Storm Crow

by Jeff Gulvin

  ‘While the rest of the country sleeps the dull slumber of secularity, we must remember it is us who keep the vigil. Think of that, my friends; the vigil, the watch, the future of this great country, the future of the free world in the hands of God-fearing Americans like you and me. Those of us who remain true to our founding fathers and the God-given constitution.’

  ‘God bless America,’ Harrison muttered into his bottle.

  ‘Daniel. I digress. In chapter two, Daniel comes forth as the only true adviser to Nebuchadnezzar, King of Babylon. We read how the king had a dream which troubled him greatly. He summoned his so-called advisers and asked them to tell him what he had dreamed. If they did that, then they would truly be able to tell him what it meant. He was sick and tired of them telling him lies, so he figured anyone who could give him what he asked for must be a true prophet, and thus adviser to the kingdom. You have to remember that the Israelites were under the dominion of Babylon then, and Daniel, of course, was an Israelite.

  ‘The advisers told the king that what he asked was impossible. Verse twelve tells us that the king flew into a rage and ordered the execution of all of them, including Daniel. Daniel prayed to the Lord for mercy and the Lord, in his infinite wisdom, showed Daniel what the king had dreamed. Thus, in verse twenty-four, we learn that Daniel was able to go to Arioch, the king’s commander, and tell him to advise the king not to execute anyone, for he, Daniel, would not only tell him what he dreamed but also what it meant.

  ‘In verse thirty-one, we read:

  Thou, O king, sawest, and behold a great image. This great image, whose brightness was excellent, stood before thee; and the form thereof was terrible.

  This image’s head was of fine gold, his breast and his arms of silver, his belly and his thighs of brass.

  His legs of iron, his feet part of iron and part of clay.

  Thou sawest till that a stone was cut out without hands, which smote the image upon his feet that were of iron and clay, and brake them to pieces.

  Then was the iron, the clay, the brass, the silver, and the gold, broken to pieces together, and became like the chaff of the summer threshing floors; and the wind carried them away, that no place was found for them: and the stone that smote the image became a great mountain, and filled the whole earth.

  This is the dream; and we will tell the interpretation thereof before the king.

  Thou, O king, art a king of kings: for the God of heaven hath given thee a kingdom, power, and strength, and glory.

  And wheresoever the children of man dwell, the beasts of the field and the fowls of heaven hath he given into thine hand, and hath made thee ruler over them all. Thou art this head of gold.

  And after thee shall arise another kingdom inferior to thee, and another third kingdom of brass, which shall bear rule over all the earth.

  And the fourth kingdom shall be strong as iron: forasmuch as iron breaketh in pieces and subdueth all things: and as iron that breaketh all these, shall it break in pieces and bruise.

  And whereas thou sawest the feet and toes, part of potters’ clay, and part of iron, the kingdom shall be divided; but there shall be in it of the strength of iron, forasmuch as thou sawest the iron mixed with miry clay.

  And as the toes of the feet were part of iron, and part of clay, so the kingdom shall be partly strong, and partly broken.

  And whereas thou sawest iron mixed with miry clay, they shall mingle themselves with the seed of men: but they shall not cleave one to another, even as iron is not mixed with clay.

  And in the days of these kings shall the God of heaven set up a kingdom, which shall never be destroyed.’

  Harrison was interrupted by a knock on the door. Hurriedly, he switched off the tape and found Danny Dugger waiting on the stoop, Dodge Dakota baseball hat set back on his head.

  ‘Hey, Harrison. You coming down to the hotel to shoot some pool?’

  Harrison looked at him. Danny’s Shoshone girlfriend had left him the previous week. She worked up at Atkinson’s Food Hall in Westlake and had gotten involved with some other guy. Danny had figured something was going on because she started not coming home. He had followed her one night and caught them in bed together. Rough on any man, that. He stood there with his hands in his pockets, looking up. Harrison switched out the light in his trailer and climbed into his truck.

