Ice Station Wolfenstein

Chapter 24

After so much excitement combined with so much time spent cooped up, Sam had excess energy to burn. He bounded up the metal stairs two at a time, at least until he got a stitch and had to slacken his pace. He badly wanted to run. His whole body ached with longing for some kind of physical release.

He reached the door to the officers' quarters and turned the handle. The door did not budge. He pushed harder. It gave a little, but it felt as if there was something blocking it from the other side. He backed up a couple of steps and rammed his shoulder against the door, shoving it hard enough to push it partway open. He squeezed through the gap into the corridor and stepped straight into a puddle of blood.

Sam stared down at his foot in disbelief. Why is there blood? He looked at the puddle, then followed the line of the blood flow back to its source — the torso of the PMC who had been guarding that door. The man was definitely dead. He had been shot in the chest and also in the head. At the sight of the dark hole of the entry wound and the traces of white bone around the edge of it, Sam felt the memories trying to flood back in and his mind slamming its defenses into place. It's completely different, he told himself. This man hasn't lost half his… Well, put it this way, his is just a small wound by comparison. Not that that's done him much good.

At the opposite end of the corridor lay the other PMC, having met a similar fate. But how? Sam wanted to know. These guys are highly trained, aren't they? You can't just walk up and shoot them. Something is badly wrong here.

Without stopping to collect the notepad he had come for, Sam turned and fled back to the refectory to tell the others what he had found.

"Sam, calm down!" Jefferson Daniels commanded, pushing Sam into a seat. "Slow down, buddy. You're saying the soldiers upstairs are dead?"

"Shot. Chest and head." Sam nodded, staring blankly at the table.

"But how is that even possible? These are elite soldiers. Are you sure, Sam?"

"If that's what Sam says he saw, then I believe him," Nina said. "But I agree that no one should have been able to walk up to these soldiers and shoot them. That sounds to me like one of their own has gone rogue. We know that this virus causes violent mania, and it's only a matter of time before that symptom shows up in someone holding a gun."

Fear rippled around the group. Suddenly they found themselves yelling at one another, having heated arguments across the long table about whether they should go in search of the gunman, look for weapons, find a safe place within the station to hole up and wait out the virus, or take advantage of the death of the guards to make a break for Neumayer.

"Where's Purdue?"

Alexandr lobbed the question in gently, almost as if it were a social inquiry. Everyone stopped talking.

"Purdue," Alexandr repeated, speaking slowly and carefully, "… and Ziv Blomstein? You remember? Tall, silent, ex-Mossad? Or to be more precise, ex-Kidon."

Fatima stifled a gasp. "You know that for sure?"

"You know it's impossible to be certain," said Alexandr, "but let us say that, judging by the brief conversations we had… it would not surprise me."

Nina looked from Fatima to Alexandr and back again, confused. She glanced at Sam, who was clearly in a traumatized world of his own and not listening to a word anyone was saying, and at Matlock and Daniels, who both looked as nonplussed as she was. "If no one else is going to admit their ignorance, I will," she said. "Fatima, Alexandr — what does Kidon mean? I know about Mossad, but that's a new one on me."

"It's a branch of Mossad," Fatima said, a haunted look in her eyes. "No one knows much about it, though. It's really covert. But the Kidon are believed to carry out political assassinations—"

"Among other things…" Alexandr added in a half-whisper.

"Right. Among other things. They're some of the most dangerous men in the world if you get on the wrong side of them."

"Ok…" Nina fought to keep the nerves out of her voice and the roiling sensation in her stomach under control. "So we know there's someone here who might have been capable of killing those two soldiers upstairs. But what we don't know is why he—"

Her words were cut off. Suddenly the air filled with the sound of machine gun fire. Fatima and Alexandr dived under the table. Daniels, Matlock, and Nina followed, but Sam did not. Nina looked up and saw him sitting still, staring in the direction of the gunfire. Under his breath she heard him utter the word "Trish." Then she reached up, grabbed him by the front of his jacket and dragged him down into their makeshift shelter. She wrapped an arm around him as they crouched there, and told herself that it was solely to comfort him.

How long they waited there, none of them knew. The noise of the guns did not last long, but none of them dared move or speak. All they could do was wait, tense and terrified, to learn whether it would be their turn next.

