Snowman (14 page)

"Forget it," Bradford said. "Probably your imagination. You were all pretty scared."

"It was gigantic. It made sounds like a cat, but it wasn't a cat . . ."

Bradford sat with Cathy in her living room, staring at the fire and drinking brandy. He was relieved that the children were safe. They had accused Willie of instigating the trouble, but his parents, overwhelmed by winning the condominium, had taken the easy way out and let him off with a reprimand.

Outside the wind had gained momentum, and thrashed the loose snow from the drifts. Standing by the window, Cathy watched the snow pummeling against the warming hut at the base of the slopes.

"We can use the snow."

"Hasn't it been snowing regularly?" he asked, looking up with some surprise.

"No, it's the damnedest thing. We usually get one of the highest snowfalls in the States. But this year the weather's been so peculiar."

"In what way?"

"The way it starts, then peters out. In the past, once it began we'd have snow every day."

"When was the last time it snowed?"

"The afternoon Janice was killed."

Bradford pondered the implications, then went to refill his glass. He stood by the mantelpiece, trying to make some sense out of the circumstances.

"It was snowing when I was attacked. It never occurred to me to make a connection. The Snowman comes out when it's snowing. He was on the mountain tonight. I know it. The kids saw him. But why when it snows? Does it have something to do with the food supply or the ice movement?" he asked rhetorically. "Or possibly sound? When I was on Lhotse with my party, our electronic equipment went haywire, and we thought it might have been the weather conditions or the altitude. But during that entire period we kept hearing an ultra-high-pitched sound which echoed on the mountains, and I was sure that it was wind trapped in an ice chimney."

She drew the curtains and moved to the fireplace. She sat on the rug, removed her boots and socks, and warmed her feet by the fire.

"It's a full-blown blizzard out there," she said, chilled and shuddering. "Dan, when you followed after Hillary, you must have had some theories about the Snowman."

"They were considered too unscientific for publication, which is why I had to go out and try to find some evidence to support my ideas. A lot of good it did me," he added angrily. "Christ, we were so badly organized, and our camera equipment froze. There just wasn't enough money to mount a proper expedition."

"How do you think the Snowman evolved?"

"I don't know . . . the Snowman is nature's ultimate survivor. The sheer weight and size of him is beyond belief. He could take a great white shark and rip its head off and eat it the way we polish off an apple. Cathy, I saw him with my own eyes. He just lashed out and hacked a sérac off the mountain. The power he has is beyond comprehension. Hundreds of tons of ice were just mashed into a pulp."

"But how could he possibly get here, to the high Sierras?"

"He probably lost his food supply in the Himalayas and had to find the right climatic conditions. He may have lived here for years, preying on the wildlife, before there was any resort here."

She had again lost Bradford. His eyes were glazed, and he seemed drugged or hypnotized by the idea of his quest. She wrapped her arms around him, terrified by the drive which haunted him, but he seemed not to feel her.

"The lamas call him
Sogpa
," he said finally. "Satan."

They had gone into the bedroom together without either a signal or any discussion. It just seemed the natural thing to do.

"I don't remember the last time I was in a woman's bedroom," he said.

He lifted up her pale pink ski skivvy. Her breasts were firm and warm and he unclasped the bra hook in front, exposing them. He stroked them with his fingertips and then kissed her. She had expected something else, something to match the violence he seemed to contain, not this wonderfully gentle caressing.

She realized that she was crying soundlessly when he removed her pants. In a moment they were both under the covers, naked. He brushed the tears away with his index finger, then tasted them with his tongue. He pressed against her, and she felt him stubbornly force himself inside. He was growing larger inside her, exploring her. She arched her back and let him thrust deeper.

He remained inside her for most of the night, and she felt herself come even as she dozed. It was still dark—perhaps four in the morning—when she touched his shoulder-length hair. She remained awake the rest of the night, convinced that this was all she would have to remember. He was going to die, and there was nothing she could do about it.

