Athabasca

by Alistair MacLean

  “I know whose presence I’d like,” Mackenzie said. Up till then he had been chewing steadily throughout the conversation, but a delicate patting of his big face with the napkin indicated that his meal was over. “I’d like Carmody.” Willoughby said: “That’s not a bad idea. I’ll get him right away.”

  He went off to telephone, came back and said: “A couple of minutes.”

  “Fine.” Brady turned to Mackenzie. “Don, tell Ferguson to go out to the airport and file a flight plan for Los Angeles. Tell him to expect people with provisions out there in just over an hour. Ask the kitchen to give us provisions for two or three days.”

  “Just food, Mr Brady?”

  Brady loftily ignored the insinuation. “Ferguson is in charge of the commissariat. He’ll know of any shortfalls. George, we’ll need some hand compasses and, I guess, ammunition. Be generous with the ammunition.”

  Willoughby said: “Hand compasses we have in abundance. What guns?”

  “Colt .38s”

  “No problem.”

  Dermott said: “Well, thank you. Tell me, Mr Willoughby, you have a deputy chief?”

  “Indeed. And a good one.”

  “Good enough to be left in sole charge here?”

  “Sure. Why?”

  “Why don’t you come with us? Giving us the directions is all very well, but it’s not the same as having you on the spot.”

  “Don’t, Mr Dermott. You tempt me. You tempt me sorely.” From the momentary gleam of anticipation in his eyes, it was clear that he spoke the truth. “Duty, alas, before pleasure. I have a murder investigation on my hands.”

  “You’ve just reported zero progress. There are short-cuts, Mr Willoughby. You wouldn’t want us foreign amateurs to do the job for you, would you now?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not quite at my best.”

  “You would be when we introduced you to Crawford’s murderer. Where else would he be but at Crowfoot Lake?”

  “Mr Dermott, forget my last remark. I’m back at my very best. Ah, here he is.”

  Carmody looked as large and formidable as ever.

  Dermott said: “With Mr Willoughby’s consent, a request to make on behalf of Mr Brady, Mr Mackenzie and myself. As alien civilians we can only request. Those kidnappers—you’re aware they are multiple killers, desperate men. They’ll shoot on sight and shoot to kill.”

  Carmody looked round in slight puzzlement but politely said nothing.

  Dermott went on: “Mrs Brady, her daughter and Mr Reynolds: we know where they’re being held.”

  Carmody, almost like a man in prayer, clasped his two hands lightly together and said, in a suitably churchlike whisper: “Boy, oh boy. Let’s go get them.”

  Brady said: “Thank you. We appreciate it. One hour from now, O.K.?

  Willoughby said: “I’ll just nip back to the office and put in a call to Edmonton.”

  “Aha! I thought secrecy was the watchword?”

  “It still is.”

  “Then may I ask?”

  “You may not. A surprise. To be revealed at Crowfoot Lake. Or in the very close vicinity. You wouldn’t rob me of my surprises?”

  As the jet lifted off Brady looked across the aisle to where Carmody had just withdrawn a peculiar metallic device from its chamois-lined leather casing. It appeared to consist of a small telescope attached to a curving, semi-circular arm which in turn was bolted to a rectangular metal box. Brady said: “What do you have there, Mr Carmody?”

  “John, please Mr Brady. Makes me feel less self-conscious. We cops are used to being called many things, but not ‘Mister’. This? This is an infra-red telescopic night sight. These are the securing clamps. Fits on a rifle.”

  “You can see in the dark with that?”

  “A little light helps. But total darkness is rare.”

  “You can see the enemy but he can’t see you?”

  “That’s the idea behind it. Unsporting and unfair. Never give the bastards a break—especially, Mr Brady, if they’re pointing guns at wives and daughters.”

  Brady turned to Willoughby who was in the window seat. “And what lethal armaments are you carrying?”

  “Apart from the regulation revolver? Just this little number here.” He reached down and picked up a zipped leather bag some eighteen inches by ten.

  “Funny shape for a gun,” Brady said, intrigued.

  “Two pieces that screw together.”

  “It wouldn’t be a sub-machine gun?”

