Desmond Bagley - The Snow Tiger

‘There’s a guy called Haslam here,’ he said. ‘He’s unconscious.’

Now that there was increased air space there was no need to shout. Brewer said, ‘Wait a minute. I’m trying to get my torch from my pocket.’ There were gasping sounds in the darkness and the wriggling of contorted bodies, then suddenly a beam of light shot out.

Newman blinked, then turned to Haslam. He moved his hand and pointed. ‘Shine that light here.’ He bent over Haslam, and Brewer crawled forward with the light. Newman felt for Haslam’s wrist pulse but could detect no movement so he leaned down and pressed his ear against Haslam’s chest. When he lifted his head he turned towards the light. ‘I think the guy’s dead.’

‘How can he be dead?’ demanded Brewer.

‘Give me the light.’ Newman shone it on Haslam’s face which was leaden grey. ‘He didn’t die of asphyxiation, that’s for sure. I’ve seen that and he’s the wrong colour. He’d be purple.’

‘There’s snow in his mouth,’ said Brewer.

‘Yeah.’ Newman passed back the light and put his finger in Haslam’s mouth. ‘But not much. Not enough to stop him breathing. Can you guys give me some room? I’m going to try the kiss of life.’

Room was made with difficulty. ‘Maybe he died of shock,’ someone suggested.

Newman breathed air into Haslam’s lungs and then pumped his chest. He kept it up for a long time but Haslam did not react. All that happened was that his body became colder. After fifteen minutes Newman stopped. ‘No good. He’s gone.’ He turned his head to Brewer. ‘Better switch off that light. It won’t last forever.’

Brewer snapped off the light and there was darkness and silence, each man occupied with his own thoughts. At last Newman said, ‘Brewer.’

‘Yes?’

‘Nobody is going to find us with probes — not in this cave. How much snow do you reckon is out there?’

‘Hard to tell.’

‘We’d better find out. It looks as though we’ll have to save ourselves.’ Newman groped about and found Haslam’s hat which he placed over the dead man’s face. It was a futile but human gesture there in the darkness. He remembered Haslam’s last words — Used to play in here when I was a kid. It was too goddamn ironic to be true.

There were six men jammed in that narrow cleft in the rock: Newman, Brewer, Anderson, Jenkins, Fowler and Castle.

And the dead man — Haslam.

Turi Buck was coping remarkably well with the influx of children. The house under the great rock of Kamakamaru was large — too large now that his family had grown up and gone out into the world — and he welcomed the bustle and clamour. He relished less the glacial eye of Miss Frobisher, the schoolteacher who accompanied the children. There is something about schoolteaching in isolated communities which tends to acidulate the feminine temperament and Miss Frobisher had a high acid content. Turi listened to her comments which tended to a criticism of the civil authorities, the stupidity of men, and other cognate matters. He took her measure and thereafter ignored her.

His daughter-in-law, who was his housekeeper, and his granddaughter were occupied in laying out bedding and allocating quarters for the horde of noisy small fry. This was woman’s work and they would brook no interference, so Turi went to the back of the house to see how the emergency generator was to be installed.

Jock McLean, the mechanical engineer from the mine, was a Scot from the Clyde. He tapped the toe of his boot on the level area of concrete where the lines for hanging laundry were suspended from steel poles. ‘And how thick is this, Mr Buck?’

‘My name is Turi, and the concrete is six inches thick. I laid it myself.’

‘Good. We drill four holes for the foundation bolts an’ anchor ’em wi’ masonry plugs. We don’t want this thing shiftin’.’

‘How are you going to drill the holes?’ queried Turi. ‘We have no power.’

McLean jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘Air compressor wi’ an air drill.’

Turi looked down at the concrete and shook his head. ‘Not there. Can your drill make holes in rock?’

‘Wi’ a diamond drill I can go through armour plate.’

Turi pointed. ‘Then put the machine over there. Fasten it to the rock.’

McLean stared at the old man, and smiled. ‘I think six inches o’ concrete should hold her,’ he said tolerantly.

‘Have you been in an avalanche, Mr McLean?’ asked Turi softly.

‘People call me Jock.’ McLean shook his head. ‘We didna’ have them in the Gorbals — not when I was a laddie there forty years gone by. Maybe at Aviemore.’

‘I have been in an avalanche. I have dug dead bodies from the snow.’ Turi nodded his head towards the north. ‘Just over there — about two hundred yards away. Put your machine on the rock.’

McLean scratched his head. ‘Are they as bad as that?’

‘When the avalanche comes it will be worse than anything you have ever known in your life.’

‘I doubt it,’ said McLean. ‘I went ashore at Anzio.’

‘I also have been in a war,’ said Turi. ‘Possibly a worse war than yours. I was in Flanders in 1918. When the avalanche comes it will be worse than that.’

‘Aye, well.’ McLean looked about. ‘We’ll have to find a flat bit o’ rock an’ that willna’ be easy.’ He strode away, his eyes roving. At last he thumped with his heel. ‘It’s flat enough here. This’ll do.’

Turi walked over and stood on the place which McLean marked. He looked up at Kamakamaru and shook his head. ‘This is not the place.’

‘An’ why not?’ demanded McLean.

‘In 1912 my father had a workshop here. It was built very strongly because my father believed in building strongly. When the snow came down that winter the workshop vanished. We never found so much as a brick.’ He pointed. ‘I believe that when the wind comes, followed by the powder, there is an eddy here. This place is not safe.’

‘You’re a cheery soul,’ said McLean. ‘What about over there, right under the rock?’

‘That would do,’ said Turi gravely. ‘In 1912 I had some rabbits in a hutch there. The hutch wasn’t strongly made because my father didn’t make it — I did. But the rabbits were unharmed.’

‘Well I’ll be damned!’ said McLean. ‘Let’s go an’ see what the footin’ is like.’

It proved to be satisfactory. Turi said, ‘It will be all right here.’ He went away, leaving McLean staring after him.

A truckload of canned goods had arrived and there were some drums of fuel oil. Turi showed Len Baxter and Dave Scanlon where to put the oil and then supervised the unloading of the food by some of the older children. After he had done this he went to the back of the house where he found Baxter and Scanlon helping McLean with the generator.

McLean had drilled four holes in the rock and had inserted bolts in the holes, secured by expanding fasteners. Turi marvelled at the speed with which McLean had drilled the holes; evidently McLean had been right to trust his diamond-tipped drill. Now he had erected a tripod and was lowering the generator by means of a block and tackle, while Scanlon and Baxter guided it so that the bolts would enter the holes in the base plate.

At last it was done and McLean grunted with satisfaction. ‘Right, boys,’ he said, and took four steel nuts from his pocket. ‘I can carry on from here.’

Dave Scanlon nodded. ‘I’d like to get back. I want a word with Maureen.’ The two men went away and presently Turi heard the truck start up and drive away.

Turi’s daughter-in-law came out with a laden tray. ‘Will you have some tea, Mr McLean? And there are home-made cakes.’

McLean dropped the nuts back into his pocket. ‘I’ll be glad o’ that. Thanks, Mrs... Miss... er...’