Lachlan…
It took the expert I hired from Switzerland eleven hours to fly into the private airstrip I’ve been using, about twenty minutes out of town and an hour from Petrov’s compound.
“Hansjörg Bodmer? Good to see you. Welcome to the end of the world.”
Pushing his glasses up, he nods his head. “Given the magnetic movement of the earth’s core, the North Pole is officially above Siberia and is now the end of the world, so you are correct, good sir. Always a pleasure to meet a fellow enthusiast.”
“When it comes to explosives? I’m your biggest fan,” I say, shaking his hand and leading him into the hangar where the helicopters are being outfitted.
“Excellent,” he murmurs, “the heavy-lift Eurocopter AS350. Do you have the DaisyBell system aboard?”
“Aye,” I say, “and the backup packages are on the second helicopter.”
“You’ve done your homework,” he says approvingly, running a reverent hand over the helicopter's nose. “I cannot imagine there’s much call for this in Scotland.”
“Not in our particular line of business,” I shrug, “this is more of a personal project.”
He looks up, the light glinting off his glasses and making it hard to see his expression. “A man’s hobbies should be encouraged, Herr MacTavish.” He smiles.
Aye, this is the right man for the job.
“Are you sure you want to take off now?” Our helicopter pilots, Daniil and Katya don’t seem enthusiastic about the idea of heading up in these conditions. Tuvan has been watching the weather satellite images intently for the last hour, and I look at him.
“I know you’re concerned,” he tells them, “but this is our window. The winds are high but visibility is good. There’s another storm coming in three hours from now.”
They look at each other, silently calculating the odds and I tip them in my favor. “I’ll double your fee for the risk.”
Katya moves first, pulling up the top of her flight suit and zipping it. “Let’s go. We’re losing daylight.”
Hansjörg Bodmer may look like an aging college professor, but he’s clinging to his strap by the open door of the chopper as we take off, grinning wildly.
“I believe our best result will come from utilizing both options, yes?” He draws me a quick diagram on his iPad. “The DaisyBell for here, and then the packages utilized so. The result will be very satisfying.”
“I’m appreciating your enthusiasm for your work,” I nod. The wind is coming up and tearing through the open doors of the helicopter. We’re too close to our destination to close it, so I pull my balaclava down over my face and think warm thoughts. The thought of Petrov torn to pieces warms my heart in a way that my sub-zero parka can’t.
“We’re just out of range of the compound’s radar,” Tuvan’s voice comes over my headset. “I’m watching my satellite screen, with the wind coming up, you have one shot to make this work.”
Nodding at our Swiss expert, I say, “Bodmer? Light it up.”
The chopper carrying the DaisyBell system and Tuvan hovers over the closest mountain peaks, and ours turns to speed out to the larger ones to the north.
“We must time these together,” Bodmer fusses a little, “one does not work without the other, yes?” When we’re hovering over our designated point, I look through my binoculars at Petrov’s compound, down in the valley.
“The DaisyBell will issue a series of precise, programmed blasts,” he continues, “up to seventy strikes if needed. Its job is to leave the main chutes open for the charges. Here we go…”
We watch the other helicopter blast the snow loads on the three mountain peaks below them and there’s a sudden rush of an ocean of snow and ice tearing down the rock face, heading for the compound. It’s not enough to do the job, and even if it was, Ireallywant to see what happens next.
“The eight packages we will drop are C4, ignited by a mix of oxygen and hydrogen,” Bodmer continues, his pale face alight with excitement. “I’ve pinpointed the locations. Miss Katya, do you see that overhang? Fifteen kilometers to the northwest,bitte.”
It takes less than five minutes to drop the charges and then the chopper swoops back for the grand view, already buffeted by the rising wind.
I’ve seen a tidal wave before, an unimaginable force of nature that tore apart everything in its path. Water in frozen form is just as vicious. The first, smaller avalanches clear the way forthe monstrous mass of snow - as wide as four ocean liners - that quivers as the charges hit it, cracks spidering in all directions. The huge, unstable burden of fresh snow from the night before, piled on top of the frozen mass beneath it quivers as it tries to hold position and then…
With a roar that sounds like a maddened lion, the mountainside breaks loose and there’s a wall of snow, thirty meters high barreling down toward the compound with the force of an atomic blast.
Pulling out my phone, I punch in the call I’ve been dying to make for weeks.
“Who the fuck is this?”
