Алистер Маклин - Athabasca

Ferguson had fallen face-down on the ice. Gently, they turned him over. His face and body appeared unmarked. It was difficult to tell whether or not he was breathing.

“Into the plane with him,” Brady said. “Warm blankets and heating pads from the Red Cross chest. His heart may have stopped. Anyone here know anything about heart massage?”

“We do,” Carmody said. He picked up Ferguson and headed for the plane. “First-aid certificates.”

Three minutes later Carmody, still kneeling in the aisle, sank back on his heels and smiled.

“Ticker’s going like a watch,” he said. “Bloody fast watch, mind you, but it’s going.”

“Good work,” Brady said. “We leave him there?”

“Yes,” Dermott said. “Even when he regains consciousness – no reason why he shouldn’t, there’s no sign of any head injury – he’s still going to be in shock. Heat pads we have in plenty. That’s all we can give him, and probably all he requires. Can someone tell us what the hell happened? He came running up the aisle shouting ‘Stay where you are!’ and clutching this damned thing in his hand. He was out through the door like a greyhound clearing his trap.”

“I know what happened,” Brady said. “He complained that the controls were a bit stiff when he came in to land. That was because whoever placed this charge made a sloppy job of it. The thing stayed in place while we were climbing or cruising at a steady altitude but slid forward and wedged itself against the ailerons when we started to descend. As we left the plane he told me he was going to look for the cause of the stiffness.” Brady pursed his lips. “He found it all right.”

“He was lucky,” said Dermott. “Had it been a metal-cased bomb, the casing would have turned into shrapnel when it exploded and the back-lash would have caught him. Not a mark on him. So, a plastic bomb. For plastic bombs, plastic fuses – chemicals, really. You have two acids separated by some synthetic plastic barrier. One of them eats through the barrier, and when the two different acids meet they detonate. When an acid eats its way through the plastic barrier it generates considerable heat. I’m sure Ferguson not only felt this heat but knew right away what it meant.”

Brady looked sombre. “If we weren’t such a devious bunch, we’d have been flying at 30,000 feet on the way up. Our last trip, gentlemen.”

“Right,” said Dermott. “Even flying low, like we did, we had the luck of the devil. The drawback of a chemical detonator is that it’s almost impossible to get timing accuracy within ten or fifteen per cent. The timing could have gone off ten minutes earlier – and that would have been curtains for us. Our friends didn’t want us out of this country: they wanted us out of this world. What better way to do it, neatly, cleanly and efficiently, than have your plane’s tail fall off six miles up?”

The Sikorsky Sky-Crane landed in darkness just after three-thirty in the afternoon. It was, as Willoughby had promised, the biggest helicopter they had ever seen. The engines cut, the huge rotors idled to a standstill, and there was left only the sound of a generator whining somewhere inside the massive hull. Telescopic steps snaked down from an opened door and two men climbed nimbly down to the ice and approached the waiting group.

“Brown,” the leading figure said. “Lieutenant Brown, Air Force, alleged skipper of this craft. This is Lieutenant Vos, co-pilot, also alleged. Which of you gentlemen are Mr Willoughby and Mr Brady?”

They shook hands and Brown turned to introduce a third person who had joined them. “Doctor Kenmore.”

“How long can you stay?” Willoughby asked.

“As long as you wish.”

“Very kind. You have some cargo for me?”

“We have. O.K. to unload now?”

“Please.”

Brown shouted instructions. Brady said: “Two requests, Lieutenant?”

“You have but to ask.”

“I wish we had some more of this civility in the United States Air Force,” Brady said. He addressed Dr Kenmore. “My pilot’s been hurt. Would you look at him?”

“Of course.”

“Donald?” The two men left for the aircraft. “We have an excellent transmitter on our plane, Lieutenant, but unfortunately the pilot, who operates it, is out of action…”

“We’ve got an excellent transmitter and a first-class radio operator who’s ready for action. James!”

A young man appeared at the head of the steps. “Take this gentleman to Bernie, will you?”

Bernie was a bespectacled young man seated by a huge RCA transceiver. Dermott introduced himself and said: “Could you get me some numbers do you think?”

“Local, sir? Albertan, I mean.”

“Afraid not, Anchorage and New York.”

“No problem. We can patch in through a radio link via our Edmonton H.Q.” Bernie’s professional confidence was reassuring in the extreme. “Numbers and names, sir?”

“I have them here.” Dermott handed over a notebook. “I can actually speak to those people?”

“If they’re home, sure.”

“I may be gone for a few hours. If I am, and you get through, will you ask them to hold themselves available or let me know where I can reach them?”

“Of course.”

Dermott rejoined the group outside. Two low-profiled vehicles were already on the ice. A third was being lowered. “What are those?” Dermott asked.

Willoughby said: “My surprise for Mr Brady. Snowmobiles.”

“They’re not snowmobiles,” a black-haired slender youth said.

“Sorry.” Willoughby turned to Dermott. “John Lowry, an expert on those machines. The Edmonton people sent him up to show us how to operate them.”

“They’re everything-mobiles,” Lowry said. “Snow, roads, rough terrain, marshes, sand – you name it. Comparatively, the American and Canadian snowmobiles belong to the age of steam radio. Made by the firm of V.P.L.O. – initials only, the full name is unpronounceable – in Oulu, Finland. Called, naturally, the Finncat. Made of fibre-glass. Unlike the ordinary snowmobile, it has no skis up front. That motor-driven traction belt you see extends under the full length of the body.”

“Where did they come from?”

“We got three to put through extended tests – you know, the old test-to-destruction bit. Those are the three.”

Dermott said to Willoughby: “Nice to have friends.”

“Not quite standard models,” Lowry went on. “The front compartments are usually for stowage of gear. We’ve converted them into jump seats.”

Brady said: “You mean I can ride in one of those right now?”

Dermott said, sotto voce to Willoughby: “Test to destruction is right.”

Lowry said: “I should think so, sir.”

“That’s great, just great.” Brady’s tone was hushed and reverent. The prospect of trudging a fourteen-mile return journey through Albertan snows had held singularly little appeal for him.

“Driving is simple,” Lowry said. “Changing the inclination of the traction belt changes the direction of travel: done by the handlebars. You have forward and reverse gears and, a very sophisticated touch, hydraulic disc brakes. It can also do forty miles an hour.”

“Forty?” Dermott said. “It looks as if it would be hard pushed to touch five.”

Lowry smiled. “Forty. Not on rough terrain, of course. Incidentally, these don’t come cheap – four thousand dollars – but then the unique never does. I understand that you gentlemen are in a hurry. First three drivers up, please.”

Dr Kenmore returned from the plane with Mackenzie while Willoughby and his two men were learning the controls of the Finncats. Kenmore said: “Concussion. Nothing very serious, not the blast, he must have hit his head on the ice – there’s a beauty of a bruise just above his right ear. I’ll have him brought across here – we have a heating and lighting generator running all the time when the motors are switched off.”