The Chinese Agenda (17 page)

"All right, get going then, and be careful,' he said. 'That overcast makes it damned hard to see.'

Leycock nodded. 'If I wasn't so tired, I'd stay here with you . Gillon thought for a moment . . . there was a graceful way out, he thought, one that wouldn't give Stowe an opening.

'Look, it would take you just as long to get back down to the camp if you started now in the dark as it would if you waited for moonrise. This overcast doesn't look like it is going to thicken any more than it already has, so why not stay here until then? You can spread your sleeping bag here and get some sleep.'

Leycock agreed heartily. 'Great idea. I think I will. I don't fancy that stretch through the trees in the dark.'

Abruptly Stowe turned away without a word and shrugged out of his pack. 'Let's get busy,' he snapped. Gillon smiled to himself and went to work. Fifteen minutes later, they had laid out and carefully fused the three charges of gelignite taken from Dmietriev's pack. He was worried about the length of wire they would need, but it was much safer and surer than using timed or burning fuses. Together, the three of them circled back down the pass several hundred yards, using their flashlights freely once they had dropped below the top. If there were any search aircraft still out in the overcast, they had had it, but Gillon judged that a lesser danger than a broken leg because of the darkness.

They found that the northwestern ridge above the pass presented a long, gentle slope behind that enabled them to climb up almost to the overhanging snow ledge. They were completely shielded from the troops advancing up the far slope by the pass itself and Gillon did not hesitate to use his flashlight to study the final portion of the steep ascent.

Òkay,' he said, 'let's go.' Occasionally, Gillon was forced to stop and cut steps into the steeper portions, but the ascent up the final portion of the eight-hundredfoot-high ridge was completed easily enough by the time the moon's upper edge began to show fuzzily over the eastern line of peaks. As they trudged forward across the top of the ridge, testing the snow's firmness with their axes, the sweep of moonlight seemed to precede them, changing the dull, frozen surface to a softly glowing opalescence as it drove through the high ice cloud.

The snow ledge itself reared above them another two hundred feet and, as they climbed closer, Gillon spotted a jutting ledge of rock barely visible immediately below the base. The entire incredible weight of the snow mass rested its forward surface precariously on this thin rock outcropping. Above the ledge, the snow leaned out and over the fivehundred-foot or more drop to the northern slope of the pass. Gillon could picture the spring sun growing stronger and stronger until it melted away the underpinning and of its own accord, the immense tonnage of snow broke loose and roared down the pass to block it completely until at least early summer. Below the snow and the rock outcropping, a shelving snow-covered expanse of rock ran below the base of the snow mass from where they stood. Wider at their end, it sloped at a thirty-degree angle for fifty yards and then fell away abruptly to the pass.

Gillon had Stowe and Dmietriev stop while they were well back on the ridge and he went forward carefully on snowshoes. He shuffled forward until he dared go no further, then turned to study the underpart of the snow ledge. It reared above him in the moonlight, a harsh white cliff now that the moon had risen high enough to clear the peaks. He could see where the snow rested on the rock and the wide melt channels that had already been carved by the sun. Two one-pound charges of gelignite equally spaced along the base of the ledge should certainly be enough to break it loose as one mass to bring it down into the pass. He would use three to be

certain. The trick would be in getting in underneath to the rock ledge without triggering the avalanche. Fortunately, the intense night cold would help to stabilize the mass, although where the melt had run, the snow would be as slick as glass. Nevertheless, he thought, he should be able to reach it by climbing up the slope to the rock ledge. If he placed the charges well back into the snow, the rock ledge would lend added compression to the powerful explosive and muffle the sound until the snow was well on its way.

But he did not like the look of the slope below his feet – the frozen melt water and the steepness of the runoff. He shrugged. There was nothing for it but to try. He turned carefully by shifting his snowshoes a few inches at a time and trudged back to where Stowe and Dmietriev waited for him.

He chose Dmietriev to plant the first charge, the one nearest the ridge on which they stood, basing his decision on the fact that Dmietriev was several pounds lighter and had had more direct snow experience than Stowe. He gave Dmietriev careful instructions on how and where to plant the charge and then went to work to lay out his own climbing ropes, showing Stowe how to anchor the line with his ice ax.

'Yeah, yeah,' Stowe nodded with a trace of impatience, but Gillon continued remorselessly until he was certain that Stowe understood exactly what he wanted. If he slipped, he would go straight over the rock ledge. There would be only the line and Stowe's strength to save him.

