Kolymsky Heights (22 page)

The military commission met in Beijing: before them the reports on the test missiles – the missiles of October and of November.

The October missile had gone off course six minutes into its flight, so that the new guidance system had not operated. This system switched on only in the last kilometres of flight. A visual device then compared what it read below with a pre-stored computer image, correcting course and trajectory until the two images matched exactly. But so far off course, nothing had matched. A fault of the missile, not its terminal vision.

The second vehicle was of an older type, but with a totally reliable flight record. And it had been reliable. It had flown to Lop Nor, anyway, and hit it, but so wide of the mark that, again, the visual system had obviously not switched on.

However, it
had
switched on. It had reported itself switched on. And then it had switched off.

Between these two missiles, mere was an important difference. The one arriving at Lop Nor had been conventionally wired, all its networks connected by electrical cable. The other was optically wired; with fibre. The commission knew the reason for this, so their experts wasted no time – going immediately to the main problem.

Both missiles had been interfered with in flight.

The first had suffered interference after six minutes, when
its signals had ceased. It had then been executing a fractional turn to the west; and it had stuck in this turn which by burn-out had taken it due south to Lanchow.

The second missile had reported an unidentifiable buzz, but it had reached Lop Nor. It had reached it with its video switched

off. Shortly before it had reported the video switched on.

The experts pointed to an obvious conclusion.

The missile diverted from its course was optically wired.

The missile not diverted was
not
optically wired, but its optical system had switched off. The interference was optical.

On this they offered two further comments.

The first was that they knew of no scientific explanation for such interference; and the second that it could only have come from an altitude much higher than the missiles.

At an altitude a quarter of the way to the moon, two satellites were at present in stationary orbit over China. They were electronic intelligence (ELINT) stations, one of them American and the other Russian. The American had been launched from Vandenberg Air Force base in California, and the Russian from Tyuratam in central Asia.

The experts’ recommendation was that Vandenberg and Tyuratam be targeted, urgently, for anything that could shed light on this development. This was possible for agents were available at both centres, and already much was known of events in these important vicinities.

Of events in the unimportant vicinity of Tchersky nothing was known.

Tchersky airport, so late in the season, had extended itself on to the river ice. A dozen or so fixed-wing planes of Polar
Aviation were parked there, and also a huddle of helicopters, large and small.

Medical Officer Komarova and her Chukchee assistant boarded a small one, already warming up for them, and took off at once, heading south-east. The day was dark and grey, ominous with gusts and waiting snow. A blizzard was expected within hours.

The pilot chided Komarova on the fact as they rose above the town. ‘Couldn’t you have made it earlier? I still have to get you back.’

‘A rush of work all morning. I won’t stay long.’

‘You say that, but always you stay hours. What is it with those natives there? … Who’s this one?’

‘An employee of the transport company.’ They had taken care to let the pilot see the Chukchee driving the bobik and carrying the two heavy bags from it to the helicopter; Komarova herself was hobbling on a stick. ‘Pay attention to your own duties,’ she added coldly. ‘Just fly.’

The pilot grunted and flew, and Porter marvelled at the sternness of this creature who had last night so riotously straddled and caressed him.

They didn’t have to fly long, barely fifty minutes. But darkness was gathering fast as they spotted the weird cloud on the ground. The spectral shape rolled and tumbled there, shot through with silver – the breath of reindeer, an immense herd, crystallised in the air. They came down low over it, the pilot peering in all directions before he found the group of tents that housed the Evenk herders. He had to hover almost on top of them before deerskin-clad figures came peering out, running and waving. Then he put the helicopter down, and kept the rotors turning.

‘Aren’t you coming out?’ Komarova called, at the door.

‘No, I’ll keep her running. It’s cold out there and the wind is high – they couldn’t hear me.’ He was having to shout, listening to a weather report on his radio. ‘Remember – I don’t spend nights with a tribe of Evenks!’

‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’

Outside several women were among the huddle of Evenks, and they bear-hugged the medical officer, gazing curiously at her Chukchee assistant. The wind was indeed high and howling, all the ground below knee level shirting with flying snow and ice. They were hustled into a tent – a leather one, Porter saw, and double-skinned. Its entrance flaps opened into a heat-lock vestibule, and beyond it more flaps led to the circular living space, a big room, six or seven metres across, entirely carpeted with bushy reindeer robes. A sheet-metal stove roared in the middle of it, standing in a large tray piled with logs and cooking pots.

The heavy canvas bags were speedily taken off him and their contents greeted with approval. The bottles had been wrapped in cloth to prevent clinking, and one of vodka was opened immediately.

‘No – no time for that!’ Komarova said. ‘The pilot has to get off. What complaints are here? How’s everybody?’

