Summer of Fire

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Summer of Fire Page 16

by Kitty Pilgrim


  “Actually I hate to admit it, but I’d feel safer with you upstairs.”

  “What about Kyrie? She seems like a good watchdog.”

  “Totally useless,” Cordelia laughed. “She’d make friends with Jack the Ripper if he had a biscuit.”

  Charles laughed.

  “Well I’m happy to play bodyguard, for you, if that’s what you want. Is it this way?”

  “Right upstairs. Top floor. I’ll show you.”

  “Oh, don’t bother,” Charles said, collecting his jacket. “I can find everything I need.”

  “Well, holler if you don’t.”

  “Absolutely. Goodnight, Delia. See you in the morning.”

  CATANIA, SICILY

  The second biggest city on the island of Sicily stood in the shadow of Mount Etna. The residents of Catania had seen many eruptions, some cataclysmic. The worst had been in 1669 when lava had flowed through the streets, killing more than 20,000 people.

  The volcano brought blessings as well as death. Ash contributed to the fertile soil, giving the local wine a wonderful flavor. Tourists flocked to see the steaming caldera, which boosted the local economy.

  Over the years, Jude Blackwell climbed Mount Etna many times. Now, the seismic readings were showing that a catastrophic eruption might be imminent.

  There had been fluctuating vibration levels with an increase in gas and ground deformation. Magma was moving below the surface. Each volcano had a seismic signature, or a pattern of vibrations that were considered normal. Volcanologists usually noticed when something was different, but not always. Sometimes other things could interfere with the reading: a herd of elk, a hovering helicopter, snowfall, avalanches, or earthquakes could look the same on a printout.

  Often, the tremors would diminish. Then, at other times, an eruption could occur with very little warning at all. In the end, no one could predict the exact timing of when a volcano would erupt.

  And that posed a problem, because the local people made a nice living guiding tourists to the summit and selling food and souvenirs to anyone who rode the cable car up the mountain. Curtailing visitor activity had an immediate impact on the economy.

  This morning readings were intensifying. Soon they would increase the alert level to “orange,” which would mean that the volcano would be exhibiting “heightened levels” and “increased potential of eruption.” During an orange alert, tourists would be stopped from ascending by funicular.

  As he stood in the main monitoring station, Jude stared at the screens. Real-time cameras recorded the action. The Institute of Geophysics and Volcanology was buzzing. Several Italian volcanologists huddled, discussing the possibility of the Civil Defense Authority shutting down the cable car.

  If he was going to photograph the summit, the time to do it was now. Jude left the volcano center and walked briskly back to where he was staying.

  It was a low-budget hotel. The lobby was forlorn, with a plastic plant, a crudely painted mural of Mount Etna, and a weary desk clerk.

  Jude gave the man a nod and took the elevator to his room. All his equipment had been laid out in advance. Much of it was beaten up, frayed, and scorched.

  There were silver, heat-resistant aluminized coveralls and a helmet, along with a glass-paneled facemask with a bias-cut shoulder-gusset that served as a neck protector. Gauntlet-style gloves covered his hands to the elbow with shiny silver fabric that could reflect high heat. Every article of clothing was stitched with special Kevlar thread.

  He staked his life on his footwear. Ordinary running shoes would melt. So he always wore Hathorn Explorer boots, the kind forest firefighters wore. They had specially formulated vibram soles, and were constructed without the normal metal instep, which would heat up.

  The last necessary piece of equipment was a self-contained breathing apparatus. That was absolutely critical for protection from noxious gasses.

  Most scientists would never approve of him going up Mount Etna during an orange alert. But this was a final farewell to the profession.

  The near miss in Iceland gave him the jitters. The past few nights were rough, and the nightmares were increasing. After he sold these pictures, he was planning on retiring from volcanology and switching to fashion photography. From now on, the hottest thing he wanted to photograph would be a Brazilian model in a thong.

  MOUNT ETNA, ITALY

  Renato Balboni knelt on the floor of the men’s room and felt around in his backpack until his fingers came into contact with the cold steel of the Beretta. He shifted the gun to his outside jacket pocket and zipped it.

