Fourteen

The way back was hell, pure and simple. I realized that my head was starting to throb, and I also assumed that others were suffering in similar ways. Every few steps I struggled to draw a breath and welcomed any pause in our trek that allowed me to breathe more deeply.

Guides had bundled up Onesphory and the dead assassin and were carrying the two. We were no longer distinct groups; we moved in a single, long file. The Secret Service agents clustered about the president were alert, but there was almost nothing they could do in terms of security. Our protection was the blizzard through which we moved.

Diana hiked immediately in front of me. Once the adrenalin of the shooting passed, she took a sharp turn for the worse. She’d slow down, and I urged her to move a bit faster and keep up. She’d make an effort, then slow again. And so it went.

I only saw Calvin once, and he likewise was in bad shape. His missing toes were giving him hell, and he limped noticeably. He staggered frequently but recovered his balance quickly and didn’t fall into the snow beneath us and about us.

As we moved through the raging storm the situation unfolded like a nightmare. We were almost entirely exposed where we were, and none of us was fully dressed for these unexpected conditions. I occasionally shivered, which was a sign of hypothermia. Visibility was zero, thanks to the howling wind and blinding snow.

To divert my mind I tried to make sense of what had taken place, but I could not. There were so many people, various groups, so many reasons to kill the president that all I could do was speculate. The attempt taking place on the very summit of Kili smacked of a statement.

Had the mullahs in Iran managed to get to the guide? Or the Muslim Brotherhood in Egypt? That didn’t seem possible. The guide would surely have been related to Msingi. That’s the way with guides and porters, and he would have been a Christian, hardly a terrorist or sympathizer. It was always possible he’d done it for pay, of course. Or for some personal reason. There might very well be more to the story about the president and the chief’s wife, or, for that matter, more might have taken place 20 years ago when he’d spent a month there. Who knew what wounds he’d left behind?

Then there was the gun. And my conclusion concerning it was what troubled me the most. The only answer I could come up with was that the gun had been previously planted at the peak. If true, that meant this attempt had been planned. And while it was possible that the guide himself had placed it there, it was just as likely—perhaps more so—that someone had helped him. And if someone had helped, we were facing a conspiracy. And you never knew just how far a conspiracy went—or how many people it touched.

We continued like this for well over an hour. The relatively short time made it seem less daunting than it really was, given conditions. I cannot say it was the worst storm I’ve survived—nor that this trek was the nastiest—there’d been others even more severe and dangerous, but this one was about as bad as it gets. Fortunately, given the distances involved, it wouldn’t last too long. You can withstand almost anything if it doesn’t last for an extended period.

Conditions such as this weren’t supposed to happen on the summit of Kilimanjaro. The monsoon wasn’t due for another week or ten days, and until then the weather should have been ideal. Monsoons are, by definition, regular in their appearance, depending as they do on vast oceanic trends for their power and recurrence. But for all their regularity they occasionally arrive late—and early. And apparently they could descend with an unexpected fury.

Diana continued to falter, and at one brief stop I switched places with her. I took her two gloved hands and wrapped a short rope about her wrists. “Hang on and stay on your feet!” I shouted as we set out. All she had to do was stay erect and I’d pull her the rest of the way.

Half an hour later we reached Stella Point. This time there was no tea, no elation of any kind. We did stop to prepare for the steep ice expanse ahead, and for the unstable scree over which we were about to descend. Difficult as it had been coming up, in this storm it was going to be very difficult getting safely back down.

With the climbers congregated in a single mass, Hooker took the opportunity to start recording again. He was a jerk. He moved around and through us, sticking his little camcorder where it wasn’t wanted. More than one climber slapped it away. The only good news was that the howling of the wind made it impossible for Hooker to ask questions and record answers.

