Man on Ice

by Humphrey Hawksley

  There were no signs that Vitruk or Carrie were even still on base, nor that they had left. Once Carrie was safe, he didn’t mind what happened. They could never pick up as before, a couple filled with dreams and infallibility. Carrie would return to her hospital or head out to some difficult place. He would go back to his unit to be posted to the latest shit-hole foreign politicians had created for native people. His worst prospect was ending up wounded and captured, paraded in front of the television cameras, then sent to the cold danger of a Russian prison cell.

  Fog slid across the landscape. By keeping close to the black granite of the hillside, Rake was confident that they could get down to the base unseen in a few minutes. A wall of snow had built up at the bottom right on the edge of the helipad’s concrete. Once there, fog and darkness would give them cover. To get further, they would probably have to shoot the helicopter engineer which meant more killing. Walking in with a white flag wouldn’t do the business. He put Stephanie’s number into two of the Russian phones and handed them to Joan and Henry.

  They followed a narrow track with Rake using night vision to detect sensors and trip wires. There were none. When the slope levelled, they took cover behind the pile of snow. Henry drew a rifle from a rucksack. With the storm gone, the wind was quiet which would help the shot. The engineer climbed down the ladder and vanished inside the hangar. Henry set up his weapon with a field of fire that would cover Rake and Joan as they went in. Rake wanted Joan to stay back, but she refused point blank. She was responsible for Akna and Iyaroak just as Rake was for Carrie.

  The way the moonlight reflected off the snow gave no cover across the helipad. The distance to the main door was less than a hundred feet, an eight-second run. They would go one at a time, Rake first, then Joan as soon as he was outside the door and gave the all-clear. Twenty seconds at most, then inside to the unknown, the best they could plan for. If the engineer reappeared, Henry would kill him.

  Rake left cover and ran.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Presidential limousine to Capitol Hill, Washington, DC

  A toxic silence hung between Swain and Holland as their heavily cocooned vehicle made its way along Pennsylvania Avenue in a convoy of flashing lights.

  As had been the practice since 1837, the President and President-elect travelled together to the inauguration from the White House towards Capitol Hill. Their Vice-Presidential and First Lady counterparts rode in limousines behind them. The tradition started when Martin Van Buren succeeded Andrew Jackson who was his ally and mentor, a transition far removed from the distrust between Swain and Holland.

  Through the limousine’s darkened windows, Holland watched crowds lining the sidewalks. His banners were predominant. He was no longer a campaigner. He was stepping into the highest office in the land. Swain was yesterday’s man. Holland held the cards. Eventually he broke the silence by saying, ‘I’ve ordered strikes for 12.01.’ He reeled off the targets in North Korea and Russia.

  Swain didn’t answer. Holland settled back in his seat and drummed his fingers on the arm rest.

  Big Diomede, Chukotka, the Russian Far East

  His pistol in his right hand, Rake pushed the door. It gave way. He eased it open, signaled Joan to run across, and ushered her in. They both flattened themselves against the wall. Straight ahead was a dirty cream-colored wall with two windows that looked out to the sea. He heard the hum of a generator, but the only light came from the moon outside. To the left strips of heavy transparent plastic hung down across the entrance that Henry said led to the control center. Rake couldn’t see inside. He sensed no movement there. To the right, a door was ajar to another room. Joan waited for Henry. Rake stepped across and pushed open the door. It was a formal reception room, with a set of sofa and chairs and a conference table. Against the far wall steel containers stood on cold hotplates. Next to them were urns for coffee and hot water. Rake ran some over his finger. It was tepid. Light came from a connecting shower room. Inside, damp towels hung on rails, and warm water dripped from the shower head.

  Rake came out, leaving the door open. Now Henry was with Joan. Rake pointed to the control room, and Henry pushed through the plastic strips. The clattering noise they made against each other broke the quiet. There were four rows of computer terminals, six to each row. The screens were dark, as were larger ones on the walls, and the overhead fluorescent lights were off. There was a smell of smoke and sweat. The room was cold, with no heating.

