“Is that spot bad?” Turcotte asked.
“The first major attempt to climb Everest in modern times was by George Mallory and Sandy Irvine in 1924,” Morris said. “They approached from the north because of politics. And when they did their reconnaissance of the area during the 1921 and 1922 trips, they kept moving up the mountain in that direction. They even made it as far up as the North Col in 1923. But even Mallory said the south appeared to be the more desirable direction to approach the mountain from and subsequent mappings and climbs have confirmed this.”
“What happened to Mallory and Irvine?” Mualama asked.
“No one really knew for a long time except that they never came back down.” Morris shook his head sadly. “They were last seen alive disappearing into clouds just before the Second Step, which is high up on the north side. Mallory’s body was found by an expedition in 1999.” Morris ran his finger along the map. “Here. Far below the second step. The body was in bad shape. They buried it on the mountain. Some say he might have summited and been on his way down when he fell. Irvine’s body has never been found.”
“Curious,” Mualama said.
“Others tried to climb the mountain over the years,” Morris continued, “but the first true summit came in 1953 by Sir Edmund Hillary and a Sherpa, Tenzig Norgay. Since then about seven hundred people have summited while several hundred have lost their lives attempting it.” Morris looked at the map once more. “This spot is not on any route, even the most difficult ones. I’m not surprised no one’s seen Excalibur.”
“What’s the best route to the coordinates?”
Morris looked up. He pointed. “Let’s follow the West Ridge, then go over it near the top.”
South Korea
General Carmody, Eighth Army commander, could hear his own breathing echoing inside his gas mask. He brought the panting under control, then picked up a headset off the firewall of the Blackhawk and slipped it on.
He was patched into the Eighth Army command frequency and could hear reports from his senior commanders over the secure network. The massacre in Seoul was being buried under frantic calls for reinforcements from forces in the Uijongbu Corridor, northeast of the capital city. The North Koreans and Chinese had used both nerve and chemical agents in their initial assaults, and while the American and South Korean military forces were prepared, the dual assault degraded their ability to defend.
The fact that it degraded the ability of the assaulting forces to be as effective as possible didn’t seem to matter as four corps worth of PKA/Chinese troops poured across the border into the choke point where Carmody had planned to deploy his tactical nuclear weapons. Fierce fighting raged in the corridor, between the Taebak Mountain Range in the east and an estuary of the Han River. The corridor had always been a major advance route for invaders, from Mongols and Manchus to the North Koreans in 1950 to the present.
Eighteen South Korean divisions along with the American Second Infantry Division were now engaged along the entire 151-mile-long border from coast to coast, but Carmody knew Uijongbu was the key.
And then he heard the voice of the artillery commander of the Second Infantry Division come over the net. North Korean soldiers were appearing behind his batteries by the hundreds, no thousands, the excited voice reported.
Carmody knew immediately what had happened. During the years since the signing of the armistice dozens of tunnels had been discovered being dug from north to south. But he knew, and his intelligence staff had briefed, that they would never find them all. Now one had obviously opened up to the rear of his frontline defenses.
“Alpha four,” Carmody yelled, his voice carrying out of the mask, into the mike pressed against it.
The pilot twisted his head, appearing like a machine with his mask and helmet, not a single bit of skin exposed. “Sir?”
“Alpha four. Now.” “Yes, sir.”
The Blackhawk banked, the other three carrying his staff following. Carmody knew all his forces were tied up and he had neither reserves to throw into the breach nor spare helicopters to do what needed to be done. As the helicopter flew to the destination he had ordered, Carmody accessed the computer bolted in front of him, bringing up a tactical display forwarded to him from Eighth Army’s battle headquarters.
Images flashed across the screen, satellite photos from a KH-14 spy satellite in orbit overhead. He had never expected to be in this position, without the support of the Seventh Fleet. His options to stem the flow of forces he could see building up behind his artillery were limited.
Mount Everest
The blades were struggling to find purchase in the thin air, just as the engine strained for oxygen to combust the fuel. Below lay the Rongbuk Glacier, a desolate stretch of ice, snow, and rock, caught between ridges. Directly ahead, Mount Everest blocked the horizon.
