Tomahawk (35 page)

“You know that might not be roadable.”

“Well, then we'll know,” Dan told him.

Thompson tapped on the curtain. Dan unzipped it. The Canadian said, “Watch out for browns.”

“Browns?”

“Brown bears. Grizzlies. We still have a few up here. Don't go in any caves. Are you taking a—”

“Got an M sixteen,” said Sullivan.

Dan asked, “Aren't they supposed to be hibernating? Are they out in the winter?”

“Sometimes, the males. If they start mauling you, play dead.”

“I'll bear that in mind. No pun intended. Anything else I should watch out for?”

“Look, you heard my recommendation. You may think you're ready for what can happen out there. You're not.”

“Okay,” said Dan. “Look, we'll be in touch by radio.

We've got heaters and food. If it really closes down, we'll

hole up till it blows over.”•

Sakai stood back, as did Thompson and Manhurin, and Dan refastened the curtain and put the heater on full. He just hoped they didn't have to come back in an hour, tails between their legs.

Sullivan put the Hummer in gear. “Off we go,” he said, turning on the headlights. As the faces moved past, Dan gave them a wave, then bent to peer ahead into the storm.

20

 

 

 

They made poor time at first, and he wondered if they might not have to slink back after all. The snow came down so hard they couldn't see the trees edging the road till they were almost in them. But it thinned as they ground on, and they made the pavement down by Primrose Lake in an hour. Which was not so great, considering it was only seven miles from the launch site. But he was happy to see a road again. Not that you actually
could;
it was just an unmarked ribbon of snow.

He checked his watch, noting turn time and speed. He figured he was going to do most of this trip by dead reckoning. “Don't drive out over the lake,” he told Sullivan.

“Hey, sir, you want the wheel?”

Instead of answering, he reapplied himself to the map. As far as he could see, whatever it was—timber trail, old fur route—that dotted line was the only way in. They weren't going to do any cross-country work, not over terrain like this, with the storm almost on them.

The diesel growled. The tires droned. Occasional bursts of snow appeared from ahead, as if being generated at a point eight feet in front of the windshield. The heater blasted hot air like the breath of hell. He loosened his parka and worked his toes in his boots.

An hour later, he said, “Okay, it's got to be around here someplace soon. Look for markers.”

It took awhile, some backtracking and false starts, but at last they found an opening in the woods. When they swung off the pavement, the Hummer rocked and banged,
lurching from side to side. Whatever was beneath them, it didn't seem to be a road. Maybe a portage, along the river to their left. He thought of grizzled fur traders carrying a canoe.

Maybe a mile on, Sullivan coasted to a stop. The Hummer shuddered as the wind buffeted it. “What's the matter?” Dan asked him.

“I don't know where the fuck I'm going. That's what's the matter.”

No question, the kid wasn't overburdened with awe of field-grade officers. “The map shows a trail here, Airman Sullivan.”

“You see any trail markers, blazes, anything? I don't. If there's a trail here, it's a foot trail. We're not gonna mush this sucker up it.”

“We need to go west. A long way west. This is the only route the map shows.”

The airman said, pointing, “Well, how about we swing down there and drive on the river?”

“Are you serious?”

“Sure. Shit, it's got to be frozen solid.”

Dan looked at the map again. There wasn't any indication how deep it was, but it didn't look huge. More like a creek. Considering the topography, it was probably shallow. And considering the temperature for the last few weeks, he had to agree it was likely the ice would hold them. On the other hand, if he was wrong and they went into the water in this weather, it wouldn't be worth unbuckling their seat belts.

“All right,” he muttered at last. “Try it. But take it slow, okay?”

Things got rough on the way down. Dust rose from the floor mats as the frame jolted and banged, the shocks bottoming out. But at least they were moving. Black vertical lines of aspens stretched up on either side of the curving bed of the buried stream. Gradually, the lowering gray sky stopped snowing and a shifting silver light glowed down over everything. He leaned into the windshield, peering out.

Northern Canada. Jolting and whining, they were fighting their way up a shallow gorge, floored by the smooth
white featurelessness that in summer might be bars, pools, even rapids. Trying to average the wildly lurching speedometer, he figured they were making about six miles an hour. He didn't like being on the valley floor. They weren't going to see much down here. But according to his reckoning, they still had ten or eleven miles to go till they reached the impact area.

That wouldn't leave a hell of a lot of daylight for the trip back.

The Hummer slammed viciously over some invisible rock shelf, jamming him against the seat belt. Sullivan muttered, hunched over the wheel as the crooked fingers of a dead snag poked black above snowdrifts.

They crept deeper into an abandoned land.

Around three, he said, “Look, we got to get up on one or the other of these valley sides. Get some elevation. We can't see anything down here, and we're gonna be near the impact area pretty soon.”

He expected a flareback from the airman, but Sullivan just nodded and looked off to the right. “How about up there?”

He looked up. The snow had started again, not as heavy as before, just a gauzy curtain drawn all around them, moving as they moved, as if nothing existed beyond it and everything past and future was illusion. He couldn't see any treetops beyond the crest. The trouble was going to be getting there. He checked the topo to make sure he wasn't missing anything. When he ran his finger up to where he estimated they were, he noticed a ladderlike symbol. He had to check the back of the map to find it meant “cutting or embankment.” It didn't say what for, or how old it was, or how'wide. But it was all they were going to get.

“Bingo, nice eye,” he told the airman. “Let's run right up that.”

“Sure, we'll run right up it. And break an axle. I don't want to have to walk out of here.”

“Look, I can do without the sarcasm. If we can't make it, say so. But I don't need this attitude. It's starting to grate, okay?”-

The airman rolled his eyes.

