Under the Ice

Chapter Fifteen

Behind an ice-encrusted ridge. Lieutenant Jack Redmond lay on his stomach, his binoculars focused on the snow-covered plateau that stretched out before him. At his side, Sergeant-Major Cliff Ano did likewise. Both of the Arctic Rangers took in a domed snow house A single, fur-clad individual with a rifle slung over his shoulder stood beside this structure’s entryway.

“I don’t like this situation one bit,” offered the concerned Inuit. “I’m almost certain the rifle he’s carrying is a Soviet-made Kalaishnikov.”

Jack Redmond grunted.

“You could be right, Sergeant-Major. But what in the hell is a Russian doing out here? And where did he come from?”

“It’s obvious they’ve come for the same thing we have,” returned Ano. “As to how they got here, who knows, perhaps they were dropped by parachute.”

Redmond shook his head.

“I doubt that, my friend. This storm has only just begun to lessen, and even now, a parachute operation would be extremely risky.”

Their gazes locked on the igloo, they watched as five individuals proceeded to crawl out of the snowhouse’s tunnel like entrance. Each of these figures wore a fur parka, though only four carried rifles.

“I’ll bet you that unarmed one is the original occupant of the igloo,” offered the Inuit. “Look, the others are pointing their weapons at him, and seem to be instructing him to harness up that dog team.”

Jack Redmond watched this scene unfold and whispered forcefully.

“That does it, Sergeant-Major. Something’s definitely not right down there. Since our last radio fix points us directly onto this same plain, we’d better not delay any longer.”

Crawling back off the ridge, Redmond began sketching out in the snow their plan of attack.

“It’s obvious that we’ve got them outnumbered. And since they appear to be on foot, our snowmobiles will give us the element of mobility as well. We’ll break out the weapons and divide the squad in half. Three of the snow cats under my command will move in and circle the igloo on its northern side, while the other three under Corporal Eviki’s leadership will approach from the south. You’ll move straight in on the dogsled.”

“Sounds good to me, Lieutenant. But do you really think we’ll need our weapons?”

There was a somberness to Redmond’s tone as he answered, “If they’re indeed Soviet military, we’ll need them all right. So share this with the men, and make certain to remind them this isn’t just another exercise.”

Nodding that he understood, Cliff Ano stood and scrambled down the ridge to join the squad. Jack Redmond crawled in the opposite direction and took one last look at the assortment of armed men gathered in front of the igloo. An alien tightness gathered in the pit of his stomach, and for the first time in his twenty-year career, the commando prepared himself for real live combat.

Five minutes later, a banshee like whine filled the air as the now-armed Rangers started up their snow-cats and shot out from the shelter of the ridge where they’d been hiding. The six sleek vehicles split up as planned, with Sergeant-Major Ano following with his team of howling huskies.

The snow was deep, and as Jack Redmond drove his snow cat through a shallow ravine, he could clearly see the five armed men reacting to their surprise appearance by diving to the ground for cover.

Seconds later, a variety of exploding bursts in the snow around Redmond’s snow cat indicated they were being fired upon. The veteran commando was hoping the armed party would see that the odds were against them and would peacefully surrender.

Yet this was not to be the case, and Redmond pulled his vehicle to a halt behind an elongated hummock of ice, all the time signaling for the two snow cats that followed him to do likewise.

“Take cover behind the ridge and return fire!” ordered Redmond.

With his own M16 in hand, he crawled up to the lip of the hummock and cautiously peeked over its ice-encrusted lip. Less than an eighth of a kilometer away lay the igloo. The armed party they were after had taken cover behind some sort of circular berm that most likely had originally been used to shelter the dogs. These same terrified huskies were harnessed to a nearby sled, and were really barking up a storm. Only a stout tether kept them from taking off on their own.

A series of sharp, explosive cracks sounded to his right, and Redmond knew his own men were responsible for this racket. His squad was primarily composed of decorated Inuit marksmen, and these men utilized their rifles efficiently, their shells probing the berm for any weaknesses. Originally trained as hunters, the Inuit depended upon their marksmanship to shoot prey such as minks and beavers right through the eye if possible, so as to not ruin the pelts. With such acquired skills, the shooting of a human being was hardly a challenge.