Neither SEAL glanced down as the helicopter passed over the desolate site of the Rongbuk base camp where most of those who attempted Everest from the north side made their first acclimatization stop. It was empty now, just a scattering of ruined tents and abandoned gear, as it was too late in the season for any sane person to attempt Everest.
The pilot yelled something in his native tongue, the fear obvious even if the words meant nothing to either SEAL. The engines were skipping slightly, a sign the helicopter could not go much higher. They were less than fifty feet above the glacier.
Olivetti pointed ahead with one hand, while jabbing the barrel into the pilot’s ribs. From the information the guardian had given them about the traditional north route, it was a three-day march from the Rongbuk base camp, up the glacier, to the Advanced Base Camp that was at the foot of the north face of Everest itself. Every meter the helicopter gained up the glacier meant that much less time they would have to spend climbing.
On the right, Khumbutse appeared, and on the left, Bei Peak. The two mountains framed the north face, which was mostly hidden by blowing snow and clouds. McGraw had a map out and was orienting it to the terrain. A thin red line was drawn on it, the route they were to take. He leaned forward between Olivetti and the pilot and pointed to the right. The pilot turned in that direction. Everest was now off to the left and a long, sloping ridgeline ascending toward it was ahead.
The engine stuttered, went out for a second, then was restarted by the desperate pilot. McGraw pointed down, at a relatively smooth stretch of ice on the glacier. Gratefully the pilot descended quickly. They touched down hard, the impact jarring all on board. The pilot flipped switches and the loud whine of the engine was suddenly gone. The only sound now was the wind, the constant companion of those who came near Everest.
McGraw slid open the cargo bay door. The wind whipped inside, icy fingers clawing at any exposed skin. He tossed out their two heavy rucksacks of equipment. McGraw exited the copilot’s seat and easily lifted one of the 180- pound packs, throwing it on his shoulders. The pilot was slumped in his seat, thankful to have made it that far.
McGraw went to the engine compartment and unlatched it. The pilot heard the noise and turned. Startled, he opened his door and came up to McGraw. The SEAL put a finger to his lips, indicating for the man to shut up. McGraw reached in and removed a small piece of the engine. The pilot’s eyes went wide and he shook his head, protesting.
McGraw stuffed the piece in his rucksack. He then faced the pilot and held up two fingers, then pointed at himself, toward Everest, then back at the helicopter. Then he jabbed his finger in the pilot’s chest and indicated the helicopter.
The pilot looked back down the miles of torturous glacier he had just flown up, knowing there was no way he could make it down on foot. Not dressed like he was. McGraw took him to the cargo bay and pointed inside. There was a sleeping bag on the floor. Then McGraw once more held up two fingers. He then picked up his pack and put it on his back. Without a backward glance, the two SEALs set off up the last part of the glacier, heading toward the West Ridge.
• • •
“Most go that way on the northern appro
ach.” Aksu pointed through a narrow gap between Bei Peak and the ridge they were on to another ridge ten miles away. “The West Ridge, via Rongbuk Glacier. It is safer, but it is slower. It is the way Mallory and Irvine tried so many years ago.”
Lexina didn’t say anything, a tall figure swathed in cold-weather gear, her face hidden behind dark goggles and a face mask. Coridan and Elek flanked her like sentinels, also silent. They were standing on a knoll on the Northeast Ridge, buffeted by the howling wind. Twenty meters below, a line of fourteen of Aksu’s men made their way along a narrow track just off the knife edge of the ridge.
“I was the first to complete this route,” Aksu continued. “It is faster, but more dangerous, especially if the wind picks up.”
Lexina broke her silence. “How long?”
“We will make it to a camp spot I know on the ridge by dark. We will rest four hours. We will then depart at 0300 for the final assault to the location you have given me. It will require some technical climbing to get across the top of the Kanshung Face.”
Lexina nodded.
“I must warn you,” Aksu said, “that without acclimatization you will not last long on the mountain.”
