‘We need to trust Kevin on this,’ said Swain.
Holland disagreed. ‘Europe will cave in, then they’ll be on the phone asking Americans to risk their lives to get the Russians out.’
Slater pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘I’m a plain-speaking man, Mr President-elect, as are you,’ he said. ‘I hope, one day, we might respect each other for that. But right now, I’ll remind you not to fuck with me, because if you do it will damage America and your legacy will go to shit.’
Holland’s face reddened. ‘I’ll remind you that you are a guest in this room!’
‘Matt, fix a plane for the Prime Minister,’ said Swain.
‘From New York, I will go straight back to London and report to the House of Commons.’
Stephanie got up to leave with him, but Slater said, ‘Stay here, Ambassador, where you’re needed. My staff can handle this, and I will have Jeff Walsh with me in New York.’
‘A message from the Alaska Army National Guard,’ said Pacolli, scrolling down his phone. Swain shook Slater’s hand and walked him to the door. As he turned back, Pacolli said, ‘Don Ondola has arrived in Wales from Goose Creek Correctional Center.’
‘The scout?’ said Swain. ‘The prisoner?’
‘Yes, sir. He’s inspected the ice. He says there is a risk of casualties, but he can get our troops across.’
The room fell quiet. In their long history of hostilities, there had never been overt, direct, intentional combat between Russian and American ground troops. As soon as they set out from Wales to Little Diomede, that was likely to change.
TWENTY-ONE
Savage winds buffeted Rake as he edged along the ridge on the southern lip of Little Diomede. In the summer, this was a dirt track used for gathering sea birds’ eggs and wild vegetables. In the winter, it hardened with frost, then iced over, and now was covered in snow. More came at him in blinding sheets, so thick that he couldn’t see his hands.
The bad weather was as perfect as he could have wished for. Swirling snow and fog would keep him invisible. In the lulls, when the wind dropped and the fog vanished, he could see above him a glow of lights: the Russian soldiers were setting up an observation post on the roof of the island. So far, he’d counted three of them. He expected five or six.
He could bypass them and head across to the base on Big Diomede. Those were his orders. He knew the terrain and footholds that would get him around the island. But the weather could clear at any time, making him and the American troops coming across from Wales vulnerable. The Russians would pick them off like ducks at a funfair.
If he were to take the Russians, it would have to be at close quarters. If there were steady wind speed and direction, he could try with the rifle. But in weather like this, wind speed could change from zero to forty miles an hour in a few moments, swinging from northerly to easterly and back again without pattern. The only way to get a clean shot was in the seconds when the wind dropped completely. Even then he doubted he could make six kills, silently, without raising a radio alert.
The track followed a zigzag route towards the top to ease the gradient for climbers. Rake ignored it and went straight up. Even though the rock face was hidden by snow, he knew how to spot hand- and footholds. He grasped the rounded edge of a rock and hauled himself up. He leant in, catching his breath. The straps of his pack bit into his shoulders.
He tried to find his footing to the next level, but clumps of snow stuck to his boots making any grip impossible. Holding tight with his hands, he kicked it off just as the wind changed direction threatening to pull him away completely. He held himself still, waiting for the wind to drop, seeing nothing except a swirling whiteness. To go back down now would be as dangerous as to keep going. The wind softened. Its howling energy lessened to buffeting gusts that he could handle. His stolen Russian military gear was good. The gloves didn’t tear. The goggles stayed tight. He could feel sweat running down his back. It trickled into his eyes too, underneath his goggles.
His muscles tore with pain as he pulled himself higher, feeling his way with his boots for the next ledges. He reached a familiar point where the hillside rose vertically above him. Twenty more feet and he would be over the edge and on a level with the soldiers. He faced a deep crevice. Above it, within hand’s reach, was a rock that jutted out like a pole. He clasped it with both hands and hauled himself higher, fighting the weight of the pack that was tilting him backwards and pulling him down. Fresh feathery snow covered his goggles. He could only see a spinning vortex of white driving into the dark hollow of the crevice. He felt forward with his left hand searching for another hold and found one over the lip. Using both arms, he heaved himself over the top.
He lay in drifted snow, catching his breath. Up there he was exposed, and the wind hit him viciously across the face like a fist. In front was a line of rocks against which the snow had drifted enough for him to hide and watch.
Now he counted six Russians. They were unfamiliar with the island, but were well trained in cold-weather warfare; the way they held their weapons, their respect for exposed metal and how it could stick to human skin and tear it in the cold, how they looked out for each other.
Eskimos had their own way of dealing with the cold, and during the early days of his military training Rake had learned more about Arctic survival, how clothing can slip and how quickly body heat is sapped from exposed parts. Blood freezes so its warmth can’t compensate. Circulation stops and frostbite moves in. The victim will not feel a thing until he gets warm. The pain then can be so great that men have told how they prayed to die.
The primary task of the Eskimo Scouts was not fighting, but surveillance. Rake was to be the eyes and ears of America on its sub-zero icy border. Combat was for other units. He had applied and won a transfer to the 19th Special Forces group in Washington State. They taught him how to shoot and kill men in the cold. In return, he had showed them how to read the Arctic wind and ice. It was this unit that had taken him to Afghanistan, where he met Carrie and where he learned the skills he was about to use now.
Rake laid down the pack, pressed himself against the boulder, and used the night-vision scope. The soldiers had brought up two general-purpose machine guns, powerful night-vision scopes, a satellite dish, and what looked like rocket-propelled grenades. To operate in both directions, east towards Wales and west across to Big Diomede, they had separated into groups of three.
Rake watched for many minutes. From what he could see from the way they acted, how they moved slowly, planning, watching, the Russians were not expecting an attack. He took two M14 carbines from his pack with thirty rounds in each magazine, giving him ten rounds for each target. He shouldn’t need that many. It would be fast and at close range. Ondola had lubricated them well. The mechanisms were doing their job. He arranged one weapon on each shoulder.
At some stage, the Russians would gather to eat, to plan, to receive orders. He needed all six in a single cluster.
Minutes passed. The wind dropped. The fog and driving snow cleared. He could see the looming dark ridge of Big Diomede and the moon’s glow against a cold black sky. The surface at the top was flat, rocky, snow-covered, and treacherous. The soldiers trod cautiously as they arranged equipment, a machine gun on each side, ammunition boxes hauled up on a sled, a satellite dish, protectively encased, erected on the westerly edge.
Nearby, a soldier was being treated for an injury. The way the medic was checking him, taking off the flak jacket, it looked like frostbite. Rake counted five gathered around this westerly machine-gun post, leaving one out of sight, presumably manning the easterly machine gun which he could no longer see.