The crews of the BTRs stood to one side, as if they were above the manual labour of dragging and lifting the heavy cargo, though one man from each BTR occasionally spoke to the chief loading NCO on the ramp, checking off items on a clip board.
The men doing the work were dressed in light grey fatigues, with rank badges and shoulder boards plainly visible. The fatigues were obviously worn over heavier winter gear, and their heads were encased in fur hats with enormous ear flaps which came almost to the chin. The caps were decorated in front with the familiar Red Army star.
The two-man crews, however, wore a different dress which brought a crease to Bond’s brow and a sudden churning of the stomach. Under short leather coats, thick navy blue trousers could be seen, while their feet and calves were encased in heavy, serviceable jackboots. They wore ear muffs, but, above those, simple navy berets with glinting cap badges. The rig reminded Bond all too vividly of another era, a different world.
Kolya jogged his arm and handed over the night glasses, pointing to the foremost part of the first ramp. ‘The Commanding Officer,’ he whispered. Bond took the glasses, adjusted them, and saw a pair of men in conversation. One was from the BTR crews, the other a stocky, sallow-faced figure, muffled in a greatcoat which bore the shoulder boards of a Warrant Officer, the thick red stripe plainly visible through the glasses.
‘Non-commissioned officers here,’ commented Kolya, still in a whisper. ‘Mainly disgruntled NCOs, or people other units want to get rid of. That’s why they were such a pushover.’
Bond nodded, handing back the glasses.
The depot at Blue Hare appeared very close – a trick of the brilliant light, and the frost, which hung tendril-like in the air. Below, the working men seemed to be emitting steam from mouths and nostrils, like over-worked horses, while orders floated up, muffled by the atmosphere; sharp Russian growling, urging the labourers on. Bond even caught the sound of a voice saying, ‘Faster then, you dolts. Just think of the nice bonus at the end of this, and the girls coming over from Alakurtii tomorrow. Get the job done and then you’ll rest.’
One of the men turned towards the NCO, shouting, ‘I’ll need all the rest I can get if Fat Olga’s coming over . . .’ The sentence was lost on the air, but the raucous laughter suggested it ended with some lewd witticism.
Bond edged his compass out on its lanyard, surreptitiously taking a bearing, and doing some quick mental calculations. Then there was a roar below. The first BTR’s motor had come to life. Men were swarming over the metal, folding up the thick flaps and locking them into place to form the flat top.
The other BTRs were almost fully loaded. Men worked in their holds, making final adjustments to straps and ropes. Then the second engine started.
‘Time to be getting down,’ Kolya whispered, and they saw the first carrier advance slowly towards the turning circle. It would take the whole convoy around fifteen minutes to lock up, turn, and form their line.
Slowly the pair edged back. Once below the skyline, they had to lie still for a few moments, allowing their eyes to readjust to darkness. Then the slippery descent – much quicker than the climb up – and, down among the trees, feeling their way through to where the snow scooters were hidden.
‘We’ll wait until they’ve passed.’ Kolya spoke like a commander. ‘Those BTRs have engines like angry lions. The crews won’t hear a thing when we start up.’ He put out a hand to retrieve the camera from Bond and stowed it with the VTR pack.
The lights still cut into the sky from Blue Hare, but now, in the stillness, the sound of the BTRs’ motors assumed a loud; raucous, aggressive tone. Bond did another quick calculation, hoping he was right. Then the noise rose towards them and began to echo from the trees.
‘They’re on the move,’ Kolya said, nudging him. Bond craned forward, trying to see the convoy up the road. The motor reverberations grew louder, and, even with the acoustics distorted by the ice and trees, they could be pinpointed, advancing from Bond’s and Kolya’s left.
‘Ready?’ muttered Kolya. He appeared suddenly nervous, half standing in the saddle of his scooter, head turning stiffly.
The grumble of engines reduced to a low growl. They’ve reached the road junction, Bond thought. Then, quite plainly, he heard one BTR’s motor rise with the grind of gears. The sounds all took on new patterns, and Kolya raised himself even higher. The engine noise settled. All four BTRs were now on the same track, moving at a similar speed, in convoy. Yet something was wrong. It took Bond a second or two to realise that the echoes from the engines were decreasing.
Kolya swore in Russian. ‘They’re going north,’ he said, spitting the words out. Then his voice appeared to mellow. ‘Ah, good. It means they’re taking the alternative route back. My agent will be covering them. Ready?’
Bond nodded, and they started up the scooters. Kolya wheeled out on to the snow, picking up speed immediately.
The rumble from the BTRs was audible even above the snow scooters’ engines, and they were able to keep well back – with the last vehicle just visible – for a matter of ten or eleven kilometres. The small convoy stayed on the same main road until Bond thought they were getting dangerously near to Alakurtii. Then he saw Kolya signal him for a turn – a left angle into the woods again, though this time the track was of reasonable width, the snow deep and hard, newly rutted by the heavy armoured, and chained, tracks of the BTRs.
It seemed uphill all the way. Constant weaving, to stay clear of the BTRs’ now dangerous tracks. The engine of Bond’s scooter constantly protested at the strain, while Bond himself tried to get a fix on their direction.
If they really were heading back to the border, this was a cross-country run which should take them almost to the point at which they had entered the trees on the Russian side. For a long time that was where they appeared to be heading: south-west. Then, after an hour or so, the track forked. The BTRs moved right, taking them north-west.
There was a moment when Kolya considered they had got too close and motioned a halt. Bond just had time to haul out the compass and take a fix from the luminous dial. If the BTRs continued on their present course they would, without doubt, end up very near to the position Bond had pinpointed for the Ice Palace, if it was on the Russian side.
After another few kilometres Kolya stopped again, motioning Bond up to him. ‘We’ll be crossing in a few minutes.’ He spoke loudly. The wind was in their faces now, cutting through the protective clothing and dragging the heavy noise of the BTR convoy back towards them. ‘My replacement agent should be up ahead, so don’t be surprised if another scooter joins us.’
‘Shouldn’t we cross an open patch this way?’ Bond asked, with as much innocence as he could muster in the teeth of the biting wind.
‘Not this way. Remember the map?’
Bond remembered the map vividly. He also saw his own marks, and the way the Ice Palace could, in reality, lie well to this, the Russian, side of the border. For a second he contemplated shooting Kolya out of hand, dodging his other agent, making certain that the loaded BTRs went into the bunker, and then high-tailing it out of the Soviet Union as fast as the scooter would carry him.
The thought lasted only for a moment. See it through, a voice said from deep inside him.
It was a good fifteen minutes later before they saw the other scooter. A slim figure, heavily muffled against the cold, sat upright in the seat, waiting to move forward.
Kolya raised a hand and the new scooter pulled out, taking the lead. Ahead, the BTRs grumbled and cracked on along the forest road, which, at this point, was only just wide enough to take them.