Man on Ice: Russia vs the USA - in Alaska

THIRTY-SIX

Through the night’s blackness Rake found the cove that would lead them onto Big Diomede. He recognized it by rock formations that jutted out like a hanging roof from the cliffside making a canopy over the beach. Underneath, protection from the weather had created a fast running channel of water about four-feet wide between sea ice and the frozen shingle of the beach. They needed to jump the water to get onto the island.

Outside the canopy, wind and cloud cut visibility to inches. There were no stars, no moon, no lights from the Russian base or from the village on Little Diomede. Ice leading to the channel was flat, scoured by months of battering by hailstones that stuck like barnacles to the surface. Spotting weak patches was near impossible.

They had kept watch for Tuuq and got this far. In this weather, they might not see him until they collided. Or he could already be on the island, even on the base. For sure, Tuuq was still out there. Ondola stayed well behind, keeping vigilant watch. Henry moved forward, testing with a pole, until he reached the edge. He locked grip with his boot, braced himself, and jumped across. Rake pushed the sled to the channel. He unstrapped the rucksacks and one by one threw them across to Henry. Rake moved back, and Joan stepped past him to the same spot from where Henry had jumped. Henry held out his arms to bring her in.

Suddenly, the sound of fracturing ice cut through the air. The surface cracked into a hairline fissure. Joan stayed stock-still. She knew the dangers. Any sudden thrust to jump would break the ice completely. The fissure widened. She shifted weight. More ice broke. Her foot caught in the crack and she stumbled, struggling to stay up. Rake moved towards her, gliding more than running, keeping his steps light and fast. He lifted Joan in time to keep her feet clear of the water. Her voice rasped on fast shallow breaths, telling him she was all right. He carried her back and lowered her down. She steadied herself, pointing to an area to the right that might be safe. Rake let her make the judgement. They had all been raised around rotten ice, taught how it could kill. Foot by foot, prodding around her, Joan tested the strength until she was confident enough to jump. Henry caught her as she landed. A few yards to the left, Rake identified a fresh safe patch for himself.

As if from nowhere a break appeared in the scudding clouds and moonlight bathed the landscape. The wind dropped. It might only last seconds, but Rake signaled for everyone to stay still. He could see a light from the base. It was close, about three hundred meters. The plan was that Joan would stay outside the fence with a radio and a Russian phone. Rake would secure Carrie, which probably meant killing Vitruk. Only then he would report back and get orders. Henry would deal with Akna and the baby.

Henry edged forward to help Rake cross the open channel. Rake locked his boot; the ice was a clear blue and he was certain it would hold. He was coiling himself for the jump when a formidable hold took him around the neck and threw him down hard. Hands gripped like a steel vice, pressing on his windpipe with enormous power. Green eyes bore down, vicious and cruel, the face that threatened him all those years back ago on the sled in Uelen, not the soldier with whom he had trained, but his half-blood brother with a dark empty hole of hatred inside him.

‘Bye bye, Yankee coward,’ Tuuq whispered, his breath on Rake’s face. Rake was pinned. Tuuq’s fingers closed tighter, draining him of strength. Tuuq’s expression was primordial, without conscience, a hunter whose quest was not food or skins. He could have shot Rake, but he needed to do it by hand. Nikita Tuuq killed in order to kill. Nothing else.

Rake’s sight blurred, his thinking muddled. Tuuq’s face became his. He became the Russian soldier who pleaded with him there didn’t have to be a kill. Rake gave no mercy. Nor would Tuuq. Across the channel, Henry had his weapon raised, but with no clear shot. Where was Don Ondola? He must be dead, killed by Tuuq on his way in. A few yards away, snow lay in a broken jumbled heap where Tuuq had been hiding, covering himself, and Rake had missed it.

How stupid they had been! They knew Tuuq was out here. He would remember the cove just as they did. He had come, and waited.

Rake lifted his boot and crashed it down on the ice, lifted and crashed it again, and again. Tuuq kept his hold. If Rake succeeded and the ice broke, both he and Tuuq would disappear into freezing water. Their survival wouldn’t be more than a few seconds. But it would be a different kind of death and give a clear run for Henry and Joan to get to the base.

The ice shattered, but not under them. Rake’s pounding impacted further along where a whole section gave way, splitting like an earthquake, creating a gaping hole, slabs listing into the water which spilled over and ran down towards them.

