Roger Crossland - Red Ice

Immediately, he set to work on the shutters. They were old and poorly maintained. Gradually, he managed to pry enough space between them to pop the hooks with his knife. Using a pry bar, he raised the window and peered in. Then he disappeared through the window.

Seconds later, he was beckoning for the free end of the mountaineering line. Gurung anchored it to the balustrade while Chamonix tied off the other end to a fence post. The sloping line, now taut, could not be seen from the lower window. Dravit was the first to hoist himself up the line, then Puckins, and then myself. Chamonix, in his Russian uniform, posted himself at the base of the building and attempted to look routine and nonchalant.

From the second story, I could just distinguish the rest of the village through the night mist. A gray carpet of chimneyless roofs stretched uniformly in all directions. The pattern was marred by thirty-five years of deterioration, a few Russian-style chimneys, and an occasional concrete shoe box.

We closed the shutters and entered the passageway. The title and responsibilities of each official were etched with bureaucratic orderliness to the left of his office door. The Corrective Labor Colony Section held the third office on the left. Its door was locked.

Dravit tested the transom. It was locked, too. He reached into one of his cargo pockets and unrolled a cloth tool kit on the floor.

“It’s a key-lever tumbler; this may take some time.”

He inserted a Z-shaped tension tool into the keyway and applied pressure. Then, with a curved pick, he began locating the individual tumblers, raising each one to the unlocked position. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

Precious minutes passed.

“Open, yon great muckin’ door of the bloody Bolshies.” He pushed the door open cautiously. “Ah, the old magic’s still there. Remind me to tell you about my night in the strong room at Pusan.”

Dravit went through the desks and cabinets, skimming every document by flashlight. There were reams of documents. If the camps’ prisoners could have eaten the documents they generated, they would have grown fat.

A half hour went by. An hour. An hour and a half. “Got it! Got it! Got it! Just like the bloody Bolshies to wallow in ruddy paper,” Dravit exclaimed under his breath. He drew the Nikonos from his other pocket and clicked away.

We nearly didn’t hear the footsteps moving down the passageway. The guard had walked past the office earlier. This time he hesitated before the relocked door. Dravit and I ducked behind some desks with Gurung. The bolt shifted in the lock. Puckins slipped behind the door just as it opened. The guard swept his light across the room. As he stepped forward to look behind the desks, Puckins dropped him with a sharp tap, using the butt of his shotgun.

The four of us dragged the unconscious guard to the bottom of the stairway, just out of sight of the front doorway. We positioned him as if he had fallen. As we were about to turn away, Gurung pulled a flask from his jacket and sprinkled some fluid over the VOKhk guard.

“Oh, sergeant of the guard being very much pissed if finding guard in such condition,” Gurung signed. “I know surely this guard will not report irregularities of the evening to his sergeant, him now smelling of cheap vodka. I know, having much fear of sergeant of the guard myself for many years.”

He returned down the passageway chuckling elfishly.

“We do have our fun,” Chamonix mumbled dourly on hearing of Gurung’s prank when we rejoined him outside.

Chamonix’s words were premature. Our return to Hokkaido was anything but fun. By the time we returned to the seawall, the wave height had increased and the fog had grown thicker. We moved as quickly as was safe down the road to our original landing point. Once there, we noticed a vehicle parked on the dirt road and heard Russian voices. So as a precaution, we entered the water farther down the beach, then located the rock range. Lutjens and the rubber boat were right where we’d left them. The first thing I remember seeing was the yawning muzzle of his shotgun as he challenged us from the bobbing boat. He pulled us aboard and started the engine. Once I had given him the course heading, we all leaned back and relaxed. The sense of relief was as potent as hot sake on an empty stomach. The rolling swell rocked everyone but Lutjens asleep.

“Heave to, rubber boat,” a voice called out in Russian. “You Japanese fishermen never learn, do you. Time in one of our corrective labor colonies will cure you of that and many other things.”

The voice laughed. It carried over the gurgling rumble of a patrol-craft engine. They couldn’t have picked us up on radar. Our courses must have intersected by pure chance.

The dark silhouette of a patrol boat, with its officer of the deck, helmsman, and two lookouts outlined clearly, parted the fog. One of the lookouts trained a .51-caliber machine gun on our frail craft.

We froze. What could we do now? A vision of the camp flashed through my mind. Perhaps we would be seeing Vyshinsky sooner than we had expected. What now? Had to hold this show together.

“Lutjens, steer straight for them,” I whispered. “Dravit, you’re a captain of naval infantry, hard of hearing and mean.”

I held my breath.

Dravit looked at me peculiarly. “Have a go.”

“Boat, this is Captain Dravonitch, Naval Infantry. What are you doing in this sector? This area has been cleared exclusively for us by the Kurils Naval Infantry command. We are engaged in a classified operation. What is your authority to be here?”

I could see the officer’s face. He was puzzled. Our dry suits could have been Russian and Chamonix did have a Russian greatcoat across his lap. The boat officer’s thin lips twisted into an arrogant sneer.

“I know of no such clearance. I am Lieutenant Deltchev, Navy. Let me see your orders.”

“Orders! And where would I keep orders in this monkey suit? Lieutenant, who in the name of the Worker’s Paradise gave you your commission?”

Deltchev stiffened and focused questioningly on the shotgun resting in Dravit’s lap. The lookout at the machine gun pulled his thumbs from the trigger plates and leaned back. A couple of officers bickering, he might as well stand back and enjoy the fun. A second later the lookout was slammed back over the engine box by a shotgun blast, Deltchev and the other lookout slumped to the deck, wounded, as at the same time our rubber boat nearly capsized from the recoil of our discharging shotguns. The helmsman dived into the cabin and in the subsequent silence I could hear the clanking sounds of hatches forward being buttoned up. There had to be a few more crew members aboard. The wounded second lookout lunged for the machine gun and managed to stitch several rounds into our rubber boat before a half dozen shotgun rounds made him disappear in a blood-red mist. Some of our men had been hit, I could not tell how badly.

I vaulted into the patrol boat and put two rounds apiece into the radio antenna, the radar scanner, and the compass. Skeins of smoke swirled into the sea mist. The pungent smell of ozone from the shattered equipment was everywhere.

Let them find port now, let alone bother us again in this fog. I spun the helm over and stepped back down into the F470.

“Bullying fisherman isn’t as easy as it used to be,” I bellowed in Japanese for the benefit of the surviving crewmen.

Then to our own people, “Cast off!”

The .51-caliber rounds had destroyed our tube on the portside, punctured the floor plating, and silenced the outboard. Chunks of the motor had hit everyone, causing minor bleeding. Chamonix’s leg had been gazed by a round and Lutjens had been peppered by pieces of splintered paddle. We jettisoned the outboard and its gas tank. The rubber boat limped back into the fog with some swimming alongside, while others attempted to straddle the starboard thwart and paddle with shotguns. It was 0500.