by Joe Poyer
Gillon took the binoculars out of his pack and began to study the ground between the slope and the canyon.
Even at midday, the light was dimmed by the threatening clouds and the foreshortened circle of white was lacking in detail, so that it was difficult to tell if what he was seeing through the lenses actually existed or was a product of his vertiginous mind. After a few moments, he lowered the glasses and whistled softly.
'Damn, you can make yourself sick doing that,' he muttered.
A glance at his watch showed less than thirty minutes remaining till noon. He calculated that they could reach the canyon in fifteen to twenty minutes on skis and he decided that a quick lunch was in order. They broke out cold rations and ate what they could of the half-frozen, tasteless paste and washed it down with water that was barely above freezing.
Òkay, gentlemen.' Gillon grinned at them. 'Into the
jaws of death ... etc.' 'Tennyson may be. appropriate? Leycock grinned, 'but you could have picked something a little more cheerful.'
Gillon snorted and led them off down the slope. Now that the wind had diminished and the snow had stopped Gillon was certain that he could detect a drop in temperature. He half suspected that they were in for their coldest night so far if the pickup aircraft didn't get in. They were beginning to feel and show the effects of high-altitude exertion; dehydration, lack of energy, slowness of thought coupled with less than adequate sleep.
The toll taken on their bodies had been fantastic. If the temperature dropped much lower, Gillon seriously doubted their ability to survive.
But at the moment, there was the mild challenge of an easy downhill slope, a fresh powder beneath their skis and the prospect that they would be out of the Tien Shan by tonight.
The snow whispered the way snow does only when it is fresh and the air is crackling cold. Gillon led off in long, exhilarating sweeps that took them easily but swiftly down the slope to the valley floor. As he came down the last bit of the slope he leaned sharply into the turn and thrust strongly for the canyon gaping open before him.
As with the main rendezvous of the day before, this one was also set in a canyon. Seen at its wide northern end, it appeared to wander for several miles. Gillon looked around him as he pushed for the canyon; peaks seen indistinctly through the snow towered around them, lining the sky on three sides with jagged teeth. He guessed they were no more than a mile or two distant and probably climbed to yet another three to four thousand feet. The valley was really a Y; leading down from the north from the head of a large glacial field, it had probably once been a spur of an immense glacier. One branch of the valley ran east and the other north by northwest. The meeting place was located just inside the eastern branch and if the map was correct they had less than a mile now to go. There were none of the large twenty-thousand-foot peaks visible to the southwest, although if he remembered the map correctly, some twenty miles away was the main spine of the Tien Shan. Between this valley and the main section of the range, lay a series of deep river valleys.
As they closed in on the canyon, Gillon became aware of an unaccountable tension beginning. He wasn't sure yet but it appeared that the canyon closed at the far end. The map had not suggested that it was a box canyon . . . which did not surprise him, as the maps were lacking in dependable detail and this region had not been seriously explored since 1903. Still, he did not like the idea of skiing into a box canyon in spite of the fact that it was impossible for Chinese troops to have tracked them during the snowstorm.
Even if they were equipped with the latest in personnel detection devices, infrared, ultraviolet and chemical detectors, all would have been useless in the bad weather. Still, he was uneasy and he brought the group to a stop. 'This is a box canyon,' he announced flatly.
Dmietriev pushed ahead a few paces and used his binoculars to examine the walls and the portion of the canyon floor visible to them. Leycock and Stowe leaned on their ski poles, watching curiously, and Rodek unslung his carbine from his back and reversed it across his shoulders so that it lay against his chest, ready for instant use.
Dmietriev fell back. 'You are right. It is a closed canyon.' He paused a moment to stare around, then muttered half to himself, 'I don't like the feel of it.'
Gillon rubbed his forehead. 'I can't imagine Liu ever selecting a place like this but that's what Jones's map showed.'
