The Ice War

by Anders Blixt

  I sensed that the great rebellion was about to set Alba on fire. “Time to get back on the ice, isn’t it?”

  Linda nodded.

  Linda and I stood at the wide stern window in the salon of the juggernaut Ekaterina and watched New Bristol’s billowing smoke plumes at the horizon. After the news broadcast Linda had bought tickets for Novgorod with departure the same day and the police had not approached us before we left. Now I looked forward to a few eventless days on the ice sheet.

  Linda gripped the railing with the face close to the glass, so I did not see her face, but her shoulders were tense.

  “When was your last visit to Novgorod?” I asked.

  “A while ago,” she said.

  “What’s the place like?” I said.

  “So and so,” she said.

  I got the hint and switched subject: “Alba is white and lifeless. My home is verdant green and brown.” I did not know whether she paid attention to me, but I continued regardless. “Here and there you see grey outcrops of bedrock. In other places tarns and lakes that mirror the sun and the clouds.”

  “Do you sometimes feel like going back?” she mumbled without looking at me. That was the first time she inquired about my background.

  “Certainly. But I don’t want to live in an occupied ruin. Instead I have come to live in a cloudship,” I said.

  “Is that better?” she said.

  “I think so.” My eyes wandered over the ice, where Ekaterina’s steel-studded wheels were carving an interminable scar. The black cargo trailer was a wheeled rectangular box on the white. Far away, I glimpsed the top of New Bristol’s communication tower. But that was all.

  The day before the Ekaterina’s arrival in Novgorod, she was intercepted by a military juggernaut.

  Linda and I were having lunch in the stern salon. During the last few days our conversation had become more relaxed. She spoke occasionally of past experiences, such working in a juggernaut’s engine room or watching how ursines hunted leviathans. The rough life of a plebeian woman, always close to poverty; well, I had fallen from the peaks of society to that level. But I still hoped to be able to return to a less wearisome existence after the war, whereas that was beyond her imagination.

  When I looked out at the ice through the stern window I saw a column of black smoke port abaft. “We’re getting company,” I said in English.

  Linda looked in the same direction. “Check her flag, please.”

  I walked up to the railing for a better view. The pursuer, a tall white vessel with angular gun turrets, advanced noticeably faster than the Ekaterina. A few other passengers came up beside me, speaking in Russian to one another.

  My binocular was in my cabin, so I had to strain my naked eyes against the glitter from the ice. “The top mast displays a four-coloured flag: orange, white, blue, and green,” I said.

  “The Orange State. That juggernaut is from Juliusburg,” said Linda.

  A message lamp blinked at the pursuer’s bridge. I understood nothing of the dash-dot code – the message was probably in Russian. A few seconds later, a voice addressed the passengers from the salon’s loudspeaker, first in Russian and then in poor English: “This is executive officer Churkin. We are hailed by military juggernaut Panther from Juliusburg. Her captain asks for permission to search our vessel for wanted criminals. Captain Gorky has decided to comply. We will halt here for about twenty minutes. On behalf of captain, I apologize for any inconvenience.”

  During this address the Ekaterina braked to a standstill. The Panther stopped on our port side with two turrets pointing in our direction. I glimpsed two men on her bridge watching our vessel through binoculars. A steel hatch opened close to the ice and six men in white anoraks and trousers got out. Five carried white-painted carbines while the sixth had a revolver holstered at the belt – probably an officer. They walked briskly to Ekaterina, their grey boots making heavy imprints in the shallow snowdrifts on the ice.

  Are they looking for us? I thought. Is my cover shattered? I turned to Linda. “What do you think they’re interested in?”

  “Probably weapons heading for Novgorod. Anyhow, this is a breach of the sea and ice law, but what can the captain do?” Linda looked troubled, despite her formal way of speaking.

  I returned to the table. Metallic noise from below indicated that one of Ekaterina’s main hatches opened for the inspection patrol. Ten minutes passed; the waiter roamed the salon, pretending that everything was normal while he refilled glasses and teacups. Every once in a while I looked at the Panther, but nothing happened there.