Before putting his own rifle into play, Redmond scanned the clearing in an effort to locate the other three snow cats Hoping that Corporal Eviki had found a similar hummock to hide his men behind, he cringed upon spotting those snowmobiles zooming by the opposite side of the berm. They seemed to be drawing an inordinate amount of small-arms fire that was augmented by a series of deep, resonant explosions. These deafening blasts were most likely from hand grenades, and as the veil of debris thrown into the air cleared, Redmond spotted a thick column of black smoke rise up into the frigid air.

His worst fears were realized as he spotted the remains of an overturned snow cat engulfed in a blazing pyre.

The soldier who had been perched beside Redmond saw this sickening sight also, and cried out in horror.

“My God, Lieutenant, they got all four of them!”

Though the prudent thing for Jack Redmond to do was to wait for the enemy to run out of ammunition and then order his men to attack, this tragic loss caused something to snap deep inside the veteran.

Blinded by anger and the need for instant revenge, he cried out passionately.

“Back to the snow cats men! We’re going in to eliminate that bunch of scum right now!”

A unified cheer arose from his men as they scrambled back to their tracked vehicles. To the high-pitched whine of the igniting engines, Redmond addressed the occupants of the two snow cats that were parked beside him.

“We’ll charge straight in at them, at full throttle. Then at the last second, you’ll pull off to the right, and I’ll go left. This should cause just enough of a diversion for Private Etah to lob in a grenade and take them out. Can you handle that, Private?”

The Inuit who was seated in the back of Redmond’s snow cat answered without hesitating.

“Just get me within range, sir. I’ll take care of the rest.”

“Then let’s do it!” cried Redmond. “And properly revenge our brothers who just gave their lives so that Canada can remain free!”

After snapping the snow cat into gear, the enraged veteran opened up its throttle and the vehicle jumped forward into the deep snow. Only when he was certain that the other two vehicles were close behind him did he floor the accelerator and steer toward the beckoning berm.

Oblivious to the hail of gunfire that whined overhead and ricocheted off his snow cat nose, Redmond ducked his helmeted head down beneath the windshield and continued on an unswerving course.

Only when the snow cat was so close to its goal that he could actually see the muzzle flashes of the gunfire aimed their way did he briefly touch the brakes.

This allowed the two pursuing snow cats to catch up with him. The Rangers in these vehicles had long ago put their weapons into play, and just when it appeared that the three vehicles were going to smack right into the wall of ice, they abruptly separated as planned.

There was the briefest of pauses as the enemy was forced to readjust their line of fire. This was all the time Private Thomas Etah needed to pull the pins out of a pair of grenades and toss them upward over the berm’s bullet hole-pocked, sloped walls. A resounding explosion followed. Yet this blast all too soon faded to be replaced by only the buzzing whine of the tracked vehicles and the incessant howl of the gusting wind.

The five remaining snow cats rendezvoused beside the still-burning wreck of the vehicle that had once held their coworkers. The fire had been so intense little remained of the equipment or the four men who had manned it.

“I can’t believe it!” mourned one of the soldiers, who had been driving one of the two surviving snow cats of the original trio that took this route. “Corporal Eviki was just trying to create a diversion for us to outflank them when this happened. My God, there’s hardly anything left to even bury!”

This macabre remark was met by the distant barking of dogs, and Sergeant-Major Ano could be seen on his sled passing by the igloo. A look of disbelief etched the Inuit’s face as he pulled the team to a halt beside them.

“What in the hell happened here?” quizzed the distraught commando.

“It was Corporal Eviki and three others,” returned Redmond painfully. “I’m afraid they got a little too close and the snow cat took a direct grenade hit.”

“Damn it!” cursed Cliff Ano. “They were only a bunch of kids.”

“Like hell they were!” snapped Jack Redmond. “They were Arctic Rangers, and as such were well prepared to give their lives for Canada without question.”

“But what in the hell did they give up their lives for?” queried Ano, whose grief was very real.

Redmond sensed his subordinate’s shock and answered with a bit more compassion.

“That remains to be seen, Sergeant-Major. I hope there’s something left inside that berm for us to identify. We took it out with two direct grenade hits.”