  The boys were climbing Mount Etna today. It was the ideal place to kidnap the prince. Up until now there was no opportunity. There were too many witnesses in the city streets. But up on the mountain, no one would see.

  He stood to check his appearance in the mirror. Hard, flat eyes stared back at him, wool cap pulled low across his brow. In this outfit, he looked like a classic thug.

  Renato curved his mouth into a disarming smile, brightened his eyes, and set his cap at an awkward angle. The transformation was miraculous. Here was a novice mountain climber, ready to climb Mount Etna. He picked up his backpack. It was time to make friends with Karl and Luca.

  Prince Karl and Luca Brindisi stood at 6,200 feet on Mount Etna in an area known as Rifugio Sapienza. It was a typical staging area for mountain climbers. The facilities included souvenir kiosks, restrooms, a snack bar, and a coffee shop. Karl checked the zippered pockets of his backpack: energy bars, water, and extra fleece jackets. They were both wearing jeans. The thick denim would protect them from cuts and scrapes, and if there were any kind of eruption, the cotton fabric would not melt in extreme heat.

  A few dozen tourists in shorts and T-shirts hung around waiting for the cable car. Most would stay for a few minutes at the midpoint and then descend. But Karl and Luca wanted to climb higher and that meant a trained guide should accompany them to the top.

  Karl scanned around for a likely candidate and noticed a young man in an official tour company parka. He waved, and the man came jogging over.

  “Do you need an escort?” the guide asked in heavily accented English.

  “Yes, could you take us up?” Karl asked.

  “Of course.”

  Luca conducted the rest of the interview in Italian. Matteo, as he was called, produced solid credentials. He was a former Italian military officer and belonged to several alpine associations in Europe. His current position was with the local guiding service ITAL-TREK, which maintained several vehicles on the upper slope of Mount Etna.

  “I have summited this mountain three hundred times,” Matteo said.

  Karl gave him a quick nod, and they immediately came to terms on a timetable and a price. Satisfied, Matteo looked at his watch and suggested they leave immediately. The funicular would close in a few hours, but there was enough time for a quick ascent.

  Karl turned to Luca. “Are you sure you want to summit?”

  “Absolutely,” Luca assured him.

  They both walked with Matteo to the cable car. Just as they reached the funicular, another man came rushing up to them, slightly out of breath.

  “May I join your group?”

  Matteo shook his head, no. “I’m already engaged by these two gentlemen. But I’m sure you can find some else.”

  The man seemed very distressed. “No one is available. Please. I’ll pay you double.”

  Karl saw Matteo’s eyes light up at the prospect of earning more money.

  “Would that be a problem?” the guide asked the boys.

  “No, it’s fine,” Karl agreed.

  “Grazia mille.” The man beamed. “I’ve traveled all this way, and I didn’t want to miss it.”

  They shook hands all around, the stranger smiling happily.

  “My name is Renato.”

  Karl pointed to his chest “I’m Karl, and this is Luca.”

  With that, they stepped over to the cable car.

  There was no waiting
in line; only a dozen people were willing to ascend. Matteo explained there was going to be a “code orange” later that afternoon, and they’d have to move quickly.

  The cable car arrived in the station. Karl and Luca got on first, crossing to the far side to claim the uphill view. Matteo and Renato stepped in with the other tourists. The doors swung shut with a pneumatic wheeze, and the cabin lurched forward to begin the ascent.

  Suddenly, they were suspended twenty feet over the barren slope. It was a smooth, silent glide as everyone took in the scenery. Karl looked down at the great expanse of black cinders. Some patches of ground were as smooth as glass, while others were rough with gravel and sand. As the little car gained altitude, the earth became darker and more charred in appearance.

  The connecting axle of the cable car bumped over a thirty-foot support tower, and there was a nervous titter of laughter. Karl turned to see Luca white-faced and grim. He was silently looking up, his hands still gripping the handrail. Karl followed his line of sight. Above them, the smoking cone of the volcano loomed like a malevolent beast.