When Sam heard the door handle click he turned to face it, anticipating the hail of bullets that would follow. He was ready. This is what should have happened last time, he thought. He stood up unsteadily, arms slightly extended to welcome the conclusion to his story, and waited for the PMCs to flood in and open fire.

Instead he saw Admiral Whitsun enter with a submachine gun clutched in his hands and a look of devastation on his face. Sam thought he was hallucinating. What would Admiral Whitsun be doing with a gun? Then behind the admiral came Ziv Blomstein, also holding a gun, and an unarmed Purdue.

"Admiral?" Professor Matlock scrambled out from beneath the table and dusted himself off before helping the old man into a chair. "Admiral Whitsun, what happened?"

The admiral did not make eye contact, not with Matlock nor with any of the others. His gaze was fixed on the middle distance. Sam recognized that look. It was the same one he himself had worn as he had been led out of that warehouse.

"I could not leave them to suffer," Whitsun said, his voice flat. "It was my duty. God forgive me… it was my duty."

Fatima came over to the admiral's side and knelt by him. "You killed them?"

"All of them. It was easy — surprisingly easy. Most of them were unconscious when Mr. Blomstein and I arrived. The disease had already begun to claim them."

There was silence in the room. Fatima took Admiral Whitsun's hand and patted it gently. Then she looked up and saw the shocked expressions of her companions. "Don't be so quick to judge," she chided. "You didn't see what kind of a state those men were in — well, except you, Jefferson. But everyone else — believe me, if the soldiers were infected, a quick death was the most merciful option."

"And what about us, Admiral Whitsun?" Professor Matlock was stark white and shaking with fury. "Do you believe us to be infected too? Shall we line up against the wall, would that be more convenient for you?"

"Leave him alone!" Fatima sobbed. "You might not agree with what he did, but look at him — it wasn't an easy thing for him to do!"

"It was also the most sensible way to increase our own chances of survival," Purdue said, as strangely calm as ever. "I understand that you have attempted to create a vaccine, Dr. al-Fayed — but that we only have a limited supply?"

"Yes, that's right," Fatima said. "There's enough for all of us, but there definitely wouldn't have been enough for all the PMCs as well. But Mr. Purdue, I don't even know for sure that it works. The only people I've tried it on were the first men to die, and I don't know whether that's because they weren't treated in time or if my vaccine just doesn't work at all."

"Or whether the vaccine itself is likely to kill us," Professor Matlock chipped in.

"Well, it might not be a proper clinical trial," said Fatima, deep pink spots of anger beginning to show in her cheeks, "but I used it on myself yesterday when I was treating the soldiers. So far I've had no adverse effects. That's not to say that it'll be the same for all of you, but if you want to take the chance there's a tiny bit of evidence that you won't die, ok?"

"It's ok, Fatima." Nina stepped between Fatima and Professor Matlock, soothing her friend with calm tones and a hand on her back. "We're all adults. We can each choose for ourselves. But look, first things first — I'll go and get the vials, shall I? I can bring them here, save everyone traipsing over to the labs. You stay here and look after Admiral Whitsun, ok?"

As Nina headed for the door she called out to Alexandr and Sam to come and help her. There was no reason why it should take three of them to bring back a small box of vials, but she just hoped that no one would challenge her on it. They walked in silence along the corridor, down the stairs, through the U-boat dock. Not a word was exchanged until they were safely in the far section of the ice station.

At the bottom of the ladder into the new section, Nina dug her fingers into her scalp and let out an anxious snarl. "He's insane! They both are — Whitsun and Purdue both! That's their solution to the problem? Shooting everyone? We have got to get out of here before one of them decides to turn the gun on us."

Sam and Alexander both agreed. Admiral Whitsun was clearly in a disturbed, traumatized state of mind, and it seemed that Purdue was on his side and lending Blomstein's muscle to back him up.

"The trouble is, how?" Sam wondered as they entered the lab corridor. "If Jefferson and Alexandr trek to Neumayer, isn't that going to take ages? We could all have bullets through our heads before they got back with the hovercrafts."

"You're right," Alexandr said. "Besides, we have no news about the weather conditions outside. Even I would hesitate to set off into the unknown like that. What we need is transport, and we can only assume that there is nothing for us here."

