Cold Blood

by Andy McNab

  ‘A clampdown?’

  ‘Any excuse they are using, the military, to prevent movement.’

  ‘What? You mean the Chechens? That their camp is about a K away?’

  He nodded, checking the area for eavesdroppers.

  ‘And Norway being pissed off with them being here?’

  He nodded again. ‘They closed down the flights last week.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’

  ‘But it isn’t just about the Russians landing here. Some Alpha Group guys from Directorate A of the FSB Special Purpose Centre – they flew into Longyearbyen under cover as part of the training.’

  Those lads were Russia’s SF and shit hot. Infiltration wouldn’t be that hard, given Russian influence here. Perhaps they’d been tasked to recce the airport so they’d be able to destroy the capability of aircraft taking off if things escalated and the war of words ended. In other words, a covert attack on an airport that belonged to a NATO country.

  ‘This is bad, Nick, very bad. It’s how they started in Crimea, and look what happened. Norway had no choice but to retaliate with a show of strength.’

  ‘So the Russians are retaliating against the retaliation with a show of strength of their own?’

  He moved closer, so his mouth was only inches from my ear. ‘A Swedish meteorological team tried to come through here two days ago. They were arrested and accused of espionage. Now everybody has to be personally approved by the military, and you guys were not on the advance manifest for this flight, so …’

  ‘Well, we’re here now. You met them? They difficult?’

  The reporter glided back up. ‘We would very much like to film you if—’

  Rune cut in: ‘Absolutely not. Please leave us. We are in discussion.’

  Clearly Rune didn’t operate at his sparkling best when he was agitated. I gave her an apologetic shrug as she shrank away.

  I had more than the Russians on my mind. ‘You get hold of Cauldwell?’

  ‘No, I am very worried …’

  I wasn’t too fussed. All that mattered now was the trip. We were on the ice, almost spitting distance from the Pole, and Cauldwell wasn’t. ‘Not a problem. But this Chechen thing could be.’

  ‘Yes. I am concerned because—’

  ‘Come on then, we need to sort this shit out.’ There was no way we could be on the back foot. There was common ground to work with: suffering ex-military and Afghanistan were two things the Chechens would have very strong views about. I just hoped they were positive.

  I jumped on the back of Rune’s snowmobile and we headed to the ice camp.

  47

  We roared across to a blue hooped tent on the far right of the cluster that was big enough to drive a vehicle into. Outside it sat what, from a distance, had looked like a Viking amphibious armoured all-terrain vehicle. One of ours. But as we got closer, I saw it was a white-camouflaged MOSV, a Russian tracked vehicle for bouncing across snow and swimming through swamps.

  It was essentially two metal boxes linked by a bar so the thing could bend, and judging by the rutted highway leading to the second camp, it had been back and forth between the two on a regular basis since it was dropped last week.

  A thermometer dangled on para cord outside the entrance to the tent, pirouetting in the wind. Rune grabbed it as we went past. ‘Minus twenty-one. Hmm. Warmer than it should be.’

  Inside, I banged the ice off my boots as he opened the alloy door set into a solid half-moon frame.

  The small porch area was gloomy, but I could still see the wind-chill-factor calculation card on each wall, below a small white marker board warning everyone that the wind speed was now 16 k.p.h.

  I had never really understood how to work that stuff out, so kept one fact in my head: exposed flesh froze in sixty seconds or less at –9° centigrade in a 40 k.p.h. wind. But all I really needed to remember was to keep well covered.

  We took off our jackets, gloves and hats and hung them next to a row of military green parkas and white Gore-Tex outers. Russian murmurs filtered through from beyond the next half-moon wall that led into the main part of the tent.

  ‘I explained who the team are.’ Rune treated me to a blast of garlic breath as he whispered into my ear. ‘I am not sure if telling him they were ex-military was helpful at all.’

  I pushed through the door into a wall of heat far stronger than the one at Longyearbyen’s terminal entrance. I heard the low, almost comforting hiss of aviation fuel being forced under pressure into what looked like a hi-tech log burner. The room smelt of helicopters.