Drawing on last reserves of energy, Rake pushed his chest high enough to smash his forehead against Tuuq’s skull, hitting him on the bridge of his nose, loosening the hold on his neck. Rake turned his body, freeing an arm to drive his fist into Tuuq’s crotch. In those hair-trigger seconds, it was the best Rake could do, and it wasn’t enough. Tuuq slashed his hand across Rake’s face, cutting his cheek. He got his fingers back around Rake’s throat, harder this time, more urgent, dispensing with the luxury of the long kill. Tuuq fought as if untouched, blood streaming down his face. Rake was suffocating. Strength failed him. His arm wouldn’t move. His leg couldn’t lift his boot. His muscles were gone. He felt no pain around his throat. His will was stripped away by the reality that an oxygen-starved brain would not function and soon he would die. Tuuq loomed, his head slanted back, waiting, his gaze intent through the goggles. He was the victor. Rake saw Carrie, face caked with soot from a bomb. Then she went and there was haze. Rake’s mind played memories. His brain was without oxygen. There was no road to the greater good. All that killing had been for nothing. Soldiers die; it was his turn now.

A smile lit Tuuq’s eyes. He reared back and let out that dog howl, keeping up the cry as he leaned forward, gripping harder, squeezing, his voice surging and rolling louder and shriller next to Rake’s ear, that primeval wail of death that had haunted Rake for so long. As he howled, Tuuq twisted Rake’s windpipe, kneading his fingers in the last act of killing.

Then, suddenly, his hold broke.

Ondola smashed a metal ice pole across Tuuq’s head, gashing his skull. Tuuq toppled. Ondola hit him again, slicing the pole up under his jaw. Rake rolled himself out as Tuuq pulled a knife and scrambled to his feet.

‘Go!’ shouted Ondola.

Rake drew freezing air into his lungs, and pushed himself up. He stumbled, found his footing. Ondola, his own knife in hand, swung towards Tuuq’s face. Tuuq side-stepped and hurled himself forward, hands clasped together, knife held like an executioner, and used his power to bring it down with absolute force towards Ondola’s neck. Ondola shifted an inch. The blade sliced his cheek and Ondola crumpled under Tuuq’s weight. Rake started towards him.

Henry’s voice. ‘Rake. Over here!’

Bent double, Ondola staggered, legs buckling. Tuuq drew back the knife to plunge it into the exposed back of his neck. But Ondola was ready for him. In a lightning move he deflected the arm and sank his knife into it.

‘I’ve got him!’ Ondola yelled. ‘Go!’

Tuuq crashed his elbow into Ondola’s head, bringing them both back to the ground.

‘Now, Rake.’ Henry’s voice. Sensible, firm. ‘We need you here.’

Rake ignored him. Tuuq’s right arm was raised to plunge the knife into Ondola. Rake propelled himself forward, leaping up to kick Tuuq in the head, or anywhere to deflect the blade. His boot struck Tuuq’s shoulder, but it was enough to skew his balance. Tuuq fell back, his hands empty, the knife embedded above Ondola’s sternum, deep in his throat.

The ear-splitting fire of an automatic weapon splayed across the ice. Henry emptied a magazine towards Tuuq who jerked as a round thudded into his body, but moved quickly, using the ice as cover. Bullets cut through in a circle around him, but missed. There was silence. Rake needed to help Ondola, but he couldn’t until he dealt with Tuuq. Henry fired a burst of three, stopped. He had no target. Then came a tearing roar. Water sprayed up like a geyser and the frozen sea tilted as if in an earthquake. Clawing at the edges of broken ice Tuuq slid down, his blood trailing through the water.

‘Brother!’ Tuuq cried out in Russian. ‘Help me!’ Rake ran to him, holding out an arm, an instinctive reaction to anyone caught in bad ice. Tuuq’s face caught in reflected moonlight had lost its hardness. For a flash, Rake imagined his father there. He lay flat on strong ice and stretched out to take Tuuq’s hand. As Tuuq reached for him, Henry fired twice, one shot in the forehead and one straight through the mouth. Tuuq slid silently into the water.

Ondola lay still, gloves holding the knife blade, keeping it in his throat to stem the bleeding. He managed a smile. ‘I told you… to go…’ Rake pulled out a bandage and a pack of blood clotting agent which he tore open.

‘Don’t,’ said Ondola. He didn’t move his hands from the knife. His eyes were clear. ‘This is… a good place to die…’

Rake dropped the bandage to put his hand on Ondola. ‘You’re a good man,’ he said.

‘You’re my brother.’

‘Stay with us. We’ll get help.’

‘Go save my daughter.’ Another smile. Frailer. A last spark of life in his eyes. ‘Tell her I’m not all bad.’