by Jack Higgins
'If we come back with the horses.'
'At least it gives us a chance.' Drummond shrugged. 'Can you think of anything better?'
Hamid shook his head slowly. 'That's the trouble, Jack, I can't. I don't suppose we have much choice.'
'Then I suggest we get some sleep. We're going to need it.'
Janet passed him a blanket and he wrapped himself in it and lay down next to Hamid and the old priest. Surprising how warm the stove had made the interior now. He looked across at Janet sitting against the boxes, head bowed, the young Khan sleeping in the hollow of her arm.
A wonderful girl. The shadows thrown by the stove on to the canvas hood moved in and out, now coming together, now separating. Just like people, he thought. Now they need each other, now they don't. Now they mingle with each other, now they go their own way.
He slept well in spite of the cold that crept into the truck during the night and found himself crushed between the old priest and Hamid. When he awakened he sat up and lit the stove. The bright flame reflected suddenly from Kerim's unbandaged eye and Drummond grinned at the little boy, huddled in the corner next to Janet.
He motioned him to silence and looked outside. It was that time just before dawn when things begin to take on shape again, to have definition. There wasn't anything like as much snow as he had expected. Quite obviously, it had stopped falling hours before.
He felt curiously refreshed and jumped down into the snow, enjoying the fresh air in his nostrils after the dose atmosphere of the truck. As he stood there, the trees started to stand out with a sort of hard luminosity and he knew that dawn was not far away.
'Enjoying the morning air?' Janet said quietly from the truck.
He turned and smiled. 'I don't know if you could say that exactly.' He spread his hands in a vaguely French gesture. 'I feel funny this morning. Close to home, wherever that is, and yet I know I'm not.'
She reached down for his hand in the darkness and gripped it tightly. 'We'll get there, Jack, I know we will.'
'Well just go on believing that.' He grinned. 'Better put some tea on the stove and wake Ali. We haven't got much time.'
'No need.' Hamid looked out of the canvas screen beside her and Janet moved back. 'What's the day like?'
'Could be worse. It can't have snowed for very long.'
'It'll be back, I can promise you that. We'd better get ready.'
Drummond climbed back into the truck and found Father Kerrigan crouched at the stove beside Janet, opening tins of beans.
'How do you feel?' Drummond asked.
Father Kerrigan smiled. 'The old bones are beginning to creak a little, but I'll manage.'
'One thing I didn't check last night. Can you both ride?'
Janet nodded. 'Since I was a child.'
The priest smiled. 'I should imagine you've been used to a rather more sedate mount than the local variety, my dear. Intractable brutes, I know from bitter experience.'
'I'll manage,' she said confidently. 'What about you, Jack?'
'I get by, but only just. Ali's your man. He's a Hazara. They spent about a thousand years galloping down into India and back again, usually with a woman across the saddle.'
Hamid grinned and broke open a case of Garrand automatic rifles and Drummond cleaned one quickly. He found a box of ammunition and slipped several spare clips into his pockets. Hamid primed half a dozen grenades and they took three each.
Janet called softly and they sat in a circle round the oil stove, drinking hot tea and eating beans. 'That's the last of the food,' she said. 'I can fill the big Thermos with hot tea before we leave, but after that, we've had it.'
Drummond finished his tea and handed her the mug. He glanced at Hamid. 'Ready?'
'As ready as I ever will be.'
Drummond shouldered his Garrand and dropped over the tailboard. When he turned to look up, Father Kerrigan and Janet were pale shadows in the darkness. 'We'll be back in a couple of hours,' he said, trying to sound confident and they moved off.
Hamid led the way through the trees, his boots crunching the crusted snow and as Drummond pushed frost-covered branches to one side with a gloved hand, a feeling of exhilaration took possession of him. It was going to be all right. It had to be. They'd come too far, suffered too much.
Hamid raised an arm and they halted. The road lay just in front of them. As they stood in silence looking at it, snow began to fall quietly in large, firm flakes.