  “I’m not too good with heights,” Luca confessed.

  “We’ll be on the ground in a minute. Do you feel strong enough to climb?”

  Luca nodded.

  “You don’t mind this other guy coming with us, do you?”

  “No, I’m glad. It’s always safer to have a few people together.”

  Renato looked at the two boys on the far side of the cable car surveying the scenery. He was calculating his odds of kidnapping the prince. It would not be a problem to overpower the boys. The Italian kid looked weak, and Karl was just a teenager. Neither of them would have enough nerve to resist a gun.

  As the cable car approached its highest point, the wheels glided to a stop. The doors whooshed open, and everyone headed to the exit.

  This was the terminus for tourists. There were restrooms and places for taking photos. The drink counter was doing a brisk business in hot chocolate, and there were multiple advertisements for a red liquor, a local 70-proof concoction, called Fuoco dell’Etna—Fire of Etna.

  This staging area was not a good place to tarry on a day like today. Most of the visitors shivered through their snapshots and hurried inside the shed to wait for the ride down. The cable car operators were issuing warnings. The mountain might have to be evacuated by this afternoon.

  An involuntary shiver shook Renato’s body. It was freezing. At the higher elevations, it would be even colder. At the guide’s insistence they had all donned warmer clothing—puffy down jackets and fleece—supplied by the tour company.

  Renato looked up at the mountain. The volcano was smoking heavily against a perfect china-blue sky, and the noise was ominous: a deep rumble, alternating with high shrieks of off-gassing. He felt his nerves jump. It sounded like incoming rocket fire.

  “We have to make this quick,” Matteo said. “They’re closing the mountain in a few hours.”

  “How will we go up?” Renato asked.

  “We’ll drive to 9,000 feet and walk up from there.”

  Matteo led the way over to a row of 4x4 jeeps with the logo of the guide company printed on the door. He unlocked the vehicle and climbed in the driver’s seat. The boys took the backseat, leaving the front passenger side for Renato.

  They set off, the vehicle straining up the incline. Matteo explained that the road was built directly over the cooled lava field, a remnant from the last eruption. The rutted track was a winding single lane with steep drop-offs on either side.

  “This is the Torre del Filosofo, or Tower of the Philosopher, named after the famous Greek sage Empedocles who died on the summit.”

  Matteo began a tourist monologue, and Renato listened intently—anything to distract himself from the horrible sounds of explosions in the distance.

  Matteo droned on. Mount Etna was one of the most active volcanoes in the world, and its eruptions could be observed from the International Space Station.

  Suddenly, the guide stopped mid-sentence, cranking the steering wheel around a hairpin turn. The falloff was sheer cliff. Renato snuck a glance back at the two boys. The Italian kid looked pale with worry, but the prince was staring down the chasm with a grin on his face.

  The guide resumed his recitation. Etna was designated as a so-called Decade Volcano—there were only sixteen in the world, so labeled by the International Association of Volcanology and Chemistry of the Earth’s Interior. That moniker meant that it was one of the most dangerous volcanoes in the world, based on the proximity of the local population and the potential loss of life.

  The volcano sent up a deafening explosion. Everyone flinched except Matteo, who hand-over-handed the steering wheel onto a narrow overlook. He parked and set the emergency brake.

  “Andiamo,” he said briskly.

  They all climbed out. This parking spot was a mere ledge with a flimsy wooden guardrail. From here a steep track meandered through the barren landscape. All around were large shards of broken rock. Matteo handed out pairs of leather gloves.

  “OK regazzi,” he said, “There may be some volcanic activity, so we have to make it quick. The climb takes an hour, and we’ll have about ten minutes at the summit.”

  They all looked at him, speechless.

  “If any of you think it’s too much, there’s a hut right here where you can wait out of the wind. But once we start climbing, nobody leaves the group. Understand?”

  Matteo turned to Luca. “Are you going to be all right?”

  “Yes, I’m good to go,” Luca insisted.

  “OK then. Keep your wits about you. If there is any activity, stay close to me,” the guide warned.

