by Roger Weston
The men closed in around him. Chull-su got up and went over to see what happened. Terror worked its ugliness on several of the men’s faces, and Chull-su felt his numb lips open with a guttural sound.
“He’s caught in a trap,” someone said. “A bear trap.”
“It’s broken. Oh mother, it’s broken!”
“He can’t walk. He’s finished.”
“Don’t leave me, no, no, please, I’ll die!”
“We’ve got to get out of here.”
“You can’t leave me, you can’t--”
“Let’s go,” Chull-su said.
“We’ve got to get out of this storm,” Jin-ho said. “We’ll all die.”
“Get moving.” Chull-su motioned him ahead with his AK. “Over there.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Fire logs burned in the dimness of the bunker and slowly turned to coals. Frank piled more wood on the fire and kept it burning. He made instant soup which he gave to the others. Abby drank hers slowly as she watched the steam rising from her cup. Luke drank a few sips and poured the rest out. Ingrid wouldn’t look at hers. Brian declined. Nobody said a word. Frank got back in his sleeping bag and lay awake.
All night long the storm wailed like a thousand crying wolves. Frank couldn’t sleep. He sat by the fire, staring at the flames . . . sometimes closing his eyes and burying his face in his hands. He and Brian took watches every four hours.
Near morning, Frank was staring trance-like out the look-out slash when Brian came over.
“See anything out there?” Brian said.
Frank nodded slowly with heavy eyes and a numb frown. He kept his gaze on the bleak meadow. “Just snow and horses. Haven’t seen an ear perk.”
“What am I gonna do without her, Frank?”
Frank shook his head. “I wish I knew what to tell you. I’m sorry. I just don’t know.”
For a long while they both stared at the sinister land and the blustering sky play. Finally Brian said, “You figure they’ll find us here?”
Frank nodded.
“Well, I’m ready for ‘em.”
“I know you are,” Frank said. “We don’t have any choice, we can’t stay here. They outnumber us. If they got us, Abby, Ingrid and Luke would be alone at their mercy.”
“Mercy? They ain’t got no mercy. And they sure as hell aren’t gonna get any from me.”
Frank stared at Brian, too ashamed to respond. He could offer no hope, no peace. He said nothing, and he felt like a sand crab with no shell to hide his face in.
He said, “When the storm lets up, we’ll do what has to be done.”
“It’s about time.” Brian scowled. And then he leaned toward Frank and said, “What happened when you scouted for that ambush party?”
“I found them,” Frank mumbled.
“What did you do?”
Frank’s eyes shifted towards the fire. The others were still sleeping. He was almost whispering when he said, “I found them, already dead, by Clay’s hand.”
“Clay’s--”
“You heard me.”
Brian grimaced. “I thought--” He shook his head. “I take back what I thought about him deserting before.”
Frank nodded and patted Brian on the back. “I’ll take a look from the perch.” He went outside.
Beginning at the ground level around thirty yards from the bunker, the ledge angled up over the bunker, jutting out three feet, a natural path up the face of the lava wall. Frank followed the path up over the the bunker. From this lookout spot, he could see a long ways, but no sign of the Koreans.
The storm wailed for two days and two nights. The watches never stopped, and the fire never burned out. By the early morning hours of the third day, the storm was dying down. Frank told Brian to feed his horse; they were leaving. Then two hours later, just as daybreak rose on the islands, Frank added more wood to the fire and whispered in Abby’s ear, “I have to go.”
She turned and looked into his eyes. “You’re blaming yourself for this. I can see it on your face. What they did isn’t your fault, and nobody blames you.”
Frank nodded and turned away.
“Don’t go,” Abby said. “Maybe they’ll just leave. Please, don’t go. There’s too many of them.”
Frank resisted the urge to look back at her. He walked over to Luke who’d been withdrawn for two days and barely said a word, who now sat by the fire, staring into nowhere with anger etched on his face. Frank sat down next to the boy. He sat there for several minutes watching the fire. Finally, he turned to Luke and said, “I have to go now. I have to stop those men. “
“I want to go with you.”
