the waiting helicopter. Just as they reached the helipad, the mountain groaned. They looked up. Snow and ice began tumbling, gathering weight. In seconds the avalance was in full flood. There was no time to run, nothing to do but wait. The roar increased. Snow poured down the mountain to carry the far trailer hut and one of the vast steel mud tanks into the abyss. Then it ceased.
“Mamma mia,” Gianni gasped, crossing himself. “I thought we were gone that time.”
JeanLuc, too, had crossed himself. Now the overhang was even more ominous, thousands of tons poised over the site, part of the rock face exposed. Dribbles of snow fell continuously.
“JeanLuc!” It was Guineppa. His eyes were open. “Don’t… don’t wait… dynamite now… must… must.”
Pietro said, “He’s right, it’s now or never.”
“Please… I’m fine… Mamma mia, do it now! I’m fine.”
They hurried for the chopper. The stretcher went across the forward bank of seats and was quickly lashed into place. The others put on their seat belts. JeanLuc got into the cockpit left seat and put on his headset. “Okay, Scot?”
“Terrific, old chap,” Scot Gavallan said. “How’s Guineppa?” “Not good.” JeanLuc checked the instruments. Everything was in the Green and plenty of fuel. “Merde! The overhang’s going any second; let’s watch the up and down drafts, they’re liable to be rough. Allons-y!” “Here - I rigged it for Pietro while I was waiting at Rosa.” Scot gave JeanLuc the spare headset that was now linked with theirs.
“I’ll give it to him when we’re airborne. I don’t feel safe here! Take off!” At once Scot opened the throttles and eased the 212 off the ground, backed off a little, turned, and was over the abyss. As he started to climb, JeanLuc crawled back into the cabin. “Here, put these on, Pietro, now you’re connected with us up front.”
“Good, very good.” Pietro had taken the seat nearest the door. “When we begin, for the sake of God, my health, and your mother, don’t fall out.”
Pietro laughed nervously. JeanLuc checked Guineppa who seemed more comfortable now, went forward again, and put on his headset. “You hear me, Pietro?”
“Si. Si, amico.”
The chopper labored in a circling climb. Now they were on a level with the crest. From this angle the overhang did not seem so dangerous. They were beginning to bounce a little. “Go higher, another hundred feet, amico,” came through the headsets, “and more north.”
“Roger, Pietro. You’re navigator now.” Scot said.
The two pilots concentrated. Pietro showed them the spot on the north face where the dynamite would undercut the overhang and create an avalanche away from the rig. “It might work,” Scot muttered.
They circled once to make sure. “Amico, when we’re over that spot at a hundred feet, hover; I’ll light the fuse and throw her out. Buono?” They could hear a tremble in Pietro’s voice.
“Don’t forget to open the door, old chap,” Scot said dryly. There was a stream of Italian expletives in reply. Scot smiled, then a downdraft took them fifty feet before he caught it. In a minute they were to altitude and in position.
“Good, amico, keep her there.”
JeanLuc turned around to watch. Behind in the cabin the other men stared at Pietro, fascinated. He took out the first charge and caressed the fuse straight, humming Aida.
“Mother of God, Pietro,” Gianni said. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
Pietro clenched his left fist, put his right with the fused dynamite on his left bicep, and gestured with significance. “Get ready, up front,” he said into the boom mike, and unlocked his seat belt. He checked the position below, then nodded. “Good, keep her steady. Gianni, ready on the door. Open the fornicator a crack and I’ll do the rest.”
The airplane was pitching with the gyrating air currents, as Gianni unlocked his belt and went to the door. “Hurry up,” he said, feeling very unsafe, then added to the nearest man, “hold on to my belt!”
“Open the door, Gianni!” Gianni fought it open a foot and held it there, the sick man on the stretcher forgotten. A roar of air filled the cabin. The airplane swirled, the added suction from the open door making it more difficult for Scot to control her. Pietro held up the fuse and thumbed the lighter. It failed. Again and again, each time more anxious than the last. “Mother of God, come on!” Sweat was pouring off Pietro’s face when the lighter finally caught. The fuse spluttered into life. Holding on with one hand he leaned toward the door, wind eddies tugging at him. The airplane lurched and both men wished they had had the foresight to bring a safety harness. Carefully Pietro tossed the exploder through the opening. At once Gianni slammed the door closed and locked it. Then he began to swear. “Bombs away! Let’s go!” Pietro ordered, his teeth chattering from the cold, and buckled himself in again. At once the chopper peeled off and he was so relieved that it was done, he started to laugh. Hysterically the others joined him and all happily turned to watch below as he began to countdown: “… six… five… four … three… two… one!” Nothing happened. As quickly as their laughter had arrived, it vanished. “Did you see it fall, JeanLuc?”