'Well, hell, man, if that's what the map showed, then this must be the place. The Agency doesn't make mistakes.' Stowe's voice was mocking, but it held some of the same apprenhension that Gillon felt and he let it pass.
'Not much chance that they could have followed us last night . . . or today either,'
Leycock observed halfheartedly.
Gillon studied the sparsely wooded ridge to the east with his glasses. It was heavily forested near the crest, enough to provide sufficient cover . . . He pointed in that direction.
'As long as we are still out of sight from inside the canyon, let's go up that ridge. We can take a good look at what .. or who .. . is down there before we decide to go in.'
Stowe started to object, 'For God's . . .' His hand was upraised and his mouth open but he never completed the sentence. Rodek lurched, and pushed him down. An instant later, Gillon heard the distant, flat crack of a rifle. Rodek half turned, clawed feebly at his chest,
gasped and collapsed like an empty hag, one leg beneath him and his arms thrown out at odd angles. For an instant, they remained frozen in shock, then Gillon shouted and without thinking shoved off toward the canyon. He thrust desperately into the snow with the ski poles and ran for the canyon's mouth and its insignificant safety. He risked a quick glance over his shoulder and saw Stowe struggling to his feet and far behind him two long lines of white-clad ski troopers slicing down the same slope they had just negotiated. Tiny plumes of smoke showed for a second but skis are not the steadiest platform for accurate shooting at long range and he never saw where the bullets went.
Rodek's body lay huddled in the snow where he had fallen. Stowe shoved him half over, hesitated a moment, then was skiing
after them. With a sickening feeling, Gillon knew that Rodek was dead.
He concentrated on his skiing now, thrusting steadily with the poles to increase his speed to the maximum possible down the slight grade. They had half a mile to go and already the Chinese, fresher and stronger, had gained considerably on them. The sound of rifle shots was becoming more frequent, an indication that the distance was closing. Gillon risked another look behind and estimated that there were close to thirty troopers behind, divided into two groups; the group to their south was the closest and stood an excellent chance of cutting them off before they reached the illusory safety of the canyon. If they reached the canyon, they might put up a good defense for a while in the trees that he could now see clustered along the bottom but ultimately, when their ammunition gave out, the Chinese troopers would hit them from above as well as from ahead. There was nothing, he knew, to stop the soldiers from climbing that same ridge that Gillon had-considered, crossing along the top of the canyon and swooping down on them from above.
.. Nor, for that matter, was there anything to prevent them from doing the same thing.
He tried to recall what lay on the far side. As best he could remember, the ridge gave over to a river valley that was unnamed on , the map. He recalled that it fell away gradually for nearly two thousand feet to the east. The sides of the valley were sure to be thickly covered with the usual spruce and pine and perhaps if they could make the top of the ridge, they stood a chance after all. Gillon was only sure of one thing at this point and that was that he did not, under any circumstances, wish to be caught inside that canyon! -
Abruptly, he made up his mind and shot off to his left, yelling for the others to follow.
He risked one fast glance behind as he completed the turn and saw that they had all managed to keep, up with him. Dmietriev, Leycock and Stowe may not have known what he was up to, but it would not take them long to figure it ou
t. In the same glance, he had also seen that the Chinese had been taken by surprise and had not yet started the turn. They had gained a few seconds by surprise and those few seconds had opened a wide amount of distance between the hunted and the hunters. They were, in effect, bisecting an angle between the two flanking groups of Chinese with a line that did take them closer to the northern group, but as they were further behind to start, it made no difference.
The snow had begun to swirl faster and Gillon knew that the wind was increasing in spurts and gusts. Each time that it did so, it mixed newly fallen snow with that swept off the surface into a meager ground blizzard. It would not slow either group, Gillon knew, but it would cause the Chinese to save their ammunition.
A few minutes more and the race would really become critical, he realized. They would be starting to climb the ridge while the Chinese came on at full speed. By the time they had gone more than a few hundred feet the Chinese would be close enough for accurate firing. He fought down the fear that realization inspired and when he felt the slope beneath his skis begin to slant up, swung to a stop.
