High Time To Kill rbb-3

by Raymond Benson

  He got Chandra to stand watch as he slipped inside. Typically, Schrenk had insisted on pitching his own tent and bunking alone.

  There were the usual accoutrements necessary for survival—a hanging Bibler stove, climbing gear, sleeping bag, clothing—but nothing that remotely resembled anything like a sniper rifle. The only weapon he found was an antique but beautifully preserved dress dagger that the Nazis wore as an item of uniform. They were special to each branch of the service, and this one was naval. It was not hidden but was lying in plain sight with a pile of other tools. A Union weapon perhaps?

  Bond crept out of the tent and shook his head at Chandra. Perhaps they could find a way to search everyone’s tent before the actual ascent began.

  Two days later Bond was attempting to nap in his tent after lunch. Gunshots woke him, so he leaped out of the sleeping bag and slipped on his boots. He ran outside, where it had begun to snow.

  The shots were coming from behind the mess. Three or four people were standing around, watching something. Bond pushed through and saw that Roland Marquis had set up targets of bottles and tin cans and was practicing his aim with a Browning Hi-Power handgun. The Sherpas were quite agitated with this behavior, and Bond understood why. The gunfire would displease the gods.

  “Roland, what the hell are you doing?” Bond snapped.

  “What does it look like, Bond? I’m keeping my trigger finger up to snuff.”

  “You’re upsetting the Sherpas. Stop it, now.”

  Marquis turned and looked at Bond. “I don’t give a damn what the Sherpas think. I’m the leader here, and if I feel like target practice, by God, I’m going to do it. Care to join me?”

  “Hell, no. Put the gun away.”

  Marquis shrugged and laid the pistol on a rock. He picked up an ice ax that was at his side. “All right, how about a little game of ice ax throwing? Come on, Bond, aren’t you bored, too? We’ll throw ice axes at the targets. The Sherpas won’t mind that.”

  Bond shook his head. He didn’t want to get into this kind of brawl with Marquis. More team members had heard the noise and had by then ventured to the area. Hope Kendall was among them.

  “Come on, Bond, it’s all in fun. Don’t tell me that our Foreign Office rep is afraid of being beaten?” Marquis said it loud enough for everyone to hear.

  “You’re acting like a schoolboy, Roland.”

  Without warning, Marquis flicked the ice ax at Bond. It struck the ground an inch away from his right foot. The tool perfectly embedded in the snow with the handle sticking straight up.

  Whether it was the effects of the high altitude, the relentless boredom, or his lack of sleep, he didn’t know; but this angered Bond to such an extent that he reached down and removed the ice ax, saying, “All right, Roland. Let’s do it.”

  “Now you’re talking, Bond!” Marquis laughed aloud and looked around for another ice ax. He got one from Carl Glass and then said, “Carl, go and set up those bottles and cans again, would you? What shall our stakes be? I’m sure you didn’t bring much money with you, so we can’t have a replay of our Stoke Poges match.”

  “This was your idea, Roland, you name it.”

  Marquis grinned and looked around at the crowd. He spotted the doctor looking at him with wide eyes.

  “Very well. The winner gets to sleep with Dr. Kendall tonight.”

  “What?” she blurted out. “What the hell are you—”

  Bond held up his hand. “Come on, Roland, that was out of line, and you know it.”

  Marquis gave her a little bow. “I’m sorry, my dear. Just a little joke.”

  “Screw you, Roland,” she said, then walked away.

  Marquis shook his head and said, “Tsk-tsk, the fairer sex. I suppose they can’t be saints and sluts at the same time.”

  It took all of Bond’s willpower to keep from slugging him. He knew, though, that it wouldn’t be good for morale to do so in front of the team. The man was behaving as badly as Bond had ever seen him.

  “Well, never mind. We won’t play for anything except the satisfaction of being the best. Is that all right?” Marquis asked. “Fine.”

  “Shall I start?”

  Bond gave a slight, mocking bow. “By all means.”

  Marquis sneered at him, then turned to face the targets. There were five bottles and five cans set on various objects—portable tables, rocks, canvas bags. . . .