  “It would.”

  There was a short silence and then Brady said: “No chance you’ll be carrying a few hand grenades on you?”

  Carmody gave a deprecating shrug. “Only a few.”

  “Infra-red sights, sub-machine guns, grenades—aren’t those illegal?”

  “Could be.” Carmody sounded vague. “I’m not sure they are at Crowfoot Lake. You’d have to ask Mr Willoughby about that.”

  The angle of climb had levelled off, and Brady nodded his thanks as Mackenzie brought him a daiquiri.

  “Cruising altitude, Donald? No way could we possibly have reached that yet.”

  “Maybe this is high enough. You’d have to ask our police chief there.” He nodded forward. Willoughby had gone up to the co-pilot’s seat and was bent over a map with Ferguson. “Doing his navigator’s bit, I see.”

  Some five minutes more passed before Willoughby rose and headed back to sit by Brady.

  “How long, Mr Willoughby?”

  “Seventy minutes.”

  “Seventy minutes! But I thought Crowfoot was only seventy miles away?”

  “We filed a flight plan for Los Angeles, remember. Our first leg takes us through the radar control at Calgary. So, we’re flying south. We’re also flying low to lose the radar control at Fort McMurray. When we do, we’ll circle to the west and then north. After ten minutes, north-east. We’ll keep low. No danger of bumping into anything; it’s pretty flat all the way.” He spread out a chart. “Even the Birch Mountains here are really nothing of the sort. The highest peak is less than twenty-seven hundred feet. Really, it’s just a low divide, a watershed: the streams on the west side flow west and northwest into the Peace and Birch rivers: the streams to the east flow east and southeast into the Athabasca river.”

  “Where’s Crowfoot Lake?”

  “Here, just on the west side of the divide.”

  “It doesn’t have a name printed.”

  “Too small. Neither does Deerhorn—here—on the east side of the divide. That’s where we’re going. It’s a lake, too, but it’s always called just Deerhorn.”

  “How far from Deerhorn to Crowfoot?”

  “Six miles. Maybe seven. Far enough, I hope. We go into Deerhorn low and we go into Deerhorn slow—as near stalling speed as possible. The chances of our being heard at that distance are remote. The only time we’ll make any real noise is when we land. The only way a fast-landing jet like this can stop on a relatively short stretch of ice is to use reverse thrust on the engines. That makes quite a racket. But I’m pretty sure that the divide between the two lakes will act as a suitable baffle. I’m a little more concerned about the helicopter.”

  “Helicopter?” Brady said carefully.

  “Yes. Left Edmonton about half an hour ago. Due in about an hour after us.”

  “You promised me—”

  “And I keep my promise. No troops, no police, not even a peashooter. Just some Arctic gear I want. It’s due to arrive just after dark.”

  “And without radar transmission or airfield landing lights, how’s he going to find his way here?”

  “A signal from us by radio beacon. He’s only to follow his nose. What worries me slightly is the noise the helicopter will make in landing. It’s the biggest you’ve ever seen, and the racket is corresponding.”

  “Of course.” Brady showed his disquiet. “Our friends at Crowfoot Lake have their own helicopter. Won’t they hop in and come over to investigate?”

  “I hope not. I want them,” Willoughby said
grimly, “to stand trial, and they won’t be able to if they’re dead. If they come across, I’ll have no option but to shoot them down.”

  “Fair enough.” Brady seemed unperturbed at the thought. Then he added: “You can do that?”

  “We came here equipped with weapons for the express purpose of doing just that.”

  “Ah! I was asking Carmody about some of his equipment and he mentioned this infra-red night sight. But I thought that was for shooting people.”

  “It can do that, too. Did he mention the fact that he’s also got a rifle that can switch from single-shot to automatic at the touch of a switch? The combination of that, the night-spot and a squirrel-hunter’s eye makes for a fairly lethal outcome. You know I have a sub-machine gun? He did? Did I also mention that it has a special large capacity magazine—the old circular drum type—and that every sixth shell is a tracer so that I can see how I’m doing?”

  “No.”