“No. I need you here.”
Luke nodded.
“Whatever happens, Luke, there’s something I want you to know. I’ve made mistakes in my life, bad ones. I wish I could take them back, but I can’t. Whatever happens, don’t ever forget that I love you.”
Tears filled Luke’s eyes. He grasped Frank’s arm. “You’re coming back, right?”
“You take care of the women while I’m gone.”
Luke nodded and let go of his father.
“And don’t forget what I showed you.”
“I won’t,” Luke said, his voice shaky. He glanced at the pistol and then back at Frank.
Frank nodded and stood. Brian was attending to the stock, buckling a saddle bag. Frank walked over and peered outside again. Daylight was near.
Brian handed him reins and led his own horse outside.
Frank followed and stopped in the doorway for one last look. They sat mournfully in the dimness crowding the fire. The picture froze in his mind. Would he ever see them again? He turned and walked out into the bitter cold of early morning. The storm was over, and the wind whispered softly.
For a long spell of silence, Frank stared off into the gray sky that stretched from horizon to horizon. Finally he looked over at Brian and said, “I don’t want you to come. I work better alone.”
“Don’t give me that. I have to . . . for Karen.”
Frank grimaced. “I want you to stay and protect the others. We can’t leave them alone.”
“No way I’m gonna sit around and wait. I’ve waited long enough. I’m going with or without you.”
Frank grasped the pommel, slid his foot into the stirrup, and swung onto the saddle. “Mok Don’s men couldn’t have survived the storm without shelter. If they’re alive, my guess is we’ll find them holed up at the Rat Lake cabins; that, or they’re still back at Casa del Norte.”
Brian mounted up and they started riding.
As they moved through the sheltered meadow, dozens of longcoats rose and ran. Galloping spiritedly, nearly a hundred of them beat hoof in backtrack and came to rest near the bunker.
Frank carried the Arctic Warfare counterterrorist sniping rifle across his saddle. Using European countersniper ammunition, the gun’s long-range capability well exceeded a thousand meters.
Side by side, he and Brian pressed on. Visibility was poor. While the storm was over, the air chilled them as they left the protection of the massive lava tendrils and set out upon pure white plains. They passed the salt water lakes in the low valley, drove hard across a vast expanse of snow. As they rode along the beach of the smoky sea, sets of seven-foot waves roared out of the fog and thundered upon the shore. Inland, obscured mountains loomed frosty in the river-rock gray clouds. Frank guessed ten degrees, still cold for the Aleutians. They rode in the lows near the foothills, going well beyond the cabins and checking for sign.
“A herd of vermin came through here,” Brian said.
“Those are fresh tracks.”
“Looks like they’re heading over Middle Pass toward the air base. Let’s get after ‘em.”
“How many you figure?”
Brian studied the tracks for a moment. “Four or five. Rest of them must have stayed back at the ranch.”
Frank skewed his eyes toward the mountains. He said, “We’ll head back to the bunker. Following
their tracks is too dangerous. From there we’ll take the volcano tundra trail through the valley to the east shore. We’ll see if we can head them off.”
“No chance, Frank. We’re right behind ‘em. We go back that way, we’ll be lucky to catch ‘em before tomorrow. I ain’t running scared. I’m going after ‘em now.”
Frank was about to insist on his plan, but he knew Brian wouldn’t listen. And he couldn’t hardly blame his friend. He thought of Karen, and he couldn’t-- He didn’t like being pushed into a dangerous and reckless situation, but at that moment, recklessness seemed almost justified. Besides, he was just as anxious as Brian to see to some justice.
Following tracks, they rode through Middle Pass. In all directions, rugged, precipitous mountains reached skyward into ashen clouds. Snow and blue-white ice coated the rocky palisades. At one point they heard the snap of a gunshot in the mountains ahead. Half hour later they found a dead Korean with a frostbitten blue face.
“Looks like they put him out of his misery.”
“Foxes won’t go hungry today,” Brian said. “Neither will the dogs.”
“Must have had a rough night.”
