He waded toward the huddled figures, some lying in the snow, some on their knees, others standing, their Gore-Tex windproofs a spot of colour in the void.
Already out of breath, he paused, turned back to look at the hulk. Up front the radome was half cracked off and the shredded bodies projecting from the windows showed how fast they’d stopped. The fuselage seemed to be buried halfway up the main landing gear fairing but buckled panels along the snowline explained the illusion. The belly must have collapsed or been ripped off piecemeal on the ice.
From the rump of the broken port wing, JP8 dribbled, its enormous cold tolerance preventing it from freezing. Snow was porous to the fuel, which would go deep and be less likely to ignite. The outboard port engine hung from its spar, the mounting beams severed from their struts, nacelle tilting at the snow. He suspected the starboard wing had ploughed in and broken off.
The great striped tail stood proud and the rear fuselage appeared undamaged. A long skid-mark showed the way they’d come. They’d been climbing slightly on impact so must have matched the plateau’s angle. For a shock spud-in, they’d done well.
He waded over to the gasping survivors who seemed in a fugue of disassociation. Air pressure was lower at the poles. And they had to be at 3000 metres — equivalent to around 4000 metres on Everest. So everyone was functioning on half the normal oxygen supply. It meant shortness of breath, dizziness, confusion, even nausea.
Zia sat in the snow, face contorted, shivering. Beside him was the grey-faced pope who was the worse for altitude sickness.
Cain touched his arm. ‘You okay?’
The old man nodded, gasped, ‘We think… the general’s… broken his leg.’
‘Pull your balaclava over your face. And always keep the goggles on. UV’s extreme, even in this weather.’
Visibility was reducing. They could have been inside a large grey egg. The breath through his balaclava fogged his goggles and made the plane a blur.
He glanced at the hired heavies with their trigger fingers on their guns. Neither wore goggles and squinted against the glare. At least Zia had the sense to shut his eyes.
The oafish young mercenary had his M–4 trained on Hunt. She crouched beside Eve Rinaldi who lay on her back, unconscious.
He asked Hunt, ‘What’s wrong with her?’
‘Knocked out, I think. We’ve got to get her conscious. Moving.’
She was the only other person here, he realised, who knew these conditions. The others were what they called ‘fingies’ — fucking new guys.
He waved a mitt at the assembly. ‘Okay. First thing. Head-count. Eight here.’ He tapped his windjacket. ‘Nine. Girl’s still in the plane. Makes ten. Everyone to stay close. Easiest place in the world to get lost. If you can’t see the plane, you die.’
Christ it was cold. And if the wind got up it could drop another 30 degrees.
He turned to the mercenaries. ‘Guns won’t help you now.’ He pointed to the big youth’s outer gloves. ‘Two sets of gloves aren’t enough. Drop the iron and get your mitts on. And if you’ve got glare glasses, put them on.’
‘Don’t give them a heads-up,’ Hunt panted. ‘Let them bloody find out.’
Her strategy was right. Except they had two old men, one injured. An unconscious woman. A hysterical kid… If they tried a war of attrition, they’d win. But the civilians would die first.
‘Tempting,’ he told her. ‘But we need their manpower now.’
Raul had been facing into the wind. He blinked with difficulty, eyelids frosted. Cain knew that even his meta-pop psychology would be vexed by cold seeping to his bones. He and his stooges looked as comfortable as nudists buried in crushed ice.
Bell turned to his guru. ‘I’m up to here with Karen and this Indian smartarse.’ He wasn’t referring to Zia. ‘I say we take them out now.’
Cain said, ‘Without us, you’ll die in hours. And I’m from Pakistan, if you don’t mind.’ He turned to all of them. ‘If you don’t have glasses or goggles, get back in there and find some. Mitts on, glasses on, hoods on. And cover your face with balaclavas, blizz masks if you have them. Or any way you can. Could save your nose dropping off. Probably save your hands. And face away from the wind whenever you can. And keep moving or your hands and feet’ll shut down.’
It had been quite a speech for this altitude. He puffed to get his breath.
‘He’s right,’ Raul said. ‘It’s mutually assured survival just now.’ His words became frost on the fur of his hood. ‘Our hitchhikers know these conditions so, for the time being, they live.’
‘No one’ll live,’ Cain said, ‘unless you break out the plane’s survival gear.’
‘What’s it got?’ Bell gasped.
‘Tents, cookers, lamps, water, sleeping bags, shovels. And should be a week’s crew rations.’
‘What if the plane goes up?’
‘We’re dead anyway. So risk the plane and get these people in it.’
‘But it’s just as cold in there.’
‘Warmer. No wind-chill.’
Bell glanced at the remaining hired help. ‘Get the old men and the woman in the plane.’
The Slav plodded forward. But the young oaf seemed reluctant and kept the gun on Hunt as if comforted by what he knew.
‘Forget it, Mullins,’ Bell gasped. ‘She can’t go anywhere.’ He turned to Raul again. ‘You’re sure you don’t want to shoot her?’
‘That would be too simple for dear Karen.’
‘Stop fart-arsing,’ Cain puffed. ‘Got about two hours of light.’
Raul attempted a superior look. But in this vastness it just showed his insignificance. Here his adoring millions of followers were reduced to one man — Bell.
‘Get wise, Raul,’ Cain said. ‘You’re between a rock and a hard place.’
42
SURVIVAL
At that altitude, in that cold, every movement became an act of will. Constricted by their layers of clothing, they moved in the plane’s ruined hulk as ponderously as deep-water divers searching for doubloons.
‘We could pitch tents in here,’ Bell puffed, ‘if we got that vehicle out. The ramp doesn’t seem jammed.’ He looked at Cain. ‘There’s a pump handle for the hydraulics. If we can manually open the back…’
‘On a slanting floor? Frig around and you’ll freeze. Gotta pitch the tents outside.’
‘Why not shelter in the vehicle?’
‘Ever tried camping in a Hagg? Death by carbon monoxide. Tents best. Got to get warm.’
‘Tents are warm?’
‘If it’s done right.’
‘Okay. Jakov. Mullins. Help him.’
Raul didn’t condescend to help with the tents. He sheltered in the plane with the infirm, face half-buried in the fur-lined hood of his parka, the butt of an automatic pistol that Bell must have given him protruding from his parka pocket.
The wind was getting up. Fine drift settled on the tent bags, began to search for ways into their clothes and faded anyone a few paces away to a smudge.
Hunt and Cain showed them how to erect the first tent, probing the ground, digging out a square for the floor — the wisest way in this area of katabatic winds. They laid out the 30-kilogram contraption, driving the pegs in on the windward flap and covering it with snow. They attached a rope to the top and let the wind aid the raising of the peak. They packed the valances with snow, secured pegs, tightened ropes. The effort in that cold made them disoriented, exhausted. Each time they exhaled, the frost around their faces built up until their mouths felt wired shut.
They had three polar pyramids — the best tents for a gale. When they’d positioned the floor, he left Hunt to finish the set-up with the Slav. Jakov — was that his name? He wondered if she’d ambush him there and hoped she had sense to delay. He suspected she’d bought his manpower argument because the first thing to do was get warm. She’d show the man how to unpack the sleeping bags, get the stove on, hang the lamp, lug in the food box.