Hunt the Wolf (7 page)

“There she is! That’s K2, the Savage Mountain, over there,” Crocker said, pointing at the spear-shaped thrust of rock.

“Incredible,” Davis said.

“And a total bitch to climb.”

“Great.”

“Arguably the most difficult in the world. Steeper and more treacherous than most of the routes on Everest. And the weather is significantly colder and more unpredictable.”

“Whose idea was it to climb that beast?” Akil said.

“Don’t worry, we’re not going for a summit.”

Crocker, who had climbed a few of these peaks before, filled them in on K2’s history. First summited in 1954 by two Italians: Lino Lacedelli and Achille Compagnoni. Since then, something like 310 climbers had reached the top, compared to over 2,700 for Everest. Over eighty others had died.

As with most climbs, the descent was even more dangerous than the ascent.

Crocker told them that only ten women had climbed K2. Three of those had fallen to their deaths on the way down.

“And that’s the peak Edyta wants to summit?” Akil asked.

“Yeah, she’s kind of extreme.”

“I can’t wait to meet her.”

“Piss her off and she’ll kick your ass.”

The wind picked up, smacking them in the face as it blasted down between K2 and Broad Peak. It took them close to an hour to cross two hundred yards to the camp, a scattered collection of purple, pink, orange, red, yellow, and blue tents in various sizes and shapes.

The Concordia camp served as a meeting place for adventurers from all over the globe. Flags showed that there were climbers present from Korea, Nepal, Serbia, Pakistan, Norway, France, Ireland, and Germany.

While the porters sang and cleared places for the team’s tents, Crocker and Akil went to visit the Germans. Eight of them were packed into a rectangular blue structure, seated at a folding table. The two Americans were invited to share
chapatis
(flatbread), yak cheese (which tasted like unsalted butter), and goat-milk tea while one of the Germans relayed the latest weather report out of Switzerland.

“There’s a storm coming in tonight,” he said in English, “then a forty-eight-hour break before the next one rolls in.”

That’s when Edyta entered, wearing a bright yellow parka and black wool hat pulled down to her eyes. Crocker, who didn’t see her immediately, got an elbow in his side from Akil. “Look.”

Recognizing Crocker, her gray-blue eyes sparkled, and she wrapped him in a hug. “Crocker. You old dog.”

“It’s good to see you again, Edie.”

“I pictured you sitting before a fire, well fed and pleased with yourself, with your children and dogs gathered around you.”

“I’m still getting in a climb or two a year. How are things?”

She looked leaner, more wizened, but still attractive in a been-everywhere, nothing-will-shock-me kind of way. High cheekbones, a wide, full mouth, strong jaw and chin. Straight, dirty blond hair that barely reached her shoulders.

She said: “My body’s stronger than ever. My mind is still sharp. And I’m still hungry. Very hungry. I’m not ready to slow down yet. Too many mountains and too little time.”

“I hear you.”

“More mountains to conquer, more hearts to break.”

Even in her forties, she still projected the aura of a femme fatale. A leaner, much tougher Kathleen Turner from
Body Heat
. Knowing Edyta, it was probably one of her favorite movies.

She whispered to Crocker, brandy on her breath: “I’m going to eat with the Italians after I help them clear up some garbage. You want to come?”

“You’re doing what?”

“These Italian environmentalists, they’re cleaning all the camps from Askole on. Empty gas canisters, beer tins, Coke cans, packaged food wrappers, batteries. Drop by my tent later. We can catch up.”

Crocker knew what she wanted. Edyta made no bones about the fact that she’d slept with practically every attractive climber she’d met.

“I’d like to, but I’m married.”

The glint in her eyes was wicked. “That didn’t stop you before.”

She was right. But that was during his first marriage, when he’d spent over three hundred days of the year away from home. He had returned after a three-week deployment to find the lawn unmowed and no furniture, lightbulbs, or even toilet paper in the house. Had no idea where his wife and three-year-old daughter had gone.

That hurt real bad. Now he limited his days away from home base to two hundred. Crocker wanted this marriage to last.

“Not this time,” he said.

“You’ll change your mind.”

“I doubt it.”