  “Do you expect a sudden eruption?” Karl asked.

  “Possibly,” Matteo affirmed, “Sometimes we’ll see a burst of lava fountaining and have to wait until it subsides. It doesn’t happen often.”

  “Do you think we’ll get an eruption today?” Luca asked.

  “Maybe later. We had a small plume of ash yesterday, and there was a small trickle of lava not far from here, but nothing more. We’ll be OK for the moment.”

  Karl looked over at the others. Renato was quiet, studying the slope with a focused look. Luca’s lips were chattering. It was hard to tell whether it was from fear or the wind.

  “Cold?” Karl asked.

  “No, I’m OK.”

  “Re-tie your bootlaces,” Matteo instructed. “I don’t want any stumbles.”

  They knelt down and made sure their laces were tight and the knots secure.

  “Karl first,” Matteo decided. “Then Luca, then me. And Renato, you take up the rear.”

  They all set off at a steady pace, the wind tearing at their clothes and whipping their hair. Karl felt the lift of pure adrenaline as he looked out over the ash fields. It was a raw and desolate place, smelling of sulfur, a rare glimpse of where the earth’s molten underworld revealed itself on the surface.

  Karl forged ahead of the others. The fragments of lava crackled underfoot like shards of broken glass. At times, there were streaks of black cinders they had to wade across. It was extremely slippery underfoot. In some sections, the slope was so steep they had to place their hands on the ground and scramble up on all fours using ragged pieces of rock to pull themselves along. Without gloves, it would have been impossible.

  Karl felt his leg muscles heat up, his calves knotted with painful cramps. After a mile or so of tough going, Matteo called a halt.

  The wind was fierce now. The guide pulled out a few pairs of goggles and handed them out.

  “These will protect you from the flying particles of light basaltic rock.”

  They all put them on. Matteo checked his watch, gave them a brisk nod, and set off at a steady pace.

  As they climbed, the air seemed to get thinner, and soon Karl was panting. After about twenty minutes, Matteo called another stop at a natural plateau. He leaned over and picked up a solid black chunk of hardened lava.

  “Questa e una bomba,” he rem
arked, holding it out for them to see. “This is a bomb.”

  Everyone leaned in, so they could hear. He explained that the rock had been tossed skyward during an explosive eruption. Volcanic bombs were not lava, but igneous rocks. They could range in diameter, up to the size of a basketball.

  “How do you know when these rock-bombs are going to start flying?” Luca asked.

  “It’s usually during ‘code red.’ They can land up to fifteen miles away. But don’t worry—nobody is allowed up here during code red.”

  The guide gestured to the ground beneath their feet. During flowing eruptions, he explained, the melted lava would run down the hillside like burning liquid syrup. In the case of stratovolcanoes, this liquid lava would harden and build up. It was sometimes possible to walk over lava when it cooled. The configurations looked like twisted ropes on the ground. He cautioned them never to step in molten lava, or they would suffer serious burns.

  Matteo pointed to the sky. “Quick! Look up there,”

  Karl saw a perfectly formed smoke ring floating above the summit.

  “Is the volcano doing that?” Luca asked, agog.

  “Yes. Etna is one of the few volcanoes in the world that can blow steam circles,” Matteo explained. “The crater on top is shaped like a mouth.”

  “That’s enormous!” Luca exclaimed.

  “Each ring is about 600 feet across,” Matteo recited, “and can rise up to 3,500 feet in the air.”

  “Unbelievable!” Luca said in awe.

  Karl grinned. “Aren’t you glad you came?”

  Before Luca could answer, he fell to the ground, gasping for air.

  “What’s wrong?” Karl asked.

  “I feel dizzy.”

  “Rest a minute,” Matteo encouraged. “Drink some water. Maybe this is as far as we can go.”

  Karl glanced up the hill to gauge the distance to the summit.

  “Do you think you can make it?” he asked.

  “No,” Luca gasped. “I’m sorry.”

  “But it’s only about 300 feet more,” Karl encouraged.

 

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