The Chinese Agenda

by Joe Poyer

  He fumbled the packet of explosive out of his parka with his left hand and pushed it into the hollow, wishing to God that he had something that would serve to anchor it. He thought of his knife but its thin, sharp blade would never hold in the snow. He studied the packet, turning it into the moonlight to make sure that the igniter was still in place and that the single wire led out properly from the packet. To make sure it would not be yanked loose from the charge, he wrapped several turns around the packet, then with the spool of wire in one hand, he began to inch back along the ledge, hoping that the friction as the wire unwound would not yank the whole thing loose.

  He backed for what seemed like an eternity, moving one foot to his right to feel for the ledge, plant down securely, dig his toes into the soles of his boots and hope. The trek was made worse by the fact that he could not turn his head to see where he was going. When he could no longer see the point where he had laid the first charge, he stopped, took a deep breath and leaning as far out from the wall as he dared, turned his head, scraping his chin across the rough ice.

  The ledge was a bit wider here, allowing enough room to use the ice ax. He cut the hole deep, tunneling back as far as he could reach, and scraped the snow carefully out into a pile on the ledge. He checked the second charge as carefully as he had the first, stooped down and thrust it into the hole, then packed the snow back in until it was filled.

  Breathing easier now that the charges were laid, he tested to see how firmly the charge was planted, found it satisfactory and began inching back along the ledge until he could see the snow pack three feet below. He inched backward another few feet until, with the ax resting on the ledge for support, he could ease down onto the snow.

  He rested there for a moment. Far to his right, Dmietriev was working his way along the snow ledge to where Stowe waited. The planting of explosive on that end of the ledge had been completed, he realized.

  Taking a deep breath, Gillon eased himself down onto the snow and began the crawl back, using his boots to kick holds. After several minutes, the line began to go slack and Gillon muttered curses at Stowe for his inattention. He stopped, balancing precariously on the steep slope, and gave the line several hard pulls, but it failed to attract Stowe's attention. Still cursing but with more feeling now, he kept on, but within a few minutes, the line had gone so slack that he was becoming entangled. He did not dare shout at Stowe to attract his attention . .. the sound could very well carry all the way down the pass and warn the approaching soldiers. He gathered the line into coils and slung it over his shoulders; hardly a satisfactory solution but better than becoming so entangled that he lost his grip.

  Just as he reached the lower limit of the arc, the hold that he had kicked into the snow a moment before collapsed. He felt himself begin to slide and feverishly he dug in hard with his right hand and stiffened his left foot, but under the sudden weight that hold collapsed as well. His hand plowed the thin crust of ice and he began to slide backward at a faster rate. The slack line looped around his shoulder snapped taut and he lost his grip on the ice ax. He slid down toward the dark edge of the snow pack, gaining speed with each second. He dropped the spool of wire, wondering idiotically that he had had enough presence of mind not to hang onto it any longer, thus tearing the charges loose.

  Far up the slope he heard Dmietriev's thin cry and saw Stowe's shadow racing down the slope. Good God almighty, he groaned, that bastard had lost the line.

  His apprehension exploded into fear that verged on the blind edge of panic and he lunged forward with his right arm to retrieve the ice ax, fastened to his wrist by a nylon thong.

  But encumbered by the coil of rope around his shoulder, he could not reach it. He rolled hard onto his right shoulder and managed to turn over onto his back, from where he could pull his arm down until the ax was in reach of his left hand. In desperation, he grabbed the wooden stock, rolled again and swung the ax high in an overhand arc to bury the blade deep in the snow. The ice crust was extremely thin, almost a glaze this near the edge and the ax ripped through it as if it were so much paper. Gillon managed to kick his boots into the crest, plowing up plumes of snow that buried him almost to the waist but at the same time, slowing him enough to grapple the ax head down under his chest. The chisel blade dug deep into the snow, the pressure of his body forcing it deeper and deeper until just as his feet thrust out over the edge of the snow pack, the ax head brought him to a stop. A moment later, the nylon climbing line snubbed up sharply, then wrenched at his arm painfully. The temptation to lie still a moment with the stiff feeling of the hard snow and the painful jab of the pick side of the ax head pressing into his chest to remind him that he was still alive was great, but the rope was insistent and he struggled until he could crawl forward up the slope. As soon as he was well away from the edge, he waved his hand above his head and the line slacked free. Grunting with pain, Gillon freed the tight coils from his shoulder.

