bar where you could get drunk. Women? Possibly. Maybe some Russian-born Lapp girls, easy prey to disease and the brutal, licentious soldiery. All soldiers were, in the civilian mind, brutal and licentious, Bond thought. Syphilis and other venereal diseases would be rife. The occasional case of rape hushed up, paid off so that the soldiers of Blue Hare could remain untroubled.
Bond’s eyes had cleared now. He studied Blue Hare without discomfort: a long, wide oblong cleared of trees, some of which had begun to grow again, encroaching on the tall wire fences with their barbed tops and angled lights. A pair of high gates had been hauled open immediately below them, and the road, snaking in through the trees, had been cleared of snow and ice, either by burners or hard sweat. Within the compound, the layout was neat and orderly. A guard room with wooden towers and searchlights on either side stood near the gate, and the metalled roadway ran straight through the centre of the base, around a quarter of a kilometre long. The storage dumps were placed on either side of this interior road: large Nissen hut-like structures with corrugated curved roofs and high sides, each with a jutting loading ramp.
It all made sense. Vehicles could drive straight in, load, or unload at the ramps, then follow the road to the far end of the camp at which there was a hard-standing turning circle. Any delivery or collection could be made at speed – the lorries, or armoured vehicles, coming in, taking off their cargo, and going on, to turn, drive back and out, the same way as they had come.
Behind the storage huts were long log cabins, certainly the troops’ quarters, mess halls, and recreation centres. It was all very symmetrical. Take away the wire enclosure, and the long lines of ramps, add a wooden church and you had the makings of a village, built to support a small factory.
Bond’s circulation had been restored slightly by the walk up to the ridge. Now the cold began to build in him again. He felt as though melting snow flowed through his veins and arteries, while his bones were made of the same ice that hung, sharp and glistening, Damoclean, from the branches above.
He glanced to his left. Kolya was already recording the scene for posterity, the VTR camera buzzing as he pressed the trigger, adjusted the lens, and pressed again. Bond held the small infra-red camera loaded in front of him. Leaning on his elbows, he raised his goggles and pressed the rubber eyepiece to his right eye, bringing the lens into focus. In the next few minutes he took a full thirty-five still pictures of the armament transfer at Blue Hare.
Kolya’s information was impeccable. The lights were on, heedless of any security. Drawn up beside the ramps were four big tracked armoured troop carriers. BTR-50s, just as Kolya had predicted. Give the man another crystal ball, Bond thought. Too good to be true.
The Russian BTRs came in various forms: the basic tracked amphibious troop carrier, for two crew and twenty men; the gun carrier; or the type now below them. These were strictly for transporting loads over difficult terrain. They had been stripped down to the bare essentials, with much of the support armour removed, and they sat on their well-chained tracks, each with a heavy bulldozer in front so that rubble, ice, deep snow, or fallen trees, could be swept from their paths. The BTRs were painted an identical grey, their flat tops unlocked and folded back down the sides, to reveal deep metal oblong holds into which crates and boxes were being stored quickly and efficiently.
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.
