Red Ice

Wickersham reached down from the boat and hoisted men aboard like wet kittens. Matsuma reached for Gurung, who was babbling in hypothermic stupor.

“Keep away from me, Japanese devil. I am Amarsing Gurung, whose father killed more Japanese soldiers than you have teeth in your head,” he said absently. “There being a Russian soldier last night who tasted the kiss of the kukri of Rifleman Gurung.”

Matsuma smiled gently and dragged the soon-unconscious Gurung up over the gunwale.

CHAPTER 16

The Norwegian wood stove crackled and sizzled in our hotel suite. After thawing out, I had slept for twenty-four hours straight. Each one of us had experienced some of the cold-induced symptoms of hypothermia—the dopey sense of well-being, headaches, lethargy—for which rest and warmth were the best therapy. My side was tender where a bit of outboard motor housing had broken the skin. My thighs and knees ached as they always did after a patrol. Legs seemed to absorb most of the tension.

Dravit and Chamonix sat across from me. Neither looked very happy.

“…and I didn’t bother to ask Chamonix to develop the film until just a few hours ago. It didn’t seem necessary.”

He tapped his pipe against the stove.

“The film had been overexposed—all of it—not just the six photographs Captain Dravit had taken,” added Chamonix.

“There were several beads of water within the housing of the camera. You know how watertight a Nikonos is. I opened it with dry hands. The film is useless to us now. Merde! All our efforts for nothing.”

The sullen Chamonix was even more laconic than usual. The legionnaire carried some undisclosed bitterness. He rose, stood rigidly erect, then walked to the door and left the room with a sharp salute and a click of heels. The .51-caliber bullet that had grazed his thigh had been a tracer and instantly cauterized the wound. He didn’t permit himself the luxury of a limp. Vinegar may have flowed through his veins, but the old trooper was flawlessly competent.

“There’s no doubt about it, is there?” Dravit stretched his legs, placing his heels on the stove. “Our tight little band has been penetrated.”

“Can you remember any of the information from the quarterly report?”

“I can remember it all,” he said with a smirk. “It was too hard to come by to trust exclusively to a camera.”

He handed me a scrap of paper. It read: “Garrison of Camp R-3; 43 militarized police—15 with radio or electronics specialties; 207 prisoners; Vyshinsky still carried on the camp roster as special prisoner.”

I placed the scrap in my pocket.

“Put all that on the stock of my shotgun with a grease pencil when we were in the administration building. Didn’t think of it then, but on the way back the bleedin’ camera was on the boat, where anyone could get at it.”

Penetrated—it was bad enough to have others working against us. But one of our own?

“Skipper, it’s about time for the first cut.”

Now that we knew the size of the garrison, we could determine the number of men we would need. “Well, it’s a trade-off: the more men we take, the better our chance of success in a firefight, but the greater our chance of detection—and the more cumbersome the logistics. Let’s make it the Kunashiri eight and take Alvarez and that South African, Kruger, as alternates. Send the rest home with the bonuses.”

The turncoat had to be one of the Kunashiri eight, but they were my most valued men. I couldn’t afford to eliminate any one of them.

I jammed a few more logs into the stove, but it didn’t help. I didn’t seem able to get warm.

The new men were part of the two dozen who’d been recruited in Marseilles. These were the next most talented after Chamonix, Gurung, and Lutjens, and they showed promise.

Juan Ortega Alvarez was a Miami Cuban who specialized in heavy weapons. His high cheekbones; broad, straight nose; and heavy beard made it possible—depending on the depth of his tan—to pass for any nationality inhabiting the zone between 15° South and 35° North latitude. Nearly as massive as Wickersham, his bulk was less sculpted and more evenly distributed than the Wisconsinite’s.

Alvarez found growing up in Miami’s Little Havana a painful, stifling experience. There were pressures, always pressures. His uncle and a brother-in-law had died at the Bay of Pigs. Pressure: he must be prepared to do his part when the next revolution came. He was a mediocre student. Pressure: he was a Cuban and must bring credit upon his family and nationality. He had no occupational goal. Pressure: he must enlist in the Army until he arrived at some other trade valuable to his community. The pressure from family and friends was subtle but deadly.