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 said. “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. Okay 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. “George? Lieutenant, this is Mr. Dermott. Second request. 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 Mr. Dermott to Bernie, will you?”
Bernie was a bespectacled fellow 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.”
“They’re not snowmobiles,” a black-haired slender youth said.
“Sorry.” Willoughby turned to Dermott. “John Lowry, an expert on those machines. The Edmonton people sent him up to show us how to operate them.”
“They’re everything-mobiles,” Lowry said. “Snow, roads, rough terrain, marshes, sand — you name it. Comparatively, the American and Canadian snowmobiles belong to the age of steam radio. Made by the firm of VPLO — initials only, the full name is unpronounceable — in Oulu, Finland. Called, naturally, the Finncat. Made of fiber glass. Unlike the ordinary snowmobile, it has no skis up front. That motor-driven traction belt you see extends under the full length of the body.”
“Where did they come from?”
“We got three to put through extended tests — you know, the old test-to-destruction bit. Those are the three.”
Dermott said to Willoughby, “Nice to have friends.”
“Not quite standard models,” Lowry went on. “The front compartments are usually for stowage of gear. We’ve converted them into jump seats.”
Brady said, “You mean I can ride in one of those right now?”
Dermott said, sotto voce to Willoughby, “Test to destruction is right.”
Lowry said, “I should think so, sir.”
“That’s great, just great.” Brady’s tone was hushed and reverent. The prospect of trudging a fourteen-mile return journey through Albertan snows had held singularly little appeal to him.
“Driving is simple,” Lowry said. “Changing the inclination of the traction belt changes the direction of travel. Done by the handlebars. You have forward and reverse gears and — a very sophisticated touch — hydraulic disc brakes. It can also do forty miles an hour.”
“Forty?” Dermott said