Tom Cain - No survivors

Three days out, one more to go. It was early evening, still a while to go before sunset, and they were traversing a southeastern slope, taking shelter from the wind that had been blowing in from the sea, away to the north and west. The mountains were no more than five or six thousand feet high, but topped by razor-sharp shark's tooth peaks that made them seem much more imposing. Carver and Larsson were back on equal terms now as they tacked from side to side up the slope, using kick turns to change the angle of their ascent. They weren't talking much. With the amount of effort they were expending every day, breath was too precious to waste on conversation.

There was a long, exposed ridge up ahead, a spine of rock a few yards wide, which jutted from the main body of the mountain, dropping away almost sheer on either side before it fanned out again into a less precipitous slope that fell, like one side of a pyramid, to the valley floor a thousand feet below. The two men planned to cross the ridge, then ski back down to lower, sheltered ground, where they could pitch their two-man tunnel tent, brew up some water on their gas stove, and mix it with their dried rations. Carver was looking forward to beef curry and rice for supper, a classic piece of dehydrated cuisine from the Royal Marines cookbook-a taste of the old days.

The higher they climbed, the less cover there was around them. They began to feel the wind picking up, snatching at their clothes, pushing against their backpacks, beating the hoods of their parkas against their ears. For the past hour or so, the slope that rose ahead of them and to the left had filled most of their field of vision. Carver had become aware of a gradual darkening of the heavens as the blue sky gave way to thickening gray clouds. But now, as they approached the ridge, the view opened up and they could look out toward the Atlantic.

A few strides up ahead, Larsson was jabbing his arm back and forth, pointing at the horizon, and calling out a single word, "Storm!"

Carver didn't need telling. Away to the northwest a solid wall of charcoal-colored clouds was bearing down upon them and blocking out the waning sunlight like a giant blackout curtain drawing closed.

The wind was picking up speed with every minute that passed, and flurries of snow were whipping through the air, blowing almost horizontally into their faces. As the temperature dropped, windchill would become an ever-greater threat. Exposed skin could suffer frostbite within minutes.

Carver looked past Larsson at the ridge, then glanced back toward the onrushing weather. There was no way they could make it across the ridge before the storm hit them. If they got caught out there, with no shelter on any side, they would be blown off the mountainside like seeds from a dandelion. Even if they survived the wind, they would have to cope with a whiteout. The windblown snow and diffused, cloudy light would remove all definition from their surroundings, leaving them lost and disoriented. On flat ground a whiteout was dangerous enough. On a narrow ridge, with deadly drops on either side, it meant certain death.

Carver pointed up ahead, then gave a single, decisive shake of the head and drew a finger across his throat. Larsson nodded in response and pointed back toward the main bulk of the mountain. "Make camp-now!" he shouted, barely able to make himself heard over the battering clamor of the wind.

They turned around and skied back a dozen strides to a short, flat shelf in the lee of the mountainside that gave some meager protection from the elements. They took their skis off and jabbed them vertically into the snow along with their ski poles, then slung their packs down next to them. Both men had snow shovels strapped to the outside of their backpacks. They freed them and wordlessly began digging a rectangular hole, shaped like a section of a shallow trench, fighting the wind and snow that seemed as determined to cancel out every effort they made.

When the hole was about knee-deep, Carver stepped over to Larsson's pack and untied the nylon bag that contained their tent. If they could just erect it inside the trench, then shovel snow back over the flaps along either side, that should provide enough shelter to enable them to ride out the storm.

Working quickly, methodically, Carver sorted out the pegs, guy-ropes, and poles: far better to spend a minute doing that now than waste five panicking if anything went missing. He and Larsson drove the pegs into the snow, ready to take the cords. The tent was brand-new, designed for easy assembly. Under normal circumstances it just took a few minutes to erect, but the storm had other ideas. The gale was rising to a murderous intensity, the snow thickening. Carver and Larsson were both strong, fit men. They knew what they were doing. Their equipment was top of the line. They threw every ounce of their strength and energy into the task of securing the ultralightweight material. Yet the two men could no more resist the might of the elements than King Canute could hold back the oncoming tide.

The blizzard now reached a new crescendo, whipping the bright-red nylon tent into the air like a kite, its flight visible for no more than a second or two before it disappeared into the all-enveloping whiteness.

Carver watched it disappear. He allowed himself a quick, sharp spasm of frustration, then turned his mind to the problem of survival. Visibility was getting worse by the second. Already he could barely see the outlines of the packs and skis just a few feet away, and Larsson was little more than a shadow, half hidden by the driving snow.

"This way!" Carver shouted.

He reached out and grabbed Larsson's arm, then dragged him along as he fought against the buffeting wind toward their equipment, lying by the rising mountain face.

There were deep drifts of snow piled between the mountainside and the wide ledge on which they were standing. In a perfect world, they'd burrow into them to create a proper snow hole, protected from the elements like an underground igloo. But that would take two or three hours. Carver estimated they had no more than fifteen minutes before the freezing wind and snow completely overwhelmed them. Their only hope was to hack out a rudimentary cave. It would be partially open to the elements, but at least it might provide some degree of shelter.

Carver set to work, stabbing at the snow and removing it in chunks like icy white bricks. By now, he'd been on the go for the better part of nine hours. The last food he had consumed had been a midday snack of energy bars and chocolate, eaten on the march. He was cold and dehydrated, shivering and sweating at one and the same time. He was wearing several layers of specialist mountain clothing, designed to expel moisture from his skin, keeping him as dry and warm as possible. But as his energy and liquid levels dropped, the clothes became less effective. He had to complete the hole as fast as possible, but the very weakness that made rest and shelter so vital was slowing him down, making every strike of the shovel an effort.

Even through the blizzard, he could see that Larsson was faring no better. His movements were slow and ineffective. He turned and looked at Carver, and though the Norwegian's eyes were hidden by his goggles, the way his head was lowered and his shoulders slumped told Carver that his friend was close to admitting defeat.

Carver pumped his fist and screamed, "Come on!" He had no idea whether his words could be heard but the sense of them seemed to get through to Larsson. He drew himself up for a second, then turned back to the hole, attacking the snowdrift with one last, desperate spasm of energy.

By any rational standards, Carver had gone beyond the limits of human endurance. The exhaustion of his muscles, the desperate shortage of oxygen in his lungs, the relentless battery of the wind, and the insidious tentacles of cold worming into his body had fused into one all-encompassing agony. And all he had to do to make it go away was give in to the temptation to stop: to lie down in the snow, go to sleep, and surrender his life to that ghost-white embrace. But there's a reason Special Forces selection and training involve the infliction of pain at a level that would be considered a criminal breach of human rights, amounting in any other context to virtual torture. It's not just a matter of physical toughening. There's a psychological, almost spiritual, element, too: accepting agony and exhaustion and-because you can always, at any time, admit failure and drop out-choosing to make them part of your life. It's the same talent for self-mortification, or perhaps the same madness, that makes a gold-medal marathon runner or a world-champion boxer. Carver hurt. He wanted to stop. And yet, relentlessly, he chose to keep digging.