Edyta had a voice that sounded like honey mixed with gravel. “You know, a warm body is a luxury in a place like this. And mine gets hot.”

Crocker’s teammate stood to his right, vibrating with eagerness to take his place.

“Edyta, I want you to meet a good friend of mine. His name’s Akil.”

She checked him out from head to toe. “You look strong.”

“I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“You like Italian food, Akil? You want to come with me and get dirty picking up some garbage?”

Akil winked in the direction of his boss. “Why not?” he answered.

Edyta grabbed his hand and led him out.

S
now and
ice everywhere they looked, interrupted by sheets of gray granite. A buzzing blue sky. Thin air. His mind reaching into euphoria. Lungs and muscles burning.

They climbed four steps, then stopped to catch their breath. Climbed three more, then stopped again—Crocker, Davis, Akil, Edyta, and two of the Germans linked to one another by an eighty-foot rope.

After they had climbed eight hours, the sun continued to beam intensely and brilliantly as they ascended steep snow slopes weighed down by fifty-pound packs. The porters had stayed behind in the Concordia.

And as they passed between rocky towers, wiggled through ice gullies, and stepped carefully across knife-sharp ridges, Crocker replayed a nightmare from the night before. It had occurred in an unusual yellow light. He and Akil were accompanying some U.S. Army Special Forces somewhere in the Middle East. They stopped and were resting with their backs against a berm. The ground felt warm. The sun bore down on them, hot and heavy. Crocker, who wanted to keep moving, didn’t like the fact that they were exposed on three sides.

He sat admiring the way the sunlight turned the dust-filled sky a mustard color, thinking that he should point out their vulnerability to the SF leader, when a convoy of three white pickups sped toward them and opened fire. He saw little white splashes of light from the trucks.

Bullets splattered around them, kicking up dirt and shards of rock.

The closest cover: their Humvees, parked thirty feet away along the two-lane asphalt road.

Seemed like the best option.

“Let’s go!” Crocker shouted, getting into a crouch.

He grabbed Akil by the shoulder and started to run. His feet pushed down into the soles of his boots as they gripped the ground. Adrenaline surged through his veins, making him stronger, braver, smarter.

Hot air brushed past his bare arms and face. Then he was hit. His flight interrupted. One-two-three-four times.

Crocker somersaulted forward and landed on his side.
Bam!

His heart reached up into his throat until it was strangling him. Somewhere below his navel, just under the body armor, life was draining out of him. He knew he was going to die.

Not now! He had things to do. People to take care of.

He couldn’t even remember the name of the country he was in as his blood seeped into the thirsty ground.

What will they tell my wife? My daughter?
Like it mattered.

He had awakened in his sleeping bag in a cold sweat, thinking about his family and the risks he took daily.

Now, picking his way through the snow and ice, he thought back to some of the real nightmares he’d been through. Like the time in Panama, humping through the jungle on a Special Forces Reserve–led mission in the San Blas Islands. Birds calling, howler monkeys screeching from the canopy of trees, on their way to capture a General Oliverios, who had worked for the drug-dealing dictator General Noriega.

General Oliverios, who in addition to running drugs and illegal guns, and forcing young girls into prostitution, had recently decapitated one of his maids.

Nice guy.

Leading the mission was an out-of-shape, cigar-chomping SF major named Malone. A loudmouthed asshole.

Crocker pointed out that they needed to establish a loss-of-communications plan. The smart-ass major replied: “In the army we have comms that work,” because Crocker was in the navy.

A day later, during the hump over the mountains, the horse carrying all their comms fell off a cliff to his death. Which meant no comms for the remainder of the mission.

At the time, Crocker was hugely pissed off at the incompetent SF major. But now, for some reason, he was thinking about the horse. Remembering the horrible brays and thumping as it fell down, then the cries of pain and helplessness as it took its last breaths.

The result of one act of stupidity and one false step.

The sun had started sinking past his shoulder, which turned the sky a deeper, stiller blue and the snow-covered bank in front of him various shades of gold.

The others were lagging farther behind in the increasingly thinner air. Crocker sensed that they were ready to set up camp, but he didn’t want to stop. There was another campsite just 800 feet higher.

