Half way up the valley, in the chalet complex Girard reported this to his masters – who, being men who liked risks, and being men who had been waiting to climb the Macintyre for weeks, shrugged and agreed to go anyway. It was cold enough and they were experienced climbers – and half of climbing was evaluating the risks and accepting that they were part of the challenge.
It would, they all agreed, be a fitting prelude to the events of the coming week.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The helicopter was fitted with a compressed air system that fed its engines, and advanced high altitude rotors. Even so, the pilot was concerned about weight and watched carefully as Quayle threw his packs into the rear door. No problem here. This job would be a breeze. One man and his kit was a lot easier on the aerodynamics of rotary wings in the thin air than six with dogs and probes and a stretcher.
As part of the Italian Mountain Rescue service, this particular job was a little odd, but the order had come from someone high up in the Ministry of Defence and had been countersigned by the correct people. The method of its delivery had been strange – arriving by uniformed courier from – but the pilot didn’t care. He was paid to fly choppers in the Alps and that’s what he did.
But the job wasn’t just strange; it was dangerous as well. Dropping some crazy man on the top of the Grande Jorrasses meant first stealing over the border, hugging the mountain’s side, hovering over the line and letting him jump from the skids. Down drafts and high winds were a problem up close to a peak that size, and time was pressing. He signalled to the man that they needed to hurry, pointing to the turbulent sky. Up there, the swirling clouds over the peaks were grey and heavy. If they left it much longer, it wouldn’t matter who had signed the order. Zero visibility was zero visibility.
Quayle nodded and jumped in after his kit, thrusting a map at the pilot. He had already marked the point he wanted – and, as the helmeted flyer took the map, he nodded, raising a thumb.
Soon, the collective was being raised and the rotors began their meaty thumping, the engine revs picking up. Seconds later, they hovered a few feet over the ground; then, the nose dipped and they began to move forward, gaining speed, like a huge dragon fly over a pond.
Through the scarred perspex canopy, Quayle could see the rising massif of Mont de Rochefort and, towering above it, the south aspect of the Grand Jorasses itself. The track should take them parallel to the range; after that, it would be a slow thin air climb for the rotors, up the glacier to a point opposite the head of the Walker spur. There he would have to cross on foot back into France and over the ridge summit – and, once he got there, he would be positioned above the final towering pillars and stacks of the Macintyre route.
He had collected his gear from Lacoste, the guide having been in fine spirits the night before. ‘I got myself a new job, Titus!’ he’d exclaimed. ‘Maybe retirement isn’t for me after all!’ he’d joked, with a wink. Then, wishing Pierre well and leaving Holly with Kurt, Quayle had driven through the Mont Blanc tunnel, happy with their security arrangements. Kurt had returned from Bonn with two men whose sole job was to guard Holly Morton, and they had unpacked their equipment and silently set things up as they liked. Sergi had immediately collected his gear and taken the last cable car up the Augille du Midi and planned to do a night run down the Valley Blanche to catch up with the rest of his unit. Quayle didn’t even ask if he was comfortable with the thought of a lone night ski down a mountain he had never seen in his life, nor the seven hour up-glacier trek that would follow. He had supreme confidence in his abilities.
As the helicopter took flight, Quayle took the opportunity to run through his packs and re-adjust some of the weight. He had brought three, including the parapente – and, in addition, his skis and boots. The large pack would go on his back, the smaller at his waist with the parapente, and the boots on the front. For the last hundred meters, the climb was not technically demanding. Just tough on the legs.
The pilot eased the machine slowly through the billowing clouds, watching the vapour for the tell-tale signs of down drafts and eddies that, while picturesque from the ground, were sure death for light aircraft within scant feet of rock walls.
Quayle pulled on his thick warm pants, pulled his boots back on and slipped on the crampons, leaving the bright yellow plastic protective covers on to protect the floor of the helicopter. Then, tightening the spring clasp at the back, he secured the safety binding at the front and sat back.
The pilot raised a thumb at him and held up two fingers. Quayle nodded back, sliding his packs towards the door. As he did so, the helicopter began to ease its way in towards a boulder strewn shoulder, picking its way through the scudding cloud like a small boy through the couples on a dance floor.
As soon as the tips of the skids touched, Quayle was out, pulling the packs after him, the wind gusting at the machine while its rotor wash flattened the snow. As Quayle found his footing, the cold seared into his lungs. Slamming the door shut, he banged once and
