Roger Crossland - Red Ice

“You’re from Kurganov, aren’t you?” he started timidly. “I’ve been expecting you.”

Only a few zeks remained in the sick bay. Most of the ailing had been carried to the half-tracks by their friends. Outside I could hear the bustling of prisoners dividing up the supplies.

“Yes… how did you know?”

“Myshka. Myshka told me.”

It was clear he felt uncomfortable with direct communication. His life had been built around double meanings and oblique references.

“Myshka told you? Here?”

“A queer twist of fate brought him here—just a few weeks ago. We were in the same work gang. He died here… just a few weeks ago.”

Vyshinsky fell back onto his cot. His breathing was heavy and erratic. He couldn’t have lasted much longer here.

“He told me Kurganov had considered rescuing me. The young man said it was a useless hope. He hadn’t had time to obtain some special information there in Moscow for you people outside.”

Vyshinsky’s voice had a mournful, wheezing quality to it. “He wasn’t made to survive in these camps—too dreamy, too proud. He was a poet, you know. Funny how those literary ones are—either they’re like Kurganov and survive forever, or they’re like Myshka and get their brains kicked out in a matter of weeks.”

He coughed and his pipe-cleaner body shook uncontrollably.

“All right, let’s get you bundled up for transport. You’re going on a sleigh ride.”

“ Troika ?” he said with a frail smirk.

“ Ahkio . Not as enjoyable by half.”

Wickersham lifted Vyshinsky from the cot effortlessly.

By midmorning we were ready to evacuate the camp. There was enough talent among the zeks to drive the train and the half-tracks. Probably enough to drive a space shuttle.

The riders of one half-track had broken into the commandant’s liquor supply and were passing a bottle around. They sang bittersweet Russian folksongs in a haunting harmony.

A wizened old Ukrainian whirled through one of those Slavic dances, where the dancer alternately squats and kicks with his arms crossed, on the bed of the vehicle. He whirled and kicked, and kicked and whirled like some sad and marvelous mechanical toy. The old zek drew from some invisible source of energy.

As a group they were no worse off than before. There was little else I could do. The decision to flee had been theirs. My inexpert opinion was that the majority would be dead within a month. In any event they would die free… with hope. Who really knew what their chances were? After all, it was their country.

Chamonix stepped forward and saluted. “All secured and ready for departure.”

The gang bosses assumed Matsuma was in command of our party. Each walked up and gave him a hug. That was Lutjen’s, Alvarez’s, and Kruger’s memorial. For three good unfaltering men there would be no other.

We skied east, avoiding our old trail. Clouds were building in the west at an alarming rate. The barometer had dropped, indicating an impending weather change. The temperature hovered at five degrees below. Kick, slide.

In the early afternoon, I heard the drone of a plane overhead. It was a troop transport with four propellers. Paratroops.

The plane flew to the camp a couple ridges behind us and circled twice. Then it spilled out a chain of parachutes. It took less than a minute to deploy one hundred Soviet paratroops. The paratroopers wore white camouflage uniforms similar to ours. Suspended from their harnesses were skis and equipment bags. Their ’chutes drifted lazily behind the last ridge.

I had assumed we would have more time to make our escape. I had also assumed that we would be pursued by prison guards rather then elite shock troops. Over the years Ivan had claimed to have invented many things. He truly did invent airborne military operations. Ivan has seven airborne divisions—Uncle Sam, one.

I called to Gurung in the point position, “Veer southeast, we’ll try to intersect our old trail. Let’s pick up the pace, under the circumstances a little sweat might be permissible.” It was a bad tactic to go out the same way you came in, but a broken trail would let us maintain our position relative to our pursuers. At present they had the advantage of following a trail we had broken. Well, we had a few tricks that would change that. I hoped that I was reading the sky right. We were in a race for time. Kick, slide.

Within an hour my binoculars picked up paratroopers on a distant ridge. They were fresh, and moving quickly. Within ninety minutes they’d be on us. In two hours it’d be dark.

I focused the lenses on one paratrooper. From the deference given him by the others it appeared he was an officer or NCO. His face showed clean-shaven and athletic features under his dome-shaped helmet. His features betrayed smoothness and arrogance, molded by the easy successes of garrison service, unweathered by the ravages of genuine conflict. He stopped and drew his field glasses from within his white jacket. Their lenses reflected light and suddenly I realized this smooth-faced officer was studying me as I had studied him. I slipped back into the trees.

We covered ground rapidly as we moved downward and seaward, but we still hadn’t intersected our old trail. As they drew closer I counted about thirty men. So they had rated us a full third of their complement. The half-track trails they could understand, the ski and ahkio tracks must have mystified them. Once we reached a new ridge and began to climb, I gave the order to prepare to ambush. I sent Matsuma and Puckins on ahead. I had them ditch one ahkio and cram Vyshinsky and the recoilless into the other. We fanned out behind the ridge, took off our skis, and waited.

“Fire one magazine only, then rally at the ahkio . Wickersham, no more than fifty rounds with your 67.”

“Couldn’t fire much more than that if I wanted to. I’m nearly out of ammo.” The firefight at the camp had consumed more ammo than expected.

“Make the rounds count.”

We waited a long twenty minutes. Finally I could hear puffing and at a distance, the hushed talk of wary troops. Their point man skied right through us. He didn’t stop until he noticed our tracks had divided. By that time Chamonix had drawn a bead on him with the sniper rifle. We placed our elbows on our skis and pushed the skis to the top of the ridge. Chamonix dropped their point man with a shot to the head, just below the helmet.

The paratroops were caught in the open, going uphill. Most immediately dropped into the soft snow and had difficulty bringing their weapons to bear from the prone position as their elbows sank in the white stuff. Others turned and skied back down the ridge. Their movement was slow, encumbered by the overequipage of conventional combat troops—shovels, gas masks, steel helmets, chemical-contamination musette bags. One-third to one-half of them went down in our volley. Of those, I hoped all were wounded. A wounded man in the cold needed someone to get him back to a medical station.

We pulled back and raced to catch the ahkio . These paratroops were elite but green. Their fire continued for a full ten minutes after we had stopped firing. It was a colossal waste of ammunition and time on their part. It gave us more space and left the Russians smarting. They would move more cautiously now and their next point man would be more alert.

We caught up with Matsuma, Puckins, and the ahkio just as they came upon our original trail. It was nearly dark.

“We’re going to ditch all but one pack. Get rid of the tents, sleeping bags, armor vests. Save your candles, ammo, cooking gear, and half the food. Save only the clothing you can stash on you. We’re going to be traveling for speed from here on out.”