The Arctic Event

Chapter Twenty-four

The Southern Face of West Peak

After the first hour they had been forced to strap on crampons, and their ice axes had become something more than walking staffs. The safety line linking them together had also become a comfort rather than an encumbrance.

“This is it. Last flag. End of the trail.” Smith shot a look up the mountain slope above them, checking for unstable rock formations and snow cornices. “Let’s take a breather.”

He and his teammates shrugged out of their pack frames and sank down with their backs to the vertical wall of the broad ledge they had been following. The climb itself had not been technically challenging. There had been no piton and rope work involved, but the cold, the icy footing, and the intermittent patches of broken stone had made it physically demanding.

They’d been climbing into the overcast, and the gray haze had folded in around them, limiting their world to a fifty-yard radius. Visibility grew somewhat better-looking downward from the ledge. They could see as far as Wednesday’s coastline, but the differentiation between ice-sheathed land and ice-sheathed sea was a subtle one.

“Hydrate, people.” With his snow mask tugged down and his goggles lifted, Smith opened the zip of his parka, removing a canteen from one of the large inside pockets, where the warmth of his body kept the water liquid.

With a physician’s instincts he watched as his companions followed suit. “A little more, Val,” he counseled. “Just because you don’t feel like you need water in this environment doesn’t mean you don’t require it.”

She made a face and took another grudging mouthful. “It’s not the input that I’m worried about; it’s the inevitable outflow.” She screwed the cap back onto her canteen and turned to Smyslov. “That’s the curse of having a doctor perennially in the house, Gregori. He goes around insisting you enjoy good health.”

The Russian nodded ruefully. “He erodes you like water dripping on a rock. The bastard has me down to ten cigarettes a day and feeling guilty about them.”

“If he starts going off on chocolate and champagne, I’m planting a cake spatula between his shoulder blades.”

“Or vodka,” Smyslov agreed. “I will not have him attacking my national identity.”

Smith chuckled at the exchange. He didn’t need to worry about team morale at any time soon. Nor about the capabilities of his companions.

Smyslov had obviously undergone the same kind of mountain warfare training and conditioning he had. He knew and could apply the simple, effective basics, with no unnecessary flash. Valentina Metrace was a tyro but with a very steep learning curve. She was quick, she kept her eyes open, and she was ready and willing to take instruction-the kind of individual who could pick up an understanding of any skill rapidly. And for all her urbane drawing room sophistication there was a startling reserve of wiry strength in that slender, long-lined body.

There were intriguing things to be learned about this woman, Smith mused. Where had she come from? Her accent was an odd combination of educated American, British, and something else. And how had she developed the odd set of talents that made her a cipher agent.

And as one of Fred Klein’s ciphers, she, like Smith, must be a person without personal attachments or commitments. What disaster had made her alone?

Smith forced his mind back to immediate concerns. Unsnapping his map case, he took out a laminated sectional photo map of Wednesday Island as scanned from polar orbit. “This is as far as the expedition’s ground parties got-the official ones anyway. From here the climbing party that found the bomber started working directly upslope to the peak. We’ll follow on around the mountain to a point above the glacier in the saddleback.”

“How does the route ahead look, Colonel?” Smyslov asked.

“Not bad if this map’s any indication.” Smith passed the photo chart down to the Russian. “This ledge we’ve been following seems to keep going for another half mile or so. At its end we can drop down into the glacier. We might need to do some rope work, but it shouldn’t be too bad. The crash site’s almost at the foot of the east peak, about a mile, mile and a quarter across the ice. With no hang-ups we should make it well before nightfall.”

He glanced at Metrace. She was sitting back against the rock wall, her eyes closed for the moment. “Holding up okay, Val?”

“Marvelous,” she replied, not opening her eyes. “Just assure me there’ll be a steaming bubbly spa, a roaring fireplace, and a quart of hot buttered rum waiting for me at our destination and I’ll be fine.”

“I’m afraid I can’t promise anything but a sleeping bag and a solid belt of some very good medicinal whisky in your MRE coffee.”

“A distant second, but acceptable.” She opened her eyes and looked back at him, a quizzical smile brushing her face. “I thought you medical types had decided that consuming ardent spirits in freezing weather was another biological no-no.”

“I’m not that healthy yet, Professor.”

Her smile deepened in approval. “There is hope for you yet, Colonel.”