  It was almost midnight when Swann fitted the key in the lock and wearily climbed the stairs. The children were both sound asleep. He tiptoed into their room and lifted the sheet over Charley, who had got herself all tangled up. The pig she called Teddy was lying on the floor. He kissed Jo on the forehead and she wrinkled her nose but did not wake. Then he went upstairs. There was one message on the answerphone. Pia. He called her back and a sleepy voice answered.

  ‘Hi, darling. It’s me.’

  ‘God, Jack. It’s late.’

  ‘Yeah. Sorry. Busy day.’

  ‘I heard. Mary Pearce from our bank. She was on the news.’

  ‘I spoke to her.’

  ‘I know. As soon as I heard about it, I phoned her.’

  ‘You told her it was me who spoke to her?’

  ‘Yes. Is that a problem?’

  ‘Not at all. Does she work with you?’

  ‘Different sector.’

  He yawned. ‘What’ve you been up to, anyway? Whose money have you been spending?’

  ‘I don’t spend it, Jack. I invest it.’

  ‘Yeah, right. Sorry.’

  ‘You sound tired. Get some sleep.’

  ‘I will. Listen, all this means I’m going to be pretty busy.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ve got to go away again myself. The States, remember I told you.’

  ‘Yeah. How long for?’

  ‘Week or so. I love you, Jack.’

  ‘Yeah. I love you too.’

  That night he dreamed. Why, he did not know. Since he had been climbing again he had not dreamed so often. But that night—perhaps it was the shooting, the harsh brutality of sudden and violent death; perhaps it was because he knew that out there a spectre was slowly beginning to haunt them and no one had any idea why. That morning, the picture of him with a bullet hole in his head was brought home with a stone-cold clarity, when he saw Jean-Marie Mace lying on the stretcher with his face ripped open. Whatever the reason, he dreamed.

  Bivouaced high on the Diamir face of Nanga Parbat in the Himalayan mountains, Swann coaxed gas out of the stove for soup. Next to him in the tiny Gore-tex tent, Steve Brady lay back in his sleeping bag. Swann nursed the soup till it steamed and then they shared it, each dipping a spoon from either side of the billycan. Outside, the wind blew in a hoarse rasp and drifting snow pressed at the flimsy sides of the tent. Neither of them spoke. Today had been difficult, the weather closing about them as they climbed hard from the Mummery Rib, where Ellis and Bowen had pitched the second camp. They had been first choice to attack the summit at the south shoulder, but this morning Ellis’s knee was worse and, without him, Bowen was not keen to climb.

  The party had been split like that right from the off. It was their expedition—Ellis and Bowen, two seasoned climbers from Derbyshire. There had been four of them originally, attempting the Diamir face alpine-style, having gained permission the previous year and booked the time for late July. Ellis and Bowen were also police officers; Bowen, a uniformed inspector from Derby itself, and Ellis, a traffic officer from Matlock. They had been climbing partners for years. Four weeks before the expedition was due to set out, the other two dropped out. Frantically, Bowen had advertised for replacements in the police magazine. Steve Brady, from 3 Area Major Incident Pool, had seen the advert and phoned Jack Swann. Swann had ice-climbed in Scotland and in the French Alps, but had no experience of anything vaguely like an 8000-metre peak in the Himalayas. It was the chance of a lifetime, however, and he jumped at it.

  They had met Ellis and Bowen for the first time at Heathrow Airport, just as they were about to fly out. It had been a good meeting, but pretty quickl
y the divisions between the four of them were obvious. Bowen was forty-three years old, Ellis forty-one, both veterans of many an expedition to the Himalayas. Bowen had climbed Hidden Peak three years before and had made a solo attempt on Everest by the Northwest Ridge. He had only been beaten by the weather. Ellis had climbed with him on K2 in Pakistan and had also attempted Lhotse. He was well known for his solo ascent on the north face of the Eiger and his exploits in Patagonia. In comparison, Swann and Brady were rank amateurs, but they were younger and full of enthusiasm.