  Willoughby smiled. “And of course we didn’t mention my own modest contribution—the jumping jacks. For use when we’re not seeing too well what’s going on up above. Just like fireworks, really—except that you get no fancy explosion of colour, just a blinding magnesium flare that drifts down slowly on a parachute. Lasts only ninety seconds, but if you can’t accomplish what you want to in ninety seconds, you should have stayed at home in the first place.”

  “If I were a devout Christian I could almost weep for my adversaries.”

  “Don’t.”

  “Who said I was a devout Christian?” Brady nodded to Carmody. “He really goes about killing people?”

  “He leans on people.”

  “What, with sub-machine and high-powered rifles?”

  “We’ll use them if we have to”

  Brady said dryly: “You surprise me. Those weapons are illegal, of course—for police use. Right?”

  “That’s the trouble with being in a remote northern town—you don’t keep up as much as you might with all the notes, minutes and regulations that Edmonton issues every other day.”

  “Of course not.”

  Some time later, Brady winced as the jet engines went into reverse thrust. Even though reason told him that the decibel level was no higher than normal, his apprehensive frame of mind made him feel he was listening to a continuous thunderclap of sound. When they had landed, he said to Willoughby: “You could have heard that racket clear back in Fort McMurray.”

  “Wasn’t all that bad.” Willoughby seemed unconcerned. “Well, stretch the legs, a little fresh air. Coming?”

  “What? Out in that mess?”

  “What mess? It’s not even snowing. And it’s seven miles to Crowfoot Lake. A little exercise, a little acclimatisation. Remember what you told me back in Sanmobil? Inside the human frame there’s no room for both cold and daiquiris. Let’s put it to the test, shall we?”

  “Hoist on your own petard,” Dermott said behind him. Brady scowled, hauled himself upright and followed Willoughby to the fore end of the cabin. He looked at Ferguson and stopped.

  “You look worried, boy. That was a perfect touchdown.”

  “Thank you. But I am, as you say, a little concerned. Aileron controls got a bit stiff as I came in to land. Nothing much, I daresay. Soon locate the trouble. First landing on ice, and maybe I was being a little oversensitive.”

  Brady followed Willoughby out and looked around. Deerhorn was a singularly bleak and unprepossessing place. Snow-dusted ice beneath their feet, flat, barren land, devoid of any form of vegetation, stretching away in featureless anonymity on three sides. To the north-east lay a range of low hills, sparsely covered with a scattering of stunted, snow-laden trees.

  “Those are the Birch Mountains?”

  “I told you. I don’t think the person who named them knew much about mountains.”

  “And those are birch trees?”

  Willoughby said: “He wasn’t much of a botanist either. These are alders.”

  “And seven miles beyond—”

  “Look out! Stand back!” Both men whirled round to see Ferguson racing down the boarding steps clutching in one hand a cylindrically-shaped object about ten inches long and three in diameter.

  “Keep clear, keep clear!” He sprinted by them, covered another fifteen yards, arched his back while still running and, like a cricket bowler, over-armed the cylinder with a convulsive jerk of his body. The cylinder had travelled not more than three yards when it exploded.

  The blast was powerful enough to knock both Brady and Willoughby, even at a distance of almost twenty yards, off their feet. For several seconds they lay where they had fallen, then made their way unsteadily towards the prone figure of Ferguson. Even as they reached him they were joined by Dermott, Mackenzie and Carmody, who had been inside the plane.

  Ferguson had fallen face-down on the ice. Gently, they turned him over. His face and body appeared unmarked. It was difficult to tell whether or not he was breathing.

  “Into the plane with him,” Brady said. “Warm blankets and heating pads from the Red Cross chest. His heart may have stopped. Anyone here know anything about heart massage?”

  “We do,” Carmody said. He picked up Ferguson and headed for the plane. “First-aid certificates.”

  Three minutes later Carmody, still kneeling in the aisle, sank back on his heels and smiled.

  “Ticker’s going like a watch,” he said. “Bloody fast watch, mind you, but it’s going.”

  “Good work,” Brady said. “We leave him there?”

