehicles, less muffled by fog now and evidently patrolling to north and south of the opposite island. From this he knew that the strait was covered for miles and that he had no chance of skiing across.

  He also knew that survival on the icy cliff was impossible; that he would be trapped on it when the fog lifted, and that his options were either to give himself up or to be caught.

  A jeep had turned up below at this time and he heard the crew get out and search a cave. The man in charge had shouted:

  ‘Remember, lads, he’s to be taken alive. But put a few in his legs – he’s a wriggly bastard, can still make it, give him half a chance.’

  This had given him pause. He was to be taken alive. And he was a wriggly bastard who could still make it.

  He wondered.

  He had his pick and line. He had his skis, his gun.

  A few minutes later he also had a fantastic view.

  The breeze, already snatching at the fog, turned suddenly into a blasting wind that blew it away entirely. In minutes the air was crystal clear, and the other island stood immediately before him. It looked no distance at all – a huge skyscraper of rock, laced with lights.

  Helicopters were going up and down on it, taking a look at the disturbance before them.

  Before them was the disturbance facing him.

  He counted sixteen half-tracks; the flickering torches of some scores of men; many jeeps skimming on the ice; and helicopters fluttering, a long line of them, now too beginning to lift off.

  He saw three long-bodied ones thundering away, evidently back to the mainland. The smaller ones went blinking up into the sky, to land somewhere above him. The half-tracks and the flickering torches remained.

  The place he was in had a low roof and the floor was covered with debris. This slit in the rock – for this was all it was – was four or five metres deep, and wider inside than out, the walls at either side of the opening hollowed in.

  From the opening he observed something new happening.

  A helicopter had evidently lifted off above, and presently he saw it flittering like a daddy-longlegs along the coast, its searchlight examining the cliff face. As it drew closer he hid himself in the hollow by the opening and stayed there as the eyrie lit up. The searchlight looked in for half a minute, and moved on.

  A little later, he saw that two vehicles were following the helicopter on the ice. Some banging had been going on, but it took him time to figure out what it was. One of the cars was a jeep. The other seemed to be a fire-fighting vehicle. It had an articulated ladder, and at each cave where the helicopter had lingered the ladder was raised.

  Porter watched as, in the beam of a searchlight, a man went up the ladder, in a gas mask. At the top he flung in what seemed to be a stun-grenade, producing the bang, and shortly afterwards a canister of tear gas – smoke streamed out, anyway. Then the man paused, head well down, before suddenly rushing the place; with a sharp rat-tat, and another pause, before he reappeared and came down the ladder.

  Porter positioned himself in his own eyrie to be nearer fresh air, prepared to take a deep breath and hold it. He knew he could hold it for two minutes. The man hadn’t taken as long as two minutes.

  He was waiting there when it happened. He saw the walls turning milky white, heard the scrape of the ladder and the man coming up. He gave it ten seconds, filled his lungs, and actually saw the stun-grenade come arcing in. It struck the low roof, bounced sharply on to his chest and exploded in his face.

  For some moments, the flash was the last thing he saw. It blinded, deafened, almost paralysed him.

  He still hung on to his breath.

  The second canister he didn’t see or hear. He knew it was there by the stinging of his lips and a prickling round the eyes. He was aware, through the smoke, of a bulky presence at the opening, a pig’s snout emerging there. He smashed the man’s head with his gun and yanked him swiftly in; remembering to rap off a quick burst at the roof. He had the gas mask off in seconds and put it on himself, exhaling and inhaling. He still could hear nothing at all. He waited some moments more, breathing quickly in the gas mask, and went out backwards.

  It was the trousers (this he did not learn) that gave him away. He didn’t hear the order to face around, didn’t even hear the warning burst chattering round his head; was aware only of the solid jolt in his right leg, that he no longer had the use of the leg and was tumbling off the ladder.

  By this time he had less than two metres to fall and he landed in a heap, but with the gun in his hands. He got off a short burst with it, and saw the men standing there take cover.

  In the brilliant beam he had almost a flashlight picture: of the fire vehicle’s driver staring out of the window; of the man at the ladder mechanism gaping at him; of the jeep, its offside doors standing open.

  Two armed men had been positioned by the jeep, both now down on the ice and peering at him from underneath the car. One was yelling at him, he could see the mouth going but couldn’t hear what it said. The man had his gun levelled, so Porter shot him and saw the man punched back flat on the ice; and in another soundless moment saw the other man wriggling his gun out from underneath, and he put a burst into him too.

  The driver of the jeep was still in it; he now saw his legs emerging. He put two single shots near them, tore the gas mask off and yelled, ‘Stay where you are! Get back in!’ He could just, now, above the ringing in his ears, hear his own voice, and he saw the legs go back in.

  He crawled to the offside door, poked the gun in, and kept it on the man while he pulled himself in.

  ‘Don’t shoot me,’ the man said.

  He was very frightened.

  ‘Just drive.’ He had the gun at the man’s chin.