The complaints were the normal ones: sprains, sores, inflamed eyes. But one of the women was pregnant, and Komarova took time examining her behind a screen. She examined others there too, and he kept careful check of the time, calling it out to her. It was after three o’clock, now totally dark and less than two hours before the predicted blizzard. The plan needed the pilot to be able to take off, and his radio could still ground him.

‘All right, I’m coming,’ she called back, and presently was hurrying out. ‘But Evdokia, you’re coming with me. I want you checked in hospital. And Igor, too. That back looks a disc problem. And more vitamins are needed here – too many sores. I’ll send supplies tomorrow. And the instructions with them. There’s no time now, no time!’ And out they went, struggling against the wind to the helicopter: the pregnant woman, the man with the bad back, Medical Officer Komarova, and her assistant from the transport company.

‘What’s this?’ the pilot shouted, as they clambered aboard. ‘How many of you?’

‘Just two patients and us.’

‘What, two patients and you? Two patients and you two make four. With me five. The machine carries four!’

‘You’ve carried five before.’

‘In high winds, with a blizzard coming? No way. One of them stays.’

‘These patients have to be in hospital!’

‘Then let
him
stay!’

Which he did, after some angry words.

So far, so good.

The childish story, still to come, was another matter.

Innokenty he had spotted immediately. The headman had sat smoking his pipe on the carpet while the medical examinations were carried out.

‘I never heard anyone speak the Evenk tongue so,’ the old man said, ‘not any stranger. How does it come about?’

Porter told him, and he told them all, over a venison dinner and ample drink, how it came about. He told of his childhood in Chukotka, of the schoolteacher father, of Novosibirsk and the Evenk friends he had met. How in the big town he had almost forgotten his own tongue, but his Evenk friends, true souls, had not forgotten theirs, and of how it had almost become his. Of his hankering for the north, and his driving experiences ever since. They were charmed by him, and charmed also at his interest in their own lives. Every aspect interested him, and they gladly answered all questions.

No, they didn’t remain in the one place; that was plainly impossible with such a large herd, over two thousand beasts. The reindeer grazed the moss under the ice. They grazed it and were moved on every few days. No problems. A small party dismantled the tents and carried them ahead and re-erected them. The same with firewood: every week or so a party would go south to a great woodstack nearer the timber line and collect it. Sure, on sleds, you harnessed up a couple of reindeer; wonderful beasts. They carried you, clothed you, fed you. Better than beef. And cheaper to produce than beef, and fetching better prices! Yes, everywhere, all over Russia, and
Japan too, and God knew where else. The collective did all that.

He didn’t know the collective? Novokolymsk. All that work was done there, the carcase-handling, packing, despatch, accounts. They went back there themselves regularly. A big helicopter came and transferred them. One party went back, another party came out. The schoolchildren stayed at the collective, of course; only came out to the herds for holidays. No, not everybody returned regularly; Innokenty didn’t, and many of the older folk also. They preferred the wandering life, didn’t feel the need for television, videos, parties. All that was for the younger ones. But a good life for everybody, a natural one, full of variety.

Indeed, he said, indeed it was. And he’d heard they also found time to fit in work at the docks in the summer. How did they fit all that in?

How did they fit it in? They could fit anything in. They were free. They did what they wanted. And it wasn’t the only thing they fitted in. They also worked regularly at a science station up in the hills.

Ah yes! He knew about that. Had actually met a couple of them when he’d freighted a load to the guard post there a few weeks ago. He explained the situation, to their very great interest Which Evenks were they? Well, he hadn’t caught their names, but from his description it was generally agreed who they must be – and what a pity they weren’t here to greet him. They wouldn’t be down for a week yet. Yes, the same system, one party came back and another went up to replace them.

Truly an interesting life, he said, admiringly. And he regretted not having picked up any science himself. They’d had a scientific training, had they, the people who went up there?

This occasioned a great deal of laughter, and also another round of drinks.

You wouldn’t call it science, old Innokenty said, smiling. Just honest work – cleaning, laundry, cooking, maintenance. And the heating, and such things. Scores of people had to be looked after up there, a big government station, scientists, guards – yes, stinking heads. You didn’t have much to do with
them. And they had nothing to do with Tchersky or Green Cape. All their supplies came from far away, thousands of kilometres. Which the Evenks offloaded and shifted, too. But not to the people below, of course. All the science happened
below
, and nobody was ever allowed there.

‘Only my Stepanka!’ exclaimed a very old lady, smoking her pipe and nodding.

‘Of course Stepanka. But nobody else.’

‘Who’s Stepanka?’ asked the Chukchee.

‘Her son. Stepan Maximovich. He looks after the boss of the place – took over his father’s job when he died. It’s in their family. He lives there. And he has a wife, not old, but beyond child-bearing age so they let him take her. For his natural needs,’ Innokenty said, winking.

‘Ah. Aren’t there any other women there?’

