by Joe Poyer
There was less than one chance in ten thousand that the Chinese could be waiting in ambush for them, but apparently. those odds were too much for Tones. In view of every thing that had gone wrong so far, Gillon felt they were much too high for him as well.
The wind was unbelievably cold. blowing nearly thirty miles an hour up the pass and added to the 0°F temperature. the wind chill gave an equivalent temperature of forty below zero. Gillon was beginning to think that his feet had frozen to the snow in spite of the heavily insulated boots and clothing when Jones reappeared.
Àll tight,' he called, 'let's go in.' -
They went up the slope quickly. all of them anxious
to get out of the fierce wind. Gillon had forgotten how
cold, cold could be. Two years in Africa and four years before that in Indochina were not the best way to train for mountain conditions, and he wondered if there was any truth to the old legend that your blood thins in warm climates.
As they came up under a great stone arch that had once surmounted the main gate, Dmietriev shone his torch along what remained of the old wall. The hewn rock glistened with its coating of frost. Gillon went closer to examine the construction with his flashlight and found that no mortar had been used, that the huge blocks of stone had been carved to fit one exactly onto the other. Frost had crumbled away the edges where the blocks met, but each had been fitted so closely that it would have been impossible to insert the thinnest knife blade between any two stones. Mortar would have been valueness, he realized. With the constant expansion and contraction of the rock caused by summer heat and winter cold, it would have crumbled away in a few years.
Inside the walls, the squat shape of the lamesery itself loomed several hundred feet beyond the entrance. It was hard to discern details in the starlight, but it appeared that the roof had collapsed on one side of the building. The compound itself was empty and flat, the snow having covered all debris. Jones led them directly to the main building and up the long sweep of carved steps to the main doorway, gaping wide like a dead mouth. The doors had long since disappeared and Gillon, estimating the size of the doorway to be nearly twenty feet high by thirty feet wide and surmounted by a massive carved stone lintel, wondered how they had been carted away . . . or for that matter how they had been brought here in the first place.
Inside, the wind was reduced to a few eddies wending through the doorway and scattering the snow about into meager drifts. Jones took them down the ice-coated main hallway to a smaller room, where even the whine of the wind was lost.
'This looks like a good place to wait it out,' Jones said suddenly, startling them all. His voice echoed through the room. The heavy atmosphere failed to lift when Dmietriev lit and fixed a small candle into a metal reflector. The minuscule flame provided just enough light to see by, but at the same time, cast looming shadows on the far walls. Gillon took his flashlight and shone it around at the room walls. They were completely devoid of decoration, in contrast to the usual oriental penchant for intricate and colorful design. Dirt and frost stained the stone walls and piles of debris were scattered here and there across the floor, which was of the same carefully fitted stone construction as the walls.
Finding nothing of interest, he returned- to the others. Jones had pulled his sleeping hag from his pack and spread it on top of a foam pad. Gillon studied the pinched faces of the others. Already he could see the beginnings of altitude sickness in their blue lips and hollow cheeks. Rodek was moving slowly about the room, fixing his sleeping bag and arranging his backpack and rifle within easy reach. His every movement suggested the start of stomach cramps and lack of energy. Thoughtfully, Gillon dug the first-aid kit out of 'his pack and swallowed three aspirin tablets with a mouthful of icy water from his canteen. This was his preventive technique . . . or his superstition . . . he was never sure which, for preventing altitude sickness, the mild hypoxia that resulted from too much exertion at an altitude where the pressure of oxygen in the air was- too low to penetrate the arterial walls in the quantities to which the body was accustomed at sea level. It was a common malady in mountain travel and usually passed after a day or so, but its effects, until the body adapted, were a general feeling of languor, nausea, restless sleep and a gasping for breath, all of which combined to make the victim wonder why he had come in the first place and swear by everything he held sacred never to do so again. His theory was that the aspirin dilated the blood vessels, especially those feeding the brain, and the extra blood/oxygen capacity staved off or reduced the hypoxia. The best way to start a hard trip into the mountains was to sleep at altitude, thus allowing the body to begin its process of adjustment under conditions of the least exertion possible.