  Henry moved further towards the door that led to the field hospital. Beyond it a single lamp shone through more plastic strips. Rake signaled for him to stop. They were too exposed. No gambler would have taken odds on them making it this far. Henry and Joan stood silent and still, each with their own thoughts. Who knew they were here, even where exactly they were? This was not a base with just one lone helicopter engineer. So, who was left?

  Henry led them to the hospital. Light came from a single fluorescent strip over a bed in the far corner with an incubator next to it. Joan walked fast towards it. Henry stayed back, watching. Unlike the other room, the heating was on. Rake spotted a body on a bed opposite. The way the legs were splinted and bandaged, he guessed this was the soldier Ondola had shot from the snowmobile. But he had died here in the field hospital from a single gunshot to his temple. The round had gone through the brain and was embedded in a splintered wooden strut in the next bed. Vitruk’s work.

  Akna lay on her back, her eyes open and expressionless; the bag for the drip in her arm was streaked with saline stains and empty. The baby, her tiny head wrapped in a blood-stained bandage, twitched her arm in an uncovered incubator. Joan reached inside and rested her hand on Iyaroak’s forehead. On the floor, lay Carrie’s medical bag, bandages, syringes, and medicines scattered, as if it had been ripped from her hands and flung down. Outside, a helicopter engine started.

  British Ambassador’s residence, Washington, DC

  Stephanie listened to Prusak, phone in hand, through an earpiece. He told her about the CIA satellite imagery of a Topol-M leaving the Toksong launch site on a truck. ‘At the end of his inaugural speech, Holland will announce that he has launched military action against North Korea and Russia.’

  ‘Unless we neutralize Vitruk,’ said Stephanie.

  ‘That’s the thing,’ replied Prusak. ‘Holland wants to mark his presidency by teaching Russia a lesson it will never forget. The moment he has sworn the oath of office, the strikes will begin. The first missiles will hit targets around 12.12. Holland’s inaugural speech lasts fourteen minutes and twenty seconds, allowing him to end it with the announcement.’

  ‘We can’t let him, Matt.’ Stephanie’s tone was determined and angry. On the television, she saw Swain just feet from Holland, who was the only prominent figure at the inauguration without an overcoat or a scarf. The President-elect stood upright, head high, no spectacles, no evidence of human vulnerability, ready to take the oath of office. Dignitaries quietly shuffled. Wind blew hair over everyone’s eyes. A microphone stand needed to be steadied. Coughing reflected the cold. Overall, there was silence and expectation. Shadows and light speckled in different ways as clouds passed overhead. The white dome of the Capitol towered above them all.

  They had time, but not much. In a few minutes, the Vice-President would be sworn in, after which there would be prayers, the marine band, readings, songs, and poetry that would last until noon. During that thirty minutes, Swain remained President of the United States. The second Holland was sworn in, Swain would be powerless. The new President would be the commander-in-chief. War was his to wage.

  The Vice-President stood opposite the Chief Justice and placed his left hand on a tattered brown leather-bound Bible. The television anchor told viewers how this Bible had been passed down from the Vice-President’s great-grandmother who had carried it with her on the sea journey from Ireland to the United States. President-elect Holland would be taking his oath on the gilt-edged velvet burgundy Bible owned by Abraham Lincoln.

  Harry
, hunched in the corner, kept talking, phone to his ear, hand gesticulating with frustration. Stephanie ran through her few options. Once Vitruk was neutralized, Britain and other European governments could force Holland to pull back. Until then, he would have legitimate grounds. She began another text message to Grizlov: ‘You have to—’

  He called before she had finished.

  ‘We’re holding back, Sergey. You have to—’

  ‘Steph, you’re not hearing me,’ replied Grizlov, his voice raised and angry. ‘Vitruk thinks he can win. I cannot stop him. Understand. Only you guys can.’

  We can’t, thought Stephanie. Not without going to war. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘On the base. But it has a bunker. If you strike, he can still operate and we will have to strike back.’

  ‘He’s your monster. Sergey. You need to deal with him.’

  That she couldn’t tell him more. She had given warning enough. Stephanie found herself trembling again. How could this be? Russia wasn’t a horror extremist group. It had institutions, lines of command. ‘Give me something, Sergey,’ she urged. ‘Help us. Don’t just tell us what you can’t do.’