"Except the U-boats…" Nina suggested.

Alexandr stopped in his tracks. A slow, wolfish grin spread across his face. Then, suddenly, he lunged forward, grabbed Nina's face in both hands and planted a joyful, forceful kiss on her lips. "Of course! The U-boats!" He turned tail and ran back along the corridor.

"What… Alexandr!" Nina, wide-eyed with shock after the surprise kiss, yelled after him. "Where are you going?"

"Back to the boats!" he shouted over his shoulder. "I will see you soon!"

When Sam and Nina passed back through the U-boat dock with the box of vials, Alexandr was busy examining the remaining sub. He was on his back, stretched out and examining the hinges on the entry trap, swearing softly to himself in Russian. They decided not to disturb him. He looked too happy and serene to interfere.

The atmosphere back in the refectory was somber. In the short time that Nina and Sam had been out of the room, it seemed that Jefferson and Purdue had had an argument and Matlock had continued to fume silently. Blomstein was sitting at the far end of the table, away from everyone else, and the sense of fear that he inspired had become palpable. There was no need for Nina and Sam to concoct an explanation for Alexandr's absence — no one else had even noticed that the Russian was missing.

"I appreciate your words, Dr. al-Fayed," Admiral Whitsun was saying. "You are a sweet young woman, and your future husband is a lucky man. But you must understand, this is how men like me do things. It is the only honorable course left to me." He reached down and wiped the tears from Fatima's cheeks. "No need for that," he said. "I have done what I came here to do. There is nothing to be sad about. Chin up, eh?" He smiled at her, waiting for her to smile back. Weakly, she fought back her tears and complied.

The old man rose stiffly from his chair and stepped into the kitchen, emerging a moment later with a glass bottle in his hand. Sam recognized it at once. God only knew where the admiral had concealed it, because Sam would certainly have spotted it if it had been out in the open in the kitchen. It was a very old bottle of Dewar's White Label — eight years old at the time of bottling, sometime in the 1930s. That was probably a fairly cheap whisky when it was brought here, Sam realized.

It was not until Admiral Whitsun's fingers closed around the gun on the table that Sam realized what he was planning to do. Instinctively he reached forward to protest, but halfway through the gesture he checked himself. Beside him, Nina did the same. Admiral Whitsun's mind was clearly made up. It's his choice, Sam thought. He's a grown man, and if that's how he wants to deal with his grief and guilt, it's not for us to stop him. Let him make his exit with dignity.

The last they saw of Admiral Whitsun was the old man framed by the door lintel, a gun in one hand and a bottle in the other, retiring to his private quarters.

"Hand me the wrench!" Alexandr yelled. Nina obliged, while Sam busied himself trying to help Jefferson Daniels appease Professor Matlock.

"This is lunacy," Matlock was ranting. "Look at it!" He gesticulated wildly at the U-boat. "Look! It's been sitting here since who knows when, 1945 at least, and you people think we're just going to get it working and sail out of here!"

Jefferson followed him as he strode up and down the dock, making all the right noises about how they had to try. But Sam could see that Matlock was afraid, and he was sure that this anger was his way of attempting to cope with it. He could also see that it was starting to wear Jefferson down and was upsetting Fatima. Unfortunately, Sam had spent too much of the expedition winding Matlock up to be much help when it came to calming him down. In reality, all he was doing was trying to convince himself that he was being helpful and useful. Anything to prevent himself from thinking about the gunshots, and the blood, and anything that connected the day's events to that day in his past.

"These vessels are intended for a forty-five-man crew!" Matlock was blustering. "A crew which, I might add, would have been properly trained! You can't sail a U-boat on a wing and a prayer, it's preposterous."

"We don't have to get far." Purdue was leaning against a wall, watching Alexandr's comings and goings with interest. "Or navigate, really. No one is proposing that we sail home in this. All we need to do is get as far as the surface. I have a charter boat stationed at Deception Island that was to take us back to Ushuaia when we were ready, but once we reach the surface I should be able to summon it."

"Oh?" Professor Matlock's tones were icier than the water lapping in the empty pens. "How?"