“Maybe he can explain what’s going on here!” shouted one of the commandoes, as he pointed toward a parka-clad figure who apparently had been buried beneath the snow beside a nearby dogsled.

“I bet you that’s the guy they were forcing at gunpoint to hook up that team,” offered Cliff Ano.

As this dark-haired, confused-looking man stood and began brushing the snow off his clothing, yet another newcomer emerged before them. This individual was armed with a pistol, and crawled out of the igloo’s entranceway, pulling two others along with him. Yet long before the Rangers could put their weapons into play, this white-haired stranger shouted out in broken English.

“I wouldn’t shoot if I were you, comrades. For if you do, these two will go with me.”

His hostages were a young woman and a small child. Both were Inuits. Though Redmond’s patience was running low at this point, he nevertheless instructed his men to lower their rifles.

Seeing this, the stranger once more voiced himself.

“Now that’s more like it, comrades. But you’d make me feel so much better if you’d drop those weapons altogether.”

Again Redmond conceded, and instructed the Rangers to comply with this unpopular directive.

“You are most wise, comrades. Perhaps now I could have a personal word with your leader?”

Jack Redmond stepped forward and somberly introduced himself.

“I’m Lieutenant Jack Redmond of the Canadian Arctic Rangers.”

“Good morning. Comrade Redmond. I am Mikhail Kharkov, commander in chief of the Red Banner Fleet. I am genuinely sorry about this intrusion on your territory. But such an act was necessary to recover valuable property belonging to the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.”

The woman the white-haired Russian held in his arms began squirming at this point, and the Russian instantly tightened his grasp. Jamming the pistol he carried up against her neck, he added.

“Easy, my little Eskimo flower. Or I’ll blow your scrawny neck off!”

Though the Inuit known as Akatingwah could not understand her captor’s strange tongue, his firm grip convinced her that any escape on her part would be impossible. With his hostage thusly calmed, Mikhail Kharkov continued.

“May I ask what has happened to the men who accompanied me here, Lieutenant?”

Redmond beckoned toward the still-smoking berm.

“I imagine you’ll find what’s left of them over there.”

The admiral shook his head.

“Ah, I should have known. They were such headstrong lads. Yet I’ll miss them all the same.”

“No more than I’ll miss the four brave Canadians that died by their hands,” spat Redmond.

“So it seems that both sides have been bloodied,” observed Mikhail Kharkov. “Though such a poor showing by my five men can’t be excused. Why a soldier of the Soviet Socialist Republic should at the very least be worth two second-rate Canadians.”

This uncalled for remark infuriated Redmond, who took a step forward, fists ready to strike out. To halt the Rangers advance, Kharkov pushed the barrel of his pistol deeper into the Inuit’s throat.

“Easy does it comrade. I was only making a little joke as you call it. Any loss of life is deeply regretted, but such things will happen when armed men confront each other.”

Redmond vented his frustration verbally.

“Must I remind you that you are trespassing on the sovereign property of Canada, Admiral? It looks like what we have here is a direct and willful act of war.”

“I’m sorry that you see it that way, comrade. Though if you continue to behave yourself and do what I say, perhaps you’ll live long enough to learn why such an incursion was necessary. Now, all I’m going to need from you is one of those tracked vehicles, and a promise to stay away from your weapons until I’m out of range.”

“And if I agree to such conditions?” queried the Ranger.

“Then the Eskimo lives,” retorted Kharkov.

Having witnessed enough senseless bloodshed for one day. Jack Redmond nodded.

“You can have this vehicle. Admiral. But I’m warning you, your country is going to pay for this senseless slaughter.”

“I imagine our United Nations ambassador is in for a busy week,” reflected Kharkov, his tone suddenly firm. “Have one of your men bring this vehicle over to the side of the igloo, and instruct him to leave it running.”

“How do I know you’ll keep your half of the bargain and release the hostage?” questioned Redmond.

“Since the word of a Soviet officer is obviously not enough, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. You can have this woman and child right now, if I can take a substitute in their place.”

Redmond briefly considered this offer and replied.

“That can be arranged. Admiral. Will I do?”

Mikhail Kharkov slyly grinned.