  ‘He’s been authorized.’ Grizlov’s tone was low, controlled, bursting with fury. ‘We have a system called Kavkaz. Your guys will know how it works.’

  ‘What do you mean, he’s been authorized?’

  Grizlov said nothing.

  ‘Sergey, for God’s sake—’

  ‘Enough, Steph. Enough.’ Grizlov was gone.

  She felt dismal and afraid. ‘Kavkaz,’ she told Harry. ‘Vitruk has been authorized for Kavkaz. What the hell is that?’

  ‘It’s their nuclear code suitcase,’ said Harry. ‘Except it’s now all electronic. He can work from a phone.’

  Prusak’s voice came down the line. ‘We’ve tried the North Koreans. They deny anything at Toksong. The Chinese are silent.’

  ‘Dmitri Alverov? The launch team in Toksong?’

  ‘NSA has his number. Not getting through. Hold a moment … There’s something happening on the base. We have a track on Ozenna.’

  The Vice-President stepped back and the US Marine Band struck the first chords of ‘America the Beautiful.’

  ‘We have fourteen minutes, Steph,’ said Prusak.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Big Diomede, Chukotka, the Russian Far East

  Rake’s phone lit with Stephanie Lucas’ number. He hesitated. But it was inauguration time, which could bring in a strike on the base in just over twenty minutes. He answered.

  ‘Captain Ozenna. Matt Prusak. Our tracking has you at the Big Diomede base. Can you confirm that, and that you can talk freely?’

  ‘Correct, sir.’ Rake spoke in barely a whisper. His cover was a stack of oil drums from which he could see, facing the hangar, the white MI-8 helicopter, red medical crosses emblazoned on its sides.

  ‘Are you with Admiral Vitruk, or do you know where he is?’ asked Prusak.

  ‘Negative.’

  ‘Vitruk plans to launch an ICBM. We need you to confirm him neutralized or dead before the end of President Holland’s speech. That is before 12.15 Eastern Standard.’

  ‘Copy that, sir.’

  ‘Whatever is necessary, Captain.’

  ‘There are American civilians here, sir.’

  ‘If I can reverse these orders, Captain, I will. Until then, understand that civilian casualties will be far higher if this man wins.’ Forfeit lives to save lives, the concept of collateral damage that had been drilled into Rake from his first days in the army.

  Rake had less than fifteen minutes. He watched the helicopter in front of him for signs of human movement. The panel just underneath the tail wing hung open and the steel ladder lay fallen on the apron. Five circular windows ran along both sides of the fuselage. A lone pilot sat in the cockpit, his gaze down on the control panel and his right hand dealing with a switch above him. He was wide open to attack, dangerously visible through the transparent panels that made up the front of the aircraft. Rake was unsure if this was the same man he had seen working on the tail.

  From where he was, Rake could see only two of the windows. Henry, on the other side of the hangar, was able to check them all. He signaled that he saw no one else in the aircraft. That didn’t mean there wasn’t. Henry lay still on the ground in black darkness near the hospital entrance, ready to fire into the cockpit. Joan was with Akna and Iyaroak.

  The draught from the slowly turning rotor blade snapped a sheet of ice from the roof of the hangar. It smashed onto the apron like breaking crystal, throwing chips against Rake’s face.

  Then Vitruk appeared, darkening the arc of a helicopter lamp as he stepped into view, half a profile obscured by mist and light but enough for a shot. Vitruk stayed where he was, part visible, part in shadow. He didn’t walk briskly to the helicopter as he should have done once on the tarmac. He was directly facing the hangar as if he knew Rake was there, and a lightning glance to Henry who had a better-angled view told Rake why – the tautness in Henry’s face, his finger relaxed on the trigger just as Rake’s own finger was tightening to fire. Carrie was handcuffed to Vitruk’s right wrist. As she became more visible, she looked uninjured, walking upright and decisively next to Vitruk. She had on the same green parka. It was torn on the right shoulder and ripped across the left sleeve. There was a dark smear down the front.

  Rake’s lethal orders smashed like a meteorite into his concentration. It beat the hell out of him. Carrie was here because of him. She would die because of him. He would have to kill her. He tried to think straight. Instead, a world flashed in front of him without Carrie, bleak, black, apocalyptic. No color. He saw himself going mad like Don.

