44: For Every Action…
Everest, the north face; in bitter cold and rising wind-
He pulled himself off the slope and into the downed plane's crumpled rear, fastening his tether-end to a seat mount as he did so. A light commuter shuttle, the A-500 was larger than his father's corporate jets, but not excessively so. She'd come apart on impact with the mountain, ripped in half between rows four and five.
Her nose lay farther up-slope, half-buried in snow. It was the tail section that held the flight's survivors, though, and most of his muddled interest.
Thin air… thin cold air… had by this time made him quite giddy, and Gordon would no doubt have done something perfectly mad (such as snowboarding that broken wing segment off the mountainside) if it hadn't been for the bracing jolts of sobriety provided by his supplemental oxygen. (Well, it all made perfect sense at the time…)
The plane had rolled with the slope, a bit. He wasn't able to simply walk upright down the aisle, but had to step carefully along arm rests and seat frames, his cramponed boots snagging against cushioned armrests or skittering on polished metal. Bloody things were more hindrance than use, at the moment, and he'd gladly have removed them if he could have done so without losing his feet.
The plane's listing interior was dim and cold, half her ports facing snowy ground and leaky wing, the other half frosted over. Carry-on bags, open and rifled through, lay scattered chaotically about. Someone had blocked the far end of the cabin with one of those tracked, foldable privacy curtains; to retain heat, no doubt. Good job.
He heard voices, what sounded like someone wheezing into a radio or cell phone. Didn't know the language, though.
Bracing himself with a hand to the overhead luggage compartment, Gordon hurried his pace. He'd have shouted aloud, but couldn't spare the breath. It was a measure of just how stunned and chilly they were, that the crash survivors failed to detect his clumsy approach.
Gordon reached the curtain as fiercely renewed winds began buffeting the wreck. He found the latch (below a crimson Fireflash logo, and above that of Airbus). ...Fiddled with the thing, at last pressing the proper assortment of buttons. Instant results; the curtain's lowest part rattled noisily downward, the higher bit sagging like a deflated accordion.
At any rate, there was now a gap through the stiff material into the coughing, weeping and blanket-huddled mass beyond. Gordon stepped through, adjusting his goggles. Fifteen, he reckoned, some with obviously broken limbs or puddling internal injuries.
They'd cobbled together a nest of sorts, against the rear bulkhead and centering on a small emergency heater. Several drew tiredly on their handful of precious oxygen bottles, passing them on once they'd got a decent lungful.
At the jangling collapse of the curtain some of the folk looked around. A middle-aged Indian man had been talking into a cell phone, rocking back and forth in evident pain. Now he cried out exultantly, turning the phone so that its lens faced Gordon. Against the rules, usually, but the young swimmer was… A: too light-headed, and… B: too well-masked to worry.
Barely audible above the wind's frantic moaning he panted,
"Afternoon… Ladies an' gentlemen… I'm with International Rescue… an' I'm here t' help. Is… is there anyone present speaks English?"
A bruised young woman stood up then, rather shakily. Beneath her airline blanket, Gordon caught flashes of a red uniform; the flight attendant. She said, after taking a quick breath of emergency oxygen,
"Most of us… at least understand it, Sir. What… shall we… shall we do?"
For others had got to their feet, as well; eager to be quit of the place. Several braced their less steady fellows, or attempted to wake those who'd lost consciousness.
Odd… they'd undoubtedly begun the flight spread throughout the cabin, polite and reserved. Now, they were closer than siblings.
"Right," Gordon replied, shrugging out of his heavy equipment pack. "I've rigged a line… back t' the rescue craft. Got a mate… comin' up behind. Medical attention an' proper attire first… then we depart."
As for Scott, he was rather less than halfway up the icy slope when Island Base called. No visuals; he received his father's transmission over the comm in his hood.
"Scott!" the elderTracy snapped, sounding like a man juggling a dozen live hand-grenades.
"Go ahead, Dad," the pilot responded, pausing for breath. In good shape… but no athlete… his progress was slower than Gordon's had been.
Damn that wind…
"Scott, I've been in touch with the Dowager-Empress and the CAAC. China has offered to supply a couple of Zhishengji-7s to airlift the victims from Lhasa back to Peking. Also… Airbus has requested that we retrieve the Flight Data Recorder. Not a top priority, Son, but get it if you safely can. Understood?"