“I suppose you would like to go along for the ride to see what this is all about, wouldn’t you. Lieutenant? But instead of wasting more of your valuable time, I’ll take that one over there.”

With his free hand, Kharkov pointed to the confused, parka-clad figure who had been buried beneath the dog sled. Jack Redmond needed the assistance of Cliff Ano to communicate with this Inuit, whose name was Ootah. Without a second’s hesitance, Ootah agreed to the switch.

While one of the Rangers started up a snow cat and drove it over to the igloo’s side, Redmond learned that the now-freed female hostage was named Akatingwah. She was Ootah’s wife, and though she wasn’t exactly thrilled to see her husband take her place, she conceded for her young son’s sake.

With his gun now aimed at Ootah’s neck, the Russian bent down and pulled yet another object from the snow house entryway. This rect angularly shaped box was painted black, and had a blinking red strobe light attached to its top surface. After carefully placing this device in the snow cat storage compartment, Mikhail Kharkov boarded the vehicle, with the Inuit directly in front of him.

“This should make for a cozy ride,” said Kharkov, as he activated the throttle mechanism with his free hand. The engine whined in response, and as the veteran turned the snow cat around, he offered one last parting remark.

“So sorry that I have to run like this. Lieutenant. Remember now, stay away from those guns. See you in the UN, Comrades!”

Flooring the accelerator, Kharkov was thrown backward as the snowmobile lurched forward. Yet he quickly regained control and, before turning for the northwestern horizon, whipped past the remaining vehicles and put a bullet directly into each snow cat engine cowling.

“Damn!” cursed Jack Redmond, as he violently kicked the snow at his feet. Looking on impotently as the Russian disappeared behind a distant ridge, he angrily cried out to his men.

“Will one of you stop gawking and go see if he’s left us with an operational snow cat!”

As several of the men sprinted off to fulfill this request. Cliff Ano walked over to confer with Redmond.

“So it was the Russians all along,” offered the Inuit. “We should have figured that they’d go and try to pull something like this off.”

“But why all this useless bloodshed?” returned Redmond. “And what’s so important about that damn black box anyway? I’m sure Ottawa was eventually going to give it back to the Soviets once we had a chance to check it out. Why not wait until then?”

The perplexed Inuit could only shake his head.

Then one of the men screamed out behind him.

“The snow cats are finished, sir. All five of them have bullet holes right through the engine block.”

This revelation was accented by the report of a distant gunshot. Each of the commandoes turned to search the northwestern horizon where the Russian admiral had last been seen fleeing with his hostage.

Seeing this, Akatingwah let out a wail and began sprinting out through the snow to determine her husband’s fate.

As Cliff Ano ran out to grab her, one of the Rangers called out excitedly.

“We’ve got more visitors. Lieutenant! This party’s coming in from the northeast on foot!”

“Pick up your rifles, and form a defensive formation along that snow ridge,” ordered Redmond. “If it’s more Russians, this time we’ll teach those Red bastards what the fear of God is all about!”

After retrieving his binoculars from the storage compartment of his disabled snow cat Redmond took up a position on an elevated hummock and attempted to identify these new intruders.

“There’s five of them altogether!” he informed his men. “But they don’t seem to be carrying Kalashnikovs. Instead, they’re armed with M16’s!”

Cliff Ano had calmed down the distraught Inuit by this time. He left her in the care of one of his associates, and joined Redmond on the hummock.

“Lieutenant, I’d like to volunteer to follow that Russian’s trail. I could use the dogsled, and find out what that shot was all about.”

“Permission granted,” returned Redmond. “But if you smell the least bit of trouble, get back here on the double, and we’ll move in with some reinforcements. This squad’s been hit hard enough as it is.”

“Will do. Lieutenant,” answered the Sergeant-Major, as he ran down to his sled and got the dogs moving with a snapping crack of his whip.

With Ano gone, Jack Redmond called Private Etah to his side.

“Private, you’ve just been made a corporal. I want you to pick out two of the best marksmen that we’ve got. Position them on this hummock. I’m going to leave you in charge while I go down to find out who these newcomers are.”

“But isn’t that a risky proposition. Lieutenant? Why not wait until they come to us?”

The grizzled veteran looked the young soldier directly in the eyes and retorted.

