Devil's Run

by Frank Hughes

  “Purely business. My boyfriend, by the way, is a forty-six large.”

  “But, of course he is.”

  She led the way out of the kitchen.

  “Your ski clothes will be delivered in about a half an hour. And the housekeeping staff already left some pajamas on the bed.”

  “You are all very thoughtful.” I pulled the roll of bills from my pocket.

  “I told you,” she said, putting up a hand. “Mrs. Canfield is taking care of everything.”

  “Thank her for me.”

  “You can thank her yourself at eight-thirty sharp tomorrow morning.”

  34.

  I awakened early in the most comfortable bed I’d ever experienced, refreshed by a deep sleep full of dreams about Cory Canfield and Catherine Masterson. I believe they mud wrestled in one of them.

  After showering in a stall big enough for a platoon, with multiple nozzles in the walls and ceiling that schpritzed you from multiple angles, I dressed in the stuff they’d left me. It was all top of the line, but I stuck with my own parka and gloves as a small act of rebellion. I grabbed a banana from the bowl of fruit on the bar and used the remote to open the curtains. There had been a considerable snowfall overnight, but now the sky was clear.

  I rode my little personal elevator down and went through the access door to the tunnel. Since I was on the far end of the building, there was only a short passage before I entered the main tunnel, which angled out to the ski shop. It wasn’t as fancy as I had expected, being very much like the steam tunnels in old New York buildings, with walls of painted concrete and pipes running along the ceiling. A tunnel made sense considering the amount of snow that must accumulate over the course of a winter. Keeping pathways open would be a constant bother and from what I had seen the grounds were an unblemished carpet of snow, except for the flagstone terrace outside the restaurant.

  I was alone in the tunnel, the only sound the echo of my footsteps and the occasional gurgle of water from one of the pipes. I figured I was about halfway to the ski shop when I passed a solitary steel door in the left hand side of the tunnel. As always, there was a card swipe and a number pad. I was fingering my room key, debating whether to give it a swipe, when a booming crack shattered the silence and the tunnel shook slightly.

  “Jesus Christ,” I said aloud.

  “My apologies, Mr. Craig,” said Kohl. “I should have warned you.”

  I turned to find him standing ten feet behind me dressed in his overcoat and ushanka. He must have beamed down, because I hadn’t heard him coming.

  “What the hell was that?”

  “That was our howitzer.” He pronounced it ‘howvitzer’.

  “A howitzer? You mean a field piece?”

  “Quite so. 105 millimeter. From your Korean War, I believe.”

  “What in God’s name?”

  “Avalanche control, Mr. Craig. We need to prevent dangerous build ups after a snowfall to prevent serious avalanches.”

  “But, artillery? Civilians with a howitzer?”

  “It is strictly controlled and the crew is well trained. Certain resorts, such as this one, are authorized to use them. Some of our peaks and,” he groped for the word, “ridges are rather inaccessible, yet they collect snow that threatens our guests. It is necessary and not uncommon here in the West.” He paused. “The recoilless rifle is more popular and, I must admit, easier to store.” Kohl looked at his watch. “Would you care to see it? We have the time.”

  “Why not?”

  He smiled his icy smile and produced his white card key.

  “Why not use helicopters to just drop charges?”

  “As you know, we are equipped for such a contingency. We use the helicopter as well.”

  He swiped the card and punched in the code. The door swung open and we entered a narrower tunnel.

  “However,” he continued as we walked along, “the winds are often too treacherous for aircraft and the weather is a factor in this exposed position. We do not allow the helicopter to remain here for long periods of time. It is berthed at the airfield. In any case, snow buildup cannot be allowed to sit or continue until it is permissible to fly. The howitzer is not affected by the weather. Of course, for accessible areas or where more precision is required, we have hand charges and the more modest tools you saw in the vehicle yesterday.”