“Our blood—” Lexina began, then halted. “You need not worry about us.” She then left the knoll, joining the end of the column. Aksu paused, looking to the southwest toward the mountain hidden in the clouds. The weather was bad, that was obvious to his experienced eyes. He could see a twenty-mile-long plume of snow coming off the top of the peak. If it was the same in the morning, they would not be able to make the attempt, as the Northeast Ridge was too narrow to chance with a strong wind. However, he also knew that Everest was fickle. The weather could change in a flash. There was nothing to do but continue on for the moment.
• • •
The controls were getting sluggish, something Turcotte had experienced once before in a bouncer, but that had been when he had taken one as high as it would go, away from the surface of the planet, much higher than their present altitude. He saw no reason why it should be happening, so close to their goal. They were just south of the West Ridge, flying parallel to it, a route suggested by Morris.
“We’ve got a problem,” Turcotte announced as he pushed on the controls, edging them closer to the ridge.
“What’s wrong?” Morris asked.
“We’re losing power.” Turcotte looked to the left, searching for a level spot. “Buckle up,” he advised the medic and Mualama.
With his free hand, Turcotte tightened down the straps holding him in the depression in the floor of the bouncer. “I’m open for suggestions where to put this down.” All he could see was an extremely steep snow- and ice-covered slope leading up to the ridge above them. About two thousand feet below them was a wide glacier, but Turcotte didn’t want to descend, knowing that however far he took the bouncer down, they’d have to make up for on foot.
“Can you put it on top of the ridge?” Morris was pointing up.
Turcotte pulled on the controls, but not only wouldn’t the bouncer rise, he realized they were losing airspeed and descending. He knew he needed to do something before they completely lost power.
“Screw it,” Turcotte said. He pushed over on the controls and headed for the slope. “Hold on!”
The edge of the bouncer hit hard, digging into the ice and snow, striking rock. The alien metal gouged into the side of Mount Everest as Turcotte kept his hands on the controls. The bouncer came to a stop and he slowly let go of the controls. The bouncer was stuck into the side of the ridge, enough power in the craft to keep it in place. Turcotte looked up. The top of the ridge was out of sight above them. Looking down, he could see that there was an almost vertical drop below. “Let’s gear up.”
Morris checked his watch. “It’s late. We’ll have to camp on the mountain.”
“Let’s get as high as we can before dark,” Turcotte said. He had some experience of cold-weather operations from his time in Special Forces, so he carefully put on the layers of clothing Morris had brought. First they all put on skintight underwear that would wick any perspiration away from their skins. Turcotte knew one of the great dangers of operating in the cold was sweating and then stopping and having the moisture freeze next to the skin. Next were several more layers of specially designed clothing, topped by a Gore-Tex outer shell.
Morris had laid out the three packs and filled them during the flight. Each contained several oxygen cylinders, a sleeping bag with waterproof shell, and a little food. Turcotte strapped his MP-5 submachine gun to the outside of the pack. He knew he had to keep it away from his body or else the gun might “sweat” and then freeze up. A clanging clutter of climbing gear was also on the outside of each pack.
“Here.” Morris held a canteen in each hand and a packet of pills. “Put the canteen in the inner front pocket of your parka. Anyplace else and the water will freeze. The pills are amphetamines. Take them only if you absolutely need a surge of power. They’ll give you a couple of hours of energy, but coming down from the high will be bad.”
Turcotte stowed the canteen and sealed the Velcro flap to the pocket. Then he took the harness Morris gave him and put in on over all the clothes, making sure it was tight. He stepped into crampons and cinched them to his boots. He put a lined helmet on, then attached the oxygen mask over it. Morris adjusted the flow for both him and Mualama.
“Most people couldn’t last more than a couple of minutes up here going from ground level to this altitude,” Morris said, his voice muffled by his mask. “The acclimatizing that is done on a normal Everest climb is primarily to get the blood to change; after several weeks at altitude you develop twice the number of red blood cells that carry oxygen. The blood packing we did on the way here accomplished the same thing—the problem is that the doubling is artificially produced, not by your own body. So it isn’t being renewed. We’ve got a forty- eight-hour window. Past that, your blood will start thinning and you’ll be in big trouble.”
