Sixteen

It was nearly ten by the time we started moving. Porters led the way this time, joined by two Secret Service agents. Behind them was my group, with the president’s immediately behind us and the last of the porters bringing up the rear with the two bodies. The remaining Secret Service agents were clustered about the person of the president.

The snow had eased enough to see perhaps 50 feet, and my last glimpse of our camp was of Hooker telling Grant that he was going nowhere. He was leaving with the president or he was staying put, but no way was he going out by a different route. Grant left him there with a porter and guide with instructions not to let him follow us.

Stern wasn’t in sight, and I was soon joined by Fowl. “What a mess, let me tell you. When I first heard the president was climbing a mountain in Africa, and on short notice, I said he’s nuts. And I still think that.”

“You’ve heard?”

“About the planes and premature reports of the president’s death? There’s an operation going on, Scott. Get your head straight. We aren’t walking out of here without more trouble. Bank on it.” He looked into the storm. “Those nut jobs are convinced Allah is on their side, and they’ve got this storm to prove it.”

“You think a terrorist team coming in from the north that has managed to evade detection can find us in all this?”

He snorted. “Scott, there are only seven routes into, up and off this mountain. Six of those are from Tanzania, one’s from Kenya. And I’m not counting trails and back ways the locals know that climbers don’t use. All told, there’s lots of ways to get here, but we’ve got to go out just one of three routes. We can go back to Machame, we can go west a bit and drop down using the Umbwe route, or we can take this one, to Mweka. Anyone reading a map can figure that out. And this route was announced in advance. And, get this, even with all the trouble, they’re still using it!”

“What should they do?”

“Hell, if I was ramrodding this outfit I wouldn’t do anything. I’d fort up where we just were, establish a picket line, and wait out the weather. As soon as they could they’d get a chopper in there and lift the president off this thing.”

“What about the VP?”

He looked at me sheepishly. “I forget about Combover.” The vice president was best known for his elaborate hair styling, designed to conceal his smooth plate. It fooled no one but him when he looked in the mirror. In high winds, like when he was walking to and from airplanes, his flopping hair and shining scalp were a vision. “That clown’s been chomping at the bit to be president ever since he was out of diapers. You’ve got a point.”

Fowl said nothing for a time. Finally he said, “How long have you known Stern?”

“Not long. I met him on my second climb of Everest. When was that? Something like three years, I guess. It was when Michael Sodoc died in that helicopter crash leaving Base Camp up there.”

“You close to him?”

I shook my head. “We’ve been through some experiences together. He saved my life on McKinley, and, as you know, that’s a hard thing to overlook. But I just can’t see getting really close to him. I doubt he has any friends. I suppose if pressed on the subject, though, he’d probably say I was.”

“That’s about what I thought. He’s a real piece of work, I can tell you. You ever slept in the same tent with him?”

“No, fortunately.”

“You got that right. He’s got some disgusting personal habits. Coughing, spitting, moaning in his sleep, humming, farting. In the Army, they’d have set him straight right off. I thought he was a hack writer. What’s he doing on this climb?”

“That’s a good question. He wanted on it and had some clout. He’s published a couple of books, one a best seller, and that’s cleaned up his image from when he wrote for the National Inquisitor.”

“I don’t follow that stuff, but I like to know who I’m going to be with in the field. Stern wrote a lot of stories about Tarja Sodoc back when she was working the rich old guy circuit in New York. I read some of his stuff, and it was all pretty nasty. Now he’s here and so is she. She’s Cavendish’s squeeze, so I get her presence. What I don’t get is how Stern managed to pull it off. She can’t want him around her.”

“No, I’m sure she doesn’t. That may explain why he’s had no access to the president.”

“Access? Why? That’s what Hooker’s for. He was supposed to be the media’s tame lapdog. Guess that didn’t turn out so well, did it? They weren’t ever going to give Stern access. Didn’t Tarja sue him? Get his last book pulled from circulation?”

“Yes, that’s what happened.”

“So why’s he here?”

I hesitated, then said, “He knows what really happened in Antarctica last year. They needed him to keep quiet about it and paid him off. He says he had some juice left and used it to get on this climb.”

“What? About that biological weapon the Chileans had? Hell, that’s common knowledge at the Company.” He shook his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe some of the things they’ll cut a check for. It would be cheaper to waste him. Which reminds me—what happened to the defamation suit she had against him?”

