Roger Crossland - Red Ice

So this was that naval officer they’d been talking about… A SEAL, huh?… Well, he looks like he’s in shape, got the bearing of a bloody brigadier… Sure, sure, very impressive, but can he fight?… What the hell’s the Navy know about free-lance war making anyway? A likely bunch of paladins those white-linen boys would make…. Tight-lipped bastard, ain’t he, I’ll bet he can be a thoroughgoing son of a bitch when he wants to…. Man, are they gonna lay heavy words on us without a drink?

First impressions counted, and I had to convince twenty-five adventurous men—to follow me to some unknown place—in order to do some unknown martial deed—against some unknown adversary. My right shoulder ached again and I tried unsuccessfully to avoid clearing my throat.

“I’m Frazer… ex-U.S. Navy… SEALs. I’ve led a raid or two in the past fifteen years—nothing that ever showed up in the newspapers—and lived to tell about them. Wickersham, Dravit, and Heyer will vouch for me. Most of you are wondering what this is all about, and if you’re getting paid too much or too little. From the look of most of you, too much. In looking around, you’ve probably figured out that after the required dose of SEAL-type training, we won’t have enough men to depose a small government, or even knock over its treasury. You’re right.”

Heads were leaning toward me attentively. I scanned their faces; they were from everywhere: a Norwegian, a Frenchman, a Gurkha, a Cuban, a German, a South African….

“We’re going to execute a long-range amphibious raid requiring extensive cross-country skiing, some small craft work, and perhaps some swimming or scuba diving. We will be bringing back a willing passenger, code-named Eurydice for now. We can expect that Eurydice’s hosts will take a dim view of our intrusion, not to mention Eurydice’s abrupt departure…”

Wickersham had climbed up on a bed and was bouncing up and down, executing imaginary stem Christies like a slalom racer. His bridge was out again and he was grinning maniacally. Dravit moved to coldcock him but I waved him off.

“…which may occasion the use of arms, the demolition of some buildings, the detonation of a booby trap or two…”

There were shouts.

“…and, if my SEAL inclinations can be satisfied, the sinking of a few ships.”

Three or four had sprung to their feet. A chair tipped over backward. There was a rush of secondary conversations. The excitement of it was in the air.

“Listen up,” Dravit barked.

Yes, we had recruited the right men. Tired of scrambling for dollars through seedy con games, flyblown hijackings, smuggling small things for hawk-faced dowagers, gigoloing fading heiresses, futile searches for galleons and Aztec gold—they craved the simple, incisive action of combat seasoned with the smell of powder and the exhilarating sense of life where death stalked closest.

“But before we deploy I must, I will, be sure that we are ready, that every man going is in crack physical condition, his reflexes sharp, his knowledge of his responsibilities to the group thorough, and his ability to survive in the cold total. Your skills will be as good as they have ever been or could ever be.

“Before then you will be tired, frustrated, and hate the sight of Dravit and me. For we are going to torment you along through our own graduate-level course on war prowling; teach you the rudiments of a strange language, bring you to the edge of freezing so you’ll know that cold is death, not just negative-degree readings; exhaust you until you know what second wind is, third wind… hundredth wind; all so we will survive and succeed where a conventional military unit would not dare to begin.”

Wickersham stood shaking his ham-sized fist like some comic-opera generalissimo, then hosing down waves of invisible ski troops. His buffooning offered a good sign. Capture their imaginations and they would follow you into the cocked jaws of hell.

Two days before the recruits had arrived, Sato visited me late in the evening there at the ski resort. He had scribbled a message on a notepad and handed it to me. It read: “EURYDICE Vic. 56° 05′ 37″N 135° 40′ 16″E LUMBER.”

Without saying a word he tore up the two pages below the message so no impression remained.

“How reliable is all this?” I had a right to ask.

“Very, I think.”

“How about giving me a little background so I can judge? I will be wagering lives on this information. You don’t have to give me your whole network, just some indication of how it works.”

“Even so, I will probably be jeopardizing the entire network,” he said, sighing. “It’s easy to follow threads back and forth. Well, anyway, I suppose you do have a right to know. Let’s step outside for a walk. They have eavesdropping devices for outdoors, too, you know. Parabolic reflectors, I think they call them, but their application is difficult.”

I put on an old convoy coat and stepped out into the lightly falling snow. For once the flakes were dropping straight down.

“An underground pipeline smuggled Kurganov’s first works page by page out of his camp and Russia. After his exile, he managed to get in touch with the man who was the western termination point of the pipeline and on occasion transmit to Russia’s forgotten men as he had once transmitted when he, too, was a forgotten man.

“One point on the pipeline, in the middle of Moscow, is run by someone who goes by the code name Myshka. He had developed a certain flair for eliciting information from the local ministries, not a usual pipeline requirement. His information is invariably accurate, but until now of little real value to us.

“For a long time, Myshka had an ineffectual neighbor who walked a pitifully mangy dog of indefinite breed. Everyone in their cooperative apartment building avoided the pair on their daily sorties. Fortunately Myshka endeavored to befriend the miserable pair, not without benefit. The man worked in the Ministry of State Security. The dog was without redeeming social value.” This is the tale that Sato told:

Aleksandr Gorshnov, a lower-level bureaucrat, often complained to Myshka about his lack of future in the ministry. Wiping his glasses, Gorshnov would bemoan his meager salary and puzzle over the prosperous life-style of another civil servant of the same grade in his office.

“Watch him closely,” Myshka suggested sagely. “Maybe he augments his income; we all know there are limits to thrift.”

It turned out that the fellow civil servant held a post in the Camp Administration Section, Prisoner Transport. He knew where each prisoner was going, but only by place-name and mailing address. Gorshnov’s associate sold that information to relatives who were often afraid to inquire or correspond with the imprisoned relative. Each movement meant the relative still lived. No movement for years could only mean death, if you knew the system. Access to such information brought personal prosperity.

Gorshnov learned his associate’s habits more energetically than he had ever done anything in his life. Within a few weeks he had become adept at rifling through his associate’s desk and soon knew the details of prisoner transport. Pain, anguish, and death turned a nice profit. And he was grateful, telling Myshka the source of his newfound success.

Shortly Myshka developed a relative named Vyshinsky and had to plead with Gorshnov—though not too long—to accept money for disclosure of the camp’s place-name. He himself worked in the Moscow Forestry Institute. He compared the camp’s place-name with maps and lists of lumber-product sources in eastern Siberia and crosschecked it with large-scale maps showing railroad spurs. In this way he managed to identify the camp industry and pin its location down precisely. In a sparsely settled area where place-names could cover hundreds of square miles, the location had to be exact.