Dmietriev and then Stowe flashed past. Leycock started to swing to a stop beside him but Gillon waved him on, shouting for him to go further up the slope. Then he dropped to one knee, unslung his carbine and checked to see that the magazine was fully loaded and the two spare magazines handy in his zipped parka pocket. Then he waited, his hands shaking badly with the cold and tension for the leading Chinese troopers to come into range. If he was lucky, in the gusting snow and his white coverall, they might not have seen him stop.
But whether they did or not, they came on as if convinced of their invincibility. Gillon raised the carbine, steadied the sights on the leading figure and squeezed off a shot. The range was still too great and he lowered the carbine and waited a moment before trying again. The second time, he missed again. The third time, he saw the man's hood snap off his head but still he came on, probably not even aware that he was under fire. Pick one and keep shooting until you hit him, he had been taught, and he raised the carbine again and squeezed off the fourth shot. This time, the man went
down abruptly, disappearing into a rolling flurry of snow.
Gillon shifted to the next figure and was surprised to see just how close he was. He took a deep breath and fired and missed. The second shot, however, must have hit the man low in the leg, because he crashed downward, somersaulted with his momentum and lay still for a moment before crawling rapidly away from the line of fire.
The rest of the soldiers were now too close and to discourage them before they ran right over him, he flicked the selector lever to full automatic and as he came to his feet, sprayed the carbine at the four leading men. One went down and the other three dove off to the right, kicking up flurries of snow, and dropped to the ground. Behind him he heard Leycock's carbine start up and not waiting to see its effect, he began side stepping up the slope as fast as he could move.
Several hundred feet higher he passed Leycock, lying prone in the snow, firing carefully and calmly. Gillon went past a few hundred feet further and stopped, reloaded his carbine and yelled for Leycock to get moving. The nearer line of troopers had all dropped down into the snow and were firing steadily up the slope but in the wind and snow their shooting was anything but accurate.
Gillon looked for Stowe and Dmietriev as Leycock went past and spotted them near the crest, but still a hundred yards below the tree line. Dmietriev was waving down and Gillon waved back, fired a fast clip and followed Leycock once more.
Snow swirled around them in gusty blasts completely hiding them from the troopers below for minutes at a time. It was only a matter of time until somebody was hit. The slope, which had looked so gentle from a distance, was treacherous; it was steep and covered with bare outcroppings of rock that were hidden in the general whiteness; all of this was now painfully apparent. What was worse, none were suitable for cover, but all imposed obstructions. The gusty wind and whirling snow were for Gillon almost heaven-sent.
Racing up the slope, he came level with Leycock and
shouted for him to stay where he was. Gillon jammed his carbine butt first into the snow and stripped off his skis. He broke them down and slipped them into the straps on his pack. It took only a few seconds to don the snowshoes, even while struggling in the snow to maintain his balance.
`Get your snowshoes on,' he yelled to Leycock; and snatched up his carbine and fired a burst downslope to discourage any pursuit that he could not see. Leycock did as he was told and a minute later was half shuffling, half running toward the crest as the wind died as suddenly as it had begun and the snow's curtain lifted for a second.
A thin whine, outraged screams of anger rose fitfully from the clustered soldiers as they caught sight of Ley-cock racing up the slope, and Gillon smiled for the first time in days.
The troopers' rage told him that they had only skis; skis that forced a sidestepping climb up a slope, a slow and exhausting gait. Leycock had reached Stowe and Dmietriev and the three of them began to fire downslope to cover him.