“No. No, we saw nothing,” the Frenchman replied gloomily, not wanting to repeat the maneuver. “Perhaps it hit a rock and the fuse got knocked, away.” But inside he was saying to himself, Stupid Italian anus eater, can’t even fix a few sticks of dynamite to a fornicating fuse. “We will do it again, yes?”
“Why not?” Pietro said confidently. “The detonator was perfect. That it did not fire was an Act of the Devil. Yes, without a doubt - it happens many times in snow. Many times. Snow is a whore and you can nev - ” “Don’t blame the snow, Pietro, and it was an Act of God, not of the Devil,” Gianni said superstitiously, crossing himself. “By my mother, enough of the Devil while we’re aloft.”
Pietro took out the second charge and examined it carefully. The wire holding the sticks tight was firm and the fuse firm. “There, you see, perfect, just like the other.” He tossed it from one hand to the other then banged it hard on his armrest to see if the fuse would dislodge. “Mamma mia,” one of the men said, his stomach turning over. “Are you mad?” “This’s not like nitro, cameo,” Pietro told him and banged it even harder. “There, you see it’s tight.”
“It’s not as tight as my anus,” Gianni said angrily in Italian. “Stop it for the love of the Mother of God!”
Pietro shrugged and looked out of the window. The crest was approaching now. He could see the exact spot. “Get ready, Gianni.” Then into the boom mike, “Just a little more, Signor Pilot, more to the east. Hold her there… steady her… can’t you keep her steadier? Get ready, Gianni.” He held up the fuse, the lighter near to the end. “Open the fornicating door!” Irritably, Gianni unlocked his seat belt and obeyed, the airplane twisted and he cried out, lost his footing, his weight went against the door, opening it wider, and he pitched out. But the man was holding his belt and he held Gianni there on the brink, half in, half out of the doorway, the wind suction tearing at them. The instant Gianni had opened the door, Pietro had thumbed the lighter and the fuse had caught but in the momentary panic over Gianni, Pietro was distracted. Instinctively he, too, had grabbed for Gianni and the dynamite was knocked out of his hand. They all watched appalled as he scrambled on the floor, reaching under the seats for it as it rolled this way and that, the fuse burning merrily - his headset torn off. Almost fainting with fear, Gianni got one hand firmly on the doorjamb and began to drag himself back, petrified that his belt would give way and cursing himself that he had worn this thin one that his wife had given him for Christmas…
Pietro’s fingers touched the dynamite. The fuse spluttered against his flesh, burning him, but he did not feel the pain. He got a firm grip then, still on the floor, squirmed around, hung on to a chair support and threw the dynamite and what was left of the fuse past Gianni overboard, then reached forward with his free hand and grabbed one of his friend’s legs, helping to drag him back. The other man slammed the door closed and the two of them, Pietro and Gianni, collapsed on the floor.
“Take her away, Scot,” JeanLuc said weakly.
The chopper banked and left the north face two hundred feet below. For a moment the crest was pure and stark and motionless. There was a vast explosion that no one in the chopper felt or heard. Snow spiraled upward and began to settle. Then with a mighty roar, the whole of the north face tumbled away, the avalanche fell into the valley, searing the mountainside with a swath a quarter of a mile wide until it had ceased. The chopper came around. “My God, look!” Scot said, pointing ahead. The overhang had vanished. Above the Bellissima rig was only a gentle slope, the site untouched except where the trailer and the single mud tank had already been carried away by the first avalanche.
“Pietro!” JeanLuc called out excitedly. “You’ve…” He stopped. Pietro and Gianni were still on the floor collecting themselves, Pietro’s headset vanished. “Scot, they won’t be able to see from their windows - go closer and turn so they can see!”