  ‘Drive where?’

  ‘To the line – get going!’

  ‘We can’t make it. They’ll blow us to pieces!’

  ‘I’ll blow you to fucking pieces!’

  He fired under the man’s chin, shattering the window.

  The man was trembling very badly, but he put the car in gear, and moved, bumping over something.

  He said shakily, ‘Give yourself up – they won’t kill you. There’s orders not to kill you. We can never make this.’

  This seemed very likely. From nowhere jeeps had come spinning – from the left, from the right.

  ‘Go faster!’

  ‘We’re going as fast as we can.’

  Maybe they were. He wasn’t seeing too well. When he looked ahead his left eye couldn’t see the man beside him. (This was because his left eye was in the eyrie, blown out by the stun-grenade.) The other jeeps were not going any faster: they had come out fast, trying to cut them off, but seemed now only able to keep pace and automatic fire was coming from them. He understood they were not trying to hit him but to immobilise the car. The firing was at the engine, at the wheels.

  And some of the half-tracks ahead, he saw, were moving. Their headlights were on and their searchlights now came blindingly on. The ones that weren’t moving had also begun firing; puffs of smoke came from them, and a few metres ahead the ice began to erupt: small grenades, propelled grenades – again intended evidently just to stop the car.

  The effect of the grenades was to detach the jeeps closest to him, which turned rapidly aside – giving them, so it seemed, a final lucky burst, for the car jerked suddenly and slewed, the driver wrestling with the wheel as they tilted and slithered round in a complete half-circle.

  ‘We’re
hit, they’ve got us – give it up now!’

  ‘Keep going!’ His balance, his spatial sense had gone; couldn’t tell which side was down. ‘Where are we hit?’

  ‘Your side – we’re all down there. See it!’

  He took a look, and saw they were down. ‘Give it left wheel,’ he said, and turned back and saw the man was no longer at the wheel. He was no longer in the car. His door was open and he had flung himself out.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ The back doors too were open, and now banging to and fro as a jeep struck them. He got his gun up and put a burst in the jeep’s windshield. The magazine ran out with this short burst and he levered himself, in great pain, behind the wheel. His right knee was now in torment, no movement in the leg. He carried the leg over the seat and got his other foot down.

  The car hadn’t stalled, was still slowly circling, in first gear. He stepped on the accelerator, shuffled his foot to change gear and straightened out. Two more jeeps had slammed into him and his lights had been shot out. But there was light enough, he didn’t need lights; and in the frantic minutes had barely even noticed the collisions.

  One wheel was dragging in the soft surface ice, and the steering was heavy. He had little speed and now was being banged again and again by the jeeps. In the brief interval when he’d appeared to stop, the RPG firing had ceased and the jeeps had closed in. But now, straightened out and on track again, he saw the grenades restarting, the jeeps again sheering away.

  The moving half-tracks had come closer, their searchlights dazzling him. He saw the intention was to ram him, to catch him between two of them. He pressed the pedal to the floor, squeezed the last bit of speed and found, with the motion, the wheel dragging less, the steering coming lighter. He didn’t turn away, went directly at the converging lights, waited till he was almost at them, and spun the wheel. But now, hammer blows coming from his left eye, his distance was all out, and he was jolted out of his seat as he hit the rear end of one. He clutched on to the wheel as the car lurched left, right, skittering on the ice.

  His foot had come off the pedal, and he found it again, hunching back in the seat. Firing had started behind him, a hail of it hitting the rear end, low down. And ahead now, perhaps no more than two hundred metres, the stationary half-tracks were puffing at him, the ice spuming up. But they were far apart, he saw, a gulf apart, and the line of torches in between was wavering. They could not fire at him, not in the car, could only try to stop the car.

  He aimed at the gap between two half-tracks, saw the men on the ice there scattering, turning carefully to fire – and he was through. But Jesus, Jesus – caught once more! Now, at the last, another wheel. The car dragged, slithered. He was through the waiting line, but crippled, two tyres at least gone. And the half-track engines were now roaring into life behind him; an iron voice rasping over a bullhorn there.

  ‘Stop! Stop while you can! You’ll be blown off the ice!’

  He kept going: swearing, coaxing, willing the thing to move. He was moving, moving, six or seven miles an hour maybe, the wheels churning, moving only when zigzagged. His eye, his knee were now alight with white fire – the ice also alight, lit up, spuming with small geysers popping in front of him.

  Distantly now there were other lights, racing about. The American side, surely not far now. With nothing following him – and he was sure nothing was or it would easily have overtaken him – he thought he must now be over the international line.

  [In fact he was not yet over it. The vehicles behind had been ordered to remain 250 metres from the line, and this they did; a fact confirmed by watching American helicopters. But they had also been ordered to continue firing up to it, and this too they did; the subject of later official complaint.]

