The Hunt

“Heil Hitler, “the two men said in unison, raising their arms in the Nazi salute. Ludwig and Vierhaus left the cabin. Swan and Kraft studied the chart in silence, Kraft scribbling notes to himself while Swan stood close to the map and stared at it without expression. This exercise is a chess game, he said to himself. A very dangerous chess game. The back slope was a glacier formed by melting snow in the warm August afternoons and then refrozen at night.

There were two courses down the slope. The one on the west side of the glacier was faster but far more dangerous with a deadfall of at least a thousand feet along half its length. The eastern trail had sporadic deadfalls and a natural shelf halfway down to break the run. The two trails merged halfway down the slope. After that it was a drop run all the way down—a piece of cake. The crucial decision would be whether to risk the run down the western wall or cross to the east side.

Ludwig’s instructions were simple—retrieve the flag. That was the operation, so the test was one of skill, intelligence and speed, not heroics.

He concentrated on the map. Since they were climbing up the west face, he would have to cross over the glacier to get to the east run, a dangerous task in itself. One slip and he would plunge 1,500 feet down the glacier to certain death.

Ludwig had devised a devilish contest.

“Well, Swan, good luck. May the best man win,” Kraft said, offering his hand.

“The best man is going to win,” Swan said without looking at him. Ignoring Kraft’s outstretched hand, he turned abruptly and left the cabin.

* * *

By noon Swan had reached the crest on the back side of the Hummel. By his calculations, he was two or three minutes ahead of Kraft. He wasted thirty seconds, staring out across the valley, focusing his mind on the map. The peak of the Hummel broke away to the east while the west run, the more dangerous of the two, started only fifty or so yards away around the ledge of the mountain. Skiing across the glacier on the back side was more than risky, it was foolish. And there was another factor, the wind. It howled madly around him, twisting the snow into whirlwinds. But by skiing around the front of the crest he could cross to the other side on good powder. Two hundred yards across, he figured, and Kraft was closing on him.

Retrieve the flag. Ludwig’s only instructions.

He jumped off and skied around the front side of the peak, headed across to the other side, leaning forward on his skis with his back to the harsh wind, letting it carry him across. He would force Kraft to take the dangerous west run. He sped across the crest, cut sharply as he reached the east side and whipped around the peak to the back side, stopping a few feet from a precipitous deadfall.

He was standing on a small ledge just above the trail down the side of the glacier. He studied the trail for a moment, watching the wind sweep the snow out across the frozen river. Good powder, he thought. Below him the glacier spread almost the entire width of the mountain’s face: gleaming, melting ice sliced with narrow, deep fissures formed by rivers of melting ice and snow.

Swan looked up toward the peak of the Hummel, thirty yards or so above him. A wide and dangerous overhang of snow clustered near the crest of the mountain. Rivers of melting snow poured from its jagged rim to form the deep cuts in the glacial face of the mountain. Here and there deep cracks appeared in the broad snow overhang.

An avalanche waiting to happen, thought Swan.

He looked to the west. The natural path coursed down through the trees, a steep run, almost vertical in places. Directly below Swan, his trail was hampered by boulders and stunted trees. It was a slower run but safer. From the rim of his eye he saw Kraft emerge on the far side of the glacier. Kraft had achieved the peak, too, and only seconds behind him. But now Kraft had an open avenue to the faster, more dangerous run. Would he take it? Or lose valuable time chasing Swan to the easier side of the slope?

He will operate on pure instinct, thought Swan. Kraft had made his decision before reaching the crest, basing it on the maps. Now he was cornered. He could not afford to cross the melting river of ice that separated them. He has to make the western run. And as he watched, Kraft hopped in the air, swung his skis around and started down the western face. A fatal decision.

Swan jumped into the air, shoved himself over the ledge with his poles and started straight down the east run. Below him was a straight course halfway down the steep slope, then a ridge of boulders formed a natural shelf that spread east to west halfway across the mountain’s face. He plunged toward the shelf, keenly aware that Kraft was already seconds ahead of him on the opposite side of the glacier. To his right, steep cliffs raced past. He watched for patches of ice that might throw him over as he vaulted down the narrow trail. Far to his left he could see Kraft, seconds ahead of him, fighting the wind as he raced along the dangerous west trail. Swan reached the shelf and leveled off, twisting to a stop.

Kraft was still vaulting ahead but he was coming to a flat spot in the run. He would have to cross a hundred feet or so of glacier at the end of the run to get to the final slope. He watched Kraft slow his downward run as he approached the dangerous path across the ice river. He ‘ii have to stop for a moment and study the roll of the ice, Swan thought. He’s not stupid enough to run it blind.

Swan reached into his jacket and took out a Luger. He aimed it back up the mountain toward the snow that clung to the peak of the mountain and fired a shot, then a second, then a third.

Below him, Kraft twisted sideways, leaning into the mountain, felt his skis slapping the rough snow at the edge of the glacier. He stopped a few feet from the edge of the deadfall. The valley sprawled a thousand feet below him. He was out of breath and his goggles were cloudy. He dropped them around his neck and studied the roll of the glacier.

Then he heard a shot. And another. And a third. He looked up the mountain. What the hell was Swan doing?

The huge drift on the peak of the Hummel groaned in the wind, shuddered as the sound waves of the shots swept up to it. The cracks widened and popped like skyrockets. Weakened, the great drift of snow suddenly broke loose. A wave of snow, ten feet deep and fifty yards wide, suddenly fell away and thundered down the mountain.

Swan shoved himself off the shelf with his poles and dropped down on the broad slope. Leaning as far forward