High Citadel / Landslide

FIVE

Forester attacked his baked beans with gusto. The dawn light was breaking, dimming the bright glare of the Coleman lamp and smoothing out the harsh shadows on his face. He said, ‘One day at the mine – two days crossing the pass – another two days getting help. We must cut that down somehow. When we get to the other side we’ll have to act quickly.’

Peabody looked at the table morosely, ignoring Forester. He was wondering if he had made the right decision, done the right thing by Joe Peabody. The way these guys talked, crossing the mountains wasn’t going to be so easy. Aw, to hell with it – he could do anything any other guy could do – especially any spic.

Rohde said, ‘I thought I heard rifle-fire last night – just at sunset.’ His face was haunted by the knowledge of his helplessness.

‘They should be all right. I don’t see how the commies could have repaired the bridge and got across so quickly,’ said Forester reasonably. ‘That O’Hara’s a smart cookie. He must have been doing something with that drum of kerosene he took down the hill yesterday. He’s probably cooked the bridge to a turn.’

Rohde’s face cracked into a faint smile. ‘I hope so.’

Forester finished his beans. ‘Okay, let’s get the show on the road.’ He turned round in his chair and looked at the huddle of blankets on the bunk. ‘What about Willis?’

‘Let him sleep,’ said Rohde. ‘He worked harder and longer than any of us.’

Forester got up and examined the packs they had made up the previous night. Their equipment was pitifully inadequate for the job they had to do. He remembered the books he had read about mountaineering expeditions – the special rations they had, the lightweight nylon ropes and tents, the wind-proof clothing and the specialized gear – climbing-boots, ice-axes, pitons. He smiled grimly – yes, and porters to help hump it.

There was none of that here. Their packs were roughly cobbled together from blankets; they had an ice-axe which Willis had made – a roughly shaped metal blade mounted on the end of an old broom handle; their ropes were rotten and none too plentiful, scavenged from the rubbish heap of the camp and with too many knots and splices for safety; their climbing-boots were clumsy miners’ boots made of thick, unpliant leather, heavy and graceless. Willis had discovered the boots and Rohde had practically gone into raptures over them.

He lifted his pack and wished it was heavier – heavier with the equipment they needed. They had worked far into the night improvising, with Willis and Rohde being the most inventive. Rohde had torn blankets into long strips to make puttees, and Willis had practically torn down one of the huts single-handed in his search for extra long nails to use as pitons. Rohde shook his head wryly when he saw them. ‘The metal is too soft, but they will have to do.’

Forester heaved the pack on to his back and fastened the crude electric wiring fastenings. Perhaps it’s as well we’re staying a day at the mine, he thought; maybe we can do better than this. There are suitcases up there with proper straps, there is the plane – surely we can find something in there we can use. He zipped up the front of the leather jacket and was grateful to O’Hara for the loan of it. He suspected it would be windy higher up, and the jacket was windproof.

As he stepped out of the hut he heard Peabody cursing at the weight of his pack. He took no notice but strode on through the camp, past the trebuchet which crouched like a prehistoric monster, and so to the road which led up the mountain. In two strides Rohde caught up and came abreast of him. He indicated Peabody trailing behind. ‘This one will make trouble,’ he said.

Forester’s face was suddenly bleak. ‘I meant what I said, Miguel. If he makes trouble, we get rid of him.’

It took them a long time to get up to the mine. The air became very thin and Forester could feel that his heartbeat had accelerated and his heart thumped in his chest like a swinging stone. He breathed faster and was cautioned by Rohde against forced breathing. My God, he thought; what is it going to be like in the pass?

They reached the airstrip and the mine at midday. Forester felt dizzy and a little nauseated and was glad to reach the first of the deserted huts and to collapse on the floor. Peabody had been left behind long ago; they had ignored his pleas for them to stop and he had straggled farther and farther behind on the trail until he had disappeared from sight. ‘He’ll catch up,’ Forester said. ‘He’s more scared of the commies than he is of me.’ He grinned with savage satisfaction. ‘But I’ll change that before we’re through.’

Rohde was in nearly as bad shape as Forester, although he was more used to the mountains. He sat on the floor of the hut, gasping for breath, too weary to shrug off his pack. They both relaxed for over half an hour before Rohde made any constructive move. At last he fumbled with numb fingers at the fastenings of his pack, and said, ‘We must have warmth; get out the kerosene.’

As Forester undid his pack Rohde took the small axe which had been brought from the Dakota and left the hut. Presently Forester heard him chopping at something in one of the other huts and guessed he had gone for the makings of a fire. He got out the bottle of kerosene and put it aside, ready for when Rohde came back.

