45: An Object in Motion

Everest's North Face,amid gathering storm clouds-

At the frantic click of a harness button (midway up on the left strap) Thunderbird 1 generated a sudden beam of shimmering energy. The force ray shot straight up, about thirty feet into the air, and then fanned around and downward on all sides, like the decorative fountain in the courtyard of TA's Sydney Branch, or one of those plasma globes. Soap bubble-thin, streaked with color and writhing electromagnetic discharges, the force dome snapped shut over Scott Tracy, Thunderbird 1 and both halves of the wrecked plane. A pre-programmed thing… all he'd had to do before leaving the cockpit was input a few size parameters… and a vital one.

Snow, ice and bits of shattered rock came rumbling down the mountainside, gathering power and ammunition all the way. Colliding with fixed boulders, the fluid grey mass spumed upward, shooting far into the lowering sky, then divided to flow around, pushing rocks, scree, long-dead climbers and giant slabs of ice like some roaring, cracking snowplow. He'd heard that sound before.

The wall of roiling snow towered high above him, looking like a frozen, end-of-the-world tidal wave. Bits of shale at Scott's feet skittered and bounced. The entire slope shook.

It came on, blocking mountain peak and sullen sky, smelling of wet rock, dredged earth and primal horror. Scott raised his arms to shield his face, a common enough gesture, pitiful in its futility. The avalanche crashed like furious surf against his dome, surging over and around… but not through.

The slope vibrated and bucked, resonating with the voracious flow overhead. Scott lost his footing. Crashing to hands and knees he slipped helplessly backward, pumping hard with both feet, grabbing at outcrops and aircraft shreds in a wild attempt to brake his plunge.

As the dome compressed,its interior temperature spiked. All was sudden darkness and thunderous, head-cracking noise. Cutting through this tumult he heard the pained shriek of straining metal, saw a spray of white sparks. The plane's tail section began to swing around, spilling more debris. It slithered a few yards down the slope, fetching up against a jutting boulder with a final, ringing crash.

Not Scott. He continued to fall, would soon be smeared to the force wall by several tons of loose, sliding shale. Ten, maybe fifteen seconds of useless scrambling, and then he was plummeting along a sheer, wind-scoured rock face. Sharply tilted, slick as a playground slide, the long slab offered almost nothing to catch himself with. Then a brief gleam, a sudden change of texture; stone–smooth to blasted-ice gritty.

The belaying ax, on his equipment belt… last chance, maybe. Quick as the thought occurred, he wrestled the tool off its clip and then, with all the force he could summon, Scott plunged its sharp bill into a lone vein of ice that split the black rock. The ax bit deep and held, nearly jerking his arm from its socket. Stuff (flakes of stone, snow and crash debris) clattered past and into him, gashing his gloves and cracking his goggles; but the ax held on, and so did Scott. Overhead, illuminated by his force shield's crackling violet discharge, the avalanche crested, bore down, and passed on. Roaring snow in great torrents reached the base of the slope and rocketed out into thin air, leaving nothing behind but a few tumbling boulders and a fragile-seeming dome. The noise, too, died away; deep booms, cracks and rumbles giving way to faint rattles and hissing wind.

He was alive. Ought to have been grateful, but for some reason, all that Scott could think of was his mother. There'd been no force shield for her, no ice ax. Just an early grave in thundering snow, very far from home.

"SCOTT!"

Someone… Gordon… was shouting his name. Dumb kid had just about thrown himself from the battered wreck. Must have lost his footing twelve times sliding along the tether to reach Scott, but he got there. Stopping at a point level with his older brother, Gordon sized up the situation (abouttwelve feet apart, they were), then remotely detached the lower end of the tether. Cleverly, he used the now-free line to swing himself over, one arm out-thrust. Like a pendulum… two, three times he half ran, half dangled on the steeply pitched rock face.

On the fourth go, Scott was able to seize his younger brother's hand. They got a solid wrist lock, and then Scott released his belaying ax and grabbed wildly for Gordon's equipment belt. Made it, taking some of the pressure of his brother's straining left arm. Back they swung, kicking against sheer, slippery stone to reach a kinder section of slope.

…And there they sat for a time, head ache-y and nauseous, neither speaking. Finally, Gordon gestured toward Thunderbird 1, perched slightly askew herself, and closer to the edge.

"Sorry, Scott," the young swimmer told him, voice a bit muffled by the air mask,"f'r mucking up… the safety line… I'll have it rigged up again in no time at all. Promise."

"S'okay," the fighter pilot replied, still a little shaken. "You did good. But… let's, um… let's get this show… wrapped up. Wasn't an accident, Gordon… the avalanche. We were, um… we were fired on. Aircraft mounted laser, probably. We gotta… call base… and get the hell outta Dodge."

Oddly enough, Gordon hadn't released his grip on Scott's arm, partly due to the once again lowering temperature. Having been treating victims, he wasn't wearing his own climbing gloves, and his hands had begun to turn blue.

"Damn, but it's cold," he said by way of conversation, helping Scott to his feet.

"Sure is," the pilot responded. Then, before calling in to base, he stripped one of his insulated gloves and handed it to Gordon. "Thanks. For the help, I mean."

…Mom would have been very proud of the son she'd died to protect.