Collection 7 - The Northern Lights Affair

by LRH Balzer

  "My daughter goes there. I want her to have the best—what can I say?" Claude toasted him with his glass.

  Alexander had little to add. He took a good look at Antonio, seeing the faint memory of the man twenty years previously, in the doctor's office in Marseilles, smiling and laughing as he stuffed vitamins into the secret compartment of his wife's fake 'pregnant' stomach.

  This was not a fragile man. A proud man, yes. A determined man, most definitely. A man of conviction... perhaps once. But not a fragile man. Antonio stood tall, his shoulders wide, his head held high. He was not necessarily rebuilding his life. But he was still moving, a step at a time. There were times when he would stop and look back, but for the most part, he was finding his way again.

  When they were with him, at least they knew he did not stand alone.

  And when all the rest was gone, that 's what counted. To know you were not alone.

  Wednesday, November 3, 1965

  Baffin Island, NWT

  3:32 a.m.

  Since he was obviously the only one awake, Illya Kuryakin tried to keep as still as possible in amongst the tangle of arms and legs that made up his companions. In order to accommodate sleeping arrangements, one of the treated caribou furs had been spread out over the bottom of the thermotent, then four agents were layered, then there was a mixture of arctic-issue sleeping bags and furs over them.

  Not the best arrangement, especially since one of them theoretically should have been awake to watch the iceberg. He had volunteered, but had been out-voted—They said he needed his sleep. Unfortunately, before he could think of much of an argument, he had fallen asleep while they sorted out the bed problem and had woken up after the fact, wedged in between Napoleon and April, with Mark's hand on his stomach. At least he thought it was Mark's hand. Mark was sleeping on the other side of April, and the hand was coming from that general direction.

  So now he was stuck with three snoring U.N.C.L.E. agents who were keeping him awake.

  It was his own fault, he figured.

  Awkwardly enough, there was a strange peace about it all that he thought was quite ridiculous. It reminded him of Leningrad and the ballet school, and sleeping four or five to a bed under worn quilts after a splendid night of drinking. He let the memories and stupid grin hover undisturbed for a while, securely tucked between his oblivious comrades.

  After almost a quarter hour of such self-indulgence, he grew bored with the setup and carefully extracted himself from the warmth. Enough was enough; he was through lounging about. There was submarine out there that had to be dealt with, and to make matters far more irritating—it was a Russian submarine. Worse yet, it was Markov's Russian submarine.

  The thought of blowing it up brought back the stupid grin and it was only with strictest discipline that he schooled the emotion from his features.

  Markov had treated him like dirt and had spoken to him as though he were some half-witted child. Illya remembered following the scientist around the Sudomekh Shipyard in Leningrad, repeatedly being told by Markov to sit down, stay out of his way, and say nothing. Perhaps he had said little to the scientist, but he had certainly listened. Carefully. Knowing full well that knowledge was what was keeping him alive. Hidden knowledge. Illya had watched as they loaded the newly developed torpedoes with their nuclear warhead on board the diesel-powered Foxtrot attack submarines—as the Americans called them. Even then, the Foxtrots were already being passed over for their nuclear-powered counterparts, the November class submarines. The Leninskii Komsomol class.

  The one that went missing.

  Maybe there was a submarine out there under the iceberg, and maybe there wasn't. But if there was, he wanted to do whatever it would take to prevent it from attacking civilians and, if possible, to also find a way to humiliate Markov in the process. Disable the submarine perhaps, without destroying it. Render it helpless. Crippled.

  Which would mean that however he looked at it, the Americans would have their hands on a Russian submarine.

  He sat cross-legged on top of the furs and tried to sort out his feelings on that one.

  On paper, he was no longer Russian, he was American, yet there existed a strong desire not to think about it all too closely. It was easier to just leave such decisions to U.N.C.L.E.

  Dressing in the dark was difficult, especially since the light from the propane heater was hardly enough to see by. The last thing he wanted to do was destroy the submarine while wearing April's pink, thermal underwear. It would take some of the joy out of his triumph.