  Late July had been full of storms and for a week the four of them were marooned in their tents at base camp, watching thousands of tons of snow billow in crashing waves over the Mummery Rib, which was the planned route of ascent. But on the first day of August the weather broke, the sun rose above the summit and the mountain was encased in a blaze of heat which could be felt on the valley floor. Swann got up at first light, crawled out of the tent and pulled on his boots. Sun reflected on the Rupal face, firing the rock in crystal pink across the Merkl Gully. Further down, it blackened ominously where it was cast again in shadow. Swann stood with his hands on his hips as Brady joined him, taking a piss right there through the zip in his salopettes. From the other tent, Bowen and Ellis appeared, and Bowen’s chapped, brown face stretched into a smile. ‘Get set, you two, we’re climbing.’

  They had made good progress and walked steadily up the glacier from base camp. On the first night, they camped on the freshly packed snow that only a day earlier had sprayed over the Rib above them. The night was still and calm, very cold, but as silent as any Swann could remember. The following morning, they were climbing as the first threads of dawn streaked the Diamir face. Awesome, was the word Swann thought of, this silent, lonely place, where all was rock and snow and great walls of packed ice as high as 4500 metres in places. Two parties, alpine-style. Swann belayed Brady and seconded up after him, walking roped together on the easier stretches. Bowen and Ellis were ahead of them and as the day wore on the distance between them increased.

  It had been bitterly cold when they started, but as the day grew, the sun beat on them from a perfectly cloudless sky. Swann found himself sweating under the weight of his gear, feet swimming in moisture inside his double plastic boots. By late afternoon on the second day, they caught up with Bowen and Ellis at the bivouac they had set just above the Mummery Rib. It was there that they discovered Ellis’s crampon problem. The bail bar on the toe had gone and he had fallen fifty metres from just above the Rib. Bowen had broken his fall and Ellis came to a halt before the Rib wall itself, but his knee was badly twisted and his chances of making the summit were small to non-existent.

  Swann had sensed something was wrong as soon as he and Brady got there. Given the distance the two older men had gained on them during the day, their second camp could’ve been an awful lot higher. The sun bounced off the mountain side, half blinding him even behind the lenses of his snowglasses. He coiled in the rope and watched Bowen apply some strapping to Ellis’s knee.

  Nobody spoke, there was nothing anyone could say. Ellis cursed his crampons and his own stupidity for falling, but there it was, his attempt on the mountain was over. That night, they all crouched in the bigger tent and discussed the forced change in plans.

  ‘What d’you want to do?’ Bowen looked at Brady first, the more seasoned of the two of them. Swann sat on his haunches and sipped coffee.

  ‘Go for it,’ Brady said. He glanced at Swann. ‘What we came for, wasn’t it.’

  Bowen tasted cracked lips and looked at Ellis. ‘I’m going to get him down.’ He looked at them again. ‘Unless you need me to stay up here for back-up.’

  Swann looked at Ellis’s knee. ‘That’s going to swell and swell,’ he said quietly. ‘If you don’t get him down tomorrow, you’ll be struggling. Besides, this weather isn’t going to hold for ever.’

  Bowen placed his hands behind his head. ‘You sure you’re up to it, Swann?’

  Swann gazed evenly back at him. ‘What do you think?’

  Bowen relaxed then and patted him on the arm. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Disappointment. We’ve planned this trip for years.’

  Swann let his hackles drop and he looked over at Ellis. ‘If you want, I’ll take you down,’ he said. ‘Let Pete go up with Steve.’

  ‘No.’ Bowen shook his head. ‘You go for it, Jack. We’re partners, so are you two. It wouldn’t be right.’

  Swann nodded and then he and Brady went back to their own tent.

  They lay in the darkness, not able to sleep. The wind had risen a fraction and the temperature was falling steadily. Swann wriggled, the neck of his sleeping bag higher, working his head deeper into the hood.

  ‘Tomorrow night, Jack, we’ll be just below the Merkl Gully,’ Brady said. ‘I tell you now, that’s as steep as you’ll have climbed at any kind of altitude.’

  Swann gazed blankly at the gently flapping walls of the tent. ‘I’m up for it,’ he said.

