Red Ice

The commander looked sick. But by now I realized that he had looked sick from the moment he had entered the room. He sensed the injustice of his assignment and it didn’t suit him. He didn’t like it, didn’t like it at all.

“RM1 Puckins, GMG2 Wickersham, I think you two had better disengage,” I said, praying my voice wouldn’t crack with emotion, “and get back to the compound before you get into some real trouble, sporting those unauthorized weapons. I appreciate what you want to do, but I called the shots, I’ll take the fall. Thanks, fellas. Now disengage, and that’s final.”

I felt sorry for the commander. He had drawn a dirty job and only a larger sense of duty made him accept it. He wasn’t a ticket puncher; they have a talent for avoiding the unpleasant and inglorious. They’d never draw a dirty job like this one. They never do.

CHAPTER 8

People jammed Keiko’s bar. Laughter jarred my senses from two or three parts of the room, bringing me back to the present. Waitresses bustled quickly between the kitchen and their tables.

I was determined that sleazy excuse for an officer would not rile me into a slip. “Ackert, here’s a little advice. Watch your drinking, you’re starting to annoy people. Drink your drink, then get out. You fellows on the way up have to be careful about things like that. That—and you ought to be careful where you’re seen drinking and with whom. Why, I’ll bet you’ve already done your future irreparable harm. Here, let me see you to the door before any damage is done, and you might get out with your reputation intact.”

Wearily, I plodded up the stairs. If this mission were compromised, I and everyone who put his faith in me—who went with me—would spend the remainder of our lives chopping frozen wood or digging icy ore in Ivan’s desolate cold storage. That is, if we survived to be taken prisoner.

Rage and frustration broke in alternating waves over me. The Ackerts of the world drew spiteful pleasure from a ruthless and unilateral game of king-of-the-mountain with unsuspecting strangers. Any stranger could be a competing ticket puncher no matter what his professed goals, and never give a sucker an even break. The Ackerts were the new gamesman breed of officer. The gamesman, the military manager, the organization man, the careerist, call him what you may; he was a rapid mover in the brass-heavy bureaucracy and a free trader on the moral marketplace.

A woodcut print dropped to eye level; I had reached the top landing. I slipped off my shoes.

Keiko sensed my anguish. She tugged at my hand and led me into the bedroom. Then, quietly and tenderly, we made bittersweet love.

Non-gamesmen could play at Ackert’s game. I would start a variant of the game with my own rules, call it… king-of-the-abyss.

PART II

CHAPTER 9

Two weeks later, a wintry December rainstorm blew Kiyoshi Sato through the doorway and created a lake the size of Siberia’s Baikal on the inner landing.

“It’s the Dzhugdzhur Range on the western shore of the Sea of Okhotsk,” he said breathlessly. “Haven’t got the coordinates or the camp description yet. They’re going to be hard to come by, most of the prisoners aren’t sure themselves where they are. Other than Siberia, that is.” He shivered. “We’re losing precious time. At best, Vyshinsky can’t last past April.”

I motioned him upstairs and sent for some green tea.

His news foretold worse than I had guessed. The Sea of Okhotsk. Grim, gray waves sprinkled with massive chunks of ice. Moreover, its waters would test every dimension of our Korean-supplied submarine skipper’s skill. He must deposit and later snatch our commandos from between the cocked jaws of a bear trap. Two major Soviet naval centers lay ready on either side of its entrance, Vladivostok and Petropavlovsk. As if to improve the probability of disaster, strung across the throat of the Okhotsk like a noose of pearls, sparkled the tiny Kuril Islands, Ivan’s electronic eavesdropping posts on the Pacific. As much of the credit for the success or failure of the rescue would rest in the submarine skipper’s hands as mine.

Sato, looking less soggy and regaining his usual dignity, estimated the information was over two weeks old. A reliable source, an old prison comrade of Kurganov’s, had obtained it, and the series of human relays that had brought it had a long history of trustworthiness. It composed part of the zek pipeline. Zek in labor-camp slang meant inmate.

“I still need a precise location for the camp, and the composition of its garrison. Do you think the zek pipeline can come up with that sort of information?”

Sato shrugged. “Who knows? Might as well ask for the camp’s spring menu, in case you like Siberia and decide to stay.”

Charts and nautical publications dealing with the western rim of the Okhotsk proved sketchy or out of date. I needed a reference library.