World War III

“Now that we have that cleared up…” Caffey pulled a zoned map of the Philip Smith Range from his pocket. “Would you gentlemen care to show me where the hell we are and what the best way is to find those missing soldiers?” The best way was in a snowcat, Caffey learned. The last position the squad had radioed from was two miles west of a place called Jones’s Strip, an infrequently used runway where a retired couple from upper Michigan lived. For whatever reason there hadn’t been contact since yesterday morning with either the squad or Arnold Jones. It was the weather, the lieutenant had said. There were massive mineral deposits all over these mountains and somehow during storms radio communications went haywire. It was something to do with the electromagnetic waves, but he didn’t know the correct name for it. So, the only way to talk to Jones or know about the area between Fire Base Bravo and the Strip was to go there. And the only way to do that, in this weather, was by snowcat, a monstrous-looking vehicle with snow tracks for wheels and a powerful engine that could propel it over nearly any obstacle.

The snowcat carried three passengers besides the driver and could pull up to ten men on skis. Caffey couldn’t ski, so he sat beside Parsons, who drove. The men outside, five each on two tethers, were fanned out behind the vehicle in a wide V. If the squad hadn’t strayed too far off course, they should run across them. The most likely explanation, of course, was that the men had decided to remain at Jones’s place and couldn’t radio base to let them know.

But all bets were off after two hours of searching. The squad hadn’t stayed at Jones’s place for the last twenty-six hours and they weren’t lost. That was plain enough to Caffey even if nobody else had thought of it because, after two hours of circling through the snow, they found Corporal Paul Avalik.

He’d been dead several hours and he was frozen stiff.

“Bled to death,” Parsons said impassively. “He’s got entry and exit wounds in his leg and right side.

Somebody shot him.”

Two soldiers had pulled the body into the makeshift cover of a tarpaulin lean-to beside the snowcat.

They’d found him partially buried in a snowdrift. He’d been lying on his parka.

Cordobes was shaking his head. “I don’t believe this. How did he get shot? Where’s the rest of the squad?” He shook his head again. “Jesus, who’d shoot a soldier with a weapon in the middle of a blizzard? This doesn’t make sense, Johnny.”

“Did anyone find his weapon?” Caffey asked.

“We’re still looking for it,” Speck said.

“Won’t find it.” Parsons covered the dead man’s face with a blanket. “Not in this storm.” Caffey looked at the Eskimo. “Sergeant Parsons, if a man were lost out in weather like this, for this long… would he go crazy?”

“Anyone else, maybe.” He glanced up at Caffey. “But not an Eskimo. Not Avalik.”

“Johnny, I have all the respect in the world for you and your people,” Cordobes said quietly, “but the colonel has a point.”

“No.”

“Christ, he wasn’t even wearing his parka! Does a rational man take off his parka in minus-forty-degree weather?” Parsons didn’t answer.

“Maybe,” Caffey said, glancing around in the snow, “if he knew he were dying. Where is the corporal’s parka?”

“In the snow where we found him,” Speck said. “Get it,” Caffey said. “Quickly.” It was frozen inside out in a grotesque shape, the sleeves pointed outward and the back curved by the weight of Avalik’s body. A pool of dried frozen blood was stuck to the hem and smears of blood were evident under patches of crusty snow on the back. Lieutenant Speck leaned the parka against the snowcat’s tread.

“Oh, Jesus!” Cordobes said. He turned away.

“Brush the snow off,” Caffey said.

“Sir, I…”

“It’s only blood,” Caffey said.

Speck brushed at it without enthusiasm. He’d taken most of the snow off when he realized what Caffey had guessed. “Sir, there’s… there’s something printed here!”

“Get a light on this,” Caffey said.

“It’s writing, but…” Speck stared at the colonel. “It isn’t English, sir.” Sergeant Parsons’s eyes got suddenly larger. He moved in closer, pushing the lieutenant out of the way.

“What is it, Sergeant?”

Parsons didn’t answer.

“Sergeant, what—”

“Eskimo,” Johnny Parsons said in a low voice.

“What does it say?” Caffey moved beside him. “Goddamn it, Sergeant, answer me!”

“Jones’s Strip…” he said finally, “…all killed…” Parsons’s eyes closed.

“Is that all?”

Parsons swallowed. He shook his head. “It says Jones’s Strip — all dead — Russians.” Caffey looked up at Cordobes. His mouth gaped. “I want those men out there with fully loaded weapons, Captain,” he said tersely. “Right now. Captain?”

“Russians?” Cordobes said stupidly. “Here?”

“Move your men out,” Caffey commanded. “We’re changing direction. Whatever attacked this squad is probably moving west along…” He looked to Parsons for help.

“Shublik Ridge,” said the sergeant.