The Ice War

by Anders Blixt

  Quickly we reached the stone wall of the garage and slunk to the side that faced away from the compound. Its only door had a window above the doorframe. I saw a weak light behind the pane, but whether that indicated the presence of people – well, we would have to gamble now.

  We approached the door. “Get on top of me and check,” I whispered to Linda.

  She removed the backpack, climbed onto my shoulders and replied in a barely audible whisper: “There is one bulb burning, but I see no people. There are a few vehicles.” She slid to the ground and I leaned towards her face mask to hear her assessment: “Three snowcats and two snowmobiles. We should steal the snowmobiles because they are the fastest ice vehicles around here.”

  “Great. We have to get moving before someone spots our footprints in the snow,” I said.

  “Do you know how to drive a snowmobile?” Linda asked.

  “Yes, but I haven’t done it for a few years,” I said. Actually for more than ten, but I hoped it would be like bicycling, that is, a skill that you never lose once you have acquired it. I pulled the auto-picklock out of my backpack. It slipped into the lock and I coaxed it gently. It clicked for a few seconds and fell silent. I turned it and opened the door.

  Linda and I entered the building and unstrapped our arctic face masks. The air smelled of grease, coal and detergents. The garage was well maintained and fairly warm, one or two degrees above freezing. Tool racks filled one wall and heavy appliances occupied a corner, everything labelled Russian. The three red snowcats and the two yellow snowmobiles faced the wide main door, apparently ready to depart.

  “How many clever things are in your backpack?” asked Linda.

  “More than anyone would imagine.” I tried to use a light-hearted tone. “I’ve learned a few things about survival since the rebellion began.” But not enough about polar survival; dodging death right now required Linda’s skills.

  Linda mumbled something inaudible while walking over to check the snowmobiles. Their driver compartments were fully enclosed and Linda explained that the interior was heated by air circulating around the engines.

  I started looking for petrol. “How do you write ‘fuel’ in Russian?”

  Linda pointed at four red barrels beyond the snowmobiles. “That’s what you’re looking for. Anyhow, the fuel tanks of the snowmobiles are topped. About ten gallons each. Will take us a thousand miles or so.”

  “We should drive out that way,” I said and pointed at the door through which we had entered. “The safest route into the hills.”

  Linda nodded and we started dragging the snowmobiles into starting positions.

  The chuffing engines spread foul-smelling fumes inside the garage. Linda signalled “go ahead”. I opened the door, backed three steps, and got seated in the snowmobile’s saddle. The vehicles lumbered ahead, screeching loudly, across the threshold. As soon as my snowmobile hit the snow, I turned the throttle to max and rushed forward with Linda on my tail.

  The rolling terrain ahead was almost devoid of vegetation. My snowmobile trembled when I pushed it to the limit. Our first goal was to get behind the nearest ridge fifty yards away. I glimpsed that Linda was moving up next to me to the right. If a battle-wagon spots us… I quickly interrupted that train of thoughts to focus on my driving.

  Side by side we crossed the ridge and the low buildings in the compound disappeared out of sight. However, someone switched on a searchlight mounted on a pole tall enough to look over the ridge. The bright beam wandered across the terrain behind us. Suddenly two soldiers appeared in the moonlit landscape about thirty yards in front of us. The right one raised his hand in a “stop” gesture, while the other moved his rifle into firing position. I cajoled some extra power from the engine while aiming the snowmobile at the rifleman. He fired a snapshot with no apparent effect and tried to dodge, but I twisted the handlebar and rammed him. The snowmobile shuddered and tossed his body to the side.

  The next ridge lay thirty yards ahead. I glanced to the right: Linda drove line abreast with me and made a “thumbs up”. The rear-view mirror revealed nothing about the soldiers’ fate. Somewhere a heavy machine gun rattled, but I saw no muzzle flashes. A frightened soldier firing at shadows, I thought.

  We darted across the second ridge. The immediate danger should now be over, but our wide tracks in the snow would aid every pursuer. Many hours had to pass before we would dare take a break, but right now neither of us would tire for a long time. As for the inevitable Maxidin hangover, that would be a later worry.