“How much trouble?” Turcotte asked. “You’ll die.”
Mount Ararat
Yakov stumbled as the MC-130 banked hard right. The interior of the plane smelled of vomit and sweat. As experienced as the Delta men were in this type of low-level flight, this one had exceeded even the wildest they’d ever been on.
The pilots had surpassed the standard safety margins in effect during training and pushed their training and equipment to the limit, rarely climbing more than one hundred feet above the ground. Just a year previously such a flight would have been impossible, owing to the likelihood of either striking the ground, a tower, a building, or high-tension wires as they infiltrated Turkey. But a year earlier, NASA had launched an eleven-day operation called the Shuttle Radar Topography Mission.
The mission had mapped over 80 percent of the planet’s landmass using C- and X-band interferometric synthetic aperture radars to produce a digital map of the planet’s surface. The accuracy of the results was far beyond anything done previously. Altitude data was within sixteen meters’ absolute accuracy and horizontal data was within ten meters. This led to the MC-130’s crew’s ability to fly at double that possible error with no fear of striking anything. The pilots had a three-dimensional display of the terrain ahead on their monitors. The aircraft’s computer also had the data loaded and was constantly using a ground-positioning receiver, updated every half second, to monitor the route and warn of possible collisions.
There was the slightest of possibilities that something might have been constructed along the flight route since the shuttle mission, but it was a risk the crew would rather take to avoid being picked up on Turkish radar and having fighters scrambled to intercept.
Yakov reached inside his parka, pulled open the Velcro on an interior pocket, and pulled out a flask of vodka. He extended it to the Delta commando next to him, indicating he should partake. The man looked at him incredulously, the front of his own parka speckled with vomit. Yakov shrugged, unscrewed the cap, and took a deep swig. He extended it
around to all the men close by, but all passed. Yakov put the top back on and slipped it back inside.
The man next to him slapped him on the shoulder and pointed to the rear. One of the Delta men was on his feet and yelling something, the sound lost in the roar of the engines. However, he also had both hands extended, fingers spread, so Yakov assumed they were ten minutes out from the drop. The interior of the plane was dimly lit with red lights. A violent cut to the right by the pilot slammed the jumpmaster against the side of the plane. The man regained his balance, wrapping both hands around the static line cable.
Yakov swallowed, tasting bile, but he smiled broadly as the man next to him passed the time warning. He tested the straps of his parachute once more, making sure they were snug. All he wanted was to get out of the plane. He didn’t care if there was a division of Turkish soldiers on the drop zone. His stomach was pressed downward as the plane’s nose went up.
The jumpmaster was holding up six fingers. He then pantomimed more jump commands and Yakov simply did what the man next to him did, getting to his feet and hooking his static line to the cable. His knees buckled as the plane once more made a violent maneuver.
The roar inside increased as a sliver of daylight appeared in the rear of the plane. The rear ramp slowly went down until it was level, the upper half ascending into the tail of the plane. The nose of the plane was angled up about forty degrees and getting steeper as they ascended the side of Mount Ararat. Looking out the rear, Yakov could see the mountainside less than three hundred feet below. Looking to the side, Yakov blinked in disbelief. They were going up a narrow gorge with the sides above the aircraft and less than ten feet from either wing. He trusted that the pilots knew what they were doing. He was slammed against the side of the aircraft as the MC-130 banked hard right, angling the wings so that they passed through a narrow spot in the gorge.
The man in front of Yakov slammed a fist into his chest to get his attention. Yakov looked to the rear. The jumpmaster had a single finger extended. One minute. Yakov realized he was hyperventilating and fought to control his breathing. Both his large hands were wrapped around the static line, using it to keep his balance. The man in front of him moved and Yakov edged closer toward the rear of the plane. He glanced up, noting the red light above the ramp. It went out and a green light flashed on.
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