  For the men on the half-tracks the job was now very difficult. Even at one hundred metres RPGs could not hit a target with any great accuracy. And this target, a man in a vehicle, was not to be hit – at least not with a grenade – but only halted. The only way to halt him now was to hit his engine. If this could be achieved before he reached the line, men could go out on skis and get him. Probably at this time some small mortars were used.

  The geysers that had been popping in front of the slowly zigzagging vehicle now came closer; and with his zigzag now established and predictable, they scored, and a cheer went up.

  ‘Hit! Stopped him! Okay, boys, go out there.’

  The boys went out there, but to their consternation the target, though stopped, did not remain stopped.

  The thing had landed with a whoosh, a metallic clang and a cascade of glass. The clang was the ripped-apart hood of the jeep, sections of which, and of the grenade, came through the shattered windshield and into Porter. The furnace in his head roared briefly and went out, leaving him in the dark. It had also bounced his foot off the pedal, stopping the car.

  Still in the dark, he started the stalled engine again, twisting the wheel this way and that, and rocking the car in and out of reverse, which got it sluggishly crawling again.

  The blast seemed to have stunned him completely. He couldn’t see anything. And the shock was making him pant. The glass had exploded in his face and must have cut his mouth. He tasted blood there. The panting he recognised after a minute to be not panting but something like choking. This nightmare – quite a familiar one – he had often had. Driving a car, choking, and unable to see where he was going. He knew he must be going right, that he hadn’t turned completely. When the car stuck and churned he wriggled the wheel and got it moving again, very slowly, a crippled insect, stumbling, stopping, wriggling on.

  The US aircraft watching from above stated that it took him eight minutes and that he halted when he was told to.

  A loudhailer told him to, in English, and presently some closer voices were bawling at him to open the door and step out with his arms raised. He opened the door but didn’t manage the arms or even the step, flopping out like a bundle on the ice. Many big amplified voices were sounding off all round him, and from the island itself, and among them he picked out, weirdly, the mellifluous one of Bing Crosby, hoping that his days would be merry and bright, and all his Christmases white.

  62

  The medical facilities on the island were found to be not adequate for Porter’s injuries and a helicopter was readied to take him 120 miles down the Alaskan coast to Nome. He was fully conscious and urgently demanding a tape recorder; which the radio room made available to him, together with a throat microphone – this last a requirement of the military surgeon who didn’t want him shouting over the engine.

  At Nome, the facilities were also found to be insufficient and he was jetted another 600 miles south to Anchorage. Here in the early afternoon of 25 December he was admitted to the Providence Hospital.

  Because of the festivities only a skeleton staff was on duty at the hospital, but Nome had informed them of the case and specialists had already been contacted.

  The specialists drove in, and they agreed that immediate surgery was needed. The patient was still conscious but now in great difficulties. Apart from possible neurological complications, the more obvious damage was very extensive. One eye was missing, he was blind in the other, had two shattered legs, and severe injuries to most of his upper body.

  In stripping him for examination, the staff had found a body belt which he refused to give up. During the X-rays he insisted on holding it himself under a protective lead apron. The tape recorder had been taken from him (the tape, after being turned for him on the aircraft, had now run out), but he insisted that he had to give some immediate instructions about it to a man in Washington.

  This man could not be reached, but at a redirected number somebody promised that he would call in as soon as possible. He had still not called in when Porter, now speechless and unmoving, had to be taken down to the operating theatre. By then, however, he had made his instructions understood: the belt and the tape were to be locked in the hospital’s safe, and if he was incapable of speech for any length of time after the operation th
e man from Washington had to hear the tape before touching the body belt.

  These instructions were observed: the belt and the tape went into a safe and Porter himself to surgery.

  The man in Washington was his CIA escort Walters, with whom he had established, at the ‘camp’, a fair working relationship. Walters was not, at this time, in Washington but in Seattle, where he was spending Christmas with his in-laws. Seattle, though well north – the most northerly town of the United States proper – was still 1500 miles south of Anchorage.

  Transport was made available, his journey notified, and he arrived at the Providence at nine o’clock. Porter was by then long out of the operating theatre, but not expected to live. His visitor identified himself, had his identification confirmed, and signed for the tape and the body belt. He had been keeping contact with Langley and was now instructed to go there at once. Langley was another 2500 miles. But by lunch time next day, which was Boxing Day, the material he brought with him had been duly processed. By then, however, the Providence’s morgue had received its expected corpse.

  The voice on the tape was a husky whisper, not always understandable, but quite understandable about the body belt.

  Inside the belt was a pouch, and in the pouch a foil-sealed case.

  When manipulated in a vessel of liquid hydrogen the case sprang easily open and popped out its disk. The disk was four centimetres in diameter, and the material on it highly condensed. The technicians soon unravelled the protocol and transferred the contents to a screen.

  The information on the disk was known to be addressed personally, but even so the directness of the opening caused surprise as the lines began streaking, one after the other, across the screen.

  ‘ How long, dear friend – how long? I await you with eagerness … ’

  EPILOGUE