  Marquis raised the ice ax and tossed it. It knocked the first bottle cleanly off its base.

  He smiled and said, “Your turn, Bond.”

  Bond took a position, tossed the ice ax from hand to hand to get a feel for its weight, then flicked it forward. The second bottle shattered.

  “Oh, nice one, Bond! Do we get extra points for breaking the target? I think not.”

  Carl Glass retrieved the ice axes and handed them back to the players. The other members of the team were enthralled by the display of antagonism between the two men. Even Hope returned out of curiosity.

  Marquis took a stance, raised the ice ax, and threw it. The tool whizzed past the third bottle, missing it by two inches.

  “Oh, bloody hell,” he said.

  Bond took his place, raised his own ax, then tossed it. He knocked the third bottle into the snow.

  The axes were retrieved again, and Marquis took his place for a third try. He flung the ice ax and missed the fourth bottle by a hair.

  “Goddammit!” he shouted. He was losing his temper. In fact, Bond thought, he was acting quite irrationally. Could he have AMS?

  Bond knocked down the fourth bottle, which only angered Marquis more. Luckily for him, Marquis succeeded in demolishing the fifth bottle.

  By the time they were into the tin cans, Bond was ahead by one hit There were only two targets left. Bond had hit every object he had thrown at except for one, which had allowed Marquis to catch up a little.

  Marquis took aim, threw the ax, and knocked off the can. One to go

  Bond stood his ground, aimed, and threw. The pick missed the can. There was an audible gasp from the spectators.

  “Oh, bad luck, Bond,” Marquis said, cocky as hell. He took the retrieved ice ax and aimed carefully. He raised his arm slowly, then threw the ice ax hard. Instead of hitting the can, it struck the rock it was sitting on. The force of the blow, however, was enough to dislodge the can, causing it to fall into the snow

  “Ha! It’s a draw!” Marquis shouted.

  “I don’t think so, Roland,” Bond said. “You didn’t hit the can. You hit the rock.”

  “The bloody thing got knocked off, though.”

  This time Carl Glass intervened. “Well, since I’m the unofficial referee here, I have to side with Mr. Bond on that one, Roland. You didn’t hit the can.”

  “Who the hell asked you?” he shouted at Glass.

  “Let Bond have another go,” someone in the crowd said.

  “Yes, that should clinch it.”

  Marquis was fuming. “Very well. Bond, if you hit it, fine, you win. But if you miss, I win.”

  “You’d still be tied,” Glass reminded him.

  “Shut up!” Marquis snapped. “Whose side are you on, anyway?”

  “Fine, Roland,” Bond said. “If I miss, you win.” Bond took the ice ax, concentrated on the tin can that had been reset by Glass, then threw the tool. It spun around, hit a nearby rock, bounced off it, and struck the can. The spectators applauded and shouted.

  “Whoa, fancy move!”

  “Well done!”

  Marquis glowered at Bond. “You cheated.”

  How? It was your bloody game. There were no rules.”

  He stuck his finger into Bond’s chest and said, “I never liked you, Bond. Not back at school, not when we were in the service, and not now- Someday you and I will really have it out.”

  Bond stood there, silently taking it. He couldn’t jeopardize the mission by getting into a fight with Marquis now. They had to get to the plane, and Marquis was the only one who could adequately lead them up th
e mountain.

  It was Hope who defused the situation. “Roland, I want you to go to bed. You’re exhibiting AMS symptoms.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “One of the first symptoms is denial that you have them.”

  “I agree with Dr. Kendall,” Bond said. He attempted to control his anger and speak calmly. “Look, this was just a game. We’ll do it again sometime if it will make you feel better. But the doctor is right. You’re not thinking straight.”

  Marquis looked around him and saw that the entire team was staring at him. He began to protest, then backed down. “Fine,” he said. He seemed to relax a little. “But you wait. I’m going to prove to you all that there’s no one else who can summit this mountain faster than me.”

  “We’re not summiting the mountain, Roland,” Hope reminded him.

  “Oh, believe me, I will,” he said. “I haven’t come all this way just to pick over a bunch of dead bodies in a plane wreck. I don’t give a shit about your ‘secret mission,’ Bond.”

