Humphrey Hawksley - Man on Ice - Russia vs the USA - in Alaska

The walkway sloped up. They passed Henry and Joan’s house. On the ledge outside sat the skull of the polar bear that Henry had shot with Rake all those years ago. On the rocks in front, the skin of a gray seal stretched between wooden poles. Nearby, its meat hung drying on a line of red nylon rope.

Midway up, they came to the dark-green hut that used to be the army post. The Russians were already there. Tape was spread across its small windows. The door had been broken down and they had put a searchlight in the small watchtower and a machine gun on the roof. Whatever weapons were in there were now off limits. A soldier stood outside. The pinpoint glow of a cigarette shone through his mist of breath.

The soldier spoke to Golov, who replied, not just an acknowledgment, but a longer sentence that Rake couldn’t hear because of the wind. The Russian pointed inside the guardhouse, then across the water to the waiting helicopters. Rake shifted his fingers around his weapon. Above them the search lamp went on and off. They were testing it.

Rake turned away, and brought out from his pocket the phone Carrie had given him. There was no signal. But the screen showed a link to the personal hotspot from inside the guardhouse. He drew off his glove to work the keypad and find the three numbers Carrie had given him. The first was her sister Angela with a Brooklyn 718 prefix. Next came a +41 22 code, which was Geneva, someone called Jenny who worked at one of the international aid agencies. Then there was a listing for SL, +1 202 – Washington, the ambassador, Carrie’s first choice.

Russian and American signals intelligence would pick up any phone message that went out. It was late evening in Washington and the middle of the night in Europe. The chances were that SL was asleep. Rake wrote the message clear and short. His finger was sliding down to send when two F-22 fighters screamed overhead from south to north along the border. Seconds later two more flew fast and low from north to south. They looped back towards the mainland. The noise faded, and he heard a child’s voice. ‘Bang, Bang. I’m a Russian and you’re dead, Uncle Rake.’

Timo, Akna’s seven-year-old brother, appeared from nowhere and wrapped his arms around Rake’s legs. He must have slipped away as the soldiers were searching homes. Timo wore a green down jacket, but wasn’t dressed to be in the cold for any length of time. His teeth chattered.

The Russian soldier shifted from watching the aircraft to the little boy.

‘Why are you dressed like a Russian?’ Timo asked loudly. The soldier glanced at Golov, then back to Rake.

The sky erupted with engine noise again. American helicopters from the Alaskan mainland – four Black Hawks and four Apaches – came around from both the north and south edges of the island. Their searchlights swept the village and the hillside. They spread out in a two-tiered line, Black Hawks below, Apaches above, right on the border, flood lamps facing down the Russian aircrews on the other side. The F-22s returned in a deafening roar. Then the American helicopters shut off all their lights and hung ghost-like in the sky. No shots were fired, no missiles unleashed. It was a ‘don’t mess with us’ test of Russian resolve. Did Moscow want it the easy way or the hard way?

The Russian guard raised his weapon. Rake pressed the Washington number, sending the message just as Golov ripped the phone from his hand.

The White House, Washington, DC

Amessage alert flashed on Stephanie’s phone. It appeared in a small strip across the top of the screen then faded. She saw it but wasn’t focusing. Vitruk’s refusal to allow an American helicopter to the Russian base to pick up the Eskimo girl and her baby had drawn everyone’s concentration into the narrowest channel.

Holland paced the room. ‘Mr President, you must now accept that my first analysis of this crisis was correct. You need to take out their command and control center on Big Diomede island.’

‘Then the United States risks losing its ally in Britain,’ said Kevin Slater. ‘Nor will Europe support—’

‘Bull, Prime Minister, and you and Ambassador Lucas know it,’ countered Holland. ‘Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, Poland, Bulgaria, Romania will back a strong response. They’ve been taking Kremlin crap for years.’

‘Not if Moscow retaliates against them,’ argued Slater. ‘You have never witnessed a war on your soil, in your neighborhood, engulfing your family.’

‘We should call the German chancellor,’ said Stephanie.

‘Not from here,’ said Slater. ‘We need to go back to the embassy.’

From the embassy, they would have secure communications. But for Stephanie there were others who could talk to the Germans and the French. Slater would be better off in the White House because he would know what was going on and it would show Britain at the heart of the crisis.

‘You need to make a decision, Mr President,’ said Holland.

Prusak flipped to a visual feed from a Black Hawk helicopter hovering between the Russian and American islands. The image was blurred by fog and snow. But there was enough to show two lines of aircraft narrowly separated by the invisible border. Streaks of red swept across the screen.

‘They’re the F-22s,’ said Pacolli. ‘They will keep doing that and the helicopter cordon will stay in place. Meanwhile, we’re testing the ice for moving troops on a sea crossing from Wales.’

‘Time weakens us,’ said Holland aggressively. ‘They need to be taught a lesson.’

‘Who are they, Bob?’ Swain deliberately traced his words with irritation. ‘Are they school kids whom we slap on the wrists until they do what we say? At this level, it doesn’t work like that.’

‘Then how does it work in your White House?’

‘We think beyond guns. We don’t start wars. We balance the books. We keep our citizens richer and safer.’

‘And weaken American power on every continent.’

Swain sucked in his cheek, a habit Stephanie knew from long ago; it meant the President was controlling his anger. ‘The Iranians thought they taught us a lesson in 1979 by taking our embassy. That took forty years to sort out. We thought we taught Saddam Hussein a lesson in 2003. We’re still mopping that shit pit up today. How do you plan to teach Russia a lesson, Bob? If we take out their base on Big Diomede, what are they going to do? Strike Tin City? Nome? Elmendorf-Richardson, right next to the civilian Lowes Mall parking lot in Anchorage? Then what do we do?’

‘Or Ukraine,’ said Slater. ‘Or the Baltic states. Or break the Syrian alliance.’

Stephanie hoped that would quieten Holland. She was wrong.

‘Two days from now, I’ll be making the decisions. And there’ll be no Russian guns on American soil. You have my word on that.’

‘Something’s going on in the State Duma,’ said Prusak, turning to a screen showing dark-suited men in Moscow’s parliament. A Russian commentary explained that the Duma was in emergency session. The camera moved across the hall to the figure of the suave and impeccably dressed Duma chairman, Sergey Grizlov, speaking from the center of the long bench desk at the front of the chamber, flanked by fellow parliamentarians.

Stephanie kept her expression neutral. In a way, she was proud of her former lover and still thought of him as a friend. They were no longer close, but whenever she flipped him an email, Grizlov responded. He was funny, entertaining, cynical, and the smartest political operator in Moscow.

The Oval Office fell quiet. The feed came from Russian television, and Swain moved close to Stephanie, who interpreted. ‘They’re debating the 1990 Maritime Boundary Agreement.’ She glanced at Slater to make sure he understood. ‘That’s the border between Russia and America.’