  We stopped at dawn for breakfast. After the first dash away from the mine, we had cut our speed to eleven knots to reduce the risk for accidents. Linda has assumed the lead because she had more ice-driving experience. We stayed away from the main road to Novgorod. Instead we let the stars guide us through the Montalban wilderness: white snow, never-ending hills and lifeless desolation under a glittering black sky. Man would always be an alien here.

  I idled the engine to keep the passenger compartment warm, strapped the face mask in place and got out. The temperature remained at −25°C. A southerly breeze pushed scattered clouds across the sky. The sun climbed slowly up from the eastern horizon. A silent landscape – nothing to hear but our engines and the wind. I eased my stiff joints by stretching and bending. Linda got out, too, and began a t’ai chi ch’uan exercise, gliding like a fairy on the snow despite the bulky polar suit.

  “I think we’ve covered about sixty miles,” I said.

  Linda answered without interrupting her moves: “I’ve managed to keep a fairly straight course. All the valleys in this area seem to run toward the ice sheet.”

  I pulled my backpack out of the small bonnet. “I’ll fix some breakfast.” My camping stove quickly transformed a mix of freeze-dried food and snow to an almost proper meal.

  Two people could barely eat together inside the snowmobile compartment, provided that one of them pressed the back against the handlebar – I acted like a gentleman and slid into that position. The aroma of mushroom soup filled the air.

  “Do you think he died?” Linda lowered her cup and look at the snowscape.

  “No idea. I drove as fast as I could when I rammed him. But I saw no more,” I said. What do say you after killing someone? I found no answer to that question, never had, never will. Instead I said: “Let me fill your cup.”

  After the breakfast, I burned all papers connecting me to Société Générale d’Assurance. When fleeing in a war zone, it is wise to have only one cover identity. And working for the Cassiopeia was the better option, because Leclerc would able to verify that claim straight away.

  “Johnny, I can’t drive anymore.” Linda’s voice sounded as weary as her statement.

  I put supper on her plate. “I understand. You’re having a Maxidin hangover. I don’t feel any better myself.” My eyes could not focus properly and an ache pulsated inside the skull.

  “We’ve covered ninety or more miles and ought to be close to the ice sheet,” Linda said.

  “You know what to do to survive a night out here.” The food in my mouth garbled my voice. Maxidin stimulates one’s hunger badly and I could not stop munching.

  “We’ll make a small igloo before the sun sets,” Linda said.

  After toiling for an hour with the igloo, I was close to collapse. I unfolded the sleeping pads on the packed snow and put the sleeping bags in place. The camping stove had raised the inside temperature to an endurable level. We would most likely sleep well.

  Linda crawled into her sleeping bag. Her face was pale and the hands trembled.

  “Where are we going tomorrow?” I asked.

  “We must find some nomads. We can’t go on like this on our own. We have to go north now. Juliusburg’s military must be patrolling the ice sheet to blockade Novgorod.” Linda’s voice was weak.

  “Sure, but how?” I said.

  In that moment she fell asleep. For the first time I saw her face at peace. Now I knew what she had looked like before the rebellion began. />
  I closed the opening of my sleeping bag, leaving only my nose and eyes exposed to the chill air. Just before my mind fell asleep, I recalled the soldier that I had rammed. That mental picture would remain with me for the rest of my life.

  Chapter 7

  Breakfast in bright sunlight after fourteen hours’ solid sleep: despite our miserable situation, I felt buoyant. After reviewing the poor maps we possessed, Linda and I agreed that the ice sheet ought to be no more than eight miles away.

  Our route would take us down along a shallow valley covered by an immobile river of ice with mid-sized hills and ridges flanking it on both sides. My binocular pinpointed occasional black bushes on those hilltops. A glitter beyond the farthest hills – sunlight reflected from the ice sheet – signalled where the next stage of our journey would begin.

  Linda and I packed the equipment and checked the vehicles. We worked in silence and I noticed the team spirit we had developed: not once did we interfere with each other’s movements.

  Linda brushed the snow from her polar suit and made a “thumbs up” gesture. The engines started with no problems and she drove up in front of me. The sun stood low to our right and the snowmobiles cast long shadows on the shining snow. Less than an hour to the ice sheet, I thought.