Brian spat. “Their day’s gonna be worse. We’re gaining on ‘em.”
Frank glanced down at the tracks, which were looking fresher all the time. Kiska Harbor wasn’t far off now. He said, “We’re going on foot from here on out. The horses make too much noise.”
Brian spurred his horse on. “Maybe when we get closer; they’re still too far ahead.”
They rode on and dropped down into the foothills above the harbor into thick fog, eerily still. They passed the old Japanese Shinto shrine and went down to the abandoned submarine base. The Koreans seemed to have conglomerated by one of the dilapidated two-man submarines left by the Japanese to rust through the decades. From the derelict, the traces turned north, parallel to the beach. Frank and Brian more or less followed Trout Lagoon Road past the wharf and the old sea plane ramp. They moved through the mist of North Head past Junior Lake and Fox Lake.
“They’re down by the air field,” Frank whispered, looking into clouds.
“Probably searching out the ruins.”
“Lot of tunnels in this area. They could hide almost anywhere.”
“Yeah, but their tracks are fresh in the snow. We know where they’re going.”
Frank looked at the tracks disappearing into the fog ahead. “Wait a minute,” he whispered.
“I see ‘em,” Brian said, looking down at the sign. “There’s fifteen or twenty now. They met up with another group.”
“Yeah . . . and we’re too close. They may have heard us.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Frank and Brian sat on their horses in the still mist, listening. “Sounds like a ship,” Frank whispered.
He turned and looked toward the water. The harbor itself was shrouded in fog. He sat motionless for several minutes until the veil of fog pulled back just slightly, unmasking something in the thick, misty vapor.
“I see it. There’s its anchor,” Brian said.
They were both staring at a big chain reaching down into the water when a shot rang out.
Frank’s buck rared up on his hind legs. Another shot sounded.
The horse came down and Frank dug heel. Both his horse and Brian’s galloped into a long natural trough between snow dunes and followed the trough till it leveled. They bolted into the open momentarily before disappearing into an old airplane hangar, the last one still standing on Kiska. Rusty fighter wings and aircraft parts were strewn along the walls.
They quickly dismounted.
“Stay down and back from the doors,” Frank said.
Brian pumped his shotgun and ghosted for cover.
Frank ran to the far wall and spied a look from where he’d taken cover by the door behind an aircraft engine. White mounds rose here and there of icy, snow-covered ruins and wreckage approaching the old airfield--a white expanse. To his left, in front of the hangar, he saw snow-covered heaps lumped up at various distances.
“Tracks,” Frank said.
“Let’s get ‘em,” Brian said. “They’re here somewhere.” He was lying down opposite Frank past the other side of the hangar door.
“Get behind something solid,” Frank said. He scanned the area. A blanket of snow reached into the distance where it dropped off into Salmon Lagoon. Nearby stood a dilapidated structure that looked like a frosted rib cage looming in the fog.
“Get back,” Frank said.
Brian sank low. A man rose from behind a crest of snow and dove for shelter behind a closer one. The boom from Brian’s trench gun announced a hit as the man buckled in mid air and landed a twisted heap.
“Come on,” Brian said. “Come and get me.” He pumped his gun and shot the downed man a second time.
A dozen shots clattered out in a matter of seconds. A second wave of gunfire spewed forth, then a third. Dozens of icicles fell and stabbed the earth along the front of the hangar. Bullets rattled new holes through the hangar’s siding. Icicles blew up. Rust fragments rained down as the wall took on the porous appearance of Swiss cheese.
Despite the storm of gunfire, Brian returned several shots through a hole where rust had eaten through the ribbed aluminum.
“Brian,” Frank yelled. “Get cover.”
Frank folded down the bipod on his Arctic Warfare counterterrorist sniping rifle. He rapidly flipped up the scope covers and zeroed in on a snow mound that was producing a lot of gunfire. His shot hammered home. Working the bolt action while sighting, he shifted his weapon rapidly and efficiently--blasting through hummocks of snow and ice where he saw movement. Visibility was poor, and a thick fog bank was slowly overtaking them.