A tall, black finger of rock lifted out of the gloom on the other side and he pointed to it. 'That's as good a marker as any. We might as well use the road, it'll be quicker, but keep your eyes open. I've a nasty feeling we've left a little late. It's getting lighter by the minute.'
And he was right. One by one, the trees seemed to step out of the darkness as they marched along the road. The muddy ruts were ice-bound and iron-hard with just enough snow covering them to make walking easy. They moved quickly, Hamid in the lead, Drummond behind him and keeping to the other side.
The snow was quite heavy now and reduced visibility considerably. There was that strange, absolute quiet that snow always brings and it affected Drummond powerfully so that for a while, he walked with his head bowed, oblivious to all possible danger, alone with his thoughts.
They had travelled for no more than half a mile when he was brought back to reality sharply by Hamid's low, urgent call. He was standing at the side of the road and Drummond hurried to join him.
The tail of a truck was sticking out from the trees at an unnatural angle perhaps twenty-five yards into the wood. They stood there for a moment, not speaking, both thinking the same thought and then Hamid led the way forward, following the snow-covered path the vehicle had made for itself.
It was the supply truck. Drummond brushed snow from the side of the vehicle and his glove snagged on rough edges. He regarded the bullet holes dispassionately.
'The thing's like a sieve. He must have run straight into trouble.'
He wrenched open the door, but the cab was empty and then Hamid called from the other side. Brackenhurst lay huddled under a tree, his face turned slightly, fingers frozen into tallons. There were three gaping holes in his chest.
They stood looking down at him and somewhere, a horse snorted softly. There was the jingle of harness and voices, soft on the morning air. Someone laughed and Hamid and Drummond slipped into the shelter of the trees.
At the end of the jagged lane the truck had made into the wood, two horsemen appeared, Chinese dressed in great sheepskin coats and peaked caps, guns slung across their backs. They reined in, looking down towards the truck and one of them laughed again.
Hamid handed his sub-machine gun to Drummond and said softly, 'Give me your rifle. We can't let them go on. They'll spot the other truck.'
Drummond gave him the Garrand and Hamid rested the barrel against the tree trunk in front of him. The horsemen had just started forward again when his first shot tumbled the lead man from the saddle. He screamed, turning on to his face in the snow. As both horses plunged in panic, the second rider fought to turn his mount. He was still trying when two bullets in the back lifted him from the saddle.
As Drummond and Hamid ran forward, one horse cantered away slowly, back towards the village. The other stood patiently beside the body of its rider. Hamid slung his rifle across his back, gathered the reins and vaulted into the crude sheepskin saddle.
'I'll catch the other one, Jack.'
He urged his mount forward and disappeared into the curtain of snow. Drummond checked the action of the sub-machine gun and waited impatiently. Somewhere in the distance, he seemed to hear a faint cry and then Hamid galloped back along the road, the reins of the second horse in his right hand.
'We'd better get moving. More horsemen back along the road. The bastards are out early this morning.'
Drummond slung the sub-machine gun across his back and took the reins. The horse moved away from him, rolling an eye and he pulled it back savagely and scrambled into the crude saddle.
Ham
id urged his mount into a gallop and Drummond hung on grimly as his own horse followed. There was excited shouting somewhere to the rear, but no shooting and then the black finger of rock loomed out of the falling snow on their left and Hamid turned into the trees.
Father Kerrigan was standing anxiously beside the truck and Janet leaned over the tailboard as they dismounted. 'What happened?' the old priest said.
'Never mind now,' Drummond told him. 'Get the boy. We've got to get out of here.'
Janet handed Kerim down, slung a small military haversack over her back and followed him. Swathed in the grey army blankets, the boy looked like a little old woman and didn't seem to be in the least afraid, his large, dark eye taking in everything with interest.
Drummond gave Janet a leg up on to his horse and handed her the child. She settled him in front of her and took the reins.
'Across the road and up the hillside,' he said, 'and don't waste any time getting there.'