  The hidden machine gun rattled for less than a second. Bullets drew an uneven line in the snow in front of us. Ice fragments sprayed for a moment from the impacts before the wind dispersed the glittering dust. Both Linda and I stopped our snowmobiles abruptly.

  Hell! My belly turned into a cold knot. Where is it?! I put the engine on idle, strapped the face mask in place and got out, keeping my hands very visible to show that I was unarmed. The snow squeaked with each step as I turned to scan the area around us.

  The valley along which we had been driving had made a turn to the left just before the salvo. We had been driving in the open, ignoring the miniscule risk of encountering enemies in the middle of nowhere. The valley ran straight ahead after the curve and it was more than two hundred yards wide. I scanned the ice blocks and uneven spots on the hillsides with my binocular, but the gunners had made a good job: I did not find their strongpoint.

  I noticed a movement to my left and zoomed in that direction. Two soldiers with rifles on their backs skied down the slope toward us. On the ridge above them, more than one hundred yards away, I glimpsed a camouflaged military post. That must be the location from which we had been observed when approaching this section of the valley. We must have been spotted several minutes before that well-hidden machine-gun opened fire.

  The soldiers skidded to a halt about ten yards from me. I did not recognize their polar uniforms or their cold-weather visor helmets, but when one of them addressed me in Russian, bile rose in my throat. I shook my head to show that I did not understand the words.

  The Russian switched to bad German: “We from Novgorod. Who you?”

  I answered in the same language: “We are refugees from the war.”

  The soldiers made a fumbling attempt to continue the discussion, but gave in and waved at the post on the summit. A soldier got out and headed downslope on skis. Meanwhile the other soldiers approached the snowmobiles and took a close look at them. Linda gazed back at him from her seat.

  The third Russian stopped near me and opened his visor. “Good day. I am sergeant-major Firsov of the Russian army,” he said in decent German. The rifle remained on his back.

  I responded: “Good day. I am Johnny Bornewald and my travelling companion is Linda Connor. We were on a trading trip to Novgorod and visited Mine No 2 in the Montalban range when Juliusburg attacked. We managed to escape last night.”

  “From where do you originally come?” Firsov said in a stern voice.

  “Miss Connor is from Fredriksborg. I am from the Netherlands,” I said.

  “How were you able to escape?” said Firsov.

  “The occupiers had to sort out several hundred miners. They had no time to pay attention to us and we used that opportunity. And we had some luck,” I said.

  “I understand,” said Firsov and made an impatient gesture at Linda. She strapped her face mask in place and got out of the snowmobile.

  Meanwhile the second soldier started rummaging through my backpack, which he had found in the bonnet. I hoped that he would not realize what it contained, because I did not want to explain the purposes of some of my possessions.

  When Linda stood at my side, Firsov addressed her in German. She responded in Russian and a brief discussion ensued. Firsov concluded it with a sharp sentence and turned to me. “I think you two can be of use,” he said in German. “You will be escorted to our juggernaut. My men will ride with you in the snowmobiles.” He looked down the valley and waved at some hidden observer. “So, get moving!”

  The Russian military juggernaut Sovremennyy was a white behemoth on huge steel wheels, parked next to a bluff at the edge of the ice sheet. The tsar’s naval flag fluttered over the bridge: a white cloth with a blue St Andrew’s cross. Soldiers clung to its sides, repairing battle damage. The stern-most of the four gun turrets appeared to have been wrecked by a direct hit. No smoke rose from the funnels, so the engines must be shut down.

  The bluff veered inland behind the juggernaut’s stern, making room for a narrow flat beach. Half a dozen white tents had been erected in a strict formation on the edge of the beach together with a chuffing generator. Fifty yards inland, I saw a cairn of newly-cut ice blocks next to a tall orthodox cross of iron.

  We parked the snowmobiles next to a sentry at the tents. One of our escorts reported something to him and then addressed Linda with an instruction in Russian. She translated it for me: “We will now meet major Akhmatov.”