Gillon led them both down to the start of the snow-field. He indicated a spot, well back from the start of the ledge, had Stowe anchor his ax, then looped the line around it once and tied a double bowline in the forward end, through which he slipped his legs, and took a turn around his waist, fastening it into a crude belt. He stepped out of the bindings and jammed his snowshoes upright into the snow.

Stowe took his position behind the ax and began to pay out line as Gillon moved forward crabwise across the slope on his stomach, spreading his weight over as wide a surface as possible. After a few hundred feet, he risked a quick look behind to where Stowe and Dmietriev stood watching him. A trick of perspective seemed to curve the snowfield so that it appeared as if they were standing on the rim of a shallow bowl. It took Gillon fifteen minutes to cross the thousand or so feet to the rock ledge, using his ice ax to chop hand-and footholds in the icy surface. The snow melt was a greater problem than he expected. It must flood down from the snow during the brief warm period around noon, he thought, creating the damnable glassy smooth surface. Once it caused him to miss a handhold when his glove slipped, but he managed to lash out with the ax, levering his arm from the elbow, to smash the pick end through the crust. He rested for several minutes, waiting for his heartbeat and respiration to return to a more normal rate. When he continued the climb, it was at a slower pace, never shifting now until he was doubly sure that at least one foot and hand were both secure. The trip was not as bad as some rock climbs that he had made. The surface being more nearly horizontal relieved some of the tearing weight on his arms and the balls of his feet, but the icy wind that eddied about him, clutching and tearing with frozen, plucking fingers to drive the pain of restricted circulation into his extremities, was more severe than any he remembered.

His ax finally struck rock after what seemed like an interminable period of climbing and he paused for a moment before pulling himself up the last few feet to the rock ledge. Then carefully, an inch at a time, he drew his feet up under him and, using the ice ax as a crutch, stood up.

The rock ledge was only a few inches wide and the snow pack curved outward until, seven or eight feet above the ledge, it leaned beyond, forcing his head and shoulders outward as if trying to overbalance him. He was sure that he looked like some old-time movie hero stuck on the ledge of a skyscraper, Harold Lloyd perhaps; only here, there was no window to duck into; only the thin nylon line that stretched behind him in a long curve to where Stowe knelt in the snow, keeping it taut. If he slipped or fell, he would slither two hundred feet in a long arc down the glassy snow pack and the jolt when he reached the end would not only break bones but would probably snatch the rope right out of Stowe's hands. Savagely, he thrust the thought from his mind and concentrated on inching along the ledge until he judged that he had reached the twothirds point. The narrowness of the ledge posed yet another problem. It had widened for a space but then had narrowed again until he found that he could barely move a foot an inch at a time. He did not dare risk a look at his watch, but the steady climb of the moon above the peaks east told him that he was taking longer than he had reckoned. Unless he planted the charges, and soon, the soldiers would be over the pass. Abruptly, the rock ledge gave out and his foot tipped over into emptiness and he lost his balance. Gillon scrabbled hard at the icy surface, arching his back against the front of the snow pack until he could jam his ice ax to provide a tenuous hold. He rested a moment, gasping in the thin air until here gained his breath, and looked around. He was short by several hundred feet of the point where he had planned to lay his first charge. As well as he could reconstruct the face of the snow mass in his mind, he was sure that he was about two thirds of the way across. That was far enough, he decided, and backed up several steps to firmer ground. The narrowness of the ledge and the overhang of the snow pack made it impossible to swing the ice ax with enough force to carve out a hole for the charge. Swearing at the perversity of fate, he kicked what snow he could away from the base, an inch or so above the ledge, until he had a shallow hole. Carefully, he stooped down, clutching the handle of the ice ax. It would not hold him if he fell, he knew, but just holding onto something gave him a feeling of steadiness. He fumbled the packet of explosive out of his parka with his left hand and pushed it into the hollow, wishing to God that he had something that would serve to anchor it. He thought of his knife but its thin, sharp blade would never hold in the snow. He studied the packet, turning it into the moonlight to make sure that the igniter was still in place and that the single wire led out properly from the packet. To make sure it would not be yanked loose from the charge, he wrapped several turns around the packet, then with the spool of wire in one hand, he began to inch back along the ledge, hoping that the friction as the wire unwound would not yank the whole thing loose. He backed for what seemed like an eternity, moving one foot to his right to feel for the ledge, plant down securely, dig his toes into the soles of his boots and hope. The trek was made worse by the fact that he could not turn his head to see where he was going. When he could no longer see the point where he had laid the first charge, he stopped, took a deep breath and leaning as far out from the wall as he dared, turned his head, scraping his chin across the rough ice.

