Алистер Маклин - Athabasca

“Cruising altitude, Donald? No way could we possibly have reached that yet.”

“Maybe this is high enough. You’d have to ask our police chief there.” He nodded forward. Willoughby had gone up to the co-pilot’s seat and was bent over a map with Ferguson. “Doing his navigator’s bit, I see.”

Some five minutes more passed before Willoughby rose and headed back to sit by Brady.

“How long, Mr Willoughby?”

“Seventy minutes.”

“Seventy minutes! But I thought Crowfoot was only seventy miles away?”

“We filed a flight plan for Los Angeles, remember. Our first leg takes us through the radar control at Calgary. So, we’re flying south. We’re also flying low to lose the radar control at Fort McMurray. When we do, we’ll circle to the west and then north. After ten minutes, north-east. We’ll keep low. No danger of bumping into anything; it’s pretty flat all the way.” He spread out a chart. “Even the Birch Mountains here are really nothing of the sort. The highest peak is less than twenty-seven hundred feet. Really, it’s just a low divide, a watershed: the streams on the west side flow west and northwest into the Peace and Birch rivers: the streams to the east flow east and southeast into the Athabasca river.”

“Where’s Crowfoot Lake?”

“Here, just on the west side of the divide.”

“It doesn’t have a name printed.”

“Too small. Neither does Deerhorn – here – on the east side of the divide. That’s where we’re going. It’s a lake, too, but it’s always called just Deerhorn.”

“How far from Deerhorn to Crowfoot?”

“Six miles. Maybe seven. Far enough, I hope. We go into Deerhorn low and we go into Deerhorn slow – as near stalling speed as possible. The chances of our being heard at that distance are remote. The only time we’ll make any real noise is when we land. The only way a fast-landing jet like this can stop on a relatively short stretch of ice is to use reverse thrust on the engines. That makes quite a racket. But I’m pretty sure that the divide between the two lakes will act as a suitable baffle. I’m a little more concerned about the helicopter.”

“Helicopter?” Brady said carefully.

“Yes. Left Edmonton about half an hour ago. Due in about an hour after us.”

“You promised me–”

“And I keep my promise. No troops, no police, not even a peashooter. Just some Arctic gear I want. It’s due to arrive just after dark.”

“And without radar transmission or airfield landing lights, how’s he going to find his way here?”

“A signal from us by radio beacon. He’s only to follow his nose. What worries me slightly is the noise the helicopter will make in landing. It’s the biggest you’ve ever seen, and the racket is corresponding.”

“Of course.” Brady showed his disquiet. “Our friends at Crowfoot Lake have their own helicopter. Won’t they hop in and come over to investigate?”

“I hope not. I want them,” Willoughby said grimly, “to stand trial, and they won’t be able to if they’re dead. If they come across, I’ll have no option but to shoot them down.”

“Fair enough.” Brady seemed unperturbed at the thought. Then he added: “You can do that?”

“We came here equipped with weapons for the express purpose of doing just that.”

“Ah! I was asking Carmody about some of his equipment and he mentioned this infra-red night sight. But I thought that was for shooting people.”

“It can do that, too. Did he mention the fact that he’s also got a rifle that can switch from single-shot to automatic at the touch of a switch? The combination of that, the night-spot and a squirrel-hunter’s eye makes for a fairly lethal outcome. You know I have a sub-machine gun? He did? Did I also mention that it has a special large capacity magazine – the old circular drum type – and that every sixth shell is a tracer so that I can see how I’m doing?”

“No.”

Willoughby smiled. “And of course we didn’t mention my own modest contribution – the jumping jacks. For use when we’re not seeing too well what’s going on up above. Just like fireworks, really – except that you get no fancy explosion of colour, just a blinding magnesium flare that drifts down slowly on a parachute. Lasts only ninety seconds, but if you can’t accomplish what you want to in ninety seconds, you should have stayed at home in the first place.”

“If I were a devout Christian I could almost weep for my adversaries.”

“Don’t.”

“Who said I was a devout Christian?” Brady nodded to Carmody. “He really goes about killing people?”

“He leans on people.”

“What, with sub-machine and high-powered rifles?”

“We’ll use them if we have to”

Brady said dryly: “You surprise me. Those weapons are illegal, of course – for police use. Right?”

“That’s the trouble with being in a remote northern town – you don’t keep up as much as you might with all the notes, minutes and regulations that Edmonton issues every other day.”

“Of course not.”

Some time later, Brady winced as the jet engines went into reverse thrust. Even though reason told him that the decibel level was no higher than normal, his apprehensive frame of mind made him feel he was listening to a continuous thunderclap of sound. When they had landed, he said to Willoughby: “You could have heard that racket clear back in Fort McMurray.”

“Wasn’t all that bad.” Willoughby seemed unconcerned. “Well, stretch the legs, a little fresh air. Coming?”

“What? Out in that mess?”

“What mess? It’s not even snowing. And it’s seven miles to Crowfoot Lake. A little exercise, a little acclimatisation. Remember what you told me back in Sanmobil? Inside the human frame there’s no room for both cold and daiquiris. Let’s put it to the test, shall we?”

“Hoist on your own petard,” Dermott said behind him. Brady scowled, hauled himself upright and followed Willoughby to the fore end of the cabin. He looked at Ferguson and stopped.

“You look worried, boy. That was a perfect touchdown.”

“Thank you. But I am, as you say, a little concerned. Aileron controls got a bit stiff as I came in to land. Nothing much, I daresay. Soon locate the trouble. First landing on ice, and maybe I was being a little oversensitive.”

Brady followed Willoughby out and looked around. Deerhorn was a singularly bleak and unprepossessing place. Snow-dusted ice beneath their feet, flat, barren land, devoid of any form of vegetation, stretching away in featureless anonymity on three sides. To the north-east lay a range of low hills, sparsely covered with a scattering of stunted, snow-laden trees.

“Those are the Birch Mountains?”

“I told you. I don’t think the person who named them knew much about mountains.”

“And those are birch trees?”

Willoughby said: “He wasn’t much of a botanist either. These are alders.”

“And seven miles beyond–”

“Look out! Stand back!” Both men whirled round to see Ferguson racing down the boarding steps clutching in one hand a cylindrically-shaped object about ten inches long and three in diameter.

“Keep clear, keep clear!” He sprinted by them, covered another fifteen yards, arched his back while still running and, like a cricket bowler, over-armed the cylinder with a convulsive jerk of his body. The cylinder had travelled not more than three yards when it exploded.

The blast was powerful enough to knock both Brady and Willoughby, even at a distance of almost twenty yards, off their feet. For several seconds they lay where they had fallen, then made their way unsteadily towards the prone figure of Ferguson. Even as they reached him they were joined by Dermott, Mackenzie and Carmody, who had been inside the plane.