A shot suddenly rang out from the rooftop of the old mess hall; Brian jerked. “Aah! They got me!”
“Roll away,” Frank yelled. “Now. Get back.”
Blood was gushing out of a chest wound near Brian’s heart. He tried to roll, but was too slow. A burst riddled him, and Brian jerked and twisted under deadly fire.
“No!” Frank said.
In a desperate attempt to save his friend, Frank zeroed in on the rooftop sniper with his scope. He was about to squeeze off a shot when a human form covered in animal hides rose behind the target with a spear and harpooned the sniper, who flailed desperately against the stabbing prongs. A shot rang out, striking Clay, who spun and fell through the old roof and out of sight.
Abandoning his weapon, Frank ran and dove across the open doorway.
Brian was twisting against the wall and mumbling incoherently.
Seven or eight bullets had struck him. He was gulping for air. Frank could see him fading, blood flowing from mortal wounds. Brian drew in a ragged breath. Life departed from him in one long gasp.
“Brian . . . What have I done?” Frank said. He drew a deep breath and air hissed through his teeth.
The gunfire thundered and Frank watched bullets chew up a line toward him. He slapped his hand down on Brian’s trench gun and ran toward the rear of the hangar while the barrage of gunfire erupted behind him. The horses reared up on their hind legs while Frank gathered up reins and calmed them. Gunfire continued to roar in through the front of the hangar and ricochet off old wings and fuselages. Frank led the horses to the shadowy rear.
Icicles lay on the ground, and Frank shoved a few into saddle bags with the ammo. He moved between the two horses who were calmed by his presence. Grabbing a saddle horn with each hand, he kneed the horses in their bellies. They exploded into a gallop with Frank hanging between them; they cleared the rear hangar door and fled out into the vaporous fog. The Koreans, seeing only the horses in flight, continued to direct their barrage on the hangar.
***
From behind a crest of snow and ice, Chull-su unloaded his automatic weapon into the front of the hangar. Fog was thick and he was numb all over. He tried to home in on where he’d heard the Americans yelling. He ducked down low, inserted a new magazine, and chambered a roun
d. Taking advantage of the cover, he crawled to the old building. When he saw the horses run from the old hangar, he knew the Americans were trapped.
He crawled into the old building looking for the Aleut. He knew the Aleut was shot and fell through the roof. But he didn’t see the body anywhere. He only saw the dead sniper. Chull-su got up and moved from room to room, very carefully, ending up beneath the hole in the roof. He leaned over and picked up a leather bag. He opened up the bag and looked inside.
He shrieked. The bag fell to the floor next to a scalp of black hair.
“Damn it,” he said. “I’ll kill you.”
He went outside and took cover behind a berm.
The gunfire died down to occasional shots.
“The Aleut escaped,” Chull-su yelled. And shooting erupted again. He hoped it was at the Aleut. When the shooting died down again, he yelled, “Some of you, work your way around the back of the hangar and take the Americans from behind.”
Twenty minutes later, shots were fired. Yelling forewarned that Chull-su’s men were coming out and not to shoot. Shortly, three men stood in front of him.
“Who’d you get?” Chull-su demanded.
“The blonde one.”
“Get the others. Now!”
Stiff with internal pain, Chull-su got up onto his feet and nervously looked around into the fog. He could see some of his men crouched behind heaps of snow. Voices carried through the fog.
“Spread out,” Chull-su yelled. “Find the others. Shoot the Aleut--but bring the American alive.” Chull-su paused. “You hear that?” he yelled, hoping the American could hear him. “Give up now and nobody else gets hurt. You’ll only make things harder on yourself by resisting.”
Then he heard a faraway voice in the fog. “I’m waiting . . .”
Chull-su yelled, “Bring them to me and we’ll see how impudent they are on their knees. Follow their tracks. They can’t get away in the snow. Whoever brings them in alive will be honored.”
***
After fleeing the airplane hangar into the fog, Frank galloped for a while but slowed his horse when he realized the Koreans were still shooting at the hangar. He hung forward in the saddle, hugging the back of his horse’s neck.
