Алистер Маклин - Athabasca

Brady said: “Thank you, doctor. We appreciate it.”

“Nothing. May one ask where you’re off to in those toys?”

“Don’t let young Lowry hear you. He’d have a fit,” Dermott said.

Brady said: “Please understand we don’t mean to be churlish. We’ll tell you when we come back. How’s your expertise on shotgun wounds and bones shattered by high-velocity bullets?”

“Not very extensive, I’m afraid.” Kenmore’s expression hadn’t altered. “You plan to remedy that before the night is out?”

“I hope not.” Brady’s face was suddenly serious. “But it may come to that.”

The six men left at four-thirty, exactly one hour after the Sikorsky had touched down. The helicopter’s crew were there to see them go. Lieutenant Brown said: “Air Force personnel are not as stupid as they look. We know where you’re going, naturally. Good fortune.” He looked at the arsenal of weapons they carried, ready for action, shoulder-slung or in holsters. “Dr Kenmore may be in for a sleepless night.”

The Finncats were everything that Lowry had promised, nimble, manoeuvrable, and possessed of remarkable traction. Two carried small but efficient headlamps which picked out a path through the straggling alders. It said much for the dogged willingness of the little two-cylinder engines that a heroically suffering Brady had only to get out twice – the Finncat on those occasions had refused to budge another inch – and walk a total of two hundred yards on the way to the gently-rounded convexity which marked the watershed of the Birch Mountains. Shortly before the little army reached this point they had switched off their headlights.

The descent was simple but just as slow as the ascent because, in the absence of lights, the half-seen alders had to be negotiated with care. The engines, no more than idling, were gratifyingly quiet. Willoughby called softly and the three Finncats came to a halt.

“Far enough,” he said. “We can’t be more than three hundred yards from the shore.”

“O.K.,” Dermott agreed. “How many crew at the Met. Station, Willoughby?”

“Just two. I shouldn’t imagine that any harm has come to them. They have to keep sending their regular radio reports: any breakdown in those would have brought an official helicopter out here very quickly. So the reports must have continued to go out – under duress.”

They made their way down to the lake’s edge, keeping their voices low – sound travels as well over ice as it does over water. Tall reeds grew by the frozen shore. Carmody parted these, unshipped his infra-red night-sight, pressed his face against the rubber eye-piece and switched on.

The Crowfoot Lake meteorological station consisted of only two huts, one about three times the size of the other. The smaller one had a variety of poles, boxes and what appeared from that distance to be uncovered recording instruments on its roof. This smaller hut was dark; the larger, presumably the living quarters, showed two brightly-lit windows. Beyond this hut was parked a large, white-painted helicopter.

Jones passed the night-sight to Brady, who studied the station briefly, then handed the instrument on. The last man to use it, Dermott, took the sight from his eye and said: “As a target for tonight, I’ve seen worse. We go now?”

“We go now,” Brady said. “And we don’t treat them like human beings. No warnings. No fair play. No sportsmanship. Shoot first, questions afterwards. People who plant time bombs in aircraft – or steal my Jean and Stella – know nothing of finer feelings – or the rules of civilised warfare.”

Willoughby said: “Fair enough. But shoot to cripple, not to kill. I want those men to stand trial.”

Brady said: “Of course, the conduct and termination of the trial would be greatly speeded if we had their confessions in advance.”

“And how do you figure on getting those?” Dermott asked.

“Simple, George. It all depends upon how intrepid you’re feeling this afternoon.”

The wicked wind hissed through the clump of alders some twenty yards behind the meteorological station. The trees offered little in the way of cover, but it was the best and closest that the men could find. Luckily, the night was moonless: the buildings showed as black lumps in the snowy landscape.

Bulky as bears in their Arctic gear, the raiders silently watched another figure, flattened to the snow, inch his way up towards them, propelled only by elbows and toes. Arrived in the shelter of the trees, John Carmody rose to a kneeling position.

“They’re there,” he whispered. “Reynolds and the ladies. The ladies are handcuffed together, but they seem all right. Don’t look as though they’ve been maltreated. There are five other men in there, smoking and drinking, but not drinking too much. A little room leads off the big one. Could be there’s someone asleep in there, but I don’t think so. The door’s ajar and the light’s on. Any person who wanted to sleep would have switched the light off.”

“Well done, boy,” said Brady.

“Three other things, sir. At least three of the men are armed, although none actually had a gun in his hand. The whole group is sitting round the table listening to a radio. They’re listening pretty hard, too – trying to catch something. That made me think there wouldn’t be another of them in the small room: he’d have been out there listening too.”

“Could be the two station operators are in there,” said Dermott. “Tied up, I mean.”

“I thought that too,” said Carmody.

“I know what they’re listening for,” Brady whispered. “News of a certain jet having crashed in Alberta this afternoon. What was the third thing you saw?”

“All five men are wearing stocking masks.”

Dermott said: “Which they wouldn’t bother with if they intended to dispose of the hostages.” His husky murmur dropped to a whisper. “Keep low. Keep quiet.”

A rectangle of light had appeared at the side of the cabin. A figure walked through the opened doorway and headed towards the smaller building. Moments later lights came on there.

“One of them,” Brady said. “Hardly likely to let one of the operators stroll across there and send off an S.O.S. Perfect. Come, George, this is where you earn your Congressional Medal of Honour or whatever.”

Brady moved out, travelling quickly and silently, no trace of the comfort-loving fat man left. Arriving at the main cabin door, he looked over his shoulder to check the smaller cabin. The light was still on, the door still closed. Brady turned back to the cabin door, gripped the handle, opened the door and walked inside, .38 in hand, Dermott and Mackenzie at either elbow, with their guns levelled. Brady advanced on the four stocking-masked men sitting round the table. Several started up.

“Keep your hands on that table,” he said. “If you’re not entirely mad. We’re just looking for an excuse to shoot you through the head. One of you turn that radio off – the good news you’re waiting for has just arrived.”

“Jim! Jim!” Jean Brady was on her feet. “You’ve come!”

“Of course.” Brady’s voice held a curious mixture of irritation and smug self-satisfaction. “You thought I wouldn’t? Brady Enterprises always delivers.” As his wife made to approach him, he raised his left hand. “Just a minute. Don’t come too close. These are desperate men. Mr Reynolds, Stella. Sorry we took so long about this but–”

“Dad!” Stella was on her feet, a desperate urgency in her voice. “Dad, a man–”

“Drop your guns.” The deep voice came from the doorway. “Don’t turn round or you’re dead.”

“Do what the man says.” Brady set the example. Within a second the other two guns had clattered to the floor.