  The little flower on the collar finally gave it away, and he tossed the garment aside, and settled for another one that seemed to fit him. He got into his layers of clothing, then reclaimed his heavy parka, boots, and gloves, still hanging where he had seen them the day before. The whole exercise was proving to be tiring, which only confirmed he hadn't recouped all his strength back yet. He snagged the binoculars and wiggled his way out of the tent.

  The sun wasn't even close to rising, but it was a starry night, one soon afire with the northern lights, the aurora borealis. He crouched down at the top of the rise, watching the colors streak across the night sky like a child's kaleidoscope. The arches of lights were mesmerizing, shimmering luminous blues, greens, pinks, and whites dancing feverishly across the frozen tundra.

  The emission of light from atoms excited by electrons accelerated along the planet 's magnetic field lines.

  He laughed to himself at the dull words. There were times when all the scientific explanations just didn't describe the reality.

  Wow.

  He turned finally and found himself a niche out of the wind, concentrating the binoculars on the iceberg. There really wasn't much to see. The iceberg was small enough that it would never survive the journey south to interfere with the shipping lanes. Most traveled between five miles and forty miles a day, or, as this one had, got caught in a bay and were stuck for a month or more until they got freed. But for now, the fifteen or twenty-foot high iceberg was serving Thrush's purpose. For one thing, ice was an excellent cover for the submarine since it was a poor reflector of radar waves. Until the oceanographers set up microwave radiometers, even the strongest radar signal couldn't definitely identify what was an iceberg and what was a submarine or a ship.

  A figure came over the rise and stood for a moment, as caught as he had been by the northern lights. He recognized the walk and bearing, and waved his partner over. The wind made talking almost impossible, but he handed over the binoculars and pointed, and Napoleon studied the iceberg. They sat companionably for almost half an hour, their attention shifting from the iceberg to the spectacular northern lights and back again.

  Finally, the CEA got back to his feet and made a 'food' motion by his mouth, and Illya realized he was hungry.

  Mark and April were awake when they got back, Mark complaining loudly about the cold air they had brought in with them. They quickly shed their outer garments in the warmth of the thermotent, and wrapped their hands around mugs of coffee.

  April was deep in thought, an idea hovering. "Why don't we just blow apart the iceberg? Maybe the submarine would just be ripped apart by it or something."

  "Can't do it," Illya said without a moment's hesitation.

  "What do you mean? We have enough firepower here to—"

  "In earlier tests, thermite bombs failed to blow up icebergs, as did torpedoes, and shells from five-inch guns. Land mines make nice ice showers, but don't do much damage." He shrugged. "Soviet Navy."

  "But that was a long time ago," April pointed out. "At least five or six years ago."

  "No, he's right," Mark said. "The coast guard told me virtually the same thing. If they could destroy the icebergs before they get to the shipping lanes, it would solve a lot of their problems. Unfortunately, they can't."

  "That twenty-foot high iceberg—"

  "Goes down at least one hundred feet below the surface," Illya said. "Remember the depth the camera was at before it registered whatever it was Nap
oleon saw."

  "So Mark and I dive down and plant the limpets on the submarine. We've got the gear all ready."

  "Why you and Mark?" Illya asked. "I'm the one with arctic diving experience."

  "You had hypothermia yesterday, you nut." April turned from him to address the other two men. "But that's a good question. I've had diving experience. Why do you both assume that you're the ones doing the diving?"

  "Because I'm the boss." Napoleon smiled disarmingly and Mark gave an apologetic shrug.

  "Sorry, luv. We've also had cold-water diving experience, and you haven't."

  "I've had more cold-water diving experience than both of you put together," Illya said quietly.

  "Yeah?" Mark said, smiling. "But you were curled up over there sound asleep when we were discussing it all last night. If you aren't recuperated enough to stay awake during the briefing, you're bloody well not ready for a dive."

  There was nothing he could really say in response, Illya realized, and if he were in their socks, he wouldn't let him dive either, so he let the matter pass. There were times to pick your arguments, and times to accept defeat.