Diana looked terrible. I placed her against a large boulder and sat her down to protect her from the wind and storm. I searched out Calvin, whom I found with the president. When he finished his conversation I asked if he had any Diamox—a commonly used drug to increase white cell count. I was kicking myself for not asking earlier, but there’d been plenty of distractions.

“How bad is she?” he asked. I told him. “We’ll be dropping now. She should improve immediately.”

One of the remarkable aspects of altitude sickness is that a descent of even a few hundred feet can have an amazing effect. The climber, after all, isn’t sick, just oxygen deprived.

“I’m concerned about the ice field and the scree. She’s having trouble staying on her feet.” He nodded, and I led him to her. Calvin knelt, spoke to her a bit, and examined her eyes. He fumbled in his kit and drew out a syringe, then jabbed it into her arm through her clothing. She winced at the pain but he was soon done.

He straightened and said, “I gave her Diamox. It will take effect faster this way than by pill. She’ll feel better shortly. Keep me advised, though, if she doesn’t improve once we’ve descended.”

“How’s the president?”

“Distant. Uninvolved.”

“Shock?”

Calvin shrugged and limped off to visit other climbers who were now patients.

To my relief, we didn’t start at once, despite the fact that we gained nothing by remaining where we were in this exposed location and at this elevation. The snow had eased enough for me to see a commotion. I checked on Diana, who patted my forearm, and I told her I’d be right back.

The guides were arguing with Grant and refusing to go on. If they didn’t get their way they would leave their packs behind and let every climber make it on his or her own. The dispute, it turned out, was over Msingi, who had been handcuffed at the summit. Though he was a skilled climber, he’d stumbled and fallen several times since leaving the summit, unable to maintain his balance. The two Secret Service agents, the guides argued with had been rough with him, treating him like a murderer rather than a hero. They wanted his hands freed from here on. With the coming ice and scree, then the series of boulders through and over which we’d have to scramble, it would be impossible for him to make his way.

Lastly, and perhaps most significantly to them, it was a humiliation for Msingi, the chief guide, to be treated in this way.

This discussion, if you could call it that, went on for some minutes, then Grant reluctantly relented and ordered the handcuffs removed. An agent took Msingi’s hands, none too gently, and took the cuffs off. The guides picked up their packs, and Msingi said something in Swahili to them. They grinned, then joined their assigned climber. They handed over our trekking poles, then gestured for us to resume, breaking into a chant as we did.

Climbing and descending a mountain are two very different experiences. What takes five days to climb can be descended in a single day. I’d done it. While climbing, every effort is against gravity, every breath is of thinner and thinner air. The experience is energy-sapping, demoralizing. Descending is, in most ways, the opposite. Gravity is your friend, pulling you lovingly forward and down. The air grows richer as you move, and every 100 feet or so of altitude you drop permits more vitality to return to your weary limbs. After a descent of 1,000 feet or more the air has a luxuriant quality, rich like cream, and flows into your lungs like an elixir.

But there are special difficulties during the descent, difficulties so serious that most deaths take place on the way down rather than on the way up. The relative ease of the trek and the richer air create a false sense of security. You’ve also climbed the mountain; you’ve done what you set out to do. Naturally, your thoughts and emotions remain with the conquest, not with the task at hand. You move along in a sort of trance, removed from the potential dangers you face. For despite favorable conditions, you are also exhausted from the effort. You’ve been climbing for days and are often malnourished, because loss of appetite is one of the first effects of high altitude. You likely have been suffering from diarrhea—often chronically, as you’ve been exposed to new, exotic bugs—and sanitation on these climbs is not the best.

Moreover, you are certainly dehydrated. Your throat hurts from the thin, dry air, from breathing so much through your mouth to increase the flow, and the consequence is that you avoid swallowing if you can. Which always means you’ve not had enough fluids for days. This leads to increased fatigue, nausea, vomiting, fever, as well as exacerbated diarrhea.

