When the British War Office realized they were launching combat operations within the Arctic Circle for the first time in human history, they turned to Ernest Shackleton, Antarctic explorer. The Shackleton boot was the result of all the explorer knew about snow, mated with all he guessed about combat, a match-up like any shotgun marriage. The arch and heel slid in opposite directions, as if they argued. Each step was like scurrying across an icy pond.

Perhaps this would have been bearable to the Allies had they known where they were going. The topographical maps purchased from locals omitted swamps, for instance—“because everyone knows about them.” The rivers they waded through began to ice over.

And no one quite knew why they were going anywhere. When the men were on civic patrol, they turned their eyes toward Ironside’s office window, wondering what was going to happen to them. Town Hall, near the desolate town square, was a hive of switchback breezeways crowded with refugees, builders seeking permits, tradesmen with licenses stamped by the wrong administration, spies, thieves, and a glowering Cossack who sat on a captain’s chair, clearing his throat with a terrible hack as chilling as the final stroke of the clock at midnight.

The bureaucracy lived in tiny, grimy rooms whose location did not match up to the maps Ironside had commissioned. Room 516, for instance, was next to Room 22A, and both of them were on the second floor, which in certain areas was called the third.

Ironside’s office was the largest, and the quietest, the walls insulated with cow manure, his several windows overlooking the village square. Today his guest was a highly agitated Felix Cole, the U.S. envoy. Cole, of the St. Louis Coles, had inherited his post in better times, but had stepped up to the plate (an American term, Ironside discovered, meaning he was admirably living up to his responsibility) during the counterrevolutions, and was generally liked. Unfortunately, Cole was now attempting to explain Russia to Ironside.

“History is repeating itself,” Cole said. “We aren’t—”

“I’m sorry,” Ironside said. “Not to interrupt, but I find that phrase less helpful to the situation than others.”

Cole hitched his trousers. He had lost weight. “How about this? The population doesn’t trust us.”

“Yes,” said Ironside. “It makes sense, doesn’t it?”

“I’ve heard you’re a historian, General—”

“Bill. And people say that ‘repeating’ phrase as if it’s a law of thermodynamics.”