  At the far end, maybe twenty metres away, there were two men in uniform. Light-grey fold-down plastic tables were stacked behind them, with chairs to match. They sat the other side of one of the two that had been unstacked, like a couple of court officials waiting to pass judgment. Which, in a way, I supposed they were.

  They didn’t look up as we entered: they were poring over a pile of familiar maroon passports.

  We carried on towards them, aiming at the table alongside theirs. A water-boiler took pride of place on it, surrounded by blue plastic mugs and an assortment of brew kits, biscuits, jams and bread, but I wasn’t expecting an invitation any time soon.

  We were still a few steps away when Rune began his introductions. He tried to sound calm, but I could almost hear his knees knocking.

  ‘Sir, this is Mr Stone, the—’

  The older official lifted his hand, inviting Rune to shut up while he finished checking what were certainly their passports. I unzipped my jacket, dug in my neck wallet for mine and passed it to the younger one.

  From their bearing, I could tell they were officers. They were dressed in faded brown down inner jackets. Beneath those I saw partly unzipped fleeces and telnyashkas, the Russian paratroopers’ blue and white striped T-shirt. Their faces were impossible to read, and not just because both were forested with the kind of beards that seemed intent on invading their noses and eyes. Both had dark skin and thick curly hair. They were Chechens, and that meant they were war-hardened. The West might have sharpened its skills in Iraq and Afghanistan, but these lads had been fighting non-stop for at least twenty years on their own doorstep. The first Chechen War saw the Russian Federation fight against forces who wanted an independent state. It was a relentlessly bloody conflict. During the winter months, the urban warfare was likened to the defence of Stalingrad in 1942–3. Estimates put Russian casualties at around fourteen thousand. There were no casualty figures for the rebels, but civilian dead and injured were estimated at around a hundred thousand.

  The first Gulf War didn’t solve the problem that had triggered it, and the first Chechen war didn’t either – so Part Two wasn’t long in coming. That took about ten years, and the casualty figures on all sides were even higher. Putin then installed an ex-rebel fighter as Chechnya’s puppet president and thought that had sorted everything in the oil-rich region.

  The older of the two had enough grey in his foliage to have fought in both conflicts, and I was sure the pair would be doing their bit against the insurgency that had now sprung up. All was far from good after the second Chechen war, thanks to the rise of Islamic fundamentalism. Jihad was declared on the north Caucasus, and fighters from the Middle East and North Africa were now blowing things up alongside ISIL and all the other extremist groups devoted to the cause of an independent state, the Caucasus Emirate.

  Killing jihadis was one of the reasons Russia had been bombing the shit out of Syria. The whole country was behind that campaign because they’d had enough of jihadis fucking around at home. They didn’t want any more. The Russian TV weather forecasters, in their tight pencil skirts and big hair, used to spend quality time checking out Syria and reporting the likely level of visibility for their bombers.

  The senior officer finally looked up from the passport he had been studying, and now neatly replaced on his pile. The younger one continued to interrogate mine.

  ‘So, you are UK military?’

  ‘Sir, ex-military. Wounded m
en …’ I’d already decided to play the Afghan card. The Russians knew all about the Muj skinning their mates alive. ‘… casualties of the war in Afghanistan. They suffered—’

  I was cut halfway through my pitch by the same hand gesture as my opened passport was handed across to him. ‘You have been to Moscow?’

  ‘I lived there for a while. My wife is … She was Russian.’

  I waited for a reaction to ‘was’, but didn’t even get a raised eyebrow. Maybe it got lost in translation. Whatever, it prevented me having to dwell on it.

  The veteran checked every page, forensically examining the dates of my visa stamps.

  ‘And you? You are povrezhdennyy?’

  I had to rack my brain on that one. I was pretty sure it meant ‘defective’ or ‘faulty’. ‘No, sir. I am not wounded. I am here to help them recover.’