"You wouldn't ask a magician to reveal his techniques." In any other person's voice it might have been a question, but in Purdue's flat monotone it was a simple statement of fact.

"Oh, well that settles everything, doesn't it?" Matlock rounded on Purdue, his mouth open for a barrage of sarcastic insults, when suddenly Jefferson's fist connected with Matlock's jaw. The academic reeled and fell to his knees.

"Shut up, will you?" Jefferson yelled. "Just shut the fuck up! I can't listen to you for a second longer!" He lurched forward. His foot swung back. Sam, never usually the physical type, threw his arms around Jefferson and tackled him to the ground. Jefferson recovered in an instant and rolled, coming up on top of Sam. His hand balled into a fist. Sam screwed his eyes shut in anticipation of the blow.

It never came. Instead he felt Jefferson's weight being lifted off of him as Ziv Blomstein stepped in. As they scrambled to their feet Sam, Matlock, and Daniels glared at one another, then silently scattered to different parts of the room. Only Purdue was unperturbed — at least, until he heard the sound of the U-boat's diesel engine sputtering to life.

"Alexandr! You genius!" Purdue shouted above the engine's roar. Moments later Alexandr's head appeared through the trapdoor, beaming triumphantly. "All aboard!" Purdue cried.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Matlock called. He pointed at the sluice gates that kept the pen dry. "What is the point if you can't get it out of here?"

For the briefest of moments, Alexandr looked thrown. Then he climbed swiftly down from the deck and jumped lightly onto the dock. The lever that controlled the pen was located at the far end of the dock, so it took him only a few steps to reach it. Theatrically, he threw it.

Nothing happened. Alexandr tried the lever again, listening carefully to it. Nothing happened. "Its gears are damaged," he muttered, then strode out of the room, back toward their quarters, leaving everyone to stare in silence. Within seconds there were angry yells from Jefferson, from Matlock, and a stifled sob from Fatima, but all the frightened noises were abruptly cut off by Alexandr's sudden return.

He rushed to the end of the dock, down by the sluice gates, and glanced around wildly. "I need a box," he said, pulling a small black carton from his pocket and tapping it impatiently. "Nina, I believe you had a pack of these as well? Give it to me, please. Sam! Where is the box that contained the vials? Is it still in the refectory? Go and get it, at once!"

Sam asked no questions but set off immediately, running up the stairs to grab the box, then dashing back down as quickly as he could. By the time he got back, Alexandr was cross-legged on the ground, whittling away at something with his knife. As Sam put the box down beside him he saw what it was.

"He's lost his mind," said Matlock. "Completely. We need to get through that gate and all he can think of to do is carve up some playing cards."

"Ssssh," Purdue raised a finger to his lips. "I think I know what Mr. Arichenkov is doing. I want to know whether I am right."

One by one, Alexandr flipped over the cards. If the card was black he discarded it, tossing it to one side. If it was red, he would carefully slice off the pips and place them in the box. His hands moved at frantic speed. Finally, when he had reached the last card and removed its three diamond-shaped pips, he got to his feet. "Stand back," he instructed the group.

Purdue clapped his hands. "Ah, it is what I thought! Excellent! I have always wanted to try this."

"What is it?" Sam whispered, watching intently as Alexandr crouched by the vacated pen and scooped freezing water with his hands, dumping it into the wooden box.

"Nitrocellulose," Purdue replied. "This is how William Kogut nearly escaped from his cell in San Quentin in the 1930s — a most remarkable man."

"Nearly escaped?"

"Well, he may have overdone things a little. He inadvertently blew himself up as he tried to blast his way out, but the theory was flawless." Purdue reached into his pocket and pulled out a lighter. "Alexandr! You'll need heat! Try this." He dashed forward as Alexandr was closing the box and shaking it up. He held the flame underneath. As the box caught fire, Alexandr threw it toward the sluice gate and the two men turned and ran.

"Everybody down!" yelled Alexandr They barely had time to cooperate before the explosion happened.

When Sam looked up there was a gaping hole where the sluice gate had once been, and water was flooding in from the icy ocean. The group scrambled up the ladder and down through the trapdoor into the U-boat, closing the hatch just as the ocean water began to swell and carry the submarine out of its moorings. Alexandr seized the wheel that controlled the rudder, and their desperate journey began.