  The double door toward the cabin section opened and a soldier in white entered, his Steyr carbine pointing at the deck. A Juliusburg officer with a major’s oak leaf on the collar followed right behind, a grim-looking man whose eyes seemingly never blinked. Another soldier and one of the Ekaterina’s junior officers were the last to enter.

  The major addressed the passengers in German with an odd, almost Dutch accent: “Good day. Ladies and gentlemen, I am major Hout of Juliusburg’s army. We are looking for wanted criminals.” He leafed through a small black notebook while scrutinizing us civilians. Everyone was silent.

  I shivered. He must be comparing us to photos. Will he take a close look at me?

  After a minute or two the major closed the notebook. “I believe everything is in order. I regret any inconveniences. Adieu.”

  I exhaled. Next time we won’t escape so easily.

  I looked out through the stern windows. Two soldiers and two of the Ekaterina’s crewmen inspected the contents of the cargo trailer. It is not heated, so they are not looking for humans or ursines, I thought.

  Officer Churkin’s estimate turned out to be fairly correct. After twenty-five minutes, the Ekaterina resumed her journey. The Panther departed a few minutes later on a course away from us. I watched her smoke plume till it disappeared in the distance.

  Chapter 5

  I opened my eyes. My body felt sweaty and chilly at the same time. The nap had been shallow, troubled by hectic dreams whose images vanished from my memory seconds after waking up. A diesel engine thumped underneath me and my seat trembled – the field omnibus was still on the way to our destination. It travelled on a miserable excuse for a road, but at least its suspension had been designed to cope with that. The cabin radiators were connected to the cooling system of the engine and leaked a little, which made the air unpleasantly humid.

  According to my wristwatch, it would be at least half an hour till our arrival at Mine No 2 in the Montalban range. Linda sat next to me at a window and looked out at the snow-covered hills. The pane fogged over quickly so she had to rub her sleeve against it every now and then.

  Two grey-clad policemen with well-nourished faces sat at the front of the passenger cabin. The other travellers, mostly bearded miners in worn brown overalls, dozed or chatted while passing around vodka bottles and pretending that the officers were invisible.

  The morning news had reported that the talks between the delegations of Juliusburg and Novgorod had been adjourned. The weather forecast predicted Force 2 winds and temperatures around −30°C.

  “Did you sleep well?” Linda asked me in English.

  “No, too much rattling,” I said and leaned in front of her to get a glimpse of the world outside. This part of the Montalban was low and undulating. A copse of black scrawny coniferous trees grew in the snow next to the road. I remembered that Franke’s handbook had described this species as a single organism whose multiple trunks were connected by an underground root system. Its metabolism was based on alcohols, so it would not perish from strong cold. Its black surfaces absorbed light efficiently. The roots were hard as copper and could burrow slowly through the permafrost.

  “Andrei Yazov, Chief Mine Administrator,” a sign proclaimed in Russian and German on the desk. The office was spare and its bookshelves displayed volumes in many languages. Mr Yazov spoke excellent German and wore a bespoke suit with a conservative cut. I shook his hand and sat
down in a plush visitor’s chair. A servant put two cups of tea on the small table between us.

  “Herr Bornewald, I hope that engineer Churbanov’s tour of our facilities was satisfactory.” Yazov’s face and eyes displayed nothing beyond professionalism. “Perhaps some of my men did not understand fully what a risk inspector is supposed to check.”

  I nodded and sipped some tea before answering. “I am satisfied with how accommodating everyone has been and your facilities are impressive.” The working conditions underground were harsh but the sophisticated heating systems ensured that the air in the pits maintained endurable temperatures.

  “Here are a few examples of our production.” Yazov opened a small flat box and put a row of tiny metal bars on the table. They were stamped with chemical designation, weight and purity: platinum, palladium, osmium, and iridium – metals of great importance for advanced military technology.