She made a pot of coffee at about six and sat quietly before the window. The snow had stopped during the night, and she watched the bleak sky gradually lighten. The tortuous long icicles hanging from the window seemed threatening and dangerous. She was overcome by a depressing realization that she might never again see the man asleep in her bed. Her life was filled with these vicious, tantalizing surprises, which reached that gorgeous high point and then collapsed. Once again, she knew, she would be powerless to alter the course of events.

He would resent any plea to give up the climb. He was a man with a destructive purpose, charting the means and method of his own death. She and her company joined him in this collusion. All she would have from Bradford was one night.

"How can I hold him?" she asked herself, pouring another cup of coffee and studying the mountain peaks which were slowly defined by the shifting light—naked and jagged, coated with ice and pinnacles of treachery. She raised her fist at them in a futile gesture of rage.

"I don't want you to go up there," she said when he came out of the bedroom, tousle-haired, boyish, with a sheepish smile on his face.

He stroked her face, and she pulled away like an unyielding child punishing a contrite parent. But she knew her helplessness had no affect on him. He would not console her or try to convince her that he had to go. There would be no scene, no drama, just a friendly wave.

Which was precisely what occurred after they had finished breakfast. He kissed her, offered no good-bye, and, like some magician's illusion, he vanished. She cried during her bath, then dressed, put on her makeup, and tried to forget what was happening to her.

The team of men shifted their equipment to the gondola at seven. The lifts would not be opened to the public until eight thirty, so they would have ample time to reach the experts' slope. They would then begin the climb and make a start at establishing base camp. Ashby took Bradford aside and handed him a lightweight 35mm Nikon.

"As soon as you set up camp, let me know. Good luck."

The air was so dry that their nostrils burned; Bradford checked the oxygen equipment. He'd picked light alloy dural cylinders, which weighed eighteen pounds. A USAF mask used by pilots of F111 jets was fitted with inlet valves; an economizer enabled each man to control his own mixture. A spirit of camaraderie took hold of them now that they were on the mountain. The bickering of the previous night was forgotten. Much of the new snow had frozen overnight, but there were still dangerous areas of soft powder which had built up in drifts over fifteen feet high.

Bradford, carrying sixty pounds of equipment in a backpack, led the party up to the icefall. The twelve-point Grivel crampons they wore enabled them to slash through the different textures of ice and snow. The drop was not precipitous, and there was no need to climb belayed with rope. If anyone fell he could stop by self-arrest or glissading. The morning was clear, and from his position at the head Bradford could make out the line of the summit. It was surrounded by groups of sharply angled cornices. Below them, encircling the summit and creating another barrier, was an immense depression.

At fourteen thousand, two hundred feet the temperature was sixteen below. It had dropped four degrees for each thousand-foot increase in elevation. The prevailing wind was southeast at ten knots, but this could change unexpectedly. They reached the icefall. In the luminous sun it spread out in an infinite gleaming slab. The men were breathing hard, but there was no need for oxygen.

With his binoculars Bradford scanned the mountain, searching for tracks or a sign of the Snowman. If his idea held up, the monster would not appear until it began to snow. He decided not to tell the men about his theory, simply to order them to be more vigilant when the visibility decreased. Abuting the icefall, he located a sangar, a low rock wall and a natural windbreak. They were on flat ground now, and they walked abreast toward the sangar.

"How was the weight, Jamie?" he asked.

"I can probably handle sixty maximum," the broadshouldered Indian replied. "I came up with no trouble carrying eighty-five. These oxygen cylinders are ballbreakers."

"You were going pretty fast," Spider complained.

"Yeah," Packard agreed, puffing. "You were going flat out. What happens when we get up real high?"

"Show him, Pemba."

The little Sherpa darted out on the ice, still carrying his full load, and looked like an Olympic sprinter.

"Man, remember me? You didn't hire O.J. but a shitbusted crap shooter fresh out of the slam," Spider informed him. When Pemba returned to the group, Spider asked, "What the hell did they feed you up there in Nepal?"

"Monkeys."