  Vitruk kept walking towards him. He was wearing full dress uniform. He wore a blue-gray fur hat with a red star at the front, its flaps dropped over his ears, and medals adorned the chest of his greatcoat. He carried a phone in his right hand. As he moved closer, his thumb ran up and down as if he were stroking it, moving slowly from bottom to top.

  Vitruk had positioned Carrie so that Rake could not make a clean shot. He could see no way of killing Vitruk without risking Carrie … without killing her … If he didn’t shoot Vitruk and Carrie now, they would all be dead from an air strike on the base in a few minutes. What was the difference? And if he allowed Vitruk to go ahead … The White House Chief of Staff’s voice bounced violently around his thoughts – The casualties will be far higher if he succeeds.

  Vitruk stopped, lit by the helicopter lamp, midway between the hangar and the aircraft. He pulled Carrie to his side. Rake could see her more clearly now. Her face was masked, her eyes goggled, her hands gloved, the hood of her green jacket pulled over her head. Strands of blonde hair blew about on either side. Her head was turned toward Vitruk. She looked nowhere else.

  ‘I know you can see me, Ozenna.’ Vitruk’s voice was loud and confident. ‘I can guess what your orders are. To kill me, whatever the cost. But the missile that your bosses in Washington are so worried about is activated in two ways.’ He held up his free hand with the phone. ‘One is by pressing a four-digit code on the dial pad of this phone. The other is losing my pulse, which the phone is monitoring through this strap around my wrist. Just to be sure you understand, Ozenna – if my heart stops beating the missile will launch. So, if you kill me to save Carrie, thousands and thousands more innocent people will die. I’ve arranged it like this to relieve you of the dreadful choice your country has forced upon you.’

  Rake stayed quiet. He looked across to Henry, who was locking in a rocket-propelled grenade. Rake signaled for him to hold.

  ‘Are you hearing me, Captain Raymond Ozenna?’ said Vitruk.

  Rake said nothing.

  Vitruk continued. ‘The American attack will come in just over ten minutes. Dr Walker and I are flying in this helicopter to our airbase at Egvekinot and then by plane to Moscow. Carrie will be thanked for her work and awarded a medal for her bravery by our State Duma. Then she will be free to go wherever she wishes
. She will be proud. She is the daughter of loyal citizens of the Soviet Union. You will stay here to die in the American strike or you can surrender and come with us to Egvekinot, where you will be tried for multiple murders under the jurisdiction of the Chukotka Autonomous District.’

  Rake heard a mechanical click as Henry moved forward the safety catch.

  ‘All this may be a technicality, of course, if your government chooses to go to war.’

  The helicopter lamp illuminated Vitruk like a theater spotlight. The moon flooded the rest of the apron. Cold seeped through Rake, making him shiver.

  ‘None of this is your responsibility, Captain.’ Vitruk peeled down Carrie’s mask. ‘Tell him, Dr Walker. Tell him not to be such a fool.’

  Carrie turned towards the hangar. Rake could tell she couldn’t see him, nor did she look for him. Her eyes were steady, like he had seen them a hundred times before. This was Carrie, who knew her own mind. She was telling Rake to stop Vitruk, just like she had insisted he escape from the school gymnasium. Escape. Just do, it Rake. Whatever the stakes. She knew the cost.

  There was only one way to negotiate with Vitruk, only one way he could deal with his locked mind, and that was to strip away his motive. If Vitruk wanted to be President of the Russian Federation, if he craved to be lauded in Moscow, if his end goal was to be hailed as the Russian hero who took on America, then he needed to live to see it. Rake had to cut off his lifeline, expose his weakness, then move in and kill.

  Rake raised and dropped his forefinger to signal Henry. A whining stream of flame left Henry’s weapon and a rocket-propelled grenade drilled through the helicopter’s cockpit. Its explosion tore the fuselage apart, sending out a reddish-white inferno in a blast that threw Vitruk and Carrie to the ground. Rake ran forward, weapon drawn, heat on his face, his path obscured by black smoke. Vitruk was in vision, gone, in vision again, on the ground, a pistol held against the left side of Carrie’s head.