An hour later they had a small fire going in the middle of the hut. Rohde had used the minimum of kerosene to start it and small chips of wood built up in a pyramid. Forester chuckled. ‘You must have been a boy scout.’

‘I was,’ said Rohde seriously. ‘That is a fine organization.’ He stretched. ‘Now we must eat.’

‘I don’t feel hungry,’ objected Forester.

‘I know – neither do I. Nevertheless, we must eat.’ Rohde looked out of the window towards the pass. ‘We must fuel ourselves for tomorrow.’

They warmed a can of beans and Forester choked down his share. He had not the slightest desire for food, nor for anything except quietness. His limbs felt flaccid and heavy and he felt incapable of the slightest exertion. His mind was affected, too, and he found it difficult to think clearly and to stick to a single line of thought. He just sat there in a corner of the hut, listlessly munching his lukewarm beans and hating every mouthful.

He said, ‘Christ, I feel terrible.’

‘It is the soroche,’ said Rohde with a shrug. ‘We must expect to feel like this.’ He shook his head regretfully. ‘We are not allowing enough time for acclimatization.’

‘It wasn’t as bad as this when we came out of the plane,’ said Forester.

‘We had oxygen,’ Rohde pointed out. ‘And we went down the mountain quickly. You understand that this is dangerous?’

‘Dangerous? I know I feel goddam sick.’

‘There was an American expedition here a few years ago, climbing mountains to the north of here. They went quickly to a level of five thousand metres – about as high as we are now. One of the Americans lost consciousness because of the soroche, and although they had a doctor, he died while being taken down the mountain. Yes, it is dangerous, Señor Forester.’

Forester grinned weakly. ‘In a moment of danger we ought to be on a first-name basis, Miguel. My name is Ray.’

After a while they heard Peabody moving outside. Rohde heaved himself to his feet and went to the door. ‘We are here, señor.’

Peabody stumbled into the hut and collapsed on the floor. ‘You lousy bastards,’ he gasped. ‘Why didn’t you wait?’

Forester grinned at him. ‘We’ll be moving really fast when we leave here,’ he said. ‘Coming up from the camp was like a Sunday morning stroll compared to what’s coming next. We’ll not wait for you then, Peabody.’

‘You son of a bitch. I’ll get even with you,’ Peabody threatened.

Forester laughed. ‘I’ll ram those words down your throat – but not now. There’ll be time enough later.’

Rohde put out a can of beans. ‘You must eat, and we must work. Come, Ray.’

‘I don’t wanna eat,’ moaned Peabody.

‘Suit yourself,’ said Forester. ‘I don’t care if you starve to death.’ He got up and went out of the hut, following Rohde. ‘This loss of appetite – is that soroche, too?’

Rohde nodded. ‘We will eat little from now on – we must live on the reserves of our bodies. A fit man can do it – but that man … ? I don’t know if he can do it.’

They walked slowly down the airstrip towards the crashed Dakota. To Forester it seemed incredible that O’Hara had found it too short on which to land because to him it now appeared to be several miles long. He plodded on, mechanically putting one foot in front of the other, while the cold air rasped in his throat and his chest heaved with the drudging effort he was making.

They left the airstrip and skirted the cliff over which the plane had plunged. There had been a fresh fall of snow which mantled the broken wings and softened the jagged outlines of the holes torn in the fuselage. Forester looked down over the cliff, and said, ‘I don’t think this can be seen from the air – the snow makes perfect camouflage. If there is an air search I don’t think they’ll find us.’

Walking with difficulty over the broken ground, they climbed to the wreck and got inside through the hole O’Hara had chopped when he and Rohde had retrieved the oxygen cylinder. It was dim and bleak inside the Dakota and Forester shivered, not from the cold which was becoming intense, but from the odd idea that this was the corpse of a once living and vibrant thing. He shook the idea from him, and said, ‘There were some straps on the luggage rack – complete with buckles. We could use those, and O’Hara says there are gloves in the cockpit.’

‘That is good,’ agreed Rohde. ‘I will look towards the front for what I can find.’

Forester went aft and his breath hissed when he saw the body of old Coughlin, a shattered smear of frozen flesh and broken bones on the rear seat. He averted his eyes and turned to the luggage-rack and began to unbuckle the straps. His fingers were numb with the cold and his movements clumsy, but at last he managed to get them free – four broad canvas straps which could be used on the packs. That gave him an idea and he turned his attention to the seat belts, but they were anchored firmly and it was hopeless to try to remove them without tools.