  As he climbed back up the slope, he began to shake. The delayed reaction of adrenaline shock in response to the near fatal incident turned quickly to anger. He remembered Stowe's barely concealed impatience as he went through the instructions with the rope, explaining in detail the importance of keeping proper tension on the line at all times. It was Stowe's carelessness, inexcusable carelessness, that had almost cost him his life.

  The snow surface grew firmer as he drew away from the edge. Gillon got to his feet and, kicking steps with his heels, climbed carefully until he reached the point where the slope flattened. He stopped here a moment to rest and saw that Stowe was gazing off down the pass as if completely unconcerned by the fact that he had nearly killed him, and suddenly that anger exploded and Gillon rushed across the snow. He vaulted the low ridge that separated the snow pack from the firmer ground of the ridge and dove at Stowe, smashing into him in a flurry of snow. Stowe just had time to turn and see him coming before he went down. Gillon struggled to his feet and swearing incoherently drove a fist at Stowe's face. Stowe deflected the punch and struck back, but Gillon followed through with an elbow that caught him on the side of the head, knocking him flat. Then Dmietriev was between them both, pistol in hand. He drove Gillon, still raging, away from Stowe.

  'Stop it, both of you,' Dmietriev hissed through clenched teeth. 'If either of you ever does that again, I'll kill him ... kill him. Do you understand?'

  Gillon started forward but Dmietriev cocked the pistol. 'Stop or I will kill you . . .' he warned, and from his voice Gillon knew that he would and without hesitation. He stepped back, breathing hard, and stared at Stowe.

  `You almost ... killed ... me.'

  'It was an accident,' Stowe replied coldly. 'The line slipped through my hands when you fell.'

  Àccident hell. Just plain rotten carelessness and stupidity. Nothing else.'

  `Silence!' Dmietriev snapped. 'You will both be silent! This is neither the time nor the place to debate accident or carelessness.'

  Gillon knew he was right and, with an immense effort of selfcontrol, choked back his anger. He turned without a word, picked up the rope and handed it to Dmietriev. .Stowe climbed to his feet.

  Ìf he goes near that line, shoot him.' Gillon jerked a thumb at Stowe.

  `Where are ...

  `To get the fuse.'

  Without another word, Gillon walked down to the ridge and climbed over onto the snow pack. He edged out onto the icy part of the pack and, using his ice ax, chopped a series of parallel steps across the shallowest part of the slope. If he was guessing right, the fuse would have-unrolled its full length and should be somewhere straight ahead. The moon had risen higher until it was now well clear of the peaks. Its bright light flooded the snowfield, making it difficult to see through the glare.

  It was nearly ten minutes before his groping hand brushed the wire. He dug his feet in securely and took a turn in the line around his wrist, leaving plenty of slack so that he would not accidentally pull the charges free. A gentle tug told him that at least the second charge was still secure.r />
  With a smooth overhand motion, he began pulling in the loose end of the fuse line. It came freely enough and he coiled it around his hand and elbow until the free end snaked up. Breathing easier, he recrossed the slope.

  Gillon, Stowe and Dmietriev crouched beneath a rock outcropping fifty feet above the pass and well away from the path the avalanche would take. The position provided an uninterrupted view down the pass in both directions. On the southern side, he could just make out Leycock's form through the glasses, as he zigzagged down the slope toward the trees to warn Rodek and Jones to be ready to move. On the north slope, the Chinese troops were visible in the bright moonlight, a third of the way up the pass. Stowe nudged Dmietriev and pointed. Dmietriev raised his glasses and stared in the direction of the pointing finger, then nodded, muttering to himself in Russian.