Satisfied that every precaution possible had been taken, he climbed into his sleeping bag and in spite of the sleep on the trip from Rome and the long day of enforced relaxation at Ala Kul, he quickly fell asleep.
Gillon came awake with a start. Jones drew back and motioned for him to lie quiet. A moment later, someone moved across the room and the tiny candle went out, plunging the room into darkness.
'Get out there and see if he needs any help,' Jones called in a low voice. Gillon heard the soft sounds of booted feet trotting down the narrow hallway.
Almost immediately, Leycock was back. 'All right, they are still a long way off.'
'Good. Get back out there and stay with Rodek then,' Jones answered.
'What's going on?' Gillon demanded.
'Get up and be ready to move. Rodek spotted something or someone coming this way.'
Gillon slid out of the sleeping bag as the candle was relit and slipped his cold boots on.
With the ease of long practice, he shook out the sleeping bag, then shoved it into its stuff bag. He zipped his pack closed and lashed the bag to the frame, then picked up his carbine and loaded a cartridge into the chamber and flicked the safety catch on.
'Ho, boy. The soldier is ready and raring for action,' Stowe's voice was sarcastic.
'Shut up. Get your own stuff together and get out into the courtyard.' Jones toured the room quickly, checking to see nothing was left behind that would betray them.
'All right. Let's get out there and see what the hell is going on.'
The almost full moon was just pushing its way past a long ridge to the east, and through the main gate the snow gleamed in the pale flood. The growing moonlight had washed away the shadows that gave substance to the rubble-strewn yard and left a smooth, glistening sheet that stretched to the walls. The three men crossed the courtyard quickly to the base of the wall, where the rubble of years was piled.
Gillon clambered up the broken steps, careful not to
thrust a foot through the thin crust of snow into the rocks beneath. The monastery appeared to have been constructed as much for defense as for prayer. The walls were massive; huge blocks of stone piled fifteen feet or more high and ten feet thick, each carved from the granite of the mountain. They reached the top of the wall and went up slowly to the battlements to where Levcock and Rodek were leaning against an abattoir that jutted abruptly above the level of the wall. Both were staring off to the northeast through binoculars.
Tones called out and, startled, Rodek swung around with his carbine ready, then lowered it and waved a hand as he recognized them. Gillon walked along the wall to where Leycock waited, and accepted the proffered glasses.
At first glance, the pass below was empty of all but wind and snow. The moon, now well clear of the ridge, flooded the snow-covered terrain with a harsh white light that provided better visibility than he had expected.
Leycock nudged his arm and pointed. lust over there, below that pinnacle.'
Gillon shifted the glasses until he caught a flicker of movement in the shadows beneath the towering rock spire. A moment later. a line of men and animals emerged into the moonlight.
'My God,' he exclaimed. 'There must he a hundred people in that . . . that . . . what in hell are they?'
'Some kind of caravan, I gu
ess.' Leycock answered. 'I thought caravans had disappeared years ago.'
'Apparently not.' Gillon muttered. 'Are you sure they aren't Chinese soldiers?'
Levcock shrugged. 'As far as I can see, they don't look like soldiers. And if they were, why would they be traveling with camels?'
'But,' Gillon countered with a question of his own, • 'if they aren't soldiers, why are they traveling at night?'
'That's what's got me worrying,' Jones said as he came up and took the glasses. Gillon pointed out the location and Tones spent several long minutes studying the distant figures.
'Damn,' he said finally.
Dmietriev questioned Rodek in Russian and Gillon half listened as he used his own glasses now to watch the caravan. Rodek protested and Dmietriev spoke again, more forcefully this time, and still Rodek disagreed. Finally Dmietriev shrugged and borrowed Gillon's glasses. After a moment, he nodded to Rodek.
`What is it?' Stowe demanded.