  I started to respond, but a sudden clatter of gunshots interrupted me. Instinctively I dived for the floor. When I had gathered my wits half a second later, I saw that a perplexed Yazov remained in the chair. He said something in Russian.

  “I don’t speak Russian!” I said in German.

  Yazov started getting on his feet when more firearms banged nearby, both rifles and machine guns. Two cannon blasts rattled the window panes. The room’s main door swung open.

  Hell, I thought. Here they come.

  But it was Linda crawling in. “Battle-wagons from Juliusburg are inside the compound,” she said in English.

  By now, Yazov too had hit the floor. He shouted a question at Linda and she answered. I only understood the words Juliusburgskaya armiya so I shouted: “Speak a language I know!”

  “I just caught a glimpse of the vehicles through the window in the anteroom,” said Linda in German.

  “A surprise attack. I’ve got not warning,” Yazov said in the same language. He breathed heavily and his face was red. “War has begun.”

  “Any garrison around here?” I said.

  “No, and we cannot defend ourselves, because my men are in the pits.” Yazov’s voice faltered. It seemed that he had a hard time making phrases in German. “They are trapped. The enemies can kill them by shutting down the heating.”

  Running boots thudded in a nearby corridor. The servant entered through a side door. He looked frightened and Yazov addressed him in rapid Russian. The man nodded, picked up a white napkin and left through the main office door.

  “I told him to get hold of an enemy officer and take him here so that I can put an end to the fighting,” said Yazov. He got up and brushed some dust from his suit.

  Linda and I remained on the floor, because staying low is always wise in a firefight.

  The servant returned and started a whispering conversation with Yazov at the main door. I decided to use the chaos to my advantage, got on my feet and stole four of Yazov’s metal bars. After all, they possessed what spies call “significant intelligence value”.

  Many footsteps in the anteroom – four soldiers in dirty white anoraks entered the office, three with rifles, and the fourth with a revolver. Their boots left wet prints on the teak floor. I recognized the uniforms from the encounter with Panther.

  Yazov waited for them standing behind his desk with a straight back, but his cheeks were still red and sweaty.

  “I’m captain Lawrence Dundee,” said the man with the revolver to Yazov in English, “deputy commander of the battalion that has captured your mine.” The dialect indicated that he was from Virginia.

  A mercenary, I thought.

  Dundee paid no attention to Linda and me, but one of his men turned to us and raised his rifle.

  “We’re unarmed,” said Linda in English and started shivering and crying. Since I knew what kind of woman she was, I realized that she was acting. However, the soldier did not lower his rifle.

  “My name is Andrei Yazov and I am in charge here.” Yazov’s voice was calmer now, though his English sounded uncertain.

  “Juliusburg has occupied this mine and you are personally responsible for your men’s behaviour. Resisters and saboteurs will be shot. Now, give me all keys to your gun lockers,” ordered Dundee.

  Yazov nodded and opened a drawer in the desk. He handed over a set of keys. “Do you know where they are located?”

  “Yes.” Dundee put away the keys in a pocket. “I’ll use the anteroom as a command post. From now on, you’ll report to me.”

  “How many of my men are dead or wounded?” asked Yazov.

  “I don’t know, but the takeover was painless.” Dundee sounded indifferent. “My men mostly fired warning shots.”

  Yazov looked relieved.

  “Now, Mr Yazov, I want you to address your men in the pits via your loudspeaker system. They must come up and be accounted for. If they make trouble, we’ll shut off the heating. I’ll put some Russian-speaking soldiers at your side to make sure you’re not cheating.” Dundee turned toward me. “Ty panemáyeš po angliski?” His Russian had a strong English accent.

  I grasped the meaning of his question from its last word – English – and nodded.

  “Remove that hysterical woman and return to you tasks, garçon.”

  Without a word I lifted Linda, who put her arms around my neck. I carried her through the office building, which now was crowded with soldiers. They were busy eating and drinking tea or coffee. Apart from rude comments in Afrikaans or English, they let us be.

