Читать книгу The Height of Secrecy - J. M. Mitchell - Страница 10

The wall came out and clobbered them, slamming them with its face. They bounced, then rolled across the rock.

Echo pulsed through the canyon. Air shook.

Cold stone ground into them, taking skin, leaving pain, throwing them back into thin air. They glanced off the rock, slowed, and swung back.

The spinning. Jack reached for his nose, trying to protect it, subjecting his elbows to blows.

The spinning slowed, then stopped. They slid plum, and settled against the wall.

Bone and skin, shoulders, knees, and hips, it all hurt.

Quiet. No shock waves. Nothing.

Jack pressed his hands to his face.

The radio squawked. “Jack, are you okay? Jack? Answer!”

Damned radio. Miracle it still works. Dizzy and fighting through pain, Jack keyed the radio strapped to his chest. “Stand by.”

He glanced down. Thomas hung at his feet, not moving.

The radio popped. “Jack, what happened?”

“Thomas?”

No movement.

“Thomas?”

The helmet shuddered and tilted up. Bloodied face, Thomas opened his eyes.

“You okay?”

“Hard to breathe.”

“I bet.”

Thomas took a shallow breath. His lips weren’t turning blue, yet. If he passed out, he could easily slip out of the sling.

“Jack, talk to me?” the radio screamed.

Jack keyed the mike. “Yes, Luis, we’re hurting, okay. But we’re all in one piece. Stand by.”

The radio went quiet.

“Thomas, do you still have . . .” Jack stopped and stared.

Red vaporous movement, below them, rising, reaching. Dust from pulverized rock swirled below, slipping closer, slowly, but without stealth.

Jack shook his head. Got to get . . . But what can we do? We’re sitting ducks. We’re helpless.

Dangle. What else is there to do? We’ll smother in the dust. No way in hell they can raise us in time to keep us out of that cloud. Dust that fine, that pervasive . . . It’ll be impossible to breathe, especially for Thomas, bound in that damned sling. “Is the harness still around your legs?”

“I feel it. Got big thighs.”

“That’s a good thing—today anyway. Can you pull it up around your waist?”

“I’ll try.” Thomas struggled. “Can’t reach it with both hands. Have to try with one.”

“Come on, Thomas. You’ve got to get a move on.”

“Don’t rush me. I can hardly breathe.”

He hasn’t seen anything yet. “Just do it.” Come on!

Jack strained to watch. Thomas’ jerky movements pulsed through the webbing and rope. “What are you doing?”

“I have a strap. I’m trying to slide the harness up my leg.”

“Is it moving?”

Quiet, then, “Got one leg. Got to switch arms.”

Jack watched as the cloud reached higher, closer.

“Got to move the carabiner. It’s keeping me from using my arm.”

“Careful. Keep your arms locked down.”

“I’m trying.” He reached up the runner and pulled, lifting against his weight. “Got to move this strap.” He squirmed, inching the carabiner around.

“You’re scaring me,” Jack murmured. “If you raise your arms over your head . . . you’ll . . .” He held his tongue.

Movement shook the rope. “Got it” he said, finally, fighting for breath.

“Quick, cinch the waist strap.”

“I’m trying.”

“Do it quickly. When that dust cloud gets here, breathing will be even harder.”

Thomas’ movement stopped.

Jack looked down. Thomas appeared frozen in place.

“Don’t stop. Get your ass in gear.”

Jack could smell the dust. He could taste it.

Thomas fumbled with the buckle, his breathing growing louder. “I don’t understand this. Where do you put the strap?” Thomas relaxed his arms, throwing his head back and pulled in a long, deep breath.

The radio came on. “Jack, tell me what’s happening.”

Thomas took another breath and lowered his head. He groaned, and fussed with the buckle. “Okay, got it,” he said, sounding relieved.

“Good.” Jack looked up.

Luiz craned out over the edge.

Jack keyed his radio. “We’re getting . . .” He coughed. “The air, hard to breathe. We’re getting Thomas secured.”

“Copy. We’re switching to the raising system. We’ll try to keep you above the cloud.”

“That won’t happen, but give it your best shot. Hurry.”

“Not wanting slow anymore?”

“No, but I do want to kick your ass for sending me down here.”

Jack pulled a runner from the equipment sling, quickly wrapped it several times around the load rope, threaded one end through the other, and pulled it tight. He took another, clipped in a carabiner, and lowered it to Thomas. “Now, we need to get your weight on the harness.”

Thomas grabbed the carabiner. “What do I do with this?”

“Feel the loops sewn into the waist of the harness? There on the front.” He grabbed the ones on his own harness. “These.”