  That was the previous night, and now they shared soup, with the weather gone bad on them once more. By now, Ellis and Bowen would be off the mountain. Going down the slopes around the Rib was a lot easier than going up. It was the descent from the summit itself that was the difficult bit. The wind howled right outside the tent. Swann looked at his partner. ‘I’ve never known weather to change so quickly.’

  ‘That’s how it goes up here.’ Brady finished his soup and rubbed a gloved hand across his face. ‘We’ll have to see how it is in the morning.’

  ‘The storm could last a week.’

  ‘It could.’ Brady grinned then and patted him on the arm. ‘It won’t, though. I’m going to climb this fucking hill, if it kills me.’

  Swann remembered sleeping only fitfully that night. This was the same route that the Messner brothers had taken in 1970. Only Reinhold came back.

  The first thing he noticed when he woke was the quiet. Through the walls in the tent the day looked grey, but the wind had gone. He sat up and saw Brady at the door on his hands and knees.

  ‘What’s the weather like?’ Swann asked him.

  Brady looked back over his shoulder. ‘I don’t know yet.’ He pulled on his outer boots and stepped outside. Swann, albeit reluctant to leave the relative warmth of his sleeping bag, followed him.

  Cloud was everywhere, grey and black in places, and pressing low against the peaks and spires all about them. Swann stood on hard-packed snow, frozen solid by the overnight drop in temperature. Brady was looking directly upwards. Swann followed his gaze and saw the summit a thousand or so metres above them. Brady turned to him.

  ‘We can make it and back today,’ he said. ‘No wind, Jack.’

  ‘Shitloads of cloud, though, Steve. It could start snowing any time.’

  ‘It’s either that, or we go down.’

  Swann scanned the summit ridge again and felt a sudden rush of adrenalin. ‘Go on, then,’ he said.

  They got rope and ice axes and strapped on crampons. Swann packed a little food, but no stove. They had water from the snow they had melted last night, and left the tent behind. Attack the Merkl Gully now, reach the summit, and then down again before nightfall. Tomorrow they could check the weather and take all the time they needed on the descent.

  ‘Jack,’ Brady said as they were about to rope up. ‘Don’t forget the camera.’

  Swann patted the pack strapped between his shoulder blades and then they started walking up the slope to the bottom of the Merkl Gully. It was almost vertical. Axes and points all the way, 150-foot pitches with ice screws for protection.

  They climbed well, the sun did not come out and the day remained a frostbitten chill. But they were invigorated by the summit shoulder that drew steadily closer with each kick on the wall. Brady led and Swann watched the smooth ease of his movement. He followed at some speed for his relative lack of experience, and he could not get over the sensation of awe: it was not just the height, but the utter desolation of this place. Below them, somewhere on the glacier, Ellis and Bo
wen were back at base camp, but up here they could have been the only two people in the world.

  Late morning, however, the weather closed in on them. Brady was almost at the top of the gully when the clouds just lowered on top of him. Damp and colder than the day, Swann felt the moisture testing the scant protection offered by his Gore-tex suit. It was as if the mountain all of a sudden grew weary of the irritation on its flanks, and sought to be rid of them. Swann had seen nothing like it: it grew noticeably darker and a knot of anxiety twisted round his intestine. Brady had tied off and was beckoning him up. Swann let go the rope and swivelled the axe heads round, gripping the shafts in heavily mittened hands. He kicked into the ice and a piece splintered, as if serving him with a warning. He paused, checked his footing and kicked in again. Good holds this time; he dug at the ice with the curved picks of his axes and started into the cloud. Halfway up, he lost sight of Brady and climbed by the tightening length of the rope. He crested a ramp and there was Brady, looking down from above him. He was perched on a ledge, screwed into the wall, carefully paying the rope through his hands. Swann could see he was shivering. He pulled up on to the ledge and rested.

  ‘We can’t make it,’ he uttered as soon as the breath returned to him.

  Brady looked up. The summit was shrouded in cloud now. ‘We can, Jack. The summit’s just above us.’

  Swann looked up, then down between his feet. He could no longer see anything, the gully hung with tendrils of smoke-coloured cloud.

  ‘It’s going to snow,’ he said.