He’d wanted to push himself more, until he felt completely spent.

They had reached 23,300 feet.

“Boss! Boss!” He turned to see Akil pulling on the rope behind him, trying to catch up.

During training, Crocker often told his men: “Blood from any orifice.” In other words: Push yourself to your limits, and every now and then go past them. Otherwise, how will you know your full potential?

For years, Crocker would regularly take twenty-mile midnight runs. Then wake up the next morning at 0430 hours and ride his bike another forty miles before going to work.

Sometimes after a long run, when he stepped off the trail to urinate, he’d piss a steady stream of red. The first time he saw blood coming out, he went to see the SEAL doctor, who explained that constant trauma to the urethra had caused the bleeding.

People called him an obsessed maniac.

Truth is, he admired maniacs. Maniacs were prepared to face the shit. Like his SEAL buddy Joe M., who on a mission to Iraq saw a car full of insurgents pull alongside the vehicle he was riding in and start firing AK-47s. Most people would have panicked, but Joe kept his cool. Realized he had to protect his driver if he wanted to get out of there alive.

Sitting in the backseat and wearing body armor, he positioned himself behind the driver’s head to act as a shield while screaming at the guy in Arabic to hit the gas.

Over two hundred rounds were fired into that SUV. Two hundred! A good number slammed into Joe’s body armor. Three slugs found their way below it and landed in his flesh. The bullets were removed, and Joe survived to continue chasing bad guys overseas.

Like Crocker often told his men: The more sweat and tears you put into training, the less blood you’ll shed in time of war.

You never knew what you would be called upon to do.

That night, after they had set up camp on the mountain’s massive shoulder, the weather changed and a storm blew in fast. First rain fell, then it turned to snow. Winds tore across K2, bringing a blizzard.

They huddled in their two-person nylon tents, wrapped in their parkas inside their sleeping bags. Every hour on the hour, Crocker, Davis, and Akil went out and shoveled the snow off the tents so they wouldn’t get buried. Sleep was pretty much out of the question.

Edyta told Crocker that one of the German climbers was coughing up blood. Crocker suspected high-altitude pulmonary edema (HAPE), which could be fatal. He’d had it twice, once in the Andes and once in the Himalayas. As with all cases of altitude sickness, the best method of treatment was to descend. But there was nothing they could do now except wait out the storm.

As the wind pounded his tent, Crocker rolled over in his sleeping bag, thinking about his mother, who had died recently at the age of seventy-five.

He’d watched her change from a thin young mother with shiny brown hair to a stooped, gray-haired grandmother. But the sweetness in her blue eyes never changed. He saw them looking up at him, pleading, as he held her frail hand.

“What, Mom?”

She was trying to say something, but couldn’t speak because she was so weak from the cancer that had started in her lungs and spread throughout her body.

As Crocker held her, she mouthed the words: “Please don’t leave me.”

The next time he saw her, two days later, she was a gray corpse on an aluminum table in the local morgue.

All he could do was kiss her on the head, say “I love you.” Then he crumpled to the ground and wept like a little boy.

He thought about her now as he sat in the tent next to Davis, who was trying to sleep beside him. His parents had been good, brave, loving people who had worked hard for their children. Tried to pass on everything they’d learned.

Where were they now?

A blast of wind ripped at the side of the nylon tent.

Interesting how nature reduced things to fundamentals. Life and death. Disease and destruction, then the smell of wildflowers and a gentle breeze.

The storm outside was violent now. If nature wanted to take him—to bury him and the others in snow, blow them off the mountain, and freeze them to death—it would.

Whispering a prayer to his mother and father, his brother, sisters, and their kids, his daughter, his stepson, and his wife, Holly, he closed his eyes.

At noon the next day, the snow was still falling. Crocker estimated that another three feet had accumulated. And the winds had picked up to sixty knots, with gusts up to ninety.

The Germans in the lime green tent felt better, and they were all getting antsy, to either climb or turn back once the storm subsided. Edyta, in particular, wanted to push on. She pointed out that they had only another five thousand feet and approximately sixteen to eighteen hours of climbing before reaching the top. Crocker thought she might be suffering from summit fever.

