The Boy from Reactor 4

“I’ll call you back, sir,” Krylov said into the phone, and hung up. “What? What’s this?”

“A pair of Chukchis were waiting for them in a buhanka. The driver said one of the Chukchis tried to buy a bottle off him. Said they had a long, cold trip ahead of them.”

“Did he say where to?” Major General Yashko said.

“Uelen.”

“Uelen?” Krylov said. “Why, that’s at the tip. Near Dezhnev.”

Kirilo stood up. “The Bering Strait,” he mumbled.

“Gvozdev Islands,” Major General Yashko said. “Forty kilometers from shore. Big island, Russia. Small island, America. Four kilometers between the two islands. Four kilometers from Russia to America.”

The major general hustled toward Krylov’s desk and reached for the phone. Krylov must have read his mind, because he stood up and made way.

“Have you got anyone on Gvozdev that can help?” Kirilo said. “Or is it all natives?”

Major General Yashko was busy dialing.

“It’s all natives on the American side,” Yashko said. “One hundred sixty-two at last count. And two sentries and a telescope. We shipped our natives to Chukotka in 1948 and razed our island. Now it’s a military base. About twenty square kilometers. Company strength. Helicopters, artillery. It’s under military command.”

Deputy Director Krylov nodded toward the major general.

“Get me the commander at Gvozdev,” the major general said into the phone. “Yes, yes, wake him up. It’s an emergency, dammit. Hurry!”

The major general cupped the phone, sighed, and glanced at Kirilo.

“Not by plane or by ship,” Kirilo said. “On foot. The strait is still frozen. They’re going to walk. They’re going to walk from Russia to America.”

When the major general started barking instructions, Kirilo glanced at Victor and did a double take.

“You don’t seem surprised,” Kirilo said.

“Why should I be?” Victor said. “Damian planned a route where people would help his son. The zoologist told us. Plus, the boy’s mother was from the American tundra. Don’t you get it? The boy’s mother is from Alaska.”

CHAPTER 69

DAYLIGHT ARRIVED SHROUDED in fog. On the shore of the rocky beach in Uelen, Nadia couldn’t see more than twenty feet in front of her.

Two other Chukchi men met Nadia and Adam. They wore the same sullen, inscrutable expressions and had identical weathered appearances. They were somewhere between twenty and fifty years old. It was impossible to discern more.

Their wooden boat seated four. It had oars in the front and the back where the Chukchi sat. It also had an outboard motor surrounded by a rib cage of pipes. When one of them started the engine, it whirred gently like an electric razor, suggesting the extra pipes were a noise-reduction system. Nadia and Adam didn’t speak, and the Chukchi didn’t ask them any questions.

The lagoon had melted. The boat chopped and skipped over water toward an invisible target. The cliffs surrounding the inlet tempered the winds. Small waves slapped the boat and rolled by without incident. The Chukchi in the lead checked his compass every five minutes and made minor adjustments in navigation.

Time passed. Nadia didn’t know how much, but it had to be pushing two hours. Russia’s Big Diomede Island was somewhere up ahead. Two miles beyond it was Little Diomede Island. American soil. Adam wore his anxiety on his face, continually mashing his upper lip into his lower one. He appeared stiff, as he had when the policewoman had accosted him on the train.

The boat came to a stall in a pocket of slush. The Chukchi killed the engine and rowed through the icy sludge to water. They started the engine again, but the boat promptly groaned to a halt again. The Chukchi in the back muttered something to the one in front. That one nodded. From then on, they kept the engine off and rowed. They navigated through an unpredictable maze of water, slush, and ice. When a wave crashed over the edge of the boat and doused the deck, the Chukchi continued rowing as though nothing had happened.

Nadia looked around for something to do, but there was no way for her to help. She was baggage. Feeling impotent, she suppressed an urge to scream.

The current nudged them southward while the Chukchi forged eastward. That was the plan. Uelen was northwest of the Diomedes Islands.

Water gave way to more slush, and the latter yielded to more ice. They stopped rowing. The Chukchi in the lead turned and held his finger to his lips.

“Keep your voice low,” he said. “Keep your voices low.”

They rowed for another five minutes until they careened in a circle and ended up pressed between two blocks of ice. The Chukchi muttered something incomprehensible to each other and set their oars aside.

The Chukchi in front turned and whispered to Nadia. The wind swallowed his words, however, and Nadia had to ask him to repeat everything he had said.

“Ice from here to Imaqliq,” he said. “Four, five kilometer to Ignaluk. Chukchi can do. American? Not sure, though.”