  I tapped the side of my head, because the bruise on the front of it wouldn’t have enjoyed the attention. ‘We all know it is not just the body that can experience pain. This is a chance for these men to—’

  ‘Why have your team arrived here with no notice?’ His eyes drilled into mine. ‘We require forty-eight hours’ notice of arrivals to Barneo. Like your guides.’

  The young officer grabbed their mugs and went for a refill.

  ‘But we—’

  Rune tried to jump in but I didn’t have any control of what he was about to say so went first: ‘These men are traumatized because of what they have gone through. Every day they are trying to overcome their demons, their nightmares.’

  I touched the side of my head once more. ‘This is the greatest challenge they have ever attempted. They doubt that they are still men. They doubt that they are still able to triumph. I wasn’t even sure they would be able to come here, to the ice camp. It took time, and only today did they make their brave decision. Our country does not treat our veterans as it should. These men feel that they have been left on the scrapheap. Now they have found the courage to face their fears, as comrades, as brothers …’

  Another black coffee was placed carefully in front of him.

  I hoped he was still in listening mode, not sidetracked by the strong brew he was sipping. The younger one, I didn’t worry about: he showed no sign of speaking English. ‘These men have come a very long way, physically and mentally, and now they want to take those last few steps to the Pole. They want, they need, they deserve to recover their dignity.’

  He placed the mug gently back on the table and ran a hand across his forehead. ‘That is a very strong word. That is why we are here, we Russians, we also want – no, deserve – our dignity to be returned. In the West, you see this as annexation, the state becoming too strong, its people too aggressive, so you must bite back. But why are we always seen as the aggressor?’

  He was right, of course. Russia as a source of military concern was back in fashion. But I wasn’t there to discuss the rebirth of the Cold War. I was there to get the lads out into the real cold. I kept my mouth shut as he started to flick through the passports again. I wanted him to look more carefully at the photographs and see the faces of men who had once, not so long ago, been young, vigorous and optimistic before they had suffered traumatic injury, like so many of his own brothers in arms.

  Rune kept shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He was not a relaxing presence. We all ignored him.

  The older officer came to my passport and didn’t bother to open it. He used it to point at me instead.

  ‘These men, do you know if they will make it to the Pole? My kapitan says some have legs missing.’

  ‘Yes. They do – and others have lost an arm.’

  He frowned. ‘What if one – maybe two, maybe more – has to be rescued? Who will pay for the helicopter? Do they have insurance?’

  Again, I answered before Rune had a chance to. ‘Sir, they cannot afford such insurance. But I can. I will cover any costs. It is as important to me that these men achieve their goal as it is to them.’

  If a heli had to come and get us out of the shit, I’d just hope they didn’t have a ticket inspector on board. I was fast running out of cash and Barneo wasn’t about to offer a disabled discount.

  He regarded me impassively, but made me feel like he was staring into the depths of my fucked-up soul. After what was probably only a few seconds the beard twitched, a small clearing opened in the forest and a thin smile appeared.

  Ha, maybe telling the truth did sometimes work.

  He waffled away to his kapitan, who picked up the team’s passports and exited.

  ‘Let us hope we all regain our dignity.’ He passed mine to me across the table.

  I picked it up and slid it back into the wallet.

  ‘You will need to leave as soon as possible. The ice here has snapped twice since we landed. Barneo will maybe close early this year. If so, they will come and find you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He sat back and focused his full attention on the coffee.

  48

  We crossed paths with the kapitan as we crunched over the ice.

  He gave a nod. I couldn’t tell if it was a smiley one beneath his hood, mask and glasses.

  ‘I do hope your team meets with success.’

  So he was fluent in English, after all. There was definitely a big fat grin hiding under there.

  The entrance to the mess tent was identical to the last one, but the get-rid-of-the-ice-from-your-boots-and-hang-up-your-coat area was packed with jackets, gloves and sun-gigs.

  As soon as we pushed through the inner door, we were hit by a welcome blast of heat and a barrage of noise. Chinese, Russian and English fought it out with the music blasting from the kitchen area at the far end. The tables were rammed with people eating off blue plastic plates. Our crew were about midway down.