  I continued through the covered passage to the hostel building, where Linda and I had been assigned one small guest room each. Through a window I saw the open area between the main buildings. A white battle-wagon with the Orange banner flying from the radio aerial stood there with the angular gun turret swivelling back and forth. Its studded wheels had ripped long tracks in the frozen ground. A corpse lay in a blood-stained snow heap, one of the local security guards judging from the uniform. Some soldiers in dirty white uniforms and arctic helmets with face covers locked in combat position were checking the civilian vehicles parked at the far end of the open area.

  Linda had stopped crying, but she pressed her face against my ribs. I entered the hostel through its cold-weather lock. Some soldiers occupied the reception and one of them looked at me with contempt in his face.

  Before he opened his mouth, I addressed him in English with a phony Russian accent: “My colleague has been frightened out of her wits. I will try to make her calm down.”

  “Go ahead, garçon, but don’t do anything stupid. We shoot trouble-makers on the spot.”

  I carried Linda upstairs to her room on the second story. She slid out of my arms, opened the door and we sneaked in. The room had not been touched. The air had a stale smell – the ventilation system was probably out of order.

  “Good acting,” I said.

  She smiled. “Just exploiting men’s prejudices.”

  Pain shot through my belly – too much strain. How do we get out of this mess? I considered using the radio to speak to Cassiopeia, but discarded the idea, because alerting eavesdropping Juliusburgian radio operators would be dangerous. If the attackers caught us, we would be shot as spies.

  I pushed aside our luggage, which had been deposited here by the hostel staff at our arrival, and got into the sole easy chair. “Right now, nobody will bother with us. It’ll take hours before they’ve counted and interned all the miners. But as soon as Dundee’s men realize we’re not a part of the regular crew, we’ll be interrogated. Maybe they’ll make a prisoner exchange?”

  “My people in Fredriksborg won’t be able to help us,” said Linda.

  “My captain might be able to pay for our release. But he’s far away and the Cassiopeia is grounded for repairs.” We are stranded in the middle of a war. “How do we escape?” Despair flooded through my mind. “You’re the one to know.”

  Linda sighed and cursed in Russian: “Kčortu!”

  Chapter 6

  A moon-lit lifeless snowscape outside the windows – the occupiers spent the nig
ht indoors, apart from a few patrols. After all, what sane miner would attempt to flee into the freezing wilderness? Mars glittered near the western horizon. I felt extra alert thanks to a pink Maxidin pill from my medicine kit.

  I gripped the red emergency handle; in Alba’s ice zone you open outside windows only in extreme circumstances. One jerk and the window swung open. A gust of wind, straight out of Dante’s frozen hell, swept into the room, but Linda and I were protected by polar suits. I squeezed through the narrow opening and slid down to the ground six feet below.

  The snow squeaked under the soles. I scanned the surroundings – all was calm. The snow on this side of the building was untouched by human boots. I glanced at the watch to check local time and temperature: an hour after midnight and about −25°C.

  I extended a hand toward the window. Linda handed over two backpacks that I put on the ground. Then I positioned myself with the back against the wall. Linda slid out over the window sill and put her feet on my shoulders. She leaned into the room and grabbed the exterior emergency handle, pulled the window into place and locked it – no cold draught would reveal our escape.

  After shouldering our backpacks, we proceeded to the left along the wall toward a garage. At the corner of the hostel, we faced a gap of thirty yards with no cover. A squad of patrolling soldiers vanished around a tall building sixty yards to the left. Indistinct sounds indicated that people were busy at the miners’ barracks, but intervening buildings obstructed the line of sight in that direction. No military vehicles around – the nearest one ought to be on the other side of the hostel.

  My hand signalled “all clear” to Linda and we crossed the open area quickly, the snow squeaking every time a boot touched the ground. Running would be an unwise idea, because that would instantly alert anyone glimpsing us, but it was hard to keep a restrained pace on the exposed ground.