“Not under these conditions,” he responded. This was just a training climb for his men. He’d planned to take them another thousand feet at most.

“Then I’ll go by myself!” she shouted.

“That would be suicidal,” Crocker told her. He and Davis ventured out to take a look.

A few steps from the tent—wearing glacier glasses, fully baffled parkas, and windproof, water-resistant down pants—they were blinded as the wind kicked up a swirl of snow. Crocker tried looking behind him, but the blast from the west was so frigid and powerful that it started to freeze the little bit of exposed skin on his neck.

Using a trekking pole, he gestured to the blond-haired, blue-eyed SEAL as if to say, You wait here.

Davis waved him back. “Don’t go!”

Taking a step in the fresh snow, Crocker’s right leg sunk up to his thigh and his foot didn’t touch bottom. Still, he ventured out a few yards and tried to dig some of their supplies out of the snow.

They had camped approximately six thousand feet above the base camp. To move in any direction was perilous, because the slopes were primed for an avalanche.

And conditions were likely to get a whole lot worse before they got better. Since the snow that had been falling was so cold, the crystals hadn’t yet bonded. An avalanche that happened now would be soft, not the heavier, denser slabs that they could expect once the sun and wind compressed the crystals into giant chunks of snow.

Armed with his trekking pole and ice axe, Crocker tried to inch up a traverse to the next ridge to get a better look. But when he stepped on the clear, hard ice, he lost his footing and fell back.

He picked himself up and tried again, with the same result. No go.

Back in the Germans’ tent, Edyta reported that base camp had received a message from Switzerland that there would be a small break before more bad weather moved in.

She shouted above the roar of the wind outside: “I’m leaving at dawn. Who’s coming with me?”

Crocker thought: A chick with a pick, and stubborn as a mule.

Being a responsible team leader, he explained to Davis and Akil that it was better to play it safe and come back to climb another day than try to prevail against conditions that were out of their control.

Around midnight, the wind died down and the snow stopped.

Crocker left his third game of chess with Andreas—the shorter and healthier of the two Germans—put on his boots, hat, helmet, backpack, and mittens, and stepped out to breathe the fresh air.

The wind whispered and the full moon cast weird shadows on the snow.

Looking almost straight up at the snowcapped summit of K2, he felt like he had arrived in another world. Gods and spirits lived on the mountain.

Climbers had a saying: The climb is possible only if the mountain allows it.

Maybe these spirits don’t want to be disturbed.

But the still beauty of the night drew him forward. He stepped carefully, boots crunching into the billowy snow until, when he looked back, the camp was only a dim shadow.

Enjoying the feeling of being alone with the mountain, he moved another fifty yards to his left to get a better view of the peak. Stopping and leaning on his pole, he sighed. The moonlight cast an eerie bluish, otherworldly glow.

I wish I had a camera.

His had apparently frozen the night before, even though he’d kept it wrapped in his parka.

Crocker had just pushed off with his right foot when the ground under him gave way and he started to fall.

What the—

Down. Down, picking up speed. Nothing to hold on to. No way to fucking stop.

It seemed that minutes passed before he landed with a thump, adrenaline coursing through his body, the air pushed out of his lungs until he passed out.

He awoke several minutes later, surrounded by a faint blue light. He thought he had died and been transported to another dimension. Then felt his heart pounding wildly.

Somehow, I’m still alive!

Biting cold under him, and pain emanating from his right thigh, hip, and arm. Crocker realized that he was lying on a tiny ice bridge somewhere in the middle of a curved crevasse. Alone and trapped.

It would have been much worse if the backpack hadn’t cushioned his landing.

He reached under his jacket and checked for broken or loose bones. There seemed to be none. Just blood on the palm of his right hand from a superficial wound.

I’m fucking lucky.

He pulled his legs up under him and shouted,
“Help!”

Then realized that his voice would barely reach the surface.

He was a good thirty to forty yards down. The camp was another two hundred yards away. He squatted, embarrassed that he’d made such a stupid mistake. And hoped that sooner or later, Davis, Akil, Edyta, or one of the Germans would notice that he was missing. If the wind didn’t kick up again, they’d be able to follow his footsteps and they’d find him—if he didn’t pass out from exposure first.