'Sergeant Rodek thinks that the caravan is composed of nomads, probably from somewhere in the Dzungarian region or perhaps from further east ih Inner Mongolia.'
`Nomads,' Stowe snorted. 'You mean like Tartars and Mongols? Nonsense ...'
`Not Tartars,' Dmietriev interrupted. 'Probably Mongols of some kind. There are a few of the ancient Khanates left that still use the caravan trails. That is the reason for this monastery. Why else do you suppose it was built in the middle of nowhere? It is part of the eastward chain of Persian caravanserai.'
Stowe shrugged. 'How the hell should I know? You're supposed to provide the local color.'
Àre you saying then,' Jones interjected, 'that these people are traveling some kind of caravan route and are not out looking for us?'
'I do not see how they could be searching for us already. Certainly there would have been no time to bring that many men and animals into these mountains. I doubt very much that they have even heard of us. I do not know a great deal about caravans, but it would seem to me to be very early in the season for them to be traveling and very late at night as well. I would guess that they are starting early to be as far ahead of the other caravans as possible. Probably, the authorities do not even know they are on the trail.'
The six of them were silent for a moment. Jones's face was, for a short time, a study in indecision. Then, abruptly, he made up his mind.
'We had better get the hell out of here, no matter who they are. Chuck, you and Andre go down and smooth out the tracks we left in the courtyard as much as you can. Mike, check outside and do the same thing.'
Stowe nodded and Dmietriev and Leycock followed him down the steps. Jones glanced at Rodek and casually stepped around so that his back was to the Russian. Rodek ignored them and went back to the wall to watch the caravan.
'I don't know who this traveling menagerie is, but it seems mighty damned coincidental to me that they show up now. It could be that Dmietriev is right and they are just trying to get the jump on the competition, but I still think it's better that we get out of here and the faster the better.'
'Yeah,' Gillon nodded. 'I don't like the idea that they are still traveling this late at night.'
He went back to the wall and studied the caravan once more. The moonlight was too dim to show more than the grossest details, but that was sufficient to show the strength of the approaching party. The entire scene was right out of The Arabian Nights, he decided.
Large, swaying camels plodded along under heavy burdens paced by men muffled and swathed in greatcoats against the bitter chill. They came steadily on and without a doubt now, the monastery was their destination.
'Come on, let's go,' Jones muttered, and started for the steps. Rodek followed and Gillon put his glasses away and started after then.
'I just thought of something else, too,' Gillon called after Jones. 'If they are going to stop here, they may be crossing the pass . . . hell, they will be crossing the pass. We could have them dogging our trail for the next couple of days.'
Jones nodded and kept on. 'Yeah, you could be right. We'll just have to be extra damned careful, then.'
Gillon followed Rodek down the steps wondering how much of the exchange the Russian had understood. He knew less about him than about any of the others. He had had a chance to observe Jones, Leycock and Stowe on the long flight from Rome . . . although he had to admit that most of what he knew about their backgrounds had come from -
Jones. About Dmietriev, he knew little more than that he was an excellent shot, fast as a striking snake, and a good actor, all of which he would have expected from a Soyiet intelligence field agent, or any nation's field agent for that matter. But. Rodek was a blank. The fact that he spoke, or pretended to speak no English led him to think that the Soviets were still playing their own game. Until Rodek decided to break his zombie-like silence, there was little more that he could learn about him.
Dmietriev and Stowe were waiting for them and they trudged through the gateway, where Leycock joined them. They had fashioned drags using their packs and they pulled these along behind to obscure the tracks they left in the snow. Jones, led them to the south until the monastery was between them and the approaching caravan. He stopped here and, using his flashlight, unfolded the map and knelt down in the snow while the others gathered around. He traced out the route to the rendezvous. The way that had been marked would take them across the plateau to skirt Isskgal Glacier and then three miles southwest to Musart Pass at 11,480 feet. That meant a climb of nearly four thousand feet in less than three miles. Jones wanted to clear the pass before sunrise if possible and make camp on the far side for the day. They would then trek down through the trees after nightfall to about ten thousand feet, bypass the Jiparleth Glacier and into the heavy forest the second day to be in position for the rendezvous at dawn on the third day.
