“Every day aboveground is a good day,” he said, dragging their packs into the snow. “What’s on the agenda for today?”
Smith pointed down a steep slope that started thirty feet from their camp and then started dismantling their tent. At one time, the grade had probably given the city’s archers an advantage over invading armies, but now it just screamed “terrain trap” to any backcountry skier or military man worth a damn.
Howell clicked into his skis and eased up to the edge, frowning down at the cliff bands and cornices that overhung the shadowed canyon. He thumbed back at the silent heads watching them. “One well-placed grenade and we’ll be joining our friends here as permanent residents.”
Smith stuffed the tent in his pack and skied up next to the Brit. “You’re forgetting one thing — we’re actually
Howell shrugged. “I guess we should look on the bright side, then.”
“Which is?”
“We’ll probably get killed skiing down.”
With that he kicked off and arced gracefully down the slope. Normally, the British weren’t known for their skiing prowess, but Howell’s time in the California mountains had obviously overcome the challenges of his birth. Fresh powder curled over his head as he dodged a rock outcropping and picked up speed.
Smith tensed when a large slab of snow around his friend began to move, pacing him as gravity dragged it into the gap ahead. The avalanche he thought was coming didn’t materialize, though, and a few moments later, Howell was waving a pole enthusiastically up at him.
He put his AvaLung in his mouth but then spit it out. The device was designed to help a buried skier breathe long enough to be rescued, but if he kicked off a slide, they would both be buried. And with no help forthcoming, it would only serve to prolong his suffering.
The cornice he was standing on was about five feet high, and he jumped off, hip checking in the deep snow before springing upright and hurtling down the slope. Under other circumstances, it would have been a perfect day, and he tried to enjoy the roller-coaster sensation as he dove in and out of the powder, occasionally looking back to see if the snowpack was holding.
It did, and he pulled up to Howell, who was grinning through the ice clinging to his stubble. “I don’t suppose we have time for one more?”
Smith actually laughed, managing for a brief moment to forget why they were there.
“Maybe we’ll hit it again on our way out,” he said, taking off his skis and reaching for his skins before realizing that Howell wasn’t listening. Instead, he was completely focused on the canyon wall ahead of them.
“You got something, Peter?”
“Movement at the top.”
“Nothing we can do. Skin up and let’s get moving.”
He did but clearly wasn’t happy about it. Walking into an obvious trap was embarrassing enough for an SAS man, but not fighting his way out of it would be downright mortifying.
“Anything behind us?” Howell said.
Smith tried not to be obvious scanning the ridge. “I don’t see anything. But that—”
A puff of snow erupted ten feet to their right and they dove away from it as the muffled sound of the gunshot filtered down the cliff. Smith immediately rolled upright and tried to get to their skis, but more rounds rained down on them, spraying him with ice and snow.
“We’re in a cross fire!” Howell shouted, reaching instinctively into his jacket for the gun that wasn’t there. Lost backcountry skiers tended not to be armed.
The intensity of fire increased, closing in on them as the snipers found their range. Howell started wading toward a small rock outcropping at the base of one of the canyon walls, making comically slow progress through the deep powder. Shots were striking within two feet of him, one every second or so, from what Smith calculated to be at least three separate guns. He wasn’t going to make it.
Then everything went silent.
Howell slowed and finally stopped a few yards short of cover. A hole in the clouds had opened up, and he raised a hand to shade his face as he scanned the ridge again.
“Stay where you are! Do not move!”
The accented voice echoed through the gap, making its source impossible to pinpoint. A moment later, ropes appeared above them, tumbling gracefully through the air. Before the ends had even hit the ground, men appeared on both sides of the canyon, rappelling quickly as a few more shots kicked up the snow between Smith and Howell. A reminder that any aggressive move on their part could be easily dealt with.
68
After they were relieved of their backpacks, it was made crystal clear that if they fell behind, they would be left to die. And the threat wasn’t an idle one. With the wind picking up again and a high-pressure system pushing temperatures into the single digits, they wouldn’t last long with only their skis and the clothes on their backs.
For now, though, it appeared to Smith that they were safe. The nine men who had ambushed them were disbursed in an ever-?lengthening line across the open plain. He glanced back to check on the man charged with guarding him and saw that he was stopped more than a hundred yards back, leaning weakly on his poles as someone helped him off with his oversized pack and slipped it over his own shoulders. Smith smiled when he realized that the young soldier’s benefactor was none other than Peter Howell.
Beyond the initial barked orders and threats, none of their captors had said much of anything. In fact, Smith still wasn’t dead sure who these men were. Had they been sent by Farrokh? Were they an Iranian military patrol taking them to prison for violating the border? Were they bandits or drug runners interested in a ransom? All questions had thus far gone unanswered.
What he did know was that it was a fairly ragtag unit. Their fitness and skiing ability were all over the place, and their equipment was dated at best and on the verge of falling apart at worst.
Smith picked up his pace, feeling the cold air penetrate his lungs as he closed in on the unfortunate man who had been stuck taking possession of his seventy-pound pack. One of the soldier’s hands was stuffed in his jacket, and he held both poles in the other as he shuffled awkwardly forward, the cold and monotonous grade starting to take their toll.
He was startled when Smith came alongside and yanked down one of the pack’s side zippers but was too tired to do anything to protect himself against the weapon he assumed his American prisoner was retrieving.
Instead, Smith pulled out a pair of state-of-the-art ice-climbing gloves that he’d been carrying as spares. The young man looked at him over wire-rimmed glasses caked with ice and gave a short nod of thanks.
Smith sped up again, passing one exhausted captor after another until he settled in behind the man on point.
“Your team needs a break.”
The man tensed and twisted around, apparently surprised that his prisoner had been able to close the gap between them so quickly and silently.
“Perhaps it’s you who needs the rest?”
By way of response, Smith just thumbed behind him.
The man looked out over the line of stragglers, his irritated frown turning to an expression of disgust when he saw Howell, now carrying both a pack
“Academics and intellectuals,” the man said in lightly accented English. “They’re loyal to the movement, but even with training so many are…What’s the word I’m looking for?”
“Unathletic?” Smith offered.
The man shook his head, sending a cascade of snow from his hat to his neatly trimmed beard. “Wimps. That’s it. Not like you Americans and British. In the West a doctor and an old man can penetrate the jungles of