Finally, there is the effect on the knees of descending. It’s almost as if the human body has been designed to climb, not to descend. Maybe climbing is more important to our survival. I don’t know. What I do know is that once you begin heading back down in earnest it takes only a little time for the knees to weaken and buckle. This is one reason why so many falls, often deadly, take place when descending a mountain.

And all this was why I was so concerned for Diana in her condition.

We were at the steep expanse of ice almost at once. The guides slowed the line to a crawl and called out repeatedly, “Pole! Pole!” I was following Diana but had linked the two of us with a rope, which I kept a bit taut to ease the strain on her. The poles helped to brace me, but the ice and snow were very slippery. The wind returned to its full fury and the snow whipped across our bodies.

We were scarcely creeping down the steep ice. My vision was obstructed, but still I could see climbers slipping. The one immediately behind me—Hooker, it turned out—fell hard on his rump more than once, cursing his guide each time, as if it was his fault. Ahead, climbers fell and slid short distances. Often it took several attempts to get back to their feet. The guides were invariably patient, lifting them up.

The line stopped frequently, even at this snail’s pace. Once, unexpectedly, Diana went down, hard. The connecting line jerked taut and pulled me forward. I braced myself and remained standing. I reached over and lifted her to her feet. Then we continued.

Finally, after what seemed an interminable time, the sharp descent eased, and we transitioned off the ice onto the scree, though it was scarcely an improvement. A thin blanket of snow covered the loose rock but made it no more stable. Boulders dotted the route, looking now like grotesque, oversized heads mounted in the snow, making our passage more difficult. I slipped repeatedly, and more than once was certain I’d fall, but I managed to stay erect. Others were less fortunate, and falls now were widespread.

It was approaching noon by this time. At this pace, I figured we’d reach Karanga by late afternoon, depending on the weather. If it eased sufficiently, we would do better than that, but I saw no sign of the storm abating.

The line halted as we left the scree behind us at last. I wondered for a moment just who was calling the shots with Msingi under guard, then it came to me that our pace was really being determined by the condition of the president. He was our most valuable team member, and every decision from this point on would be made based upon his physical condition and security requirements.

“How are you?” I asked Diana.

“Better, I think,” she managed—but she didn’t look better. “I want to throw up all the time, and my head is killing me.”

“It will improve as we move down. You’ll see.”

We would soon reach High Camp, where we’d stopped the previous night, but we’d not delay there. It was too exposed to the weather and too high. Our overall schedule, which the limits of human endurance still dictated, called for us to continue on to Karanga, Camp Four. Everyone who’d not attempted the summit was waiting there. It was some 6,000 feet lower than the summit, more than a mile, and at these elevations that made all the difference. The air would be much richer and the storm very likely less severe, certainly less cold.

Calvin, I saw was limping his way along the line as we waited, most climbers seated in the snow or on a boulder if one was at hand. He’d pause at each person, ask a question, speaking words of encouragement, then move along. When he reached Diana I let him talk to her in private, then he turned to me.

“How are you?”

“I’m fine. The headache is gone. How is she?”

“All right, I’d say. Keep an eye on her, though. I’ll feel much better once we reach Karanga.”

“How are the other climbers?”

“We’ve got injuries. Nothing serious, I think, but it’s going to be tough going for some. Two of the agents have twisted their knees and are hobbling. They’re in good shape, so they’ll be all right with some rest. The boys are good, very upset still, though. Tarja’s tough as nails. Tom took a really hard fall earlier, more serious than he thought. I’ve got two guides tending him.”

“How’s the president?”

Calvin paused, and for a moment I didn’t think he’d tell me. “He’s okay. I need to check the rest. Take it easy. We’ll be out of the worst in a few hours.”

“And communication?”

“Still down. The agent in charge is pretty angry about it. They’ve got a backup system linked to an airplane on the tarmac at the airport that’s supposed to be failsafe, but it’s not functioning.”

“So no one knows what’s happened up here?”