“The publisher got out of it by apologizing and withdrawing the book from sale. Stern never told me what happened with him.”

“That’s curious, isn’t it? Makes you wonder.”

“About what?”

“About what’s really going on here.”

A bit later, Tom joined us, laughing to himself. He was still limping, but our pace was so slow he had no trouble keeping up. “I guess Hooker gets to wait up there in the snow until he’s ready to see the light.”

“Any word of the Seals or Rangers?”

“Nothing. No communication in for sure, no word out, as far as they know. They keep trying.”

“I expect they’re taking that report of a suicide team a bit more seriously now.”

“They always were. Grant says they have to take every possible threat seriously. It’s the only way they can do their job with any measure of confidence. I’ll be glad to be off this mountain, I can tell you that.”

Our descent continued at an incredibly slow pace. I attributed this to all the discomfort most of the climbers were experiencing and to the need for caution. Also, we were moving through the residue of the recent heavy snowfall. In my view, Fowl had it right to the extent that those who had blown up the airplanes and made one attempt already on the president’s life would certainly have a follow-up plan. At least, we had to assume they had that capability. I disagreed with him to the extent that I estimated we were secure within the cocoon of the storm. If it lasted, I couldn’t see anyone finding us.

The wind remained strong but not as robust as on the previous day, making conditions less miserable, but the snowfall continued at an all but unbelievable rate. It was as if we were pressing our way through a wall of white. And though with snow you tend to have less extreme temperatures, today was very cold, so the snow accumulated rapidly because none of it melted. The route we followed was clearly marked, so there was no danger of losing our way, but it was covered with a thick layer of fresh snow.

There were no obstacles on this route, no boulders to climb or squeeze around, no scree with which to contend, no significant pitches or traverses. And, in general, our descent was at a steady pace across regular terrain. Only the weather made this problematic.

Tom was walking immediately in front of me. His leg remained stiff because we never seemed to move long enough or fast enough for him to warm up the pulled muscle. In front of him was Fowl, who was following Stern.

I didn’t know what Stern had been up to, but it was just as well. Based on prior experience, it would be no good. He was upset at being shut out and, given events, the turn he’d give about what took place would not likely be close to the truth. He had an agreement that his copy had to be reviewed, but so had Hooker, and we’d seen how much that meant.

Despite our slow pace, the steady trek downhill was taking a toll on my knees. I was also having some trouble staying warm, even though it seemed to me that within two hours after we set out the temperature had risen some. The snow itself had morphed from miniature, sharp pellets into modest-sized flakes, though still as hard as firm ice.

We stopped shortly after noon, and the guides urged us to eat what we had. There would be no prepared meal until we reached the lodge, and there I planned on devouring an enormous steak. Standing in the cold and snow, munching on a chunk of dark chocolate, the idea of the lodge came to me as a vision. Though some serious effort was still ahead of us, the end was in sight. We couldn’t be that far from Mweka Gate. Even creeping along as we were, we’d reach it and be in a vehicle for the short ride to civilization before dark.

A half hour after we resumed, I’d forgotten my optimism. The snow had turned to sleet, and despite my water resistant clothing and parka I was slowly getting very wet. I was soon chilled to the bone.

Our passage was more difficult, as well, because the warmer sleet was melting away some standing snow and turning our route to slush. The only good news was that the wind had finally eased to a stiff breeze. When we stopped next, word passed along the line to make ourselves comfortable. We’d be here awhile.

“What’s going on?” Stern asked.

“I think they’re going to try and air evac the president,” Fowl answered.

“In this weather?” Tom said.

“Sure. It’s tough, but we’re plenty low enough, and those pilots train for this sort of thing. He’ll have flown in worse conditions.”

Tom moved up the line toward the president’s group and returned a few minutes later. “Lester’s right. They were able to speak to the carrier offshore a bit ago, and a Blackhawk is on the way. The guides say the land around is as flat as it gets from here to the park exit.”

“Isn’t that a bit dangerous with the snow and wind?”

Tom shrugged. “They say conditions are marginal but possible. The pilot will make his own decision.”

“What about the terrorists?” I asked.

