The general asked what mobile forces were available on the island.
Twelve helicopters, he was told; augmented in winter by a company of patrol jeeps. Also sixteen personnel carriers, half-tracks, in four platoons. Four vehicles to a platoon, four men to a vehicle. Sixty-four men.
The general ordered a deployment of these forces.
The helicopters would surround the fishing station and search it. If the man had already skipped they would lift off again and support the surface force of personnel carriers. The surface force would leave at once. Six kilometres from the island it would assume its blizzard formation: the troops off — boarded fifteen metres apart. With the vehicles they would form a line of one kilometre, to sweep forward at ski-walking pace.
In case the man tried to slip back to the mainland, air force helicopters would sweep the area between. To avoid risk of collision in the fog, five kilometres would be kept between the two forces.
The fog was expected to last two to three hours. In that time the man could make a try for the American island. But first he had to find it; which he could only do from the Russian side. Was any audible signal used by the Americans in fog conditions?
No, no audible signals were used. But when the fog lifted the island was easily visible, only four kilometres away. Its masts and aerials had blinking hazard lights, and the satellite dishes were clearly illuminated.
But there was also another factor. The island was four kilometres away, but the international line was only two kilometres. On skis it could be reached in no time.
The general agreed another plan.
In one hour’s time, if the man had not been taken, all forces would proceed at speed to the other side of the island. The man must not be allowed to leave it. If he made a dash for the American side he was to be brought down — brought down, not killed. At all costs he had to be taken alive.
While he was still speaking, urgent news arrived. The helicopters had reached the fishing station, and the man was there! He was washing dishes, in a tent, with the chef. A moment later this report was amended. He had been washing dishes, but at sound of the helicopters he had gone outside to have a look at them; he didn’t seem yet to have returned.
When had he gone? When?
Three or four minutes ago, the chef thought. On his skis.
‘Good God!’ the general said. In the rapid turn of events he had been saying it repeatedly, but now he said a few things more. From two days he had reduced the gap to two hours, and then forty minutes, and then twenty-five. Now it was only three or four! If they merely hovered over his route, they would catch him now. How far, in three or four minutes, could he have gone?
60
At his second kilometre the roaring in the air was deafening and continuous. They were directly over his head now. Hovering; going on a little; hovering again.
The rotors thrashed away, a shattering row, but disturbing the fog very little. He could see the yellow haze of their searchlights. He couldn’t see the machines. And he knew they couldn’t see him. They were keeping altitude. And he now understood the reason why. The same reason was giving him problems.
The strait was no longer flat. Towards the centre of it huge hummocks had begun to appear, windswept snow funnelled between the mainland and the islands, now turned into pillars of ice. They loomed suddenly, disappearing up into the fog, very high, high enough anyway to keep the helicopters off him. But in side-stepping them he had lost his track.
Twice when the racket above had gone ahead he had taken a risk with the torch and shone it back to see the ski marks, had even gone back to check them. But the ice pillars were enormous, ten metres wide at least, and in pacing sideways from them he couldn’t be sure he was still parallel.
Now, the ground itself was exhausting him. The stubby skis were too short, sinking into the recent snow. The row, the exhaustion, the uncertainty had addled his brain, as he suddenly realised. He didn’t have to worry about direction. The bloody helicopters were directing him.
Their job was to stop him rounding the island. They knew that first he had to reach it. Only eight kilometres to go. The two kilometres he had done in under ten minutes, despite the conditions. He was sweating under the anorak, could feel it trickling under his fur cap. He gulped the freezing fog, poled himself rapidly on, one ski after the other; still counting.
980 … 990 … Another kilometre. Seven to go.
The machines hammered and swished above his head. Hovering; advancing; hovering. Hazy blurs, bobbing there, searching. Keeping pace with a man on skis. When he was too close to the island they would have to land and face him. Or if the ice was flat, come at him at ground level. And they surely wouldn’t be alone. The place was a garrison. Men could be lining up there now; a final barrier. But what else was there for him? No other place to go now.
Because there was no other place to go, he planned this one. He had scarcely any idea of it. A kilometre of rock, the Eskimos had said; and on the other side of it, the American island — only four kilometres farther. When the fog lifted it should be visible. But when the fog lifted, he would also be …
Well, to hell. While there was fog he had to use it − at least get himself in position …
First ski within reach of the island.
Then turn left or right, to the end. And go round it and up the other side. At five hundred paces the opposite island would immediately face him. If trouble was waiting there, other noise, the Americans would probably respond with their own, which also could direct him. Even now he was only minutes away. Another kilometre had passed, the fourth. In under the hour he could be over the international line.
He was aware suddenly that there was other noise. Not aircraft noise. A steady rumbling ahead. And dimly through the fog saw the hazy glow of headlights; and in the same moment recalled what the Eskimos had said. There were vehicles on the island. They came out on ice manoeuvres. They had come out for him.
He went flat on the ice immediately. And immediately saw a line of them ahead. In line abreast ahead, not more than a hundred metres ahead. And in the same instant, from the ground, saw that something was happening to the line. The two sets of headlights facing him had stopped and the others were fanning out. From the vehicles facing him lights began to flicker, hazy stars descending in arcs; which after a moment he translated into men with torches. They had jumped out of the vehicles, were strapping on skis.
He was rapidly getting out of his own skis — spreadeagled too obviously on the ice. And also out of his anorak — too visible on it. He swiftly got the white fleece lining uppermost and went flat under it. The men on skis were spacing into a formation. The other vehicles had faded into fog, only the two facing him now visible. And they too were spacing out. The men, the machines, seemed to be placing themselves fifteen metres or so apart. Lining up for a ground sweep. Jesus! He’d been right to drop. A moving figure would soon enough have been seen. He couldn’t outflank vehicles. Half-tracks, he now saw, personnel carriers. But what now?
The line was taking time to assemble. Even above the helicopters he could hear the tinny quack of radio talk.
The men were stamping up and down on their skis. In padded white snow rig, he saw, hooded; automatic weapons slung round their necks. They were beating themselves with gloved hands in the biting cold. With his anorak merely stretched over him he was freezing up himself, the sweat instantly gone.