Jolting and growling in low gear, they made it to the top at last. He told Sullivan to stop there, see if he could find something to get his bearings on.

He peered through the windshield at a forsaken land. They could see back down to the valley, but the gray prickle of treetops told them nothing. There weren't any trees or bushes up here. Or anything, for that matter. He figured there was marsh down somewhere below the four or five feet of snow beneath them. He was amazed they'd gotten this far. Probably best not to push their luck. But even as he thought this, Sullivan put them back in gear.

The airman worked them gradually toward the closest thing to a rise in sight. When they got to it, Dan told him that was good; they'd stop here and get out for a look around. As far as he could tell, they were at the southern edge of where the missile
might
have come down. Now he understood how hopeless his idea of finding it had been. The sun was dropping. A quick survey and then they'd head back.

Mask time, hood time, woolen inner gloves, outer mitten shells. When he got himself put back together, he unbuttoned the flaps and thrust his legs out, spilling the accumulated heat instantly into the bitter wind. “Don't turn the engine off,” he called back.

The wind was even stronger, even more shocking here in the open than it had been among the trees back at Primrose. Facing into it, he literally couldn't breathe. He cinched his hood tighter as he waited for the binocular objectives to chill. When he could see through them, he clambered awkwardly up on the hood. Hunkering against the wind, he slid the field of view slowly around the horizon. Steam streamed from the exhaust, whirling away.

“Let me take a look,” Sullivan yelled. Dan jumped down and handed the glasses over, clapping his mittens over the eyeholes in the exposure mask. Shit, it was
cold.
Maybe the driver was right. Tough as the Hummer was, machines broke. Then they'd really be in a fix.

“See anything?”

“No.”

“Let's head north a little bit more, then head back.”

“You want to drive on this stuff?”

“This is open. It looks drivable.”

“There any holes under it?”

“I don't see any on the map. Just marsh symbols.”

“I hope they made this map right,” Sullivan said. They got back in, and he put it back in gear. The blunt nose of the vehicle thrust itself through the snow like an amtrac thrusting itself through the sea on the way in to a hostile beach. From time to time they stalled, wheels whining as they spun free in the snow, but each time Sullivan backed and filled until they were moving again.

Dan watched the odometer. If they were anywhere near where he thought they were, they had to be within two or three miles of the missile. But it could be lying down in one of these gullies and they'd never see it. This wasn't so bad. Why the hell couldn't they fly choppers in this? It wasn't even snowing that hard.

They didn't notice the distant speck of color till much later, actually when they were headed south again, on their way back toward the river. He'd bumped their time out against their time in and figured they might reach pavement again before dark. They were lurching along a low ridge, with treetops nestled below them along the slope, as if huddled for shelter against the blasting wind. Then Sullivan said, “What's that?”

“What?”

“Something orange, down there. You got to wait between these flurries.”

“Stop. I'll take a look with the glasses.”

It took awhile. The drifting curtains of white and the failing light made it hard to see. But at last he made out what the airman was pointing at. It was orange, or at least reddish, but he couldn't tell what it was. It might be the parachute, but then again, it might not.

He chewed his lip. The trouble was, they couldn't get down to it from here. The ridge slope was short, but too steep to take a vehicle down without risking a roll. They were lucky they hadn't gotten stuck already.

“What you think, sir?”

“I can't tell.”

“What color's the chute?”

Dan was embarrassed to admit he didn't know. Sullivan didn't, either; the security detail didn't deal with the missile itself that much. They had a short argument, which Dan cut short by getting out of the Hummer and using the glasses again, trying to make up his mind what to do.

Sullivan said sullenly from inside, “Sir, with all due respect, you're nucking futs if you go down there.”

“You tell me a better way to check it out?”

“Call in the coordinates. Check it out later.”

“I keep telling you, I don't know where we are along this river line. If that's it, and we don't mark it somehow, we've lost it. Also, I got to pump bilges.”

Sullivan grumbled but finally got out. He reached back and pulled out a pack, then another. “I don't think we need those,” Dan said.

“We leave the car, we're taking them. Take your prick-ten, too.” He held out the portable radio.

“Why don't you stay here?”

“Nuh-uh. Just tell me the plan if we get separated.”

“Look around independently, I guess. But not long. Fifteen minutes, no more. Then rendezvous back here. You taking that, too?”

The airman slung the rifle. “Sure as shit am. You heard Thompson.”

They argued again about whether to leave the engine running. Sullivan insisted they had to, it might not start again if it chilled down. Dan gave in this time. He didn't want to tyrannize the guy. But he had Sullivan back the Hummer around till it faced downhill, pointing the lights down into the ravine. “Let's both take bearings,” he said. They came up with 012 and 013 to the distant dot.

A few minutes later, they were sliding down the bank, grabbing at the stunted pines to brake themselves. Dan took it slowly. He didn't want to twist an ankle out here. Behind him, Sullivan ghosted through the woods in his camo smock, M16 slung. Well, if it made him feel better. Himself, he didn't believe any bear would be stupid enough to be out in this.

What did that say about them?

When they emerged at the bottom of the cut, he'd lost whatever it was they'd seen. Rises and trees blocked the line of sight, and the air seemed to have thickened. The wind was picking up, peeling up the flaky layers of new snow, sending them whistling along the ground in a milling milkiness. Beneath what he'd taken for ground, his boots plunged through a frangible crust into a whole separate depth of soft powder. With every step, he had to lift his boot back out waist-high. It was exhausting and he had to rest every few meters and peer ahead. His eyeballs felt as if they were freezing into hard round marbles behind the mask. Then Sullivan would yell, “Zero two zero, the hump to the right of the crooked tree up there,” and they'd flounder off again.