"God help us," Packard said, setting down his pack. By noon they had set up their three bright orange Meade tents and Bradford had established radio contact with Monte's office with a specially adapted Pioneer shortwave set. It operated on high-tension batteries and would give six hours' use at thirty below. Each of the men had a high-frequency walkie-talkie with crystal controls on both reception and transmission. The walkie-talkies weighed only two pounds and could be carried under their vests, where body heat would insure that they would remain in working order.

"This is Survey One," Bradford said over the radio.

"Come in. This is Base!" Ashby shouted excitedly.

"How's the transmission?"

"You're in stereo. Have you seen anything yet?"

"No, we've made our camp on the western edge below the icefall."

"I've got Chuck standing by with the chopper. Should we come up?"

"I wouldn't bother yet. They're heavy winds, and you'll bounce around too much."

"Can you get any pictures?"

"If you want slabs of ice I'll get one of the boys to start shooting. Survey One over and out."

The camp had become a reality, and in spite of the intense cold the constant movement brought them all out in a sweat. Food supplies were stored in one of the tents and two primus stoves were rigged up. At one o'clock a signal came in: Carlos had arrived and would land by helicopter at the camp. None of the elaborate preparations would make any sense if the weapons didn't work.

Bradford climbed over the ice about a quarter of a mile from camp. He had spied an oblong boulder the size of a twenty-ton trailer, and he thought it would provide a fair test of the weapon's capability. He found a flat stretch and radioed his position to the copter pilot. In a few minutes the chopper was above him, its rotors churning in the heavy crosswind. Severely buffeted in the channel between the mountains, it finally landed a few hundred yards ahead of him.

He sent out a message on the walkie-talkie to the men, asking them to reconnoiter below the icefall. The copter's side windows were fogged; Bradford rapped on the door with his ice ax. The pilot opened the door and with Ashby's help shunted out a large black metal box. They set it down on the ice. Monte climbed out, followed by Carlos wrapped in a fur coat. The pilot returned to the chopper, and Monte said curtly to him, "Be back here in thirty minutes, Chuck."

Bradford detected a look of strain on Carlos's face, and it was confirmed when the munitions expert said, "I'll never undertake another job like this. The time pressure was intolerable."

"Do they work?"

"We ran a single test and it was effective."

"But there were complications?" Bradford said.

"I'm afraid so. What seemed so promising on paper didn't quite work out in practice."

Ashby stood to one side, talking into a tape recorder. "Like what?"

"The quantity," Carlos replied with a gesture of helplessness. "I had sixty men working day and night just so you'd have five arrows per man."

"Shit, there's no margin for error."

"Dan, the plutonium itself still made an explosion when it made contact, even though the radioactive nature of the element operates on an implosion principle."

"This is suicidal," Ashby said.

"Butt out of this, Jim," Bradford said, glaring at him.

"We took the warhead and constructed a miniaturized laser made out of plutonium so that on contact the effect is the same but there is no sound."

Carlos stooped down and unlocked the box. A thin lead sheet covered the weapons.

Pemba arrived leading the others; they watched with interest as Carlos lifted a second layer of styrofoam. The box was divided into five compartments, and there were sounds of approval when the men saw the crossbows. They were constructed of a highly polished aluminum compound. Carlos showed them the flex on the aircraft cable and demonstrated the assembly procedure. He attached the automatic firing mechanism to the center of the shaft, then, with a small screwdriver, adjusted the Zeiss telescopic sight.

"You press this button to activate the zoom lens," he explained. He handed the crossbow to Bradford and supervised the men as they assembled the others. He pulled out five brass-fletched practice arrows and handed them out.

"You can use these to see what adjustments you want to make."

"What about the warhead?" Bradford asked.

"I've brought only one to test."

"What's the range?"

"I got it up to a hundred yards."

"Christ, that's practically on top of the target," Spider said, aligning the practice arrow.

They moved out to the boulder. With a knife, Bradford scraped the ice off a section of it until he hit black rock. The sharp contrast would serve as a target.