  We reached a set of steel steps and climbed them through an open hatch into the Winnebago-like structure I’d seen in the satellite photos. The steel door was rolled up and the howitzer had been moved onto a concrete platform in front. A crew of five was preparing for the next shot. Each man wore protective headgear and safety goggles. Small flexible lights were attached to their helmets.

  Günter was examining the distant mountain through a pair of field glasses. He lowered them and turned to the backlit terrain map of the resort that dominated the opposite wall. It was overlaid with grid coordinates, one of which was highlighted and enlarged. Small pinpoints of red light, labeled with numbers, were crawling across the face of the map at random places.

  “Tell fourteen to shift to Dreamweaver for now,” said Günter. “I do not want him under the shell.”

  A member of the crew spoke into a microphone clipped to his parka. Günter continued to stare at the map. A few moments later I noticed the red light nearest the highlighted sector reverse direction and head back the other way.

  Kohl tapped me on the arm and handed me a set of ear protectors with padded ear cups.

  “What are the lights?” I said.

  “Members of the ski patrol and the drivers of the groomers.”

  “Lo-jacked your employees, eh?”

  “It is a safety precaution.”

  Günter turned to the two men standing by the ammunition rack and called out a command. “Charge five” was the only part I caught. One of the shell handlers pulled out a thirty inch olive drab round with yellow printing.

  “Isn’t that a high explosive round?” I said to Kohl.

  “Of course. An explosion is the result we wish.”

  “Seems a little dangerous. What happens if they overshoot?”

  “They never do. These men are experts. A resort in Utah did, however, some years ago make a small mistake. The shell landed in the backyard of a private home.”

  “I hope no one was having a barbecue.”

  “It was early morning. Fortunately, no one was killed.”

  The shell handler carried the high explosive round over to the gun, cradling it in his arms like a newborn. A man was bent over the howitzer, examining the open breech. He stood up and announced that the bore was clear. The shell handler stepped forward, slid the round in, and locked the door in place.

  “Locked and loaded.”

  Günter repeated it back to him. Next he called out traverse and elevation commands, the crew adjusting the gun to his specifications. Satisfied the gun was targeted correctly, he gave the command “Ear protection on!”

  I slipped on the ear protectors and held them clamped against my head. The crew did likewise, moving away to the sides of the gun, except for the man holding the firing lanyard. He stepped away from the breech and turned his back. Kohl put a hand lightly on my arm, motioning me to step farther back.

  “Clear to the front,” said Günter, shouting to make himself heard. “Clear to the rear!” He gave one last quick look all around. “Fire!”

  The trigger man yanked the lanyard. Orange flame belched from the muzzle and the barrel recoiled violently. The report shook the metal walls and rattled the wooden bin of empty shells.

  I lifted the ear protection to listen for the flight of the projectile. I wasn’t sure if I heard it, but I distinctly heard the faint thump of the round striking a distant slope of Spanish Mountain. The breech opened and the smoking shell clattered onto the floor. One of the crew picked it up with insulated gloves and carried it over to the bin of empties. Günter had his binoculars up. After a moment, he lowered them and turned to Kohl.

  “Success?
” said Kohl.

  Günter nodded.

  “Good.” Kohl turned to me. “Did you enjoy that, Mr. Craig?”

  “I’m a guy, aren’t I? You could start a war from here.”

  “It is a war, you understand. Each new snowfall brings terrible danger. You shall see when you are skiing there are many narrow ravines with steep sides.” He made a ‘V’ with his hands. “Most of them funnel directly towards the pistes, the ski trails below. A buildup of snow, should it be allowed, can result in destruction that is difficult to comprehend.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  He glanced at his watch. “But, we must not make you late for your appointment. Please to follow me.”

  I turned for one last look before descending the stairs. The howitzer had been rolled back inside and the overhead door was ratcheting down. Günter watched me as if considering how I would look strapped to the muzzle.

  “I’m still not sure how you make money,” I said, when we were back in the tunnel.

  “As I told you last night, our clients are extremely wealthy and they crave privacy and security. We provide what you Americans like to call ‘best in class’ for both those commodities.”

