Red Ice

“Da, da…” Kurganov agreed before Sato could finish his sentence.

“The first, and likely the most difficult task will be to pin down Yuri’s whereabouts precisely.”

“Yes, this will be very difficult. Mr. Kurganov believes his contacts in the CCCP should prove very useful. However, the corrective-labor-camp system often moves prisoners among several camps. It is not unusual for a prisoner to be moved through many camps before his…” Sato’s voice trailed off, leaving the end result unsaid.

A vivid image of human scarecrows in black, numbered uniforms stumbling through knee-deep snow made a sharp contrast with the thick carpet and plush upholstery of Sato’s office. It was a discomforting image.

“A further problem, I’ll venture, will be that the communications through Kurganov’s pipeline will be slow and, out of necessity, often cryptic. It would be the ultimate nightmare to penetrate a camp and find Vyshinsky had been moved. You must make this clear to Mr. Kurganov.”

I paused.

“Secondly, it will be no easy task getting delivered within raiding distance of Yuri’s camp and still be able to execute an orderly withdrawal. Does Kurganov have any idea of which portion of eastern Siberia?”

“The Kamchatka Peninsula, Magadan, or possibly the Kurils. In one of the timber-cutting or mining camps, or in the Kurils, a construction camp.”

I shook my head understandingly. So this was why he had come to an ex-SEAL officer; all possibilities were coastal and good prospects for seaborne raiding.

“Good, that broadens our prospects. I can think of several options. If the particular coastline lies close to a shipping lane, our party can launch from a slow-moving merchant ship in either rubber boats or kayaks. Or under ideal conditions, we would go in along the coast using a low-flying seaplane, still using smallcraft to get to shore. Our best alternative would be to go in by submarine, lockout, or wet-deck launch, and respectively swim or paddle to the first substantial coastal ice.”

Fatigue was starting to show in Sato’s face. He had to strain for the Russian equivalents of all these unlawyerlike terms. Wearily, he raked his fingers through his hair, yet I felt he could go on for days like this.

“Third and easiest, but by no means without its problems, will be recruiting and training a squad for covert, cold-weather, commando raiding. Through personal contact, I can bring in two or three more SEALs. The rest will have to be picked mercenaries.

“Siberia will be a problem. It would have been easy to recruit for a raid on one of the world’s steamy regions. The bars of Marseilles swarm with men ‘of experience and resource’ who can survive for weeks with a rifle, canteen, and ten sticky fingers. Cold-weather warfare is a different variety of misery, requiring advance planning and discipline. Both of these elements have been rare in the soldier-of-fortune operations of the past several decades. Experienced mercenaries, aware of this failing, will be reluctant to sign on for a trip through the Russian winter wonderland. The mere mention of an objective as dismally grim as ours will deter most. To top all, a six-month outside limit means we will be braving the worst of the Siberian winter.”

After reviewing these points and many minor ones, it was late afternoon. I suggested that Kurganov advance me $100,000 for expenses to see if the rescue could be put together. Gesturing acceptance, he gave me a typically middle European dead-fish handshake and I left. Part of Kurganov’s burden left with me.

I flexed my right shoulder. Some wounds had memories.

The train from Yokohama cast long autumn shadows on the fields.

Why was I drawn to these projects? I had served my time, eight years as a regular naval officer. I had already earned my red badge of courage; no one could fault me for saying “enough.” The system had kicked me out. Nothing could be simpler. The answer “enough” could be explained with a dozen justifications and some very telling legal proscriptions.

But I was a military officer, nothing more. I could not see myself any other way.

I leaned back in the train seat.

Why?

Was it factors beyond my control? Heredity? Genes? Had my family something to do with it? Some family tradition?

My father had grown up in a fishing village in western Scotland and was attending school in Glasgow when World War II broke out. He was graduated with a certificate in mechanical engineering near the end of the unexploded bomb scare in London. In desperation, they gave him a quick course in bomb disposal and a commission in the Royal Navy Volunteer Reserve.

“Ach, by the time I was ready the trouble had subsided, an’ I talked ma way onto a wee Fairmile boat. More style, thought I, than diggin’ up bombs in cellars,” he’d said more than once. “And a different type a grit required. On a dark night, with the wind just right, you felt like Drake.”