As Hamid helped Father Kerrigan into the saddle of the other horse, there was movement up on the road, voices called excitedly and then, quite suddenly, the sharp report of a rifle and a bullet thudded into the side of the truck.
Drummond unslung his sub-machine gun and gave Hamid a violent shove. 'Get out of it, Ali! I'll hold them.'
Hamid didn't argue. He vaulted up behind Father Kerrigan and smashed his clenched fist against the horse's hindquarters. It bounded forward into the trees and the other horse followed instinctively.
Drummond fired a quick burst through the brush towards the excited voices and someone cried out sharply. He ran from the shelter of the truck and dropped on one knee behind a tree.
He could hear the sound of his friends' progress somewhere to the left as Hamid took them away on a diagonal course, obviously intending to cross the road lower down.
A mounted soldier burst through the trees towards the truck, another behind him. Drummond loosed off a long burst that sent both men and horses down in a confused heap, turned and ran headlong through the trees, following the trail left in the snow by the others.
There was movement over to his right, dark shadows against the snow and he emptied the sub-machine gun in a great, sweeping arc and ran on.
As he emerged into a small clearing, a Chinese soldier ran out of the trees on his right. Drummond's submachine gun was empty. He dropped it and rushed straight at the Chinese at the same headlong pace.
The man was badly shaken. Instead of trying to aim his Burp gun, he raised it defensively. Drummond ducked under the flailing weapon, grabbed for the throat and lifted a knee into the man's crutch. As the Chinese sank into the snow, he tore the weapon from his grasp and ran on.
He was sobbing for air as he stumbled through the trees and scrambled up the little slope to the road. He slipped and fell to one knee. As he stood up and made to cross, he heard voices through the falling snow.
At least a dozen soldiers were running towards him, but these weren't mounted, they were on foot and wore normal quilted uniforms. And then he saw Cheung in his long greatcoat with the fur collar, mouth open in a soundless cry.
Drummond emptied the magazine in one continuous, clumsy burst that ripped up the surface of the road for twenty yards in front of the Chinese, ran across and started to scramble up the hillside.
He heard the roars of the men behind as they followed then a cry of alarm echoed by an explosion. A few seconds later, there was another. He kept on moving and fell on his face.
Hands dragged him to his feet and Hamid said, 'A good thing I had those grenades.'
Drummond leaned against him, feet splayed and fought for breath. 'The lot I ran into just now,' he said. 'Not soldiers from the village. Cheung and his men. They must have followed on foot from the bridge. Isn't the bastard ever going to give up?'
'I shouldn't imagine so,' Hamid slapped him on the shoulder. 'We'd better get moving. He'll need horses if he's going to follow and that means going to the village. It'll take time.' He grinned savagely. 'With any luck, one of my grenades may have finished him off. He could be lying down there in his own blood right now.'
And then the wind tore a hole in the curtain, and for a moment they saw the road below, the bodies sprawled in the snow, the living moving amongst them and one man who stood quite still, staring up at the mountain, the fur collar of his greatcoat framing the pale face.
'No such luck,' Drummond said with a shudder.
As the curtain swept back into place, he turned and followed Hamid upwards into the driving snow.
On the road, the carnage was absolute as Cheung turned to examine the dead and the dying. Only Sergeant Ng and three men were left on their feet, and then one of the soldiers from the village limped out of the wood clutching a bloody arm, his sheepskin wet with snow.
Cheung went to meet him, the sergeant at his side. 'You are from Chamdo, the next village?'
'Yes, Colonel.'
'How did you get there?'
'By boat from Huma. Two patrols crossed straight over, we came down river.'
'And there are horses there?'
'As many as you need, Colonel.'
Cheung took out his map and examined it quickly, the sergeant peering over his shoulder. He traced a finger along the track leading from Chamdo up over the mountain to Ladong Gompa.
'So that's where they're going,' he said softly and turned to the sergeant. 'A Tibetan name.'
'A monastery, from the sound of it, Colonel,' the sergeant said.
Cheung folded the map and turned to the wounded soldier from Chamdo. 'How far is the village from here?'