“Now that you’re a corporal, I’m going to share with you leadership rule number one — never question an order from a superior officer. Do you read me, soldier?”

“Yes, sir!” answered the Inuit. “Just be careful, Lieutenant.”

Touched by the youngster’s concern. Jack Redmond slung his rifle over his shoulder, walked down the hummock, and began to make his way over the adjoining plain. Cliff Ano’s barking team could still be heard in the distance, though the sled itself had long since disappeared behind a sloping ridge.

With the two sharpshooters providing cover fire from behind, Redmond plodded through a deep snow drift, jumped over a narrow fissure, and without unstrapping his weapon, called out to the rapidly advancing party.

“Hello out there!”

This remark was met by a friendly wave, and a deep voice that boomed out in perfect English.

“Hello to you, whoever you are!”

Jack increased his pace at this point, and all too soon made the acquaintance of Captain Mathew Colter, commander of the US Navy nuclear attack submarine Defiance, and four of his shipmates.

There was a look of relief on the Canadian’s face as he explained both his mission and the tragedy that had just taken place on the plain behind them. Yet he was genuinely shocked to learn that the Americans had been sent here for the very same reason that the Arctic Rangers had. And for all their trouble, the Russians had beaten the lot of them!

Mikhail Kharkov felt like a child again. With an innocent joy, he steered the speedy snowmobile down a sloping grade that led directly to the frozen surface of Lancaster Sound. It had been many years since he had last traveled on such an exhilarating means of transportation. Yet as a native Siberian, he was certainly no stranger to such tracked vehicles.

Why he could even remember a time when the only expedient way to travel over the snow was by horse-pulled sleighs.

His father had had a gorgeous team of black stallions, and a hand-tooled sled that he had built himself. As a youngster, it was Mikhail’s duty to harness the team. And he was always available to drive if needed. Many of his fondest memories were of such sleigh rides, sitting bundled in a thick fur blanket, with the crisp Siberian wind in his face and the sound of the sled’s bells twinkling to the hollow clops of the horse’s gallop.

The arrival of motorized sleds doomed this innocent era. Though much more efficient, such vehicles were loud and belched noxious fumes. They also sped along so rapidly that it was often difficult to even get a glimpse of the passing countryside.

The snowmobile he currently drove was quick and easy to steer. Its speed was even further enhanced when he got rid of his additional passenger. This he’d done soon after leaving the plain where the black box had been found.

The Eskimo he had taken hostage was a cowardly, foul-smelling brute. As they sped away from his igloo, he began trembling with fear, and Mikhail was expecting him to break out in tears at any moment.

What the veteran mariner hadn’t expected was the moment the idiot tried to break out of his grasp.

This abrupt move caused Mikhail to temporarily lose control of the vehicle, and it went plowing into the face of a snow drift. Mikhail had been thrown right out of his seat by the force of this collision, and as he scrambled to his feet, he spotted the Eskimo desperately digging into the overturned vehicle’s storage compartment. There was no doubt in Mikhai’s mind that the savage was after the cockpit voice recorder, and his hand went straight to his bolstered pistol. At the exact moment Mikhail raised his Kalashnikov, the Eskimo turned to face him, and the veteran shot him a single time square in the chest.

As the native went sprawling to the snow, Mikhail righted the vehicle and after a bit of effort, finally got its motor started. It had been whining away with a vengeance ever since.

With a bone-jarring jolt, the snowmobile dropped down upon the pack ice. It would be on this frozen medium that he would find his lift back home to the Motherland. While checking the dashboard-mounted compass to make certain his course was correct, Mikhail opened the throttle wide. As the vehicle zoomed over the ice, his thoughts returned to the last time he had killed a man face-to-face.

It had been during the closing days of the Great War. As the Nazis retreated to make a last stand at Berlin, both the Soviets and their western allies rushed in to fill the void. Mikhail had been sent to occupy the German port complex at Danzig. Here at the Schichau shipyards, a revolutionary new class of German submarine was being constructed. Known as Type XXI, this vessel represented a last-ditch effort by Admiral Donitz to turn the tide of war. Able to dive deeper for a longer period of time and at a greater speed than any previous class of submarine, the Type XXI was an engineering masterpiece. Yet it went into production too late to serve the Nazi cause, and Mikhail’s job was to complete the five hulls that had already been laid down in Danzig.

