Man on Ice: Russia vs the USA - in Alaska

THIRTY-THREE

Carrie shut the door of the small en-suite shower. There was no bolt, but the door to the main room was locked, the same one where she had been taken when she arrived. Food remained on warmers, the coffee stewed and tepid. The shower water ran ice cold, then jumped to steaming hot. Carrie peeled off her damp clothes and felt cold sweat on her back. Sweating under thermal clothing was dangerous. Outside, once human movement stopped, sweat froze on the skin, sealing it. She needed to wash it off before going out again. The shower temperature settled and she stepped under.

Head tilted back, water running down her face and soaking through her hair, she processed what had happened, absorbed images so they didn’t lash back at her and skew her judgement. The way a helicopter burnt; how a young man died; how she clung to her medical bag, always hunting out the injured; pushing Rake from her mind, admiring and despising his skill at killing all at the same time. There was madness in the human mind. If she hated this life so much, why did she seek it out? Except, on Little Diomede she hadn’t hunted for war. It had found her.

The bathroom door opened to a rush of cooler air.

‘Finish up,’ said Vitruk from outside. ‘I need to talk to you.’

A cloud of steam covered her. ‘Give me a moment,’ she said, keeping hidden her anger that he was trying to exploit the vulnerability of her nakedness. She was a doctor. She knew the human body better than he. She pulled a towel from the rack, dried quickly, and dressed.

‘You OK, Admiral?’ she said, stepping out. ‘Are you finished with fucking things up? You need to rehydrate, check for frostbite—’

‘I was raised in these parts. You don’t need to tell me.’

If he wanted to play the psychological intimidation game, bring it on. ‘Sure as hell a lot’s going wrong for you. Two helicopters, thirteen men, and you’re holding women and children hostage in a school. I can’t see any hero fighting for his country here.’

Vitruk lifted the lid off a stainless-steel food container releasing a sweet, poignant smell of beetroot and beef. ‘Just borscht, and in here it looks like potatoes and seal meat,’ he said. ‘We’ll eat.’

He ladled food onto a plate, handed it to Carrie. She took it. No point in not doing so. The human body needs nutrition, water, and sleep. Vitruk helped himself, taking a seat on the other side of the table. Carrie kept her eyes on her meal. The food, bland and over-salted, warmed her. Vitruk pushed a phone toward her. ‘You need to call Ambassador Lucas. She is working with President Swain in the White House. Tell her your fiancé must be ordered in. He must stop, or more of us will be killed.’

Carrie didn’t touch the phone. She kept eating, taking time to chew and swallow. Vitruk kept his gaze on her, waiting. Carrie said, ‘Do I tell her where I am, who I’m with, describe the layout of this base that you said was so dangerous to know?’ She wiped her lips clean with a brittle white paper serviette and looked straight back at him. ‘Or do I tell her it’s all over and you are taking your men off Little Diomede, and everyone can go home?’

‘You tell her to stand down Captain Ozenna.’

Carrie forked her food. ‘You’ve got the number; you talk to her.’

Vitruk leaned forward. ‘You know Stephanie Lucas.’

‘Not that well.’

‘Enough to call her and say she needs to order your fiancé to surrender.’

‘She can’t. She’s British.’

‘She’s in the White House. It can be done.’

Carrie took another mouthful and washed it down with bottled water. Vitruk waited, his stare intrusive, threatening. ‘Even if he’s ordered to, he won’t surrender,’ she said.

Vitruk picked up a remote, turned on a television screen on the wall, and flipped it to what looked like a military surveillance feed. ‘There are eight hundred American troops on the north side of the island. Work with me, Dr Walker. Please. These men are like sitting ducks and I can call an airstrike on them at any time.’

‘Why would you do that? Lose more men and helicopters?’ Carrie kept eating. She knew Vitruk would ratchet things up and she tried to keep her expression casual. ‘I will not be part of bringing Rake in because, like you say, he is my fiancé, and if I were in your shoes, I would kill him for what he’s done.’

‘When I kill him, I will be doing you a favor. No woman should be with a man like that.’

‘Why? Is that what your wife said about you?’ It came out fast, straight and blunt, and Carrie wasn’t even sure if she gave it a moment’s thought that she was comparing Rake to Vitruk. She bit her lower lip as her hard-assed expression weakened for a second, enough for Vitruk to notice. His face went dark as wood. Elbows on the table, he rested his chin on his hands. He smiled, not triumphant, not false either. It smiled of regret, and his voice softened. ‘My daughter was like you, sharp, unafraid. Pretty, confident. Larisa would be your age, now, if she had lived.’

He paused, seeking Carrie’s curiosity to hear more, a trap she would not fall into. A father grieving the loss of a daughter did not diminish Vitruk as the monster who had ordered his men to shoot Joan. She stayed quiet.

‘Larisa died in a snowmobile accident,’ he said. ‘Slammed into a tree because I was drunk.’

‘You don’t get daughters back by killing people. Go see a therapist.’ Carrie kept her expression closed.

His eyes trembled and he gripped his fingers together. ‘I know the mind of a man like Rake Ozenna. It is about war, hunting and killing. He will not be a good father to your children. Whatever dreams you and he have will come to nothing.’

Carrie forked the last food around her plate. Was he playing her or, in this strange place and moment, was he unloading the mess of his own mind? One thing her job had taught her was that some form of humanity lay inside the worst of people. But none of that solved the situation right now, so she said flatly, ‘Looks like you and I are negotiating again. I’ll treat the wounded, Admiral, but I’m not making that call.’

Like lightning, Vitruk switched to anger. ‘Damn you, woman!’ He banged the table with his fist. Coffee spilt. ‘You have no idea what is at stake.’

Carrie pulled a paper napkin from the holder to soak it up. ‘You’re right, I don’t. But I do know that if you order your troops off Little Diomede and—’

‘Grow up!’ Vitruk’s tone was hard, but measured again. ‘I saved your life out there. If you don’t make the call, give me one reason to keep needing you.’ His eyes were powerfully aggressive as if to expel any doubt about his intentions. Carrie had to stop herself from shaking. She was about to reply, but found her throat constricting. Whatever she said would have come out limp, hesitant, and pleading. There was something else, something more than Rake. Vitruk only wanted to use Carrie now as a direct line to the White House, and she had lost count of the injured and dying she had treated because they had challenged power against which they could never win. Vitruk had the guns. He might be merciless, but he was not stupid, and she had revealed her self-doubt. He checked the phone, punched on the dial, slid it across to her, and said, ‘Stop being a stubborn, high-minded, destructively moral bitch and ring your friend.’

As soon as she hesitated, both she and Vitruk knew she would make the call.