He understood and pointed toward the stairwell. “I’m going to head down and let the others know. They must be wondering about the blast.”
“Do that. I’ll keep watch.” Russo searched around. “And be wary of Katch. He’s somewhere in here and likely in a bad mood.”
Him and me both.
Duncan glanced to the blockage of snow.
And maybe others.
56
11:19 a.m.
Red-faced and angry, Keir stomped from under the slowly spinning rotors. The pilots continued to keep the engines warm, not wanting them to seize up in the cold. He ducked out and crossed to Captain Ferhat.
“What do we do now?” Keir shouted, both out of fury and to be heard past the trio of idling aircraft.
Ferhat studied the snow-blasted face of the bunker with a pair of binoculars. “A moment,” the man intoned.
Keir tried to read the captain’s assessment, but his features were obscured by his helmet’s polycarbonate face shield and a black balaclava—as was true for the thirteen men who made up his team.
Keir hunched into his parka, which came with a matching helmet, specially ordered for this sojourn. As an extra precaution, he wore a Kevlar vest under his coat. Still, it did little to hold back the cold, which burned his cheeks. Fine powder continued to swirl from the turning rotors. Each breath was like sucking ice into his lungs.
At least the bastard Tissot suffered the same. The cardinal and a younger cohort huddled together, whispering, so close it looked as if they were about to kiss. Keir had not bothered to supply them with helmets or body armor. Such neglect was punishment for their insistence on joining this expedition.
Ferhat finally lowered his binoculars.
“Well?” Keir pressed him.
“They were clever. I’ll give them that.” The captain swept an arm toward the precipitous path that ran from the plateau to the bunker. “We can clear the trail easily enough with shovels. It’s too narrow to hold much snow. Take maybe an hour.”
Keir nodded, satisfied with this timetable, but Ferhat was not done.
He shifted and pointed at the massive slide of snow covering the face of the bunker, sealing its entrance. “But that’s a problem. It could take half a day or more to dig that out.”
“We don’t have that leeway. We must secure this site before too many eyes look this direction.”
“Understood.” Ferhat turned. “I anticipated that. And may have a solution to expedite matters. But it’s not without risk.”
“What?”
The captain turned and nodded toward two of his men. From the back of one of the helicopters, the pair carried forth a long gray tube with a metal bipod mounted under it.
Keir recognized the weapon, struggling to decide if Ferhat was clever or mad.
The two soldiers joined them and began setting up the rocket launcher.
57
11:21 a.m.
Sharyn crouched with Laurent and Archie on the dark stairs. They all carried flashlights, but the stygian blackness still hid what lay below. The steps ran in a straight course, angled steeply, heading toward the heart of the mountain.
A moment ago, a sharp blast had stopped their descent, echoing down from above. It was followed by a rush of noise that sounded like a freight train rolling overhead.
“Avalanche,” Archie gasped out. “I’ve heard the same during snow control measures when I skied Zermatt a couple winters ago.”
“Russo’s delaying tactic,” Laurent realized.