“No, and just as well. An assassination attempt on the president on a foreign trip is going to create quite a stir. In my book, the best plan is to keep it quiet, but that’s impossible, of course.” He moved along. I didn’t listen to Hooker whine to Calvin about his condition.

Ten minutes later we resumed a slow trek down the mountain. The next hours were an endless repeat of the same. At times our passage went smoothly, then we’d encounter a sharp descent, strewn with boulders that we were forced to climb over or squeeze around. It was difficult going at those times, and I all but lifted Diana through the more difficult parts. Behind me, Hooker complained endlessly.

The snow kept us in perpetual twilight, and the gloom caused it to feel later in the day than it really was. If anything, for some time the wind increased in velocity and I struggled to maintain my balance. Diana went down three more times, once nearly swept away by the force of the gale.

I lost track of Hooker behind me several times, thinking that with any luck he’d wander off into the blinding white. I imagined him stumbling around, disoriented and confused, falling into the snow, sobbing, begging for someone to help him, finally freezing to death, his body never to be found.

But such thoughts, enjoyable as I found them, were beneath me, I reminded myself. Anyway, his guide would rescue him. They always did.

We continued at this snail’s pace for the next few hours and began to wonder just when we’d reach Camp Four. Then the line came to a stop. The storm had not eased, but the snow, I observed, no longer consisted of hard pellets; rather it became small flakes that collected more readily on the ground. I could see drifts up to two feet high already formed in some places. We moved, stopped, moved again, and then, suddenly, I realized we were there; we had reached Karanga Camp.

I glanced at my watch. With the departure delay we’d set out about one in the morning. We’d reached this camp at four in the afternoon. It had been a long, exhausting day, both physically and emotionally. I took Diana’s arm and moved her forward toward the swarm of dark figures I could make out coming toward us through the snow from the camp.

Fowl was the first to reach me. “What’s happened?” he shouted.

“Help me here. She needs to get into her tent and out of this.” Fowl took Diana’s other arm, and as we moved her toward her tent I told him what had happened.

“Someone tried to kill the president?” His face was uncovered, and I saw a look of disbelief. “His boy is dead? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It’s what happened.”

Fowl didn’t say anything until we were at the tent. “Maybe,” he said finally. “Maybe that’s what happened.” I told him I could take it from here, and he went off to help someone else and to see what he could learn.

I laid Diana down, removed her boots, unwrapped her face. Her skin was bright red. She looked at me feebly, barely able to keep her eyes open. “Don’t go too far, soldier. A girl needs her beauty sleep.”

I fitted her into her sleeping bag. “Rest now. I’ll check on you later and bring something to drink.” She didn’t hear me. She was already fast asleep.

The storm had taken one of those unexpected—though welcome—turns and suddenly eased, the wind reducing to a stiff breeze with occasional gusts, the snow now falling instead of whipping crosswise through the air. Visibility had improved significantly, and outside the tent I saw a frenzy of activity as word of recent events atop the mountain spread like a wildfire. The camp had formed into two groups: the guides in one, everyone else in the other. I didn’t like the looks of that.

Glancing up in the direction from which we’d come I made out the guides who carried the bodies of Onesphory and his murderer. They’d fallen slightly back with their burden. The bodies were strapped to and resting on poles the men solemnly carried on their shoulders. As they reached the camp proper, those bearing the killer stopped and set the body on the ground, while those with the son of Kubwa Moja moved forward at a solemn pace. Climbers and guides alike drew up respectfully for the fallen son. I looked about. The president was nowhere in sight.

The guides moved carefully so as to not drop their burden, but also now with a certain marked dignity. From the Africans came a low moan that at first I could not comprehend as such, a masculine and solemn rhythm. Then from those throats emerged a somber chant unlike any I’d heard before, a profound sound that was soon a funeral dirge, and I recalled Homer’s Iliad as the Greek soldiers carried their slain from the battlefield before the walls of Troy, in honor.