  That did it. Bond grabbed him by the parka. He whispered through his teeth, “Listen to me, Marquis, you had better start behaving. Might I remind you of your duty and of M’s instructions? I will not hesitate to exercise my own authority to have you replaced. I can do it, too.”

  Hope Kendall was the only one who heard him. She said, “Come on, Roland. Lets go to the medical tent. I want to take a look at you. Let’s check your blood pressure.” She gently pulled him away from Bond. Marquis glared at his adversary but allowed her to take him away.

  NINETEEN

  KANGCH AT LAST

  A WEEK PASSED AND Roland Marquis picked a small team to prepare the temporary camps up the north face of Kangchenjunga. The plan was to ascend the mountain over two weeks, with several days spent acclimatizing at the halfway mark. Camp Five would be set up at the crash site on the Great Scree Terrace.

  Bond expected Marquis not to pick him, and when Marquis announced that the Lead Team would consist of himself, Philippe Leaud, Carl Glass, Tom Barlow, Otto Schrenk, Doug McKee, and two Sherpas, Bond protested.

  “Let me and Chandra go with you,” he insisted.

  “Sorry, Bond, only professional climbers are allowed to be in the Lead Team. It’s the rule.”

  “Bollocks, Roland. You know damned well I can do it. So can Chandra.”

  Marquis thought for a moment. He was quite aware that Bond was properly acclimatized simply from observing his ability and stamina during the trek from Taplejung.

  All right, Bond,” he said patronizingly. “I suppose we can use you.”

  Climbers usually work in pairs so that one can belay the other and take turns making pitches, so Marquis could not exclude Chandra.

  Bond put on Boothroyd’s One Sport boots and made a thorough inspection of his equipment. His various ice tools—axes, ice screws—were made by Black Diamond, among the finest available. His snow pickets, the stakes used as anchoring devices, were MSR Coyotes. He had chosen the Deadman model simply because he liked the name. He examined the points on his Grivel 2F crampons to satisfy himself that they were sharp enough. Crampons are necessary for ice climbing, allowing the climber to gain a solid foothold on hard ice and snow. They were hinged so that they would bend naturally. He used the Scottish method of strapping them to his boots—a strap with a ring in the middle is permanently connected to the two front posts of the crampon; a strap then runs from one side post through the ring to the other side post, with a rear strap wrapping around the ankle from the two back posts. He knew it was a rather old-fashioned way of doing it, but it was how his father had taught him when Bond first started climbing at the age of five. Like everyone else, he carried Edelweiss 9mm Stratos ropes, made with polyamide braid in fifty- meter sections, and fixing ropes, which are different and made of 7mm Kevlar cord in one-hundred-meter sections.

  Marquis and Leaud set off in the lead, followed by Barlow and Glass, then Bond and Chandra. The two Sherpas, Holung and Chettan, who had come back to the Base Camp after leaving the injured Bill Scott in Taplejung, were next, and Schrenk and McKee brought up the rear.

  To get to Camp One at 5,500 meters, the team had to walk up a moraine and across a low-angle rock and ice glacier. They had made such a trip at least once during practice runs the previous week, so they were familiar with the path. Unfortunately, the wind was now blowing hard and the temperature had dropped significantly.

  The first part of the ascent was relatively easy. The French had developed a widely used technique for ice climbing called ‘flat- footing,” which requires the climber to keep his feet as flat against the ice as possible at all times to keep all crampon points on the ice. The Germans developed a technique known as “front-pointing,” in which the climber kicks the front crampon points hard into the ice and then steps directly up on them. In both techniques, climbers must progress by moving their weight from one point of balance to another, supporting themselves as much as possible on their legs, and planning several moves in advance. Bond liked to call it “climbing with one’s eyes.” Climbers learn to rely on surface features, seeking out buckets and protrusions for handholds, footholds, and ice-tool placements.

