Desmond Bagley - The Snow Tiger

‘As safe as crossing the road,’ said McGill sardonically.

‘A pal of mine was killed in Auckland crossing a road.’

McGill dug another hole. Charlie said, ‘What’s the verdict?’

‘Same diagnosis. Not too much snow but slippery underneath. If it went now it wouldn’t do too much damage, but I hope to hell we don’t get more snow before we’re finished down there.’

They toiled higher. Charlie watched McGill digging and then looked upwards over his shoulder towards the rocks where McGill thought the avalanche had begun. They were about two hundred yards away. His gaze returned to McGill and he called out, ‘What makes it slippery?’

‘The grass.’

‘I think we should get off the slope.’

‘That’s what we’re doing,’ said McGill equably. ‘Not far to go now. Just as far as those rocks.’ He straightened his bent body. ‘I don’t think we’ll do any more digging. We’ll head straight up.’

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ said Charlie. His voice was edgy.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ asked McGill. ‘Why the sudden jitters?’

‘I don’t like standing out here. I saw what happened before.’

An aircraft went overhead very low and McGill looked up and saw the white blur of a face behind a window. Whoever it was seemed to be taking photographs. He shook his head and looked again at Charlie. ‘It’s quite safe,’ he said. ‘Take my word for it.’

There was a splintering noise from the valley behind him and he turned around. ‘What was that?’

Charlie stared. ‘I don’t know. It’s too far away to see.’

On the white floor of the valley the black specks which were men began to converge on one point like ants intent on dismembering a dead beetle. McGill could not see what was at the focal point. He said, ‘Something odd seems to have happened. Are your eyes any better than mine, Charlie? Where are they all heading?’

Charlie shaded his eyes. ‘Can’t tell.’

They watched for a while but could not distinguish the cause of the sudden activity. At last McGill said, ‘Well, let’s get on.’ Charlie did not move. He was standing very still, looking down into the valley. ‘Snap out of it, Charlie.’

‘Oh, Christ!’ said Charlie. ‘Look!’

McGill turned. In the valley there was a blossom of red fire which expanded as they watched, and a coil of oily black smoke grew upwards like a giant tree making an ugly stain in the air.

Breath whistled from McGill. ‘What the hell was that?’ he said as the sound of the explosion reached them. ‘Let’s get down there.’

‘Sure thing,’ said Charlie.

Jesse Rusch was going towards the church but turned aside sharply as someone yelled, ‘I’ve found someone.’ He ran towards the group of men who had broken their line, put aside the probes, and taken up spades. He stood on one side and watched them dig carefully, and had to smile as someone else said disgustedly, ‘It’s a flaming cow.’

Flaming it certainly was not. One of the men pushed at a hoof and the leg was seen to be as stiff as a rod. Rusch stepped forward. ‘Dig it out, anyway.’

A man turned around. ‘Why? It’s a waste of time.’

‘Because there might be someone under the cow,’ said Rusch patiently. ‘That’s why.’ It was a possibility but privately he thought it unlikely, so he said, ‘Three men to the cow — the rest can carry on probing.’

The men dropped their spades and picked up the probes with alacrity, leaving the man who had queried the utility of digging out the cow alone with his spade. He stared at his mates in disgust, and said, ‘Hey, the man said three.’

He turned and saw a group of men standing twenty yards away, their hands in their pockets. ‘You lot,’ he called. ‘Come and give me a hand.’

They stared at him with blank eyes, then turned their backs on him and shuffled away slowly. The man flung down his shovel. ‘God Almighty!’ he said passionately. ‘I’ve flown four hundred miles to help these bastards, and the bloody lead-swingers won’t even help themselves.’

‘Leave them be,’ said Rusch quietly. ‘They’re not themselves. Regard them as dead men, if that’s any help. Pick up your spade and get on with it. If you want help, ask your team leader.’

The man blew out his cheeks expressively, then picked up his spade and dug it viciously into the snow. Rusch watched him for ten seconds, then turned aside and went on his way.

Just outside the church he encountered a helicopter pilot from VXE-6 called Harry Baker, and he saw at once that Baker was angry, so steamed up that he should have melted the snow for yards around. He cut in before Baker opened his mouth and said quietly, ‘When you tell me what’s bugging you keep it soft.’

Baker jerked his thumb at the sky. ‘Some goddamn maniac buzzed me up there as I was coming in. He was taking photographs.’ His voice was choked with rage.

Rucsh shrugged philosophically. ‘I guess those are the Press boys. They’ll be chartering planes and coming in like locusts from here on in.’

‘Jesse, up there it’s already becoming more crowded than Times Square,’ said Baker earnestly. ‘If it gets any worse there’ll be trouble.’

Rucsh nodded. ‘All right, Harry. I’ll see the Civil Defence people here and see what we can do about tightening up air control. If necessary, I’ll insist on grounding all unauthorized flights. In the meantime keep your cool.’

He went into the church, where he nodded to Ballard who was talking to a woman lying on a bench, and went up to the altar to speak to the Civil Defence Local Co-ordinator.

Ballard said, ‘I’m sorry, Liz. I know I promised you an early flight out but there are people in worse shape than you. Mrs Haslam, for instance, needs hospital attention badly — and there are some kids, too.’

‘That’s all right. I’m feeling much better now. Is Charlie still up there with Mike?’

‘Yes.’

She looked worried. ‘I hope they’re safe. I don’t like them being up there.’

‘Mike knows what he’s doing,’ said Ballard.

The stretcher bearing Mrs Haslam was being loaded into the helicopter by Arthur Pye and Bill Quentin. She moaned, and said feebly, ‘Where’s Jack? I want my Jack.’

Pye said, ‘You’ll be seeing him soon, Mrs Haslam,’ not knowing whether he was a liar or not.

Harry Baker adjusted his helmet and said to the ground controller, ‘When I take off I want this crowd to stand back. They were pushing a bit too close last time.’ He jerked his thumb at the sky. ‘It’s bad enough being crowded up there.’

The ground controller nodded. ‘I’ll shoo them away.’ He looked towards the helicopter and saw Pye and Quentin walking away and, beyond them, the loadmaster closing the sliding door. The loadmaster waved, and he said, ‘That’s the last one. You can take off now.’ Baker climbed up into the cockpit, and the ground controller shouted, ‘All right, stand back, everybody. Get well away. Come on, now.’

Baker said to his co-pilot. ‘Let’s get this thing off the ground. We have time for three more trips before nightfall.’

Pye and Quentin walked with the rest, shepherded by the ground controller. The engine of the helicopter fired and the rotors began to move. It looked ungainly as it rose from the ground, gathering vertical speed. Quentin was not watching when the crash happened, but Pye saw it. The helicopter rose directly into the path of a low flying light plane which appeared from nowhere and struck it in the rear. There was a splintering crash and, locked together, the two machines dropped straight into the snow.

Everyone began to run and Pye and Quentin were in the lead. Pye heaved on the sliding door of the helicopter but it had warped and would not budge. ‘Give me a hand, Bill,’ he panted, and Quentin also heaved at the door which slid half open creakingly and then jammed.