Roger Crossland - Red Ice

We were around him in seconds. Chamonix, our acting corpsman, took off Dravit’s ski and mountaineering boot.

“It’s broken, isn’t it. Ballocks, I know that isn’t where I placed it. Only thing to my credit is that I underloaded the charges. Otherwise, I’d have lost a leg and eaten a ski.”

Chamonix shook his balding head sourly.

Wickersham turned to me. “I remember him putting it over there, farther from the tree, too. Someone must have moved the charge.”

Wickersham was right. Some member of our group had moved it—intentionally. And now my right-hand man wasn’t going.

His lunch, a few small cups around a stainless-steel rice box, lay nestled in the eye of a storm of paperwork. Concealed behind a stack of binders was a changgi —Korean chess—board with its pieces actively engaged. So he had a passion, changgi . Well, that made him human and more likable, but I wasn’t about to let him know it. For once he was vulnerable.

“Look, Kim, what the hell have you been doing about security for this operation? I’ve just had a man booby-trapped right out of action while you’re in here diddling with rainy-day games. You’d better set a fire under your people or this project’s over, finished, ended.”

He blinked and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. The bunker lighting was poor. I pressed on.

“Let’s understand each other. I’m not irrevocably committed to this rescue or your wonderful code machine, and unless I see I’m getting more support than your acting as a glorified storekeeper for us, I’ve had it.” The words came through clenched teeth. “We’re on your turf now… and we’re still being monkeyed with!”

The bunker was part of a warren of tunnels deep in a hillside overlooking the Korean eastern coast. The underground fortifications were a legacy from the occupying Japanese forces in the thirties. They now housed Kim and Associates.

He made mollifying motions with his hand and forced a thin-lipped smile. He’d have to do better than that.

“Commander, please calm yourself. We haven’t been totally remiss, you know. But you must look at it from our point of view: it is an incredible undertaking to run security checks on your colleagues, for clearly mere surveillance won’t work. Look at your roster. D’Epinuriaux, for example, has had twenty-three address changes within four countries over three and a half years. Most of your people have more nom de guerres than decent suits, and have disappeared off the face of the earth at one time or other. Most couldn’t come up with enough credit references to swing a soft drink in Hong Kong. We are watching them all closely, but the key is probably in their past contacts, and that’s really slow going. Frankly, you and your comrades have moved outside the sphere of acceptable behavior too long and they’re all suspicious. Give me the authority and I’ll polygraph them all, but I’m sure they’re all going to show some sensitive readings.”

“Run it anyway. “There was too much at stake to do otherwise. Lie detectors, I knew, could be beaten on rare occasions by psychopaths and extremely facile examinees.

Kim was hunched defensively behind his desk, his professional pride wounded. He searched the piles of paper for a report.

“Your former colleague, Commander Ackert, has been cultivating some interesting acquaintances.”

I’d mentioned my mistrust of Ackert when we’d first arrived in Korea.

“He met with Max Brown at Narita Airport for an hour yesterday.”

“Brown? That revolutionary-chic flower bastard? What possibly could those two have in common?”

“More than you think. Max Brown has become quite respectable lately. He’s forsaken the behavior that landed him in jail during the Days of Rage in Chicago. Why, he’s even written a book and taken to wearing ties. In fact, as administrative aide to Senator Denehy, he is a strong and open supporter of reform through working within the system. Really a heartwarming turnaround, don’t you think?”

“Oh yes, very touching. It’s a shame some of the former guests at the Hanoi Hilton aren’t around to write him character references. No doubt some of them still hold bitter memories of Brown and his actress friend. The North Vietnamese did some extra shoulder dislocating to coerce those POWs into making anti-U.S. statements alongside Brown and her. Somehow the POWs held out,” I said irritably, and added, “Sure, Brown’s working within the system now. Why, I’ll bet he owns a station wagon and belongs to a country club.”

Kim just blinked. “We’re fairly sure he’s an agent of influence, but there’s no way to prove it. Anyway, that doesn’t matter right now. It’s Senator Denehy who’s our big worry. Denehy is number two in seniority on the Senate Armed Services Committee, and number three on Foreign Relations.”

“And?”

“He wants to make—what’s the expression—a big splash. And Ackert, I’m sure, would like a patron on that committee. A friend in the right places can win a star or two for the collar of an enterprising naval officer, I suspect. You understand.”

I did, all too well. A deal was in the making: help my political career now and I’ll back your naval career in the future. So Ackert’s interest in my activities was prompted by more than spite. The story he’d given me about the Central Intelligence Agency’s interest had seemed an unlikely half-truth. For Ackert, the military courtier, this was more in keeping with his character.

Kim studied the pieces on the changgi board. “Denehy’s causes have been growing wilder as his influence within the Senate has increased. His most current cause is to establish virtual control of the U.S. Armed Forces by a new special congressional oversight committee.”

“Control?” I questioned. “Paralysis would be more like it. But maybe that’s what he has in mind. A neutering of the U.S. defense organization would mesh neatly with his philosophy on how to solve the world’s problems. But how do we enter into all this?”

Kim picked up a checkerlike changgi piece and pushed it against the edge of his desk. “Denehy’s constituency has been getting impatient with him and he’s up for reelection this fall. He ranks ninety-eighth in attendance at roll-call votes and hasn’t been very responsive to his blue-collar base. He needs an issue for this fall—badly. An exposé of some sort would be best: a Watergate, a Koreagate, an anything-gate. The ideal exposé would underscore his committee seniority and be consistent with his image. He styles himself as an authority on foreign affairs and abuses of military power—by both governmental and private militaries. Oh, how he’d like to link an unsavory paramilitary organization with a big-money U.S. corporation. Kurganov isn’t paying you directly, his corporation Samizdat Publishing International is. Samizdat has made millions and spends much of what it makes on Kurganov’s projects.

“Despite the fact that there were only a few Americans involved, Denehy wrung incredible mileage out of the mercenary flap in Angola during the mid-seventies. I think he’s preparing to put on a similar show. Here’s his last release.”

Kim handed me a newspaper clipping.

The ruthless machismo of the mercenary creed does not lend itself to ideas of democracy, fair play, anti-colonialism, and world peace. I seek a resolution that it be the sense of the Senate that the U.S. government should seek out and foil any vestige of this brand of soulless enterprise. Its practitioners are men without sense, conscience, or compassion.

“And men like Brown, Ackert, and Denehy are men abounding in sense, conscience, and compassion,” I commented. “Funny. I wouldn’t have characterized Kosciuszko and Pulaski as soulless men, or the Lafayette Escadrille and the Flying Tigers as soulless enterprises.”