'Five miles, Colonel.'
'Then we've no time to waste.' He nodded to the sergeant. 'We'll march there as quickly as possible and get horses.'
'And the wounded, Colonel?'
'Leave them. We'll send someone from the village.'
He pulled up his collar and started to walk along the iron hard road into the falling snow.
13
The Mountain of God
THE snow was a living thing through which they stumbled blindly. Death and the valley had slipped far away and they were alone with man's oldest enemy - the elements.
The hillside was rough, strewn with boulders, and the carpet of snow made the going difficult and unsure. At one point, Father Kerrigan's mount plunged to its knees and Hamid grabbed its bridle, pulling it up again by brute strength.
Janet reined in and Drummond moved up beside her. She was covered in snow and her cheeks were flushed as she smiled down at him.
'How are you doing?'
'Fine and so is Kerim.'
The boy was so swathed in blankets that only his single eye showed, but it sparkled suddenly and Drummond knew that he had smiled.
'These horses are used to this kind of country,' Hamid said. 'Let them choose their own way. They know what they're doing.'
'Do you think we'll find the track?' Drummond said.
'I don't see why not. If we keep climbing on a diagonal line to the east, I can't see how we could miss it.'
They started again, Hamid leading followed by Father Kerrigan, Drummond bringing up the rear. The slope steepened as they moved higher and the full blast of the snow, driven by the wind, hit them as they came out on to the bare mountainside.
At one point half-way up a shelving bank, Janet's horse started to slide. Drummond scrambled forward beating it hard across the rump with his clenched fist and it plunged forward.
It was the snow that showed them the track, the shape of it clear under the white carpet, zig-zagging up the steep slope beneath them and turning into a narrow ravine about a hundred yards to the right.
When they moved into the ravine, they were sheltered from the wind for a while and climbed upwards, the clatter of hooves against the hard ground echoing between the walls. Gradually, the slope steepened, the walls of the ravine fading into the ground and they came out on the bare mountainside again.
As they climbed, the mountain seemed to rise more steeply, and after anot
her hour they went over the rim of an escarpment and looked across a narrow plateau to where the rock face tilted backwards in great, overlapping slabs, most of which were split and fissured into a thousand cracks.
They moved on, heads down against the driving snow, and after another hour Hamid grabbed the bridle of Father Kerrigan's horse and led it into the shelter of some boulders.
'We'll rest for a while,' he said.
Janet handed Kerim down to Drummond and slipped from the saddle. She wiped the snow from her face and smiled wanly. 'It's cold.'
'Too damned cold,' Drummond said.
Father Kerrigan walked forward stiffly, slapping his arms to restore the circulation. 'I'd better have a look at Kerim.'
Drummond crouched down in the shelter of the boulders and Father Kerrigan knelt beside him and gently parted the blankets. 'God bless my soul, but the child's sleeping.'
'Is he all right?' Janet said anxiously. 'He's warm enough, isn't he?'
'Warmer than any of us in that cocoon.' The old man sat down against the rocks. 'Did you bring the contents of my medical bag?'
Janet nodded and slipped her arms through the straps of the military haversack she'd been carrying on her back. She opened it and took out the Thermos flask of tea she had prepared at breakfast.
'What was it you wanted?'
'Never mind, I'll find it for myself.'
The old priest looked grey and haggard and the lines in his face scoured deep into the flesh. He searched through the contents of the haversack and found what he was looking for, a small bottle of red capsules. He slipped a couple into his mouth and Janet passed him tea in the one tin mug that she had brought.
Father Kerrigan took a mouthful down and leaned back with a sigh. Hamid said anxiously, 'Are you all right, Father?'
The old man opened his eyes and grinned. 'Let's just say I'm not as young as I was, but the pills I've taken start acting straight away. I'll make it. The luck of the Irish.'
The mug came round in turn and when it reached Drummond, he swallowed the hot tea gratefully. Hamid produced a couple of cheroots from one of his breast pockets and they lit them and moved away from the others, looking back down the track into the snow.