  There were two new faces.

  ‘The guides?’

  ‘Ja. Good men.’ Rune was back in a happy place. ‘Hal and Jan.’

  We greeted them as we passed. Jules was still giving them back their passports. None of them seemed remotely concerned that the Russian military had removed them for inspection. They had found their way to a happy place too. Maybe one of these days I’d ask them the way.

  The serving area was plastered with signs in every language except Swahili, instructing us to use the hand sanitizer before touching the plates, mugs or cutlery. I leaned across Rune and immediately obeyed. Vomiting and diarrhoea were the last things anyone wanted up here – although the music now spewing out of a cook’s iPad came a close second. Despite Anna’s best efforts to persuade me otherwise, I still hated Russian folk.

  The menu offered a choice of reindeer stew or reindeer stew. Alongside it were trays of what looked like shrink-wrapped blocks of lard. Rune eyed them with extreme distaste. ‘Salo, pig fat. They call it a delicacy. Whatever you do, don’t touch it.’

  He leaned in and helped himself to several blocks of the stuff.

  I ladled some stew onto my plate and decided to save the pig fat for another day. Hal and Jan joined us for a refill. Their mugs weren’t empty, but it gave them the opportunity to check in with Rune. He confirmed that all was good with the Chechens.

  ‘Nick was very helpful.’

  I shook hands with them both and was rewarded with the smallest nice-to-meet-you nods. As Hal refreshed his hot chocolate and two Chinese women helped themselves to seconds of salo, Jan took care of business. ‘We must leave as soon as we can. I told them they need to sort out their kit and be ready to move as soon as we do. We have no time.’

  Rune couldn’t have agreed more. I wasn’t sure if it was because Jan had repeated what he had just said, or because he was scared of them. They certainly didn’t feel like a team.

  I reckoned they were in their mid-thirties and miserable fuckers. They weren’t chalk and cheese, but there was a distinct difference between them. Jan was the smaller of the two, about a head shorter than me, and most definitely from that part of the world. Like Munnelly, he had the Inuit look, but
unlike him, his facial hair began and ended with a sparse goatee and moustache, which were still struggling to get beyond the bum-fluff stage. Hal was Viking stock, with a thick, dark brown beard that looked like a porcupine’s quills, and I only came up to his chin.

  I didn’t mind getting blanked by these two. I wasn’t looking for any more new best mates. I already had a nice bunch of walking wounded, and as long as the Norwegians got the team to the Pole, so what? I didn’t need nice. I needed the job done.

  Rune was still agreeing with everything they said as we moved back to the table. It wasn’t a good sign.

  Everyone was in high spirits, especially Jack. ‘Nick! Hal and Jan are ex-FSK.’ He beamed at them. ‘Nick is ex-SAS.’

  The FSK had grown out of the Resistance during the Nazi occupation of Norway during the Second World War, and distinguished themselves by knocking out Germany’s atomic facilities. Since then they’d been doing quite a bit. The Balkans, Afghanistan, anti-terror operations, and a convincing imitation of Alpha Group by producing target packs for key Russian communications, transport and power grids, if it ever kicked off east of the border.

  Jack grinned at me, like a drinks-party host, encouraging me to start a conversation.

  I had a more important mission: to get the stew down my neck. I also popped a couple of codeine. Everyone else was throwing back pills like they were going out of style. No one gave me a second glance, apart from Rio, who caught my eye and half winked.

  Still munching stew, I shifted my attention to Jan. ‘Were you part of K-Bar?’ Task Force K-Bar was the first major ground deployment into Afghanistan. Norway had been one of the seven participating nations.

  The Norwegian dipped his head – just the once.

  The team waited for more but he and Hal carried on eating. Instead of elaborating, Hal turned to Jack. ‘So, you all OK to walk, yes? We will leave soon.’ Small-talk obviously wasn’t their thing. Good.

  All the team were up for it big-time, except perhaps Will. Jules was making all the enthusiastic noises. He nodded slowly and left it at that.