  "So, what's a limpet?" April asked, changing the topic.

  Well, at least that was something he could advise on. "A limpet is a waterproof plastic case for explosives. It has strong magnetics attached to it that helps it stick to the steel plate of ships, or, in our case, submarines." Illya dug through the supply pack and pulled out a five-inch long metal container. "And this is an AC Delay. We control the firing device on it by using different colored ampules. In this extreme cold water, we'll use either the red—for about a 6 hour delay, or the white—for a one hour delay before detonation."

  "Neither," Napoleon put in.

  "Why not?" Illya asked.

  "Again, had you not snored through our planning session—We don't want any more than a thirty minute delay." Napoleon stared down at the blueprints of the submarine. "I don't want them to have any opportunity to do anything about it. The odds are they'll hear us."

  "That doesn't leave us much time to get out of there," Mark said, glancing again at the records. "If we go over our time limit after we set the delays... Well, we'll be still in the water when they go off."

  "I thought you were just taking out the rudder shafts? Will it disturb the water around it that much?" April asked as she started dressing to leave the thermotent. She seemed almost reluctant to ask what might be considered lame questions, but no one seemed bothered by it, so she pressed on.

  "If we manage to set all four limpets, who knows how much damage we can do? Besides, as soon as we do anything, all the little Thrushies will come out of the submarine and start shooting at us. We want to be on land, in position, before anything happens."

  "Get dressed, then, and we'll do it." Illya carefully checked the limpets while April helped Mark and Napoleon sort out the diving gear.

  It was difficult getting ready in the low-ceiling, cramped quarters of the thermotent. A thermal coverall went over their long johns, knit collar and cuffs at wrist and ankle, covering the wool booties that Mark had brought with him. The next layer was the unisuit, made from quarter-inch foam neoprene, lined with nylon inside and out. The hood and boots were part of the one-piece construction.

  The two men zipped themselves into their unisuits, checking the valves. The cold water hood went over the unisuit, extending down over chin, neck, and shoulders, covering the upper chest and back. Only a circular opening allowing room for eyes, nose, and mouth, was visible, and the full face masks would soon cover that. Because of the frigid conditions, Mark had brought along extra oversized, regular-length hoods to put on top of the cold water hood, allowing them additional protection.

  "This will keep you warm out there?" April asked.

  "Listen, love," Mark said with a reassuring smile, "remember that both Napoleon here and I have cold-water dived before—"

  "That's more than cold water out there, Mark," she retorted.

  "These suits will keep us comfortable for several hours, even in the water out there." Napoleon put on one of the depth gauge watches and tossed the other one to Mark. "Okay, listen up. What we're going to do is place as many limpets by the rudder shafts as we can and still get back to the surface without having to worry about decompression. That means we have fifty minutes if the sub is fifty feet below the surface, thirty minutes if it's 90 feet down, and ten minutes if it's at 140."

  "Pardon my ignorance, but if you can't blow a hole in the iceberg, why not blow a hole in the sub? That's what they do with limpets on ships, isn't it? Attach them below the waterline?" April was getting into her parka, checking the pockets to make sure all her supplies were there.

  "We don't necessarily have to destroy the sub—which would be nice—but just disable it. And the easiest way to do that is to take out the rudder. Without working rudders—even one rudder—they can't maneuver at all. What they're going to have to do is release from the iceberg, float away from it, then slowly drift to the surface so they can effect repairs. And by then, we'll have the cavalry waiting. They're already on stand-by, waiting for our signal before they get any closer."

  "I spoke with Mr. Waverly, and he was alerting the American Brass that a situation might exist. They weren't to pass the message on down the lines until it could be determined for certain, as we might give ourselves away and we don't want to spook them at all." Mark adjusted the lights attached to his full face mask and checked the batteries powering them, ensuring the seal was watertight.

  "Let's go."