The leading trooper was barely visible in the heavy snowfall less than fifty yards distant when Gillon slung his carbine and started up the slope after Leycock. Snow spurted around him twice and, so encouraged, he sprinted away on a long reach diagonally up the slope, directly under the fire from above. Within a few minutes, his overtaxed lungs were at the bursting point and he was gasping deep, sobbing draughts of air. Blood pounded so hard in his temples that he wondered if he were on the verge of a stroke, but even so, he dared not slow. Gillon knew that he had cut the margin too fine and now he was going to pay for it; it came to everyone sooner or later, he thought, sooner or later all of the chances, all the miscalculations caught up with you and combined into one overriding mistake and you bought it. He had experienced this feeling twice before, on the Laotian border and in the delta off the African coast. Both times something had intervened to cancel the mistake . . . luck. If you were good in this business of war and violent death, and Gillon knew he was, you fought against it right down to your dying breath and then some, if you could manage it, because luck was just that and no more.
The probing fingers of rifle fire began to search again and tiny spurts of snow plumed around him. The roar in his ears was so loud that the sounds of both firing and wind were completely obscured. For some reason, he thought of Jones. Jones had been a professional, a better one than he, and yet he had been shot dead in one of those situations that no one could have foreseen, a million to one odds that those troops had come on them in the middle of the forest ... a forest several thousand square miles in extent.
Then as suddenly as it had begun, the firing stopped and Gillon realized simultaneously that he no longer knew where he was. He crouched down, gasping the thin air while he stared around at the swirling wilderness of white. The snow had thickened until it had closed right down, obscuring everything beyond a few feet. As the pounding in his ears began to die away, he heard the high-pitched whine of wind increasing in force.
The world had suddenly been reduced to this narrow circle of white barely ten feet in diameter. Once he thought he heard a shout, a high-pitched voice far down the slope, and groggily he pushed himself to his knees and struggled upright onto the snowshoes. The Chinese troopers would be spreading out in a long skirmish line across the face of the slope. They would move straight up the ridge toward the crest, expecting any moment to be fired upon and therefore ready for the first sign of movement.
Gillon forced himself to move upslope as fast as his aching lungs and the terrible stitch in his side would allow. The high blood pressure induced by the heavy exertion had left him with a raging headache and nausea.
It took Gillon nearly an hour to climb the remaining four hundred feet to the top of the ridge, a terrible hour of stumbling over hidden obstructions, avoiding snow-covered boulders and brush that clutched at the frames and webbing of the snowshoes; an hour of pain and nausea in the thin, cold air. Intermittently, he
heard shouted orders and once the sound of a whistle as troops
were mustered, but all sounds came from below. He still had the advantage of snowshoes over their skis and he could move twice as fast, but as exhausted as he was, he knew that they were about even.
Gillon reached the top of the cliff by the simple expedient of tripping on the abruptly level ground. He rested where he had sprawled for several long minutes before the iron bite of the cold and the snow drove him to his feet. He had no idea where he was in relation to the others. When the snow had closed down, he had been moving diagonally across the slope and now he was unsure whether or not he had passed their last position.
He knelt in the snow and listened intently for several minutes but only the steady keen of the wind was audible.
A figure materialized suddenly, carbine swinging toward his face. Gillon stumbled aside on the snowshoes, 'and fended the blow on his right arm, left hand snatching the knife from the sheath behind his neck. Before he could strike, he was face to face with Stowe.
Stowe fell back and lowered the carbine.
'For God's sake, we've been searching all over hell for you . . .' Stowe shouted to make himself heard above the wind. 'We thought those bastards had gotten you.'
Gillon shook his head. 'Not yet . . . where are the rest?'
Stowe took him by the arm and led him along the rim of the canyon to where Leycock and Dmietriev were sheltering just inside the fringe of pines.
A hurried discussion of the position convinced them that they did not stand a chance if they remained where they were. It would not be long before the Chinese troopers gained the top. In the brief argument over which direction to take, for once Gillon found himself in agreement with Stowe. They must head back into the mountains as quickly as possible.
Liu and his people had not kept either rendezvous and so it was a safe bet that the Chinese had intercepted them.