Roger Crossland - Red Ice

Puckins didn’t owe me a thing. Ackert was another matter.

The fresh snow drove down in large, awkward flakes, as if churned in some giant glass paperweight. The visibility was fifteen feet, which, given the speed of our withdrawal, meant we were skiing blind. With the snow and direction of the wind, it was understandable why Gurung didn’t notice the dark forms ahead of us. The forms congealed into a herd of reindeer, the cattle of Siberia. Nearby an Evenki drover and his son loomed out of the swirling snow. Unfortunately they saw us at the same moment we saw them.

Instantly they stood at the convergence of five gunsights. Chamonix looked back at me. He had already sized up the situation. The Evenki drover could give pursuing Russian patrols details of our strength and direction of movement. Additionally, none of us was wearing an exposure mask, so the detected presence of Caucasians might upset our China ruse.

Chamonix ran his finger across his throat quizzically. The cold, rational, old-school decision would be to dispatch any witnesses. Chamonix had been through a rough school in the Congo and knew the price of leaving talking trail markers. Shaking my head, I beckoned to Matsuma. After a few false starts, it was soon clear these Evenki did not speak Russian. Fortunately Matsuma knew their language from his early fishing days and his stay with the Evenki after his escape.

The drover and his son had at first assumed we were a Soviet patrol, since the Chinese and Russian winter camouflage uniforms were very similar. Our wounded, and our worn-out condition, aroused their suspicions. They questioned Matsuma, and at the same time he questioned them. The drover and his son huddled together. The father’s face was round with flattened cheekbones. The son, about ten, looked like an Eskimo cherub. Though his father was transmitting caution signals, the boy was overwhelmed by the curiosity these white-suited strangers aroused.

I pulled Matsuma aside. “What do you think?”

“Poor, hardworking Evenki drovers. They get nothing from Roshiajins but a visit from the agriculture commissioner once a year and many publications—which they can’t read but burn well—on reindeer husbandry. They need all this kind of help like they need a ten-kilo block of ice. Kremlin, to them, is as remote as Argentina.”

I studied their faces for any sign of duplicity.

“Frazer Commander, I will tell him we are deserters and corrective labor camp escapees, all right? They are not to mention anything to any soldiers unless asked. I will request they give us food. We need food, rest, shelter, many things. Without them escape can still be very difficult. Vyshinsky is very weak, ne ?”

I nodded. Chamonix nodded in agreement. He had fulfilled his duty as devil’s advocate.

Matsuma talked with the drover for a long time. Finally the father indicated that we should all follow him. His son trudged alongside us, his eyes wide and inquiring. We moved into an open area in the taiga and soon I lost all sense of direction. It was reassuring to know that if the snow didn’t cover our tracks the reindeer herd would. In less than an hour, we reached a deserted cabin ornately trimmed with Siberian gingerbread.

Matsuma searched in his jacket for his survival kit. When he found it, he pulled out several ruble notes. As he did this he winked at me. The drover deftly palmed the notes, pulled off his cap, and said something with a little hop.

“We are welcome to share this humble dwelling with him. He plans to graze his reindeer here for a week or so. By then his brother will have returned with his dogsled. You can trust him, I think. He has no use for Roshiajin , either.”

We brushed the snow from our boots, clothing, and equipment and entered the cabin. It had no windowpanes—either they had been taken out or never installed originally. Slat shutters, closed against the wind, helped to keep some heat within the cabin—but not much. The drover and his boy had a pile of reindeer hides in one corner, which they used for bedding. A small-hearthed fireplace that did not draw correctly provided the only heat. The fireplace was constructed in the massive Russian style. Its flue did not rise straight up but wound upward in the ancient labyrinthine manner of tradition. In this efficient way each brick managed to capture some heat and radiate it into the cabin. As time had destroyed portions of the cabin’s wall and roof, and its windows were nonexistent, it was a wonder this fireplace could keep the cabin habitable at all. The drover lent us a few hides but we found the best protection against the cold was huddling together like beach seagulls on a rainy night.

In contrast to our trek toward the camp, when we hadn’t posted sentries, this time I decided to use them. I had three reasons for doing this. First, we were closely pursued. Second, this wasn’t a camouflaged encampment. Third, the watch-spring technique only helped in situations where fresh snow hadn’t concealed your tracks. I divided the party into two watches. One watch would maintain a lookout while the other watch tried to steal some sleep. Since the visibility outside had dropped to less than five feet, I saw no reason to post sentries outside the cabin. They could see just as much peering between the shutter sluts.

As the first group prepared to sleep, Vyshinsky spoke up, still bundled in ahkio blankets.

“Who are you men?”

Chamonix, closest, responded tiredly, “Friends.”

“You are not Chinese… or Russian, that is clear….” He raised his head, feebly looking us over with his pallbearer’s eyes. “In whose country’s service do you fight?”

The morose Frenchman fingered his bandaged shoulder. “No country’s.”

“No country’s? You are bandits… no, wrong word. There is a discipline here. You are mercenaries?” he asked tentatively.

“Yes, I suppose you could say that,” he replied with growing irritation. Wickersham turned away from his window.

“You do this thing for money?”

“Sure, you know us mercenaries—anything for a price. A well-known type, just a ragtag mob of misfits who couldn’t make it doing anything else. Unloved losers, martial orphans.”

“Yeah, no momma, no poppa, no Uncle Sammy,” Wickersham recited acidly, “the scum of the earth in uniforms cammy.”

“‘What God abandoned, these defended/And saved the sum of things for pay,’” I added.

Vyshinsky realized he had made a mistake.

“Well, as one misfit to five others,” he said gently, “I’m grateful to you all.”

The ninth day wore by slowly. In the faint glow of the fireplace I saw Wickersham wave the Evenki boy over to him. He pointed to the bone amulet the boy wore around his neck on a hide thong. Then he pulled an object from under the bottom of his trouser leg. It was a boot knife with a double-edged, stainless-steel blade and a micarta handle. The boy shied back and then realized the knife was being offered in trade.

The boy picked up the knife with the same calculated indifference he had probably seen his father use bartering with other drovers. He cut a thin strip of hide using the knife and then inspected the edge. He hefted it in his hand. He tapped the handle against a joist. He measured it with his palm, horse-trader style. He shook his head. The knife was too small.

“Hell’s bells,” Wickersham grumbled, and then pulled a flier’s survival mirror from his breast pocket. It was made from some unbreakable material and it had a clear glass peep sight in the center of a Morse code decal on the back. The boy inspected it without returning the knife. He studied his reflection in it. Wickersham showed how to aim it for signaling by using the peep sight. The boy handed him the amulet, keeping both the knife and the mirror.