My God, what do I do? Decide!
Which is more important, saving or scuttling the Montana, or saving the people on the ice?
The people.
And which is the best way to do that? To give Zhou what he wants? To try to scuttle the sub? To hope that the ice swings us around?
If I order a scuttle, if Zhou sees her listing, they’ll try to board us before we go down, try to stop it. That will likely start a fight. My Marines won’t have a chance.
If I give him what he wants, hand over the sub, there will be no reason for him to kill us.
No, that’s not right. He’s angry about the collision with the Chinese sub last week. He’s already committed an act of war; and he’s doing it because he knows no one can see what is going on. If he leaves witnesses, he risks escalation.
I have no idea what he’s been commanded to do.
Is Zhou so cold-blooded that he’d order the murder of the entire party onshore?
Maybe he’s been ordered to do that.
He already tricked us once, parlaying while he sent his troops to circle us.
Do I want to risk finding out if he’ll honor his promise, if I hand over the Montana?
Hell, let him take the sub, order in his men, and let the damn sickness take them all and send him to the bottom, screaming with pain.
I made my decision, what to do.
I felt another jolt, and this time the ice to which we were chained broke off, and the bow of the Montana began to swing into the lead.
At the same time I saw a jagged crevice open and snake four hundred yards east, missing the Marines, and tents. The pack — on my side of the lead — was breaking up fast.
I did not know if Zhou was aware of this. His Zodiacs were now a hundred yards off and closing. I put my mouth to the Marine radio, and felt the “on” switch give beneath my three-finger mitten.
“Major Pettit, slowly, move position, flanking.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Chief Apparecio?”
“Torpedoes in tubes one and three, sir.”
“What do you need to do in order to fire them?”
In the worsening storm, the Chinese submarine dimmed to a bulky outline. The figures on their deck disappeared. The Zodiacs were dark gliding dots. My Marines would now be invisible to the Chinese gunners on the pressure ridge, a hundred yards from the survivors.
I heard a groaning sound from “shore” and a reverberating echo — a tremendous burst of thunder — followed by loud crackling. I could not make out what was happening on the ice pack behind Zhou. But the outline of the Chinese sub was suddenly swinging around in a manner too fast to be caused by his engines, and in a direction contrary to where he wanted to be. His bow went in sixty seconds from facing us to facing left. The ice was pushing him, fast.
Zhou was probably giving frantic commands. Back up. Reverse engines. Get us out of here. Fight the push.
On my Motorola, Apparecio’s voice came through, loud and clear for once. “Ready, sir. There’s a good chance they’ll hear the outer doors if I open ’em up, although with all this noise, who knows? After that, two seconds to hit a switch.”
“Open the outer doors. But don’t fire.”
“Yes, sir.”
Here goes, I thought.
I pushed the button on the Chinese radio. I watched the little emerald light twinkle on. If the other sub managed to overcome the pushing ice, I’d lose my advantage. It would only last a few minutes at best.
“Captain Zhou? You are now sitting directly in front of our open torpedo tubes. We are ready to fire. You will immediately order your men on the ice to throw down their arms. You can then bring them back aboard. I have a translator with me and want to hear your order go out. I want to hear your men respond. I want that right now!”
Silence.
“Captain, you threatened me and now you have thirty seconds before I fire. Twenty-nine… eight…”
Sachs had stopped translating and was screaming, “No, don’t!” His eyes were wide with panic inside his balaclava.
Zhou had been ready to fire and I was, too.
A burst of Chinese came from their radio. Zhou was giving orders, I guessed from the tone. Andrew Sachs stopped shouting. He seemed to deflate.
“He’s telling them to leave their weapons. He’s telling them not to fight, and, and they’re acknowledging!”
My knees were weak. But it was not over yet. I kept Zhou’s channel open while I gave Pettit instructions, trying to keep my voice steady, which was not the way I felt at all. “Major Pettit, pick up your weapons and escort the Chinese out of there, to their Zodiacs. Treat them politely. Treat them like guests. They are bringing us medicines. Their people are going back to their sub.”
“Yes, sir.” For the first time, I heard admiration in his voice.
“Captain Zhou, I hope you heard that. It will do neither of us any good if we fight. You are not going to get the Montana, and there is no bioweapon aboard. Turn around. Go home safely.”
No answer. But he was there; I felt his fury and humiliation coming over the line, more palpable than words, as if the set itself were breathing, issuing malevolence into the air.
I added, “Captain? Just so you know, I meant what I said about the sick. If you still wish to provide medicine, I welcome it, with thanks. Those medicines could save lives. I do not think we will provide you with blood samples, though. Probably it is better to limit contact, at this point, between our crews.”
No answer. It was funny how the striations in the radio set, the plastic lines, resembled a mouth, set hard, set straight.
“I would appreciate your word of honor, Captain. No fighting. Sir? I need to hear you say it.”
“I… give… it.”
I thought, hope rising, This is going to work.
Out there the soldiers would be moving toward each other, in the storm that never stopped, like two dangerous electrical currents that needed to be kept apart or they’d spark. Two groups of distrustful men.
Yes, it was going to work, I thought. It was. But, of course, just when you think that, things go wrong. The ice cracked somewhere, a single, high-pitched snap that sounded, quite unfortunately, to me, like the firing of a bullet.
And once the first “shot” was fired, the real shooting erupted, all around.
SIXTEEN
The Arctic murders by illusion. Refracted light forms a rescue ship you rush to meet, only to plunge into frigid water. Floes seem solid but you better not step on one. A ridge of ice snaps off, quick and loud as a bullet.
“Ground fire! Ground fire! Ten o’clock!” a voice on the Marine band radio yelled.
In the storm, it sounded like a whole army was fighting. The cacophony included the thump of Marine M203 grenade launchers, the three-round bursts of M4s, the crack of Chinese bullpups, and always, like low rumbling laughter beneath it, the straining field of ice.
The radio net was alive with voices of men groping and calling out through the storm, shooting blind, trying to pinpoint the origin of enemy gunfire.
“Bowhead one-two, bowhead one-two. This is bowhead three. Do you hear me? Over.”
“Shots coming from Sierra echo, that’s a bull.”
“Go! Go! On the left, take him out!”
“I got hoofprints in the snow, bowhead one-two.”
I shouted, “Cease fire! Cease fire! It was the ice breaking off!”