  The major’s lair inside a tent consisted of a rickety foldable desk with neatly stacked papers next to a vacuum flask and a cup of steaming tea. A kerosene stove kept the temperature above freezing, so he and his colleagues were able to work without face protection.

  “Welcome,” said Akhmatov in crisp English and shook hands. The grip was firm, his back was tall and straight and the eyes full of confidence. The deep furrows carved into his face showed that he worked for many years in harsh climate. He asked me to fetch two foldable chairs stacked at the rear of the tent.

  “We are unfortunately in trouble,” he said. “We encountered an enemy yesterday. Soon we’ll be on the move again. So I have to rush our meeting and cannot show customary hospitality. But would you like some tea?” He filled two cups from the flask. It was a tasty brew, probably Ceylonese, though a bit too sweet for my liking. For a minute we heard only the humming of the heater’s fan.

  “Well, Mr Bornewald and Miss Connor, what are you doing in the middle of the wilderness?” asked Akhmatov.

  I told him our story without lying and without giving away anything sensitive. He made notes without commenting. When I had finished, he put his notebook on the table and looked at me. “Mr Bornewald, this is not a credible.”

  “I’ve been in trouble before. I know that it’s better to flee when bullets start flying.” He was a veteran in his field so I decided to play the game his way.

  “I’ve heard such claims before,” he said.

  I did not budge. “If you think I’m lying to you, what do you think the truth would be?”

  “Well that’s a good question. Terboven recruited many mercenaries before the start of the hostilities,” he said.

  “I realize that you don’t want get in touch with the Cassiopeia by radio.”

  Akhmatov nodded.

  “My business plan is in my backpack,” I said.

  “Get it,” he said.

  While I headed outdoors, Akhmatov started talking to Linda in Russian. During my walk to the snowmobiles, I saw that soldiers were disassembling the tents. When I opened my backpack to get my business diary, I checked the contents – nothing missing.

  Back in the tent, I handed over the diary to the major. He read it for several minutes, closed it, and said: “Well, I believe y
ou. According to the laws and customs of war I hereby declare you to interned civilians of non-combatant nationality.”

  A flash of fright jabbed in my belly – I winced. Linda paled.

  Akhmatov continued: “You just got two tickets on the Sovremennyy. We have to observe proper procedures before taking civilians on board.” The left corner of his mouth rose: a tiny wry smile.

  Linda straightened her back, while I exhaled slowly. He tested us there, but did we fail or pass? I thought.

  “Miss Connor, you’re a mechanic and the engine section has suffered casualties so they would need your hands.” Akhmatov sounded like he was issuing an order.

  Linda nodded.

  Akhmatov looked at me: “Mr Bornewald, from what you have said, I believe that you know how to handle radios.”

  The ironies of life: I was about to work for Sweden’s worst enemy. If Linda and I had not been in mortal danger, I would have responded with a bitter laugh. Instead my phony smile implied that serving the tsar was the right thing to do. “Yes, major.”

  “Good. You’ll assist our signals officer. But right now I want a detailed description of the people that seized the mine. Any questions?” Akhmatov sounded as if he expected none.

  I looked at Linda and she looked back, her face somewhat relaxed. She shook her head.

  “No, major,” I said.

  “Good. Let’s get started,” said Akhmatov.

  Chapter 8

  The Sovremennyy departed at dusk. During the afternoon, a thick layer of low-altitude clouds from the north had gradually covered the sky. This was to our advantage, because the vehicle’s smoke plume would now fade into the clouds at one thousand feet, thereby reducing the distance at which we could be spotted.

  A military juggernaut is as cramped as a cloudship but with many more metal protrusions. If you don’t learn to duck, your skin will soon be flecked with bruises. The crew wore sturdy leather jackets and helmets for protection. There were people everywhere and bunks were tucked away in unexpected locations. I was used to this kind of confined accommodation, but this vessel also reeked of sweaty men in poorly ventilated spaces. The noise was far worse than in a civilian cloudship, too. The rhythmic low-frequency clatter from the engine permeated every part of the juggernaut, as well as never-ending murmuring and wheezing in the tubing. At many stations, the crewmen used ear protection and communicated by sign language.