  Technical expertise was needed once they reached the upper glacier. One man climbed while his partner belayed. The belay had to be connected to an anchor, the point of secure attachment to the rock or ice. The belayer paid out or took in rope as the climber ascended, ready to use one of the various methods of applying friction in case the climber fell. Marquis took the lead, belayed from below, and moved up the rock face to the next desirable spot to set up a new belay. The last climber would take apart the belay and climb up, belayed from above. The distance between belays is known as a pitch. The climbers leapfrogged their way up so that the one who went first led all the odd-numbered pitches, and followed second on all even-numbered ones. The leader attached hardware—called “protection”—to the rock or ice on the way up.

  All along the way the team pitched flags and ropes, marking the route so that the others would have less difficulty ascending. It was a strenuous four hours, but Bond felt great to be climbing again. It reminded him of his youth in the Austrian Tyrol, when he first fell in love with the sport. The cold air that burned his lungs was a painful yet exhilarating sensation.

  As he and Chandra pitched their tent at Camp One, though, he got the disconcerting feeling that he was in grave danger. He felt that the Union could raise their ugly head at any time.

  At dawn Bond and Chandra were awoken by the Sherpas, who brought them hot tea. The tea was welcome, but he would have given a year’s salary just to have a plate of his housekeeper May’s scrambled eggs. He also would have killed to have a cigarette, but this was truly a situation when having a cigarette would have killed him. He rose stiffly from the sleeping bag, coughed and hacked for several minutes, then sipped the tea. Chandra sat up, said “Good morning” but was otherwise atypically speechless. The climb was getting to them both. Bond had slept fitfully, with very vivid, disturbing dreams, which was quite normal at high altitude. What was worrying was that the conditions would worsen as they got higher. That day they were ascending to 6,000 meters. It wouldn’t be long before they would require oxygen.

  The team met at Marquis’s tent, which would remain as Camp One HQ.

  “Right,” Marquis said, breathing heavily. “Today’s climb is another five hundred meters up the ice glacier above us. It’s a relatively easy jaunt. First we have to climb through that small, low-angle icefall to get to the main glacier. We’ll set up Camp Two there.”

  “There are some short ice steps we’ll have to fix rope on,” Philippe Leaud said. “How big are they, Roland?”

  “Ten to twenty meters. No problem. How does everyone feel?”

  They all mumbled, “Fine.”

  “Let’s go, then.”

  The team kept the same formation as the previous day, with Marquis and Leaud leading. The ropes were attached easily enough, and they trudged up the slope in silence
. As the air grew thinner, their strength diminished with each step. It took twice as long to travel a few feet as it would have at sea level.

  They got to Camp Two midafternoon, totally exhausted. Tom Barlow fell to his knees, gasping for breath.

  “Chettan, take a look at him,” Marquis told the Sherpa. “Make sure he’s all right. The rest of you, set up the tents. The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can collapse.”

  Barlow regained his wind after a few minutes. So far no one except Marquis had shown any signs of AMS. They erected the tents and huddled in two of them to eat. Bond found himself in a tent with Chandra, Marquis, and Leaud. Marquis brought out his cell phone and punched the memory dial.

  “Camp Two to Base, Camp Two to Base,” he said.

  “Hello? Roland?” It was Paul Baack.

  “Paul, we’re here. We’re at Camp Two.”

  “Congratulations!”

  “How are things down there?”

  “Fine. We’re all restless, but we just watched Gone With the Wind on television. Uncut. No commercials. That passed the time.”

  “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn,” Marquis said, laughing at his own joke.

  “Hope wants to know how everyone is feeling,” Baack said.

  “Tell her we’re fine. Tom had a few moments of breathlessness, but he’s all right now. Tomorrow we’ll push on to Camp Three and wait for you to join us. In the meantime, can we order some Chinese takeaway?”

  “Sorry, we’re all out of Chinese food. You don’t want Chinese food tonight. Why don’t you order a pizza?”

  “That sounds fine, too,” Marquis said, laughing. “Over and out.”

  He put away the phone as they began to eat Alpine Aire freeze-dried rations, which were types of casseroles made of vegetables and/or meat. Sealed tightly in waterproof plastic bags, the rations were lightweight and easily boiled to produce a high-calorie meal with no dishes to clean.

  “Hey, come out here!” a voice called outside.