  Stowe and Gillon had maintained a strained silence throughout the past half-hour during which they had circled down the ridge to the top of the pass. They had awakened Leycock, and Gillon had sent him down to warn Jones and Rodek. Then they had crossed the top of the pass and climbed the north ridge to the ledge on which they were presently sheltering against the stiff wind that had arisen in the past hour.

  Try as he might, Gillon had been unable to fathom Stowe. He was certain that Stowe realized that his carelessness had almost cost him his life, yet his attitude suggested that he was totally unconcerned. Gillon debated the problem in his mind as they waited. Was Stowe really lacking in concern, or were his actions deliberate? If, in fact, he really did not care, then Gillon wanted to be rid of him now, before he did kill someone. The way he felt right now, he might even volunteer to shoot him. And, if his actions were deliberate, then Stowe was a plant, pure and simple. Yet he could not reconcile that possibility with Stowe's apparent concern for Jones after the Chinese general had hit him with the pistol. He shrugged and went back to studying the-pass. The problem would have to be ironed out with Jones, and soon. -

  The Chinese troops, obviously fresh and used to the high altitude, were making excellent time. Through his glasses, he could make out the tiny dots that were the soldiers against moonlit snow. His plan was to set off the charges after the soldiers had passed the halfway point. There would then be no chance that any of them could reach the bottom and safety on their skis. Any higher and the pass narrowed to such an extent that they might be able to reach the high ridges along the sides. He said as much and Dmietriev grunted -ledgment; for once Stowe did not argue, but agreed readily. The three men looked at one another; then each, knowing what had to be done, turned away.

  Dmietriev attached the fuse to the flashlight, working slowly and deliberately, and when he had finished, glanced expectantly at Gillon. Gillon watched the soldiers for a moment, until he knew he must delay no longer.

  `Ready?' he asked.

  `Ready,' Dmietriev repeated. Stowe shifted position, but said nothing.

  Gillon nodded and continued to watch through the binoculars. The troops were spread out in a line approximately seventy feet long. They were not roped together but trudged steadily on, heads down and concentrating on their footing. Each man carried ski poles, which he used to aid himself in the climb. Skis strapped to their backs appeared as outlandish feathers above the cowled heads.

  `What are you waiting for?' Stowe muttered. The lead man was almost even with the rock projection to the right side of the pass that Gillon had selected as the marker. He took a deep breath and beside him felt Dmietriev tense.

  As if warned by some extrasensory feeling, the lead man stopped and raised his head to scan the top of the pass.

  `Now,' Gillon exhaled, and Dmietriev pressed the button.

  For an instant nothing happened and Gillon looked at Dmietriev as he calmly pressed the button a second time. Snow erupted in triple fountains above them and three distinct booms rolled down the pass.

  Gillon pressed his eyes to the glasses again and caught the trapped figures in the circle of moonlight. The lead man was staring wildly around him, pointing at the snow pack that had just begun to shift. As if in slow motion, the troopers began to run, some back down the pass, some toward the nearer, right-hand side. Gillon knew they would never make it.

  One figure, more clear-headed than the rest, was already fastening skis onto his feet.

  Gillon swung around in time to see the leading edge of the snow mass dissolve into a vast spray. It hung for

  an instant in midair, then with the grace and beauty of an ocean wave in crystal form, it began to fall in a long curve of ice until it touched the slope below. There it rebounded high into the air to touch down again further downslope, until within seconds, the whole snow pack was flowing downhill as if it were a giant tsunami, sweeping all before it.

  Gillon followed it until the leading edge gathered in the first of the fleeing figures and boiled them under. Only the man on skis, now well ahead of the raging wave, stood any chance at all. Gillon watched in an agony of doubt, fear, guilt and at the same time, a fierce elation at the thought the man might survive, might outrace the deadly mass of snow filling the pass with thunder.