  “Well, this place seems great, but I can think of a dozen luxury hotels that provide the same services. Rich people didn’t get rich by being stupid. They’re not going to spend money unless they feel they’re getting their money’s worth. It can’t be cheap maintaining a place at this altitude. Water, heat, fuel. That cable car alone must cost a fortune to maintain.”

  “One must invest for the long term, Mr. Craig. We also have the benefit of some special tax incentives, from your federal government. You saw, I assume, the mining area on your journey here?”

  “The ghost town? Yes.”

  “Yes, quite so, the ghost town. What a charming American term that is. The mining area and the watershed nearby are what is called a Super Fund site. The mining operation closed in the nineteen eighties, and the mining company flooded the mine, which was considered normal procedure at that time. However, this resulted in considerable pollution of the surrounding area and ground water by dangerous chemicals and heavy metals. As part of our plan for a year round destination, we have taken on responsibility for the cleanup. Part of our proposed championship golf course will be built on the reclaimed toxic site.”

  “I hope you know what you are doing.”

  “Our people are experts and the activities are strictly regulated. We gain tax breaks, and your government saves millions of taxpayer dollars.”

  “Nice to see government and private enterprise working together. Good thing you have Canfield on your side.”

  “Oh, Mr. Craig, Senator Canfield is very strict about not involving himself in the business affairs of his wife’s company.”

  “Yes, I’m sure the regulators don’t consider his position for a moment when they make decisions.’

  “I am sure I do not know what the regulators consider.”

  We passed through the door into the main tunnel.

  “I will leave you now, Mr. Craig. Please enjoy your day on the slopes.”

  “Thank you. One question more, though.”

  “As you wish.”

  “Do you ever sleep?”

  The ends of his mouth moved slightly. “Never on the company’s time.”

  35.

  The retail end of the ski shop was relatively small. Most of the space was reserved for the guests’ equipment and the workshop area. The ski check was a conveyor system like the ones you see in a dry cleaning store. The workshop had four tuning benches, a small rack of rentals, a fitting area with chairs, and a couple of boot ovens. There was only one employee, a technician working on a pair of skis at one of the benches. He looked up as I approached.

  “Mr. Craig?”

  “Guilty as charged.”

  He offered a well-calloused hand. “I am Klaus. I will be fitting you today.”

  There was only the slightest hint of an accent, but he seemed to be part of the Austrian crowd, although a little farther along in years than the others I’d seen.

  He looked me over. “You are perhaps 187 centimeters, 80 kilograms?”

  “You’ll have to translate for me.”

  “My apologies. That is a little over six feet and about one hundred eighty pounds.”

  “Close enough. You people should work in a carnival.”

  “What is your experience level?”

  “Is there something called sloppy intermediate?”

  He cocked his head and looked at me with a slight smile. “I suspect you are a man who tends to be conservative when appraising his own abilities. In any case,” he said, picking up the skis he’d been working on, “these should be sufficient. They are of the K2 manufacturer, from the Apache line. It is a fine all-mountain ski.”

  “I should probably mention I’ve only skied back East. Are the trails groomed?”

  “Our guests say they are manicured,” he said, chuckling at his own joke. “Yes, you will find most of our trails groomed, so the skiing will be similar to your East Coast, but with much better snow, of course. Much less ice. If you do choose to venture into deep powder, the performance of this ski will be acceptable, but not optimal.” He pointed at my feet. “Now we will prepare the boots. Oh and how do you prefer the sensitivity of your bindings?”

  “First time in years, and on new skis? I want them to bust open if I look at them cross-eyed.”

  He laughed. “I understand.”

  A short time after that I was fully equipped and ready to go, complete with a helmet, which Klaus assured me nearly everyone wore now. Just in time, too. Cory Canfield entered just as we finished, resplendent in a skin tight snowsuit of roughly the same red as her dress the night before. With her were her husband, Bryce Randolph, Jeffrey Boyd, and Günter. Boyd wore an expensive looking white parka with black side panels and orange piping. Not surprisingly, he was one of those guys who skis with the jacket zipped open, no hat, and designer sunglasses instead of goggles. Canfield, goggled and helmeted, was dressed in a dignified Navy blue, but Randolph’s yellow and black parka made him look like a giant canary. At least he would be easy to spot in an emergency.