There was a heated discussion as to the wisdom of following the marked route. Stowe objected on the grounds that as the Chinese had been able to discover the existence of the mission, they could very well he in possession of their route of march. He argued hard for an alternate route that would take them northeast, even farther away from the suspected crash site and down through a low valley in a lengthy circuitous route that would add fifteen miles to the march.
Jones finally cut the discussion off by getting to his feet and picking up his pack and carbine.
Ìf nothing else, the Chinese won't know the route. I laid it out while the rest of you were sleeping. Also,' he continued, 'these winds will wipe out any tracks in a few hours.' But Stowe was unconvinced and continued to press for the circular route to the northeast, claiming that the safest approach lay from the opposite direction. When Jones refused angrily, pointing out that they
lacked the time to make the longer trek, Stowe stamped off to gather up his pack without another word.
Because of the winds that swept up the pass throughout the long winter, the frozen snow was packed to the consistency of sand and neither snowshoes nor skis were needed.
Jones set a strong, ground-covering pace across the plateau and as the terrain shelved up, switched to alternating the rest step with trail stride every five minutes.
By 0500, the top of the pass was in sight although still a thousand feet above them and dawn was an hour and a half away. The wind, as it swept out of the Arctic and down across the vast Russian steppes for hundreds of miles to the mountain harrier of the Tien Shan, where it was compressed as it forced its way through the high passes, was, luckily, behind them and tended to help rather than hinder their progress.
The same wind blew incessantly, rarely varying more than a few miles an hour from its average speed of twenty knots. But vicious storms were common throughout the long winter and then the wind speed might exceed eighty miles an hour. For now, it blew steadily against their backs, urging them on while at the same time chilling each man to the bone in spite of their protective clothing. To keep moving and exercising was the only way to keep from freezing to death when out of the shelter of trees or tents. In spit
e of the compression that raised the wind's temperature as it blew up through the passes, the equivalent temperature, combining ambient temperature and wind speed, was still well below 0° F.
Musart Pass was typical of the high Tien Shan. A wide pass, it was some three miles from side to side at the base. The approach from the northwestern slopes was exceedingly steep, almost fourteen hundred feet per mile. Halfway up the slope, it looked to Gillon, seeing it for the first time in the strong moonlight, as if it were a spillway into a vast bowl and he was trapped on the underside, struggling to reach the rim.
High ridges of stone lined the approaches on either side, but even though some of them reared a thousand feet above the floor of the pass, they were dwarfed into insignificance by the immensity of the mountains around them. The way was smooth and the snow level, covering every possible obstruction to a depth of several feet. The terrain under the snow would be a coarse gravel, he knew, and there was no possibility that any living thing, plant or animal, could survive the continual winds. And in spite of its being hard-packed, a sudden spurt of wind could still whirl icy streamers from the surface that eroded the exposed skin like a sandblaster. Without snow masks and goggles they would have risked blindness.
For one eternal hour they plodded upward, strung out like bugs on a string, their trail stride having completely given way to the rest step. At eleven thousand feet Jones called a brief halt and they huddled together as best they could to escape the incessant icy searching of the wind. To talk was impossible and they squatted behind their packs like exhausted animals, breathing heavily into gloved hands. Gillon felt as if his lungs were constricted by a steel band that. tightened with each successive step until it seemed as if his ribs would collapse. His back and legs were weak with tension and fatigue and it required a conscious effort to move each foot forward again and yet again. In spite of the aspirins, nausea tore at his stomach and every now and then he would be jerked to a halt as one of the men behind him paused to retch and vomit. Each time, Gillon signaled Jones by yanking the line and Jones stopped to wait impatiently for the second tug from Gillon that started him forward again like a machine. Only one other time in the long hours of steady climbing did Jones pause to rest. Incessantly, he pulled them forward by his own sheer determination.