Western Iran
November 30—0802 Hours GMT+3:30
JON SMITH UNZIPPED THE tent and crawled out, leaving Howell to roll up their sleeping bags. The rising sun was still obscured by clouds, but the gust seemed to be dying down. For most of the night, it had sounded like they were camped in a train station—the wind would build in the north, the roar of it slowly approaching until it got hold of their nylon shelter and tried to tear it apart.
He waded through three feet of new snow, skirting along a stone wall that probably dated back a couple of thousand years. At its end was a six-foot sculpture of a face topped by an elaborate headdress. It had once watched over the entrance to a thriving city but was now relegated to the less lofty job of securing one of their tent’s guylines.
This was the beginning of their second day skiing from the-middle-of-nowhere Turkey to the-middle-of-nowhere Iran, and he could feel the stress building in his stomach. Sarie was out there somewhere, as was the parasite. Had she agreed to use her expertise to modify it and doom millions to death? Or had she refused and doomed herself ?
It was becoming increasingly difficult to keep himself in check, to think things through and give their situation the respect it deserved. All he wanted to do was throw his skis on and go until his lungs burst. But to where?
Howell’s head appeared from inside the tent and he examined the sky with a smile. “Doesn’t look so bad.”
“See if you still feel that way after ten hours of breaking trail.”
“Every day aboveground is a good day,” he said, dragging their packs into the snow. “What’s on the agenda for today?”
Smith pointed down a steep slope that started thirty feet from their camp and then started dismantling their tent. At one time, the grade had probably given the city’s archers an advantage over invading armies, but now it just screamed “terrain trap” to any backcountry skier or military man worth a damn.
Howell clicked into his skis and eased up to the edge, frowning down at the cliff bands and cornices that overhung the shadowed canyon. He thumbed back at the silent heads watching them. “One well-placed grenade and we’ll be joining our friends here as permanent residents.”
Smith stuffed the tent in his pack and skied up next to the Brit. “You’re forgetting one thing—we’re actually trying to get ambushed.”
Howell shrugged. “I guess we should look on the bright side, then.”
“Which is?”
“We’ll probably get killed skiing down.”
With that he kicked off and arced gracefully down the slope. Normally, the British weren’t known for their skiing prowess, but Howell’s time in the California mountains had obviously overcome the challenges of his birth. Fresh powder curled over his head as he dodged a rock outcropping and picked up speed.
Smith tensed when a large slab of snow around his friend began to move, pacing him as gravity dragged it into the gap ahead. The avalanche he thought was coming didn’t materialize, though, and a few moments later, Howell was waving a pole enthusiastically up at him.
He put his AvaLung in his mouth but then spit it out. The device was designed to help a buried skier breathe long enough to be rescued, but if he kicked off a slide, they would both be buried. And with no help forthcoming, it would only serve to prolong his suffering.
The cornice he was standing on was about five feet high, and he jumped off, hip checking in the deep snow before springing upright and hurtling down the slope. Under other circumstances, it would have been a perfect day, and he tried to enjoy the roller-coaster sensation as he dove in and out of the powder, occasionally looking back to see if the snowpack was holding.
It did, and he pulled up to Howell, who was grinning through the ice clinging to his stubble. “I don’t suppose we have time for one more?”
Smith actually laughed, managing for a brief moment to forget why they were there.
“Maybe we’ll hit it again on our way out,” he said, taking off his skis and reaching for his skins before realizing that Howell wasn’t listening. Instead, he was completely focused on the canyon wall ahead of them.
“You got something, Peter?”
“Movement at the top.”
“Nothing we can do. Skin up and let’s get moving.”
He did but clearly wasn’t happy about it. Walking into an obvious trap was embarrassing enough for an SAS man, but not fighting his way out of it would be downright mortifying.
“Anything behind us?” Howell said.
Smith tried not to be obvious scanning the ridge. “I don’t see anything. But that—”
A puff of snow erupted ten feet to their right and they dove away from it as the muffled sound of the gunshot filtered down the cliff. Smith immediately rolled upright and tried to get to their skis, but more rounds rained down on them, spraying him with ice and snow.
“We’re in a cross fire!” Howell shouted, reaching instinctively into his jacket for the gun that wasn’t there. Lost backcountry skiers tended not to be armed.
The intensity of fire increased, closing in on them as the snipers found their range. Howell started wading toward a small rock outcropping at the base of one of the canyon walls, making comically slow progress through the deep powder. Shots were striking within two feet of him, one every second or so, from what Smith calculated to be at least three separate guns. He wasn’t going to make it.
Then everything went silent.
Howell slowed and finally stopped a few yards short of cover. A hole in the clouds had opened up, and he raised a hand to shade his face as he scanned the ridge again.
“Stay where you are! Do not move!”
The accented voice echoed through the gap, making its source impossible to pinpoint. A moment later, ropes appeared above them, tumbling gracefully through the air. Before the ends had even hit the ground, men appeared on both sides of the canyon, rappelling quickly as a few more shots kicked up the snow between Smith and Howell. A reminder that any aggressive move on their part could be easily dealt with.