  “Yes,” Dermott said. “Even when he regains consciousness—no reason why he shouldn’t, there’s no sign of any head injury—he’s still going to be in shock. Heat pads we have in plenty. That’s all we can give him, and probably all he requires. Can someone tell us what the hell happened? He came running up the aisle shouting ‘Stay where you are!’ and clutching this damned thing in his hand. He was out through the door like a greyhound clearing his trap.”

  “I know what happened,” Brady said. “He complained that the controls were a bit stiff when he came in to land. That was because whoever placed this charge made a sloppy job of it. The thing stayed in place while we were climbing or cruising at a steady altitude but slid forward and wedged itself against the ailerons when we started to descend. As we left the plane he told me he was going to look for the cause of the stiffness.” Brady pursed his lips. “He found it all right.”

  “He was lucky,” said Dermott. “Had it been a metal-cased bomb, the casing would have turned into shrapnel when it exploded and the back-lash would have caught him. Not a mark on him. So, a plastic bomb. For plastic bombs, plastic fuses—chemicals, really. You have two acids separated by some synthetic plastic barrier. One of them eats through the barrier, and when the two different acids meet they detonate. When an acid eats its way through the plastic barrier it generates considerable heat. I’m sure Ferguson not only felt this heat but knew right away what it meant.”

  Brady looked sombre. “If we weren’t such a devious bunch, we’d have been flying at 30,000 feet on the way up. Our last trip, gentlemen.”

  “Right,” said Dermott. “Even flying low, like we did, we had the luck of the devil. The drawback of a chemical detonator is that it’s almost impossible to get timing accuracy within ten or fifteen per cent. The timing could have gone off ten minutes earlier—and that would have been curtains for us. Our friends didn’t want us out of this country: they wanted us out of this world. What better way to do it, neatly, cleanly and efficiently, than have your plane’s tail fall off six miles up?”

  The Sikorsky Sky-Crane landed in darkness just after three-thirty in the afternoon. It was, as Willoughby had promised, the biggest helicopter they had ever seen. The engines cut, the huge rotors idled to a standstill, and there was left only the sound of a generator whining somewhere inside the massive hull. Telescopic steps snaked down from an opened door and two men climbed nimbly down to the ice and approached the waiting group.

  “Brown,” the leading figure sa
id. “Lieutenant Brown, Air Force, alleged skipper of this craft. This is Lieutenant Vos, co-pilot, also alleged. Which of you gentlemen are Mr Willoughby and Mr Brady?”

  They shook hands and Brown turned to introduce a third person who had joined them. “Doctor Kenmore.”

  “How long can you stay?” Willoughby asked.

  “As long as you wish.”

  “Very kind. You have some cargo for me?”

  “We have. O.K. to unload now?”

  “Please.”

  Brown shouted instructions. Brady said: “Two requests, Lieutenant?”

  “You have but to ask.”

  “I wish we had some more of this civility in the United States Air Force,” Brady said. He addressed Dr Kenmore. “My pilot’s been hurt. Would you look at him?”

  “Of course.”

  “Donald?” The two men left for the aircraft. “We have an excellent transmitter on our plane, Lieutenant, but unfortunately the pilot, who operates it, is out of action…”

  “We’ve got an excellent transmitter and a first-class radio operator who’s ready for action. James!”

  A young man appeared at the head of the steps. “Take this gentleman to Bernie, will you?”

  Bernie was a bespectacled young man seated by a huge RCA transceiver. Dermott introduced himself and said: “Could you get me some numbers do you think?”

  “Local, sir? Albertan, I mean.”

  “Afraid not, Anchorage and New York.”

  “No problem. We can patch in through a radio link via our Edmonton H.Q.” Bernie’s professional confidence was reassuring in the extreme. “Numbers and names, sir?”

  “I have them here.” Dermott handed over a notebook. “I can actually speak to those people?”

  “If they’re home, sure.”

  “I may be gone for a few hours. If I am, and you get through, will you ask them to hold themselves available or let me know where I can reach them?”

  “Of course.”

  Dermott rejoined the group outside. Two low-profiled vehicles were already on the ice. A third was being lowered. “What are those?” Dermott asked.

  Willoughby said: “My surprise for Mr Brady. Snowmobiles.”