The ledge was a bit wider here, allowing enough room to use the ice ax. He cut the hole deep, tunneling back as far as he could reach, and scraped the snow carefully out into a pile on the ledge. He checked the second charge as carefully as he had the first, stooped down and thrust it into the hole, then packed the snow back in until it was filled. Breathing easier now that the charges were laid, he tested to see how firmly the charge was planted, found it satisfactory and began inching back along the ledge until he could see the snow pack three feet below. He inched backward another few feet until, with the ax resting on the ledge for support, he could ease down onto the snow. He rested there for a moment. Far to his right, Dmietriev was working his way along the snow ledge to where Stowe waited. The planting of explosive on that end of the ledge had been completed, he realized.

Taking a deep breath, Gillon eased himself down onto the snow and began the crawl back, using his boots to kick holds. After several minutes, the line began to go slack and Gillon muttered curses at Stowe for his inattention. He stopped, balancing precariously on the steep slope, and gave the line several hard pulls, but it failed to attract Stowe's attention. Still cursing but with more feeling now, he kept on, but within a few minutes, the line had gone so slack that he was becoming entangled. He did not dare shout at Stowe to attract his attention . .. the sound could very well carry all the way down the pass and warn the approaching soldiers. He gathered the line into coils and slung it over his shoulders; hardly a satisfactory solution but better than becoming so entangled that he lost his grip.

Just as he reached the lower limit of the arc, the hold that he had kicked into the snow a moment before collapsed. He felt himself begin to slide and feverishly he dug in hard with his right hand and stiffened his left foot, but under the sudden weight that hold collapsed as well. His hand plowed the thin crust of ice and he began to slide backward at a faster rate. The slack line looped around his shoulder snapped taut and he lost his grip on the ice ax. He slid down toward the dark edge of the snow pack, gaining speed with each second. He dropped the spool of wire, wondering idiotically that he had had enough presence of mind not to hang onto it any longer, thus tearing the charges loose. Far up the slope he heard Dmietriev's thin cry and saw Stowe's shadow racing down the slope. Good God almighty, he groaned, that bastard had lost the line. His apprehension exploded into fear that verged on the blind edge of panic and he lunged forward with his right arm to retrieve the ice ax, fastened to his wrist by a nylon thong. But encumbered by the coil of rope around his shoulder, he could not reach it. He rolled hard onto his right shoulder and managed to turn over onto his back, from where he could pull his arm down until the ax was in reach of his left hand. In desperation, he grabbed the wooden stock, rolled again and swung the ax high in an overhand arc to bury the blade deep in the snow. The ice crust was extremely thin, almost a glaze this near the edge and the ax ripped through it as if it were so much paper. Gillon managed to kick his boots into the crest, plowing up plumes of snow that buried him almost to the waist but at the same time, slowing him enough to grapple the ax head down under his chest. The chisel blade dug deep into the snow, the pressure of his body forcing it deeper and deeper until just as his feet thrust out over the edge of the snow pack, the ax head brought him to a stop. A moment later, the nylon climbing line snubbed up sharply, then wrenched at his arm painfully. The temptation to lie still a moment with the stiff feeling of the hard snow and the painful jab of the pick side of the ax head pressing into his chest to remind him that he was still alive was great, but the rope was insistent and he struggled until he could crawl forward up the slope. As soon as he was well away from the edge, he waved his hand above his head and the line slacked free. Grunting with pain, Gillon freed the tight coils from his shoulder. As he climbed back up the slope, he began to shake. The delayed reaction of adrenaline shock in response to the near fatal incident turned quickly to anger. He remembered Stowe's barely concealed impatience as he went through the instructions with the rope, explaining in detail the importance of keeping proper tension on the line at all times. It was Stowe's carelessness, inexcusable carelessness, that had almost cost him his life. The snow surface grew firmer as he drew away from the edge. Gillon got to his feet and, kicking steps with his heels, climbed carefully until he reached the point where the slope flattened. He stopped here a moment to rest and saw that Stowe was gazing off down the pass as if completely unconcerned by the fact that he had nearly killed him, and suddenly that anger exploded and Gillon rushed across the snow. He vaulted the low ridge that separated the snow pack from the firmer ground of the ridge and dove at Stowe, smashing into him in a flurry of snow. Stowe just had time to turn and see him coming before he went down. Gillon struggled to his feet and swearing incoherently drove a fist at Stowe's face. Stowe deflected the punch and struck back, but Gillon followed through with an elbow that caught him on the side of the head, knocking him flat. Then Dmietriev was between them both, pistol in hand. He drove Gillon, still raging, away from Stowe.