‘No, none.’

‘So what do the rest of them do for – you know?’

More laughter. Well, with the guards there was no problem. They were shifted regularly – in fact a new crew would be on next week. As for the scientists, a party of them went out, every couple of months – to opera houses, concert halls, things of that kind. They got private boxes, and various stinking heads had to go with them. But Stepanka thought they were given a ration of the other as well, it was only right.

Oh, they got to see Stepanka, did they?

Of course they got to see him. Stepanka had to know how his family was getting on – and all his people! And they were
trusted
. They were the only outsiders trusted. They wouldn’t trust any white workers in there. Or Yukagir or Chukchees, for that matter. No offence to Chukchees, it was just a different way of life in these parts. And the Yukagir could never keep to timetables. They were out scouting their traplines all winter. Go and find them! No, the Evenks with their regular herds were the only ones the authorities took. And they took them
from
the herds, not the collective. Took them and brought them back to the herds, so they shouldn’t
contact anybody in between. That was the way of it with stinking heads.

Well, a fascinating life, he said. But where was the opera house in Tchersky they’d mentioned, or the concert hall? He hadn’t found these places yet.

More laughter – hilarious laughter, everyone rolling on the carpet – and also more drinks.

Tchersky! An opera house in Tchersky! Oh, no! Not that, Kolya! No opera houses in Tchersky. God knew where the opera houses were – maybe as far as Novosibirsk. They flew them out in a big plane! In Novosibirsk they had opera houses now, and theatres, everything. Well, they must have had them when he was there last.

Ah, when he was there last, he said, and grew solemn. (The moment had come now and he braced himself.) The vodka had flowed very freely all evening and a tear now stood in his eye. When he was in Novosibirsk last!

What, Kolya? What? Unhappy memories?

Yes, unhappy. A person had to keep them to himself.

Why to himself? It
helped
a person to speak.

No. He wouldn’t burden them with unhappy stories.

What burden? With friends? Take a drink, Kolya. Speak.

He took a drink. Well then, he said, and wiped his eyes. Well … In Novosibirsk he had left a most tragic case. A white girl. Dying. He had met the family in his early tearabout days there. The father had worked at an institute outside the town; Akademgorodok – Science City. He had done odd jobs for the family, a fine family, just the three of them, father, mother, daughter.

And then evil things had happened. The mother, still a young woman, had taken ill and died. And a grandmother had come to look after the girl – just eight or nine years old at the time. This was twenty years ago. Until one day, out of nowhere, another disaster. The father too had gone – not dead, just gone, disappeared. A letter saying urgent government business and he would be in touch. But he had not been in touch. Not
from that day to this, not a single word – nothing.

What nothing? Innokenty said. How could they live on nothing?

Money
wasn’t a problem, Kolya said. Money came, regularly, from the ministry that had employed him. It was just – no word from him, no idea what had happened.

The ministry couldn’t tell them what had happened?

The grandmother tried. She tried everybody, the ministry, the place where he’d worked, his colleagues. Nothing.

So then what?

So then time passed, he went back to Chukotka, got a driving job. And the girl wrote from time to time. Told him the grandmother had died. Until suddenly, this year, a few months ago, she wrote again, very urgently. Could he come and see her at once? Which as it happened he could. The driving season had just ended, it was June, he was going to the Black Sea. So he went to Novosibirsk first, and saw her. And was shocked by what he saw. The girl was desparately ill, wasting away – the same disease as her mother, and the same age, twenty-nine. And the doctors said nothing could be done for her.

Well he couldn’t accept that, wouldn’t believe it. On the Black Sea they had
other
doctors, different cures. So he had taken her there, gone to top specialists, paid them privately. But the same story: nothing to be done. And the Black Sea was too hot for her, so he had taken her back to Novosibirsk. And there they had stayed, and had wept together …

Until, he said, wiping his eyes again, one day she had asked him to do something for her, one last thing.

When she first knew of her illness, she had gone herself to Akademgorodok – the place her father had worked. Had pleaded with them, pestered them, gone from office to office. And in a certain room, where records were kept, had overheard officials whispering together about a place in the Kolymsky region. And dimly from her childhood she remembered her father had also spoken of this place. A mysterious kind of place, a weather station, from which he
had received reports, also spoken of in whispers. And from this she had got it into her head that it was the explanation of his disappearance. He was
in
this mysterious place. He was not allowed to write!

And this was what she wanted of him – to take a letter to her father, begging one last word and his blessing before she died. She knew Kolya drove about in the north. To her, Chukotka, the Kolymsky region, were all the same. They knew nothing of the north down there, none of them. So, for a dying girl, what else could he do? He had come up to Tchersky and taken a job with the transport company and looked for this weather station. Of course he knew now there wasn’t such a place … But yes, that was the reason Novosibirsk had sad memories for him.