  The trooper was losing ground but still there was a chance. Dmietriev was already sighting his carbine, even though it was an impossible shot; then the soldier made the mistake that killed him. He should have waited a few seconds more before starting his turn to the side of the pass but the thunder of the snow behind must have driven him to panic and he attempted a stem christi at too high a speed. His downhill ski pole turned under the impact and he went down in a flurry of snow. The avalanche roared over him in an instant, leaving behind only a vast sea of moving snow. A moment later, the avalanche spilled out into the wide entrance as avalanches had done for millions of years and the immense sound died away. Gillon stood up, shaking violently, aware of the sound and its power only now that it was gone.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Sunset of the third day in the Tien Shan. Jones held up his hand and brought the party to a halt just inside a thick stand of trees lining the rim of a well-hidden, narrow canyon.

  Gillon glanced over his shoulder to see Stowe raise his hand to signal the two Russians and Ley-cock, who were out of his sight in the trees. Overhead, he could barely hear the distant aircraft. All day the persistent whine of searching aircraft had been with them but the dense spruce and pine forest through which they were traveling had concealed them well, making it possible for them to move by daylight. Consequently, they had made up the time lost at the pass, and the rendezvous, set for dawn on the fourth day, would be kept.

  Jones swept the canyon and the forest beyond with binoculars and while he was thoroughly engrossed in his examination, Gillon took advantage of the moment to study him. If ever a man had traveled on sheer willpower alone, Jones surely had. Following the long hours of rest, he seemed to have recovered somewhat and for two days now he had pushed them on, resolutely ignoring all appeals to consider his own health.

  Although they had covered nearly thirty miles through the high mountains on snowshoes and skis in the two days since the avalanche, Jones had become progressively weaker, stumbling several times in the late afternoon. For the last mile of travel, he had leaned heavily on Gillon for support, cursing his own weakness over and over under his breath until Gillon told him to shut up.

  Gillon shoved his ski poles into the snow, shrugged out of his pack and plodded across the knee-deep snow carrying his own glasses to where Jones stood. The slope, falling away steeply at their feet, was relatively free of vegetation, but for scattered underbrush thrusting branch tips above the snow blanket. The bottom of the canyon showed a thin depression running through its center. Probably a small stream, Gillon thought, long since frozen and covered over with snow. Aspens lined either bank in thick stands and straggled up the eastern slope to blend with the spruce and fir that reached to the rim.

  The aspens were so dense that in places it was difficult to see the snow in the fading light through their bare branches. Gillon traced the stream's course up
stream to where it curved sharply and disappeared around a bend. Somewhere beyond that point, he knew, was the rendezvous. Jones had confided to him last night that they were to march along the stream bed for three miles, then wait for Jack Liu in a stand of trees, a stand that was to be identified by its mixture of pines and hardwood, the only one of its kind along the stream bed.

  'Let's get a camp set up,' Jones said abruptly, as if to cut off the discussion of his health that he knew Gillon and Stowe, trudging up behind, were about to begin. He turned away and shuffled back to the clearing, where Leycock and Dmietriev were coming in. Gillon and Stowe stared after him for a moment, then both shook their heads and followed. -

  A quick, hot supper, cooked over Primus stoves, was eaten in silence. Without allowing any argument Jones set the watches, took the first one himself and built a small fire for warmth. They all knew that it was useless to argue with him by now and within minutes, all had turned in while Jones began to pace slowly through the camp.

  Gillon awoke an hour later. He lay still, his fingers curling around the butt of his pistol beneath the rolled-up parka that served as a pillow, wondering what had awakened him.

  `Gillon

  !'

  The whisper was repeated again, this time with a ferocity that surprised him. In his half-awake, half-asleep condition, it was several seconds before he realized that Jones was outside the tent.

  'Jones ... ?' he whispered back.

  'Yeah . . . get dressed and out here, quick! Bring your snowshoes.'

  Gillon needed no more urging than that and a few moments later, he pushed open the tent flap and wriggled out. He glanced at his watch, illuminated by the feeble light of the fire; 2000 hours, he shook his head. What the hell was Jones up to? he wondered.

  Gillon slipped around the side of the tent, taking care to be certain that Dmietriev did not see him. Jones saw him coming and motioned to him to be quiet and follow. Once away from the firelight, it was pitch black. Gillon banged into a tree and, cursing under his breath, felt his way along, wondering what the devil was going on. A few moments later, a hand grasped his wrist and a tiny circle of light showed at his feet.