Red Ice

I introduced myself as an American anthropologist interested in the environmental factors affecting the Siberian Evenki—a thin, short-term cover.

He responded in rough, harsh Japanese. Was I, he asked, one of those useless Caucasian scientists making it impossible for his sons to hunt whales? No, I responded, pointing to ancestors who had hunted whales over the entire Pacific. After all, it was true. That seemed to satisfy him.

“We spent an hour or more talking about the sea and marine life. Finally I asked him if he’d be interested in talking to a few of my associates in Korea about the western rim of the Sea of Okhotsk. Mentioning a fee that must have been too much, I sensed a resurgence of suspicion.

“It has been many years since I cut the waters of the Okhotsk. I would think that now the Roshiajins are on such affectionate terms with the western countries that there would be better sources of the information you ask… at less expense. But fishing is poor, ignorant work, and I know little of such things. Perhaps in scientific matters one should not put trust in what they say.”

His impassive oak brown face could have belonged to the Indian of a nickel, an Aleutian eskimo, an Amazon head-hunter, or a Mongolian border guard—it told nothing. I held the vague suspicion he was laughing at me behind the tight-skinned mask, but could not be sure. In any event he was a man to respect and I needed his help. I wondered if he, too, knew, or was I just getting jumpy about this project?

PART III

CHAPTER 10

The mid-February snow lay like a crisp, pale comforter across the volcanic mountains of Japan’s Hokkaido. The thin evergreen tree cover approximated Siberia’s, and the terrain reflected other similarities. The lonely wind wove in and out of the volcanic peaks and then struck out with its icy fangs at an isolated ski resort nestled among the comforter’s folds.

Known for its volcanic hot springs, the resort evidenced an architecture teetering unsurely between the design demands of a Swiss chalet, an Ainu village, and a Victorian hotel. Bear totems mixed with soft-drink machines in its main lobby, but its aged, unpainted wood exterior seemed at peace with its surroundings.

I had waited as long as I could for firm intelligence. Training must start now. A review of my muster list revealed a cadre of four: Dravit, Heyer, Puckins, and Wickersham. Puckins couldn’t join us until the last week of training and Heyer would only be around for training. Depending on the size of the prison camp’s garrison, an additional three to ten men might be required. Estimating a two-thirds dropout rate, I had requested my Marseilles café owner send out thirty men. He had sent twenty-five. On his own initiative, Dravit had recruited a Gurkha rifleman.

We had booked nearly every room in the small resort describing ourselves as a foundation-funded ex-con readjustment clinic. The manager’s reluctance had been dispelled by generous flurries of cash. The cover story, I hoped, would account for some of our recruits’ disreputable appearances and keep away fainthearted meddlers.

At five A.M. Dravit jammed everyone into one suite and held muster. Most of them looked athletic and carried the usual assortment of scars and broken noses. On the slopes and cross-country trails they would appear to be just a few more Caucasian ski bums, some perhaps who had not found their way back from Sapporo 1972. Dravit laid down the rules in English.

“Since we’re training in a civilian resort, the usual military courtesies will be dispensed with. From here on out you are ex-cons communing with nature for the good of your souls on some screwball American grant. This does not, however, mean that orders are not to be obeyed, it only means that orders won’t sound as much like orders as they might, ay?”

He punctuated his points with neat jabs, using his left hand. Dealing with weapons and men, the tangibles came so easily to Dravit. He fell into the right rhythm naturally. I envied his easy ability to control the day-to-day problems always fought at close quarters.

The men, sitting on the floor or on the beds, gave him their complete attention. Few showed any expression.

“Lieutenant Commander Frazer will be in command. He will be paying the accounts and calling the tune. Should any of you get out of tune, it will be me you’ll be seeing, then. Not a lad amongst you wants to see me, do you, lads?

“If anyone wishes to drop out at any time prior to deployment, all he has to do is check out of his room and use the open-return airline ticket—the one in the top drawer of the bureau in your room.”

A battler, the ravages of physical pain and hard use were etched across the nose pounded bridgeless and the high, broad cheekbones. His mustache was the only part of him that didn’t look repaired. Changes in mood rippled across his ruddy face like a series of flag hoists, and kept his audience deftly off balance.