"Yeah…" Scott replied, dully amazed that anything this razor-blade thin could be referred to as 'air'. It seemed a very long time since he'd passed high-altitude survival training. "Roger that, Dad."
Where Gordon saw beauty, Scott perceived only bleak stone, implacable ice… and serrated, paper-cut wind.
"Watch your step, Son. Forget the black box if isn't easily accessible."
Good advice, considering that the damn thing had probably ejected itself clean off the mountain. He'd look, though. The recordershadvery fewfrequencies, sothis oneshouldn't prove too hard to track.
"FAB, base, and out. I'll… be in touch."
His father acknowledged, and then signed off, leaving Scott to continue his gasping upward trudge. Behindlay a spectacular drop, above, a fast-lowering ceiling. The sun had vanished behind a bank of wet-wool snow clouds, immediately dropping the temperature to what felt like liquid nitrogen levels. ...And Cindy enjoyed this?
Funnily enough, it was just about then that his fiancée rang up. Using a code he'd given her after the 'Ladies Aid Society' rescue, Cindy accessed his comm. Naturally, he wasn't about to complain about the conditions… not to her, anyway.
"Hey, Fella,' she said, sounding concerned. "How's it going up there?"
The slope's pitch had increased to the point that he was just about doubled over. Wind didn't help much, either. Looking up, Scott could see a bank of clouds breaking like dark waves against the summit.
"Great. Time of my life, Hon. Reminds me, too… I'm higher up this piece of rock than… you ever got."
Silence. Then,
"Bite me. I climbed. You rode. And next time, just for that, you're coming with me. We'll see who gets farther. Just, seriously, be careful. Concentrate, don't skimp on the oxygen, and if you get any sudden bright ideas, they're probably bad. Like, fatally bad. Don't stop if you can help it, because the hardest damn thing is getting started again, believe me. And… I love you."
Inside his mask, Scott smiled.
"That's what they all say," he joked. With the taut-line to follow and a friendly woman to spar with, life on the mountain was all at once pretty damngood.
"…and then they leave. Any more… advice?"
Almost there…
"Yup. This is going to sound stupid, but, um… as soon as you or Gordon get a chance, pour out a little tea or something, ask permission to be there and say 'thank you'. I'm serious. It's a Sherpa thing."
In five years with the Air Force, Scott Tracy had learned one thing with perfect clarity: respect the local customs.
"Gotcha. Tea and polite… conversation. Will do."
As it happened, he'd inched his way past some scattered cushions and carry-ons to the fallen drink cart.
There was a lidded cup of something… tea or coffee, he couldn't be sure which… not far from the line. After Cindy clicked out and he'd taken a preliminary report from Gordon, Scott left the trail to fetch the cup, scooping it clumsily out of the fuel-drenched snow. Made of heavy, shock resistant plastic, the cup had a tiny heating unit on the bottom. He depressed a small switch, and moments later had a cup of scalding-hot caffeine in his hands. Steam rose when he peeled the lid off, smelling pleasantly of Chai spices. Tea, then. There was a small heap of sugar in a blister pack on the lid, so he added some to the milky brew. Then, feeling rather foolish, he slogged his way over to the nearest upright rock and poured hot tea all over it, dampening the grey stone.
"Thanks," he said, suddenly very aware. 'Alive' meant an awful lot, just then; it meant stone and ice and gusting wind… glimpses of jewel-blue sky between massed and tumbling clouds. It meant seventeen very small people, struggling for life on Earth's mightiest peak. Drawing a quick breath of supplemental oxygen, he added,
"Thanks for letting us reach them. Throw in the black box, and…"
Scott saw the red flash before he quite comprehended it. Weapons-grade laser, overhead, from somewhere behind and to the right. Not aimed at him, or at the plane, the scarletglow played for several seconds upon a heavy cornice of ice and rock, about a quarter of a mile up the slope.
Big, half-melted chunks began to fall, blasting great plumes of loose shale and spuming snow. Avalanche.
Scott hit the comm, and a certain harness button.
"Gordon!" he shouted, "Brace!"