  * * * * *

  They moved awkwardly in the cover of darkness, the now-overcast sky both a blessing and a curse. Illya and April tugged the rubber boat down the slope and held it steady while Napoleon and Mark got in and attached their flippers and masks. Then the backpacks were added with a single tank of air each, more than enough for what they had planned. A second set of canisters were loaded into the boat, in case of emergency. Silently, they pushed off shore, April and Illya steering and paddling the rubber boat until they were as close as they dared to the iceberg.

  Splosh. Splosh.

  Illya watched the two men go over the side, the limpets in their hands, already set with the thirty minute delays. He glanced at his watch, noting the time—five minutes past six o'clock—and trying not to meet April's worried eyes as he knew his own would be no comfort to her. Bubbles broke the surface, then he lost track of them. It was difficult not to fidget, not to look at his watch every minute. There were no other wetsuits or unisuits to put on and go after them.

  Ten minutes passed. Twenty minutes.

  What 's happening, Napoleon? What 's taking so long? You said it wouldn't take more than twenty minutes.

  At the twenty-one minute mark, Mark's head broke the surface and he looked around, saw he was alone, and disappeared beneath the waves. Four minutes later, he was back and while April fought to keep the boat steady, Illya hauled the two men in. Napoleon was dazed, his mask full of blood, and Illya left Mark to see to him as April and he paddled to shore. The explosion, when it came, caught them as they left the boat, knocking them flat on the shore as waves threatened to grab at them and pull them into the frigid waters.

  The Russian hooked Napoleon's arm over his shoulder and struggled up the rise to the top of the steep cliff, letting him drop to the snow beside him. Napoleon had moved sluggishly, hardly conscious of what he was doing. The weapons stash was where they had left it, and Illya spread out belly down and aimed his rifle on the iceberg. Napoleon rolled to his stomach and reached for a gun as well. April and Mark, at the other end of the rise, signaled that they were ready, and Illya handed Napoleon his own rifle, then stuffed some gauze into the tight cold-water hood around his partner's left eye. It was hard to see exactly what had happened, but fresh blood soon stained the gauze

  Mark shot two bright red flares into the still-dark sky, a signal for the coast guard to pass word on to Waverly that the sub was located and had been disabled. A single white fl
are followed, which meant someone had been injured and they required a helicopter.

  The first Thrush diver surfaced in the far south of the bay, pulling himself onto an ice floe, only visible as a dark patch on the star-lit ice. Illya watched him through his rifle sight unload what appeared to be a machine gun from a pack, but before the diver could assemble it, he was lying dead on the ice, the black Thrush crest on his chest sporting a hole through the eye.

  Illya reloaded, but it was Mark who easily took out the second diver, and April the third. Beside him, Napoleon was no longer moving, face down in the snow, and Illya let the other two agents handle the situation for a few minutes while he checked his partner. As far as he could tell, Napoleon had a deep cut on the lateral side of his left eye, one that appeared to have come dangerously close to the eye itself. Napoleon brushed away his ministrations, angrily pointing down the slope to the iceberg, but Illya ignored him long enough to get a makeshift bandage in place.

  By the time he finished, he was needed, as the divers kept popping up from the submarine, like wasps from a disturbed hive. It was difficult, but not impossible, to see them in the pre-dawn light. The aurora borealis had started up again, as though offering assistance, now an electric green eel snaking across the sky. The dark diving suits stood out, shadows on the color-changing snow and ice.

  Mark and April joined them when they realized that Napoleon was incapacitated, moving one on each side of them to offer protection. Illya noticed Mark was wearing April's hot pink and lime striped face toque, which made him an easy target, but also protected his exposed face from the icy wind. The cold-water diving hood worked up to a point, but bare skin wouldn't last long in the sub-freezing temperatures outside. April had her parka hood inverted, as did Illya, so there was just enough room for her to see and aim her rifle. At a break in the action, and Illya pulled off his parka, then tugged off the heavy wool sweater underneath and put the parka back on. The sweater he used to wrap around Napoleon's head and neck, trying to trap as much of his partner's own body heat as possible.