Red Ice

One by one we dragged the kayaks across the unstable ice. Then we portaged them a quarter mile before dismantling them. Once during the portage, Gurung stepped into a crevice. A sharp crystal ripped a small hole in the leg of his suit as his foot plunged to the knee into the water beneath. We weren’t able to unpack one of the portable stoves until ten minutes later. By then his foot was encased in rime. As we thawed his foot with the stove, it looked to me as if he’d have to be scratched from the remainder of the raid. Reading my mind, he shrugged off further attention and limped on ahead.

We hiked another mile across ragged ice before we reached a tree line, the first positive indication of solid land. We had reached the edge of the taiga, the vast, virtually unbroken expanse of larch, spruce, fir, and cedar that covered most of Siberia. There, at a distinctive stand of stunted birch, we buried the four kayaks in the snow and covered them with a white tarp, which we froze in place with melted snow. As an added measure we pushed a rotten tree over the tarp to keep the wind from blowing it over. I pointed out several terrain features that would help identify this spot to the returning raiders in the event that I was not with them. Then I went over each leg of the journey on the map once again to be sure that if we became separated, each man would have a chance, however remote, of rejoining the party. We then changed into our quilted Chinese uniforms and donned the white overtrousers. With the dark taiga background, we didn’t need overblouses.

We melted snow to quench what was now an overwhelming thirst.

“Why the Chicom uniforms?” Wickersham asked, putting on his fur hat. “If we’re going to wear someone else’s uniform, why not a Russian uniform? It’s a Russian camp.”

“Where were you at the briefings, Wick?” Chief Puckins scolded. “Cinders of hell, from here on out we’re Chinese to the rest of the world, remember that. The sub’s Chinese, the kayaks are Chinese, the weapons are Chinese, the skis are Chinese, and the sledge is Chinese. Folks around you? They’re a crack advance force of China’s People’s Liberation Army.”

The Texan had a point to make and he was not going to let up. “What did I ever teach you? Didn’t you catch the Chinese markings those Korean submarine fellows had painted on their boat when we boarded in Chinhae? Russkis are gonna think it’s made of grade-A fine porcelain.

“Now mind me, if I hear you thinkin’, there’d better be Chinese subtitles on your thoughts or you’re on report. Why, if you break out any rations, you’d better finish up the meal with an almond cookie and a wise saying.”

“Just throwing a little confusion in the game,” I added. “If we’re detected or pursued, I want the Russians to be worried about some larger movement by the Chinese and not devote all their energy to us and some insignificant corrective labor camp. We’re a little over four hundred miles from the Chinese border in a sparsely populated comer of the USSR. I want them to wonder if half a dozen Chinese divisions haven’t infiltrated through their back door. Also, it’ll confuse them as to our ultimate destination on the way out.”

“If we get out,” added Chamonix.

“We are not having radios,” Gurung interposed. “Is that being for the same reason?”

I turned to the steadfast Gurkha.

“No, too high a risk of RDF intercept. Russian radio direction-finding equipment is quite good, and in any event, for most of the mission there won’t be anyone to call for help.”

I didn’t add the second reason. I didn’t want our turncoat to be able to communicate with his sponsors, or to be able to trigger RDF triangulation.

Puckins hummed “White Christmas” and whirled like a Fifth Avenue model showing his new uniform with the jacket open, then closed, with and without gloves. This was the Puckins I remembered. In Japan and Korea, he had appeared distracted and lifeless, but since leaving the submarine he had reverted to form.

“What about our chances of detection?” Alvarez questioned, watching Puckins’s fashion show. He was forever filing information for future use.

“With luck, we should make it to the camp. There are fewer people per square mile here than at the same latitude in British Columbia. Siberia’s lack of settlers was the reason for establishing the camps here in the first place. It’s not the sort of climate that encourages people to be outdoors noticing strangers or following unexplained tracks very far without good reason. Survival out here is enough of a struggle to discourage idle curiosity. We’ll just have to keep a lookout for trappers and herdsmen.