That’s the beauty of mountain climbing, Jack thought. It strips away the ego. You can’t tell the true measure of a human being until he’s been living in a tent under squalid conditions for weeks on end. You have to admire these guys, though. For the hundred grand they spend risking their lives on Everest, you could enjoy a hell of a vacation in the Caribbean.
“You guys copy?”
Jack blinked back to reality and then searched the bottom of the tent for his Motorola handheld radio. “I’m reading you loud and clear, Kent.”
“What’s wrong, old buddy? Afraid we’re gonna beat you to the summit?”
“How’s Alex?” Jack said, not trying to hide his concern.
He was worried not about Kent Nash, his former partner and climbing guide, but about Alex Stein, an Atlanta lawyer whom Jack had tried for months to guide away from this second Everest expedition.
“Alex says he’s gonna kick Paulson’s ass to the top. We’re bivouacked just below; when it clears we’re steamrolling all the way to the top. Alex wants to say hi to y‘all.”
The radio crackled with static as Nash handed it over.
“Tell Paulson, next time we drop a hundred grand, it’ll include a lot more booze and blondes.”
The billionaire peeked out of the sleeping bag. “Tell Stein that he should concern his liberal ass with all the empty oxygen bottles and garbage up here. Maybe he ought to commission an Environmental Impact Study before hitting the summit.”
Jack relayed Paulson’s dig.
Stein replied between labored breaths. “If I know Paulson, he’s probably already worked a takeover deal with the Nepalese to buy out the Hindu church.”
Jack and Paulson both laughed between deep breaths of their own.
When the two wealthy climbers had attacked Everest the first time, Jack had been concerned that the conservative icon Paulson and proud left-wing liberal Stein would clash. To his surprise, they’d become fast friends, sharing political barbs by way of cell phone and even dinners back in the States. Something about the shared hardships of bagging a summit, and perhaps their mutual prosperity, had bonded them beyond politics.
Jack’s relationship with his ex-partner Kent Nash, however, had soured over the past months, in Jack’s opinion because Nash was jealous of Jack’s relationship with the well-known billionaire. Jack’s insistence that Alex Stein’s prior attempt at the summit of Mt. Everest be his last hadn’t helped either. The partners had parted shortly after on less than amicable terms.
“I’d have Paulson jog over and shoot the breeze in person,” Jack said, “but he won’t climb out of his sleeping bag. How’s your body, Alex?”
“I’ve been coughing a little blood, but my fearless guide says that’s normal.”
Jack winced. “Put Nash back on the radio.”
Nash got on.
“It sounds to me like Alex is working into the early stages of HAPE.”
At high altitude, fluids began collecting in the lungs in a potentially fatal condition known as high-altitude pulmonary disease. On Everest, it wasn’t unusual to push the envelope. But this was Alex Stein, Alex with the friendly southern handshake and easy smile, not an expert climber.
“It’s a high-altitude hack, that’s all. We’ll see you boys on top.”
Jack tossed down the radio in disgust. “You’ve got to promise me,” he told Paulson, “if you’ve had enough, you’ll tell me.”
“Don’t worry about me, Jacky. I’m going to kick this mountain’s butt and dance all the way back to Kathmandu.”
Jack crawled back into his sleeping bag and used his expedition-style pack as a pillow. He looked at Paulson. The billionaire was wrapped in his sleeping bag, sucking deeply on bottled oxygen. Jack thought about the billionaire’s twenty-eight-year-old trophy-wife.
I’d take Candice Paulson and the beach over this shit any day, he thought with twisted amusement.
Jack lay his head back and closed his eyes, letting the roar of the winds lull him to sleep.
Jack opened his eyes to the sound of gentle surf and a warm tropical sun warming his face and shoulders. I’m dreaming, he thought in that half-lucid awareness of the sleeping mind. Jack leaned back into the warm white sand. The sound of the waves crashing on the beach was wonderfully soothing.
He reached up and felt small, smooth arms surrounding him. It was a tanned and svelte Candice Paulson, rubbing suntan lotion on his back from an old-fashioned Coppertone bottle with the little girl and the dog on the label. The distinctive smell brought back memories of surfing as a kid.
“Jack, is it time?” Candice said.
“Time for what?” He felt both aroused and confused.
The salt-and-peppered beard of Paulson replaced Candice Paulson’s baby-smooth face as Jack startled from the dream.
“Storm’s over,” Paulson said. “Time to light the stoves.”
Jack opened his eyes and mouthed a silent thank you to the utter privacy of one’s dream world. He emerged in a world far less inviting than his fantasy beach and crawled through the tent’s opening. It was just after eleven p.m., and the stars silhouetted the summit in a haunting silver glow. After endless hours of wind, the dead calm seemed positively unnerving.
Paulson’s face looked ragged, but his eyes remained bright with expectation.
“Show time,” Jack said.
CHAPTER 6
“God Almighty,” said Paulson as he looked up at the 29,028-foot summit from camp four. “This is what life is all about.”
Jack simply nodded and then attached the steel-tipped crampons to Paulson’s plastic climbing boots. The crampons would help anchor the climbers on the dangerously steep glaciers that led to the summit.
After getting the crampons tightened and adjusted, he fitted a full oxygen bottle onto Paulson’s back and checked his headlamp.
“I’m starting you on a flow rate of two liters per hour,” Jack said. “This is all you’ve got until we get back down to camp four.” Jack locked eyes with Paulson. “If you run out you’ll have to climb without oxygen so do the best you can to conserve it.”
Paulson nodded while Jack attached his own regulator and oxygen bottle. He had climbed Everest without oxygen, one of only a handful of climbers to do so, but he’d come so close to freezing to death without the supplemental oxygen, he’d sworn he’d never do it again.
Six hours, later, they’d climbed through 27,500 feet. They were ascending more slowly than planned, but that couldn’t be helped. Two feet of fresh snow covered the mountain, and they were forced to “posthole” through it by lifting their legs clear of the snow with each step. It was exhausting, and even though Paulson followed Jack’s steps exactly, it was still hard work for the amateur climber.
Jack stopped to give Paulson a breather and then studied the sky for signs of changing weather. It remained mostly clear and calm.
“How are you holding up?”
“Kicking ass and taking names.” Paulson leaned over his ice axe, breathing hard.
Jack studied the narrow ridge before them. Another five hundred vertical and they’d pass British socialite, Adeline Smith. She had been part of an all-women’s expedition several years before. Now her body lay frozen in the ice, a testament to those climbers with the stamina to climb Mt. Everest but not make it back down.
Paulson stopped dead and then backed up several steps. Adeline Smith’s body poked up through the ice like a twisted piece of modern art. Her faded parka flapped against her frozen back with each gust of wind. One leg, hideously bent and twisted, and a plastic boot also protruded from the ice.