  Cory brightened when she saw me. She smiled and waved, yelling, “Hi, Nick!” She bounced over to me.”

  “Good morning, Mrs. Canfield,” I said.

  “Stop that! I told you to call me Cory. Hey, hi Klaus!”

  “Mrs. Canfield, always a pleasure. If you are ready I will get your skis.”

  He went over to the ski check counter and tapped on a keyboard. Cory and the others followed him over. I hoisted my skis onto my shoulder and clumped over to join them.

  “Please,” said Klaus to Cory, pointing with an open hand at a card reader.

  She pulled out her room key and swiped it through the slot. The contraption behind Klaus rattled and pairs of skis trooped past. A few moments later, it stopped and presented a pair of short white skis. There was a little hiss and a locking clamp around the bindings popped open. Klaus lifted the skis, noticeably wider than mine, off the rack and handed them over the counter towards Cory, who made no move to take them. Instead, Günter stepped in and took them from him.

  Klaus raised both hands to Cory, palms up, as if offering a plate of food. “I wish you an outstanding day, Mrs. Canfield.”

  “Thanks, Klaus.” Then to me she said, “Come on outside, Nick.”

  I followed her outside, Günter following with her skis. He placed them in the snow and stood by while she stepped into the bindings. Then he walked over to a wooden rack and picked up his own skis.

  It was nearly eight-thirty and the sun was bright, but the thin air was extremely cold. My face was already feeling pinched and frozen. I propped the skis on the rack and pulled on the UnderArmour balaclava Klaus had recommended. The thin, stretchy fabric served as both a face mask and helmet liner. The helmet itself turned out to be surprisingly comfortable, and was probably a good idea considering how lon
g it had been since I’d worn a pair of skis.

  The other members of our group trooped out one by one and began gearing up. I put the K2’s down in front of the large trail map and stepped into the bindings, stamping each foot a couple of times against the snow. The bindings felt solid. I leaned on my poles and examined the map.

  The Retreat had its own set of trails, separate from the public resort. Eventually most intersected with a narrow trail of the public resort that wound down from the top of the main gondola. Diablo Canyon’s private runs currently consisted of one black diamond, two intermediates, a green trail for beginners, and the triple black diamond that I had seen from the tramway. Six dotted lines represented future trails not yet cut and there was a straight red line indicating the route of a future lift. Only two of the open runs began from where we were standing, Corrida del Diablo and Easy Street, the green trail. The others began further down the mountain.

  “Ready?” said Boyd.

  I continued looking at the trail map. “Where we off to?”

  “Let’s do Devil’s Run. You feel up to it?”

  “Oh, Jeff,” said Cory, “that’s not fair to Nick.” She turned to me. “Right?”

  “Maybe I should get my feet wet first.”

  “Then we should take Easy Street,” said Boyd, nodding towards Cory, “for the sake of the ladies.”

  I smiled at him. “Let’s concede your dick is bigger, shall we?”

  Cory laughed, but Boyd looked a little perplexed at my response to his schoolyard bully psychology.

  “Frankly, Jeff,” said Canfield, “I’d like an easy start as well.”

  “Fine,” he said, and pushed off towards the lift station, which was about thirty feet away. He skated around it and into the trees.

  “Don’t listen to Jeff,” said Cory, “just have fun.”

  She adjusted her goggles and followed Boyd. Günter stayed with her like a faithful dog. Or minder; I couldn’t figure out the dynamic. Canfield and Randolph paired up behind them, leaving me odd man out.

  I skated after them, picking up speed, the feeling familiar and welcome. The snow was as smooth as confectioner’s sugar. I picked up speed quickly, and was able to stop skating shortly after passing the lift station.