It was while touring the partially completed engine room of the boat known as U-3538 that he’d been attacked by a German engineer. The grease-stained Nazi was high on schnapps, and came at Mikhail with wrench in hand. Even though the German was powerfully built, Mikhail was able to take advantage of his drunken state and throw his attacker down to the deck. Without giving the German a second to catch his breath, Mikhail jumped down upon the man’s heaving chest and began strangling the life out of him. With his hands tightly gripped around the Nazi’s neck, Mikhail watched the German die. During the last frantic seconds, their glances directly met, and he actually saw the manner in which death took him.

That incident had taken place over four decades ago. Yet it was still so fresh in his mind that he could actually smell the scent of fear that exuded from his attacker’s pores.

And now, forty-five years later, fate had once again put him in a position to directly take another’s life. And once more, he felt strangely stimulated by this godlike power. This was the case even though the Eskimo was nothing but a subhuman. The savage was little more than a beast, and shooting him was like putting an injured horse out of its misery.

Back in Siberia, such natives were welcomed as an integral part of the Motherland. They were educated and taught a trade, and today their culture flourished like never before. It was on account of them that vast tracts of Siberia were able to be developed, as centers of mining, hydroelectric power, and animal husbandry.

Their Canadian cousins were in vast contrast. Exploited by their government, they were forced to live like wild beasts, dependent upon the fickle whims of mother nature and an occasional government handout.

They lived in incredible squalor, as the igloo Kharkov had just visited amply showed, and drowned their sorrows in vast amounts of cheap alcohol.

Such a waste of humankind was a pity. But the Capitalists only cared about exploiting their ancestral homes for oil and minerals, leaving behind nothing but a legacy of pollution and broken dreams.

Under the new world order that would shortly come to pass, such imbalances would be corrected. The exploited masses would be freed from their chains, as brotherhood and equality became the chants of the day, Unfortunately, there were many who had to be sacrificed along the way so that this Socialistic dream could come true. Premier Alexander Suratov had been one of these unlucky ones, as were the five brave sailors who would not be returning to the Neva with him, and the pathetic Eskimo as well.

Each of these individuals had been called before his time, to serve as fodder for the great revolution that would soon sweep the world.

The key to this uprising’s success lay locked away inside the snowmobile’s storage compartment. Here a single cassette tape would soon change mankind’s very destiny. Stored in the cockpit voice recorder’s interior was the certain proof that his colleagues in the Politburo had demanded in exchange for their support. And once this support was given, the reins of power would be his!

That thought thrilled the white-haired veteran, who was forced to turn his current means of transport hard to the left when a sudden lead of open water showed itself before him. His heart pounded away as the thin ice beneath him cracked in protest.

Yet the great speed at which he had been traveling kept the ice from fracturing altogether, and he was spared a certain fatal dunking.

As he zoomed over an elevated ice ridge, the horizon suddenly opened up and he spotted the distinctive silhouette of an immense, lowlying, black-hulled object seemingly entombed in the distant ice. Looking like a lonely beached whale, the Neva beckoned like a long-lost friend, and Mikhail dared to open the throttle full.

The snowmobile lurched forward in response, and the Admiral of the Fleet knew that it wouldn’t be long before he’d be returning to the Motherland in utter triumph. And one of his first treats to himself would be a visit to his cherished dacha on the shores of Lake Baikal. With the flat, frozen white landscape whipping by him in a blur, he mentally visualized yet another corner of this great planet. Here an ancient wood stood in all its inspiring glory. And unlike the desolate, ice-encrusted wilderness he currently crossed, this forest was a shrine to life itself.

Surely by now the first real snows had fallen, and the pines would be matted in fluffy shrouds of white. Yet the tumbling brook would still be flowing, the diverse creatures that inhabited its banks now leaving their tracks in the powdery snow.

How he missed this peaceful, pastoral haven! It was the real source of his vision, and without it, he’d be as empty as the jagged ice fields that presently surrounded him. Thus inspired, Kharkov felt a new sense of urgency as he charted the quickest route back to the Neva.