Thomas coughed. “Yes.”

“Clip the carabiner into both loops. Do one, roll it around to where you can get the gate in the other.” Jack held onto his end of the webbing and watched. Specks of red dust hung in the air, settling on Thomas’ helmet and shoulders.

Thomas coughed.

He’ll be coated, soon. Come on, Thomas!

“I think I got it,” he said.

“Lock it down.”

Thomas turned the nut on the gate. He coughed deep and hard.

“Cover your mouth and nose.”

Thomas raised his hands to his face.

“Now, my turn.” Jack fought back a cough. He braced his legs against the wall, and pulled. Thomas hardly budged. “Now why in hell did I think I could lift you like this?” He tried again, straining against the load. He sucked in dust, and the stench overpowered him. He spit it out. “You’re more than I can lift. I don’t have any leverage.”

Silence.

“Thomas?”

Silence. Then low, rumbling. “Can’t breathe.”

“Hold on. I’ll do something else.” He felt along the sling and found a short runner. He clipped it into the one coming from Thomas. On its other end, he clipped into the runner hanging from above, on the load rope. “Now you’re tied in. Don’t be shocked by what I’m about to do.”

Thomas coughed and let out a groan.

The dust grew thick. It stung. Jack batted his eyes. Tears welled, and gummed in their corners. He blinked hard. They refused to open. He reached into the mesh bag, and groped along the bottom. Where is it? He slid his finger along something stubby—the knife. Found it.

He fought to open his eyes. Darkness loomed over them, like evening turning to night.

He blew the dust from his lips. “Don’t panic. I’m about to cut you loose.” He grasped the knife with both hands. Can’t drop it. Carefully, he pulled out the blade and locked it in place. Unable to open his eyes, he felt among the rope and webbing. Only the tight webbing. Stay clear of the rope—or we’ll both die. He slid the knife along the tightest webbing. It splayed. He held the blade in the splay and sliced. Threads popped away, abruptly letting go. Dead weight dropped and bounced at the end of the webbing.

Thomas gasped, and broke into a cough.

The radio came on. “Jack, what was that? Everything okay?”

Jack keyed the radio. “Had to cut some webbing. We’re okay. Get us out of here.” He pulled his hand off the radio. “Thomas, keep your mouth covered. I’d lower a second line for insurance, but let’s just sit tight, let the cloud pass.” He brushed the dust from his sleeve and buried his face under his arm.

Luiz came on. “We’re about to start raising.”

“Copy,” Jack muttered, his face still covered.

A muffled voice rose up from below. “Why are you here?” Thomas asked.

“What?”

“Why did you come down here? Why did you do this?”

“I was under the impression you needed a little help.”

“It could have killed you.” Thomas coughed, sounding like lung was ripping apart.

“Don’t talk now, Thomas.”

“Why did you do this?”

“I don’t get to choose what I do. That question, I should be asking you.”

The radio popped on. “Jack, we’re about to take your weight off the rappelling rack, in three . . . two . . . one.” They slid down the wall and stopped.

Now in the hands of Carl Foss. What a reassuring thought.

Minutes passed. Then Luis came on. “We’re raising.”

Jack keyed the radio. “Copy. The faster, the better.”

“Do I need to remind you how emphatic you were about being slow and deliberate?”

“I’m in no position to engage in clever conversation. But in no mood to hang out, either.” He took his finger off the transmit button. “Hang out. Good one, huh, Thomas?” He coughed.

The rope inched up the wall, tenuously, then moments of speed, then a gradual stop.

“Why are we stopping?”

“It’ll be this way all the way to the top. And get ready, we’re about to drop.”

They waited. Then the drop—about three feet. Thomas gasped.

“Get used to it. It’ll be that way all the way to the top. Up, then stop, a few feet down, and then up again. They have to lock in their gain, and stretch out the z-rig to do it again.”

They began to ascend. When it seemed they were moving quickly and smoothly, they stopped. Then dropped.

After several rounds the dust cloud seemed to diminish. Jack rubbed the dust from his face and batted his eyes, finally managing to get them open. He looked down. The cloud hung below.

Orange haze hung in the sky.

Jack contorted himself to get a look at Thomas. His helmet faced the direction of Sipapu Falls. Orange also hung in the mist at the base of the falls. Strange. All of it was strange. “Thomas, why the hell were you on that ledge?”

He didn’t answer, but turned, seemingly tracing the ledge from the falls, all the way back to its almost invisible origins in a hanging canyon.

“You okay?” Jack asked.

“Yes.”

“So why were you there?”

“Trying to help. Trying to understand. Doing something maybe it wasn’t for me to do.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing. I’ve said too much.”