“No word on them, if they exist. The experts are speculating that the attack at the airport was a one off, a show, since they knew all the media were in town for this climb. The Rangers already in place have managed to deploy below us and are moving this way. I don’t know how far away they are or how long it will take for them to reach us.”

“What about the VP? He get sworn in?” Fowl asked, flashing a nasty grin.

“Nobody said, so I guess he didn’t.”

The temperature again fell abruptly, and the sleet turned into a wet snow. At the same time, the wind started gusting again. I’ve been more miserable, but at that moment I couldn’t remember when. Where we stood there were no natural breaks, nor was there anywhere for us to go for shelter. We were completely exposed to the elements in a vast open area. Visibility was reduced, though I made out shadowy figures moving off the route, presumably setting up a beacon for the helicopter to zero in on. Not much later, I thought I heard the familiar thwap of helicopter blades, but it was so remote and intermittent that I couldn’t be certain.

“Chopper coming in,” Fowl said. He stared off to the side. “From over that way.”

If he was right, and I trusted his combat ears more than my own, the Blackhawk would over-fly us. I listened, and soon the sound became more certain. I glanced into the snow but expected to see nothing. Visibility was deteriorating rapidly. “Maybe he needs to give this a pass,” I commented.

“Naw,” Fowl said. “They can fly by instruments now. They’ve even got an auto landing system run by computer. With the beacon and a clear landing pad, it’s a piece of cake—except for the wind. That makes it pretty tricky.”

I glanced toward the landing area and saw the throbbing blue pulse of the beacon. I peered into the sky and spotted the blinking helicopter’s running lights, though the craft itself was still a vague, dark shape in the sky. It was flying very low and very slow, seeming to creep through the snow. It eased its way over us and came into focus, slowing even more as it tentatively approached the beacon, the buffeting wind not appearing to affect it. If there were covering gunships overhead I couldn’t make them out in the storm.

“Too bad they don’t have one of those for us,” Stern said, fumbling with a camera, though any shot he got wasn’t going to show much.

“Look!” Fowl shouted, but I made out only the vaguest flash in the direction he indicated. And before I could ask what it was, the helicopter suddenly exploded in an enormous fireball. The light and heat pierced the snow, warming my exposed skin, blinding me and searing an image into my retina. I dropped to the ground as a great roar washed over us, followed by screams and shouts.

When I looked up I could scarcely see, but I sensed dark images running through the falling snow toward the burning mass on the ground. There was more shouting. Fowl had already left, sprinting toward the wreckage. He was followed by Tom, moving fast even with a decided limp. Stern was tagging after, his camera held to his face, filming everything.

I shook my head to clear my eyes, but I still saw mostly a burned, black image engraved on my retina, blotting out almost everything. I pushed myself to my feet and moved toward the flames and noise. By the time I reached it the Secret Service agents had taken charge and were holding everyone back.

“Nothing to do here,” said the woman agent I remembered from our first day. “No one’s survived. We’ve got casualties on the ground. Go back to the trail. We’ve got this.”

No one moved, no one spoke; the sight was too horrible. Up close, the wreckage of the helicopter was complete. The body of the huge machine was still recognizable as such, twisted as it was and 1ying on its side. The blades had flown far and wide and, I hoped, had not killed anyone. I spotted one blade crushed and twisted beneath the wreckage.

Now, over the wind and roar of the flames I heard sobbing, expressions of horror and disbelief. Across from us I could dimly make out Secret Service agents moving across the line of spectators, urging them back. One gestured as if he wanted everyone to leave the area at once.

As I watched in stunned silence, my sight gradually improved. The fire raged, and a column of black smoke rose from the carnage but was driven off by the wind that was also whipping up the inferno. The acrid smell of burning plastic, intermixed with the sharp odor of aviation fuel, filled my nostrils.

Beside me, Fowl finally said something. “We need to get to cover—fast. We can’t do anything here.”

“Why?” Tom asked.

“I saw the flare of a shoulder-fired rocket just before the explosion. The chopper was shot down.”

As if on cue, we heard the muted sound of gunfire coming from across the wreckage and the direction in which we’d been moving. Even in the heavy snow I could make out the familiar muzzle flash of light arms.

“Looks like they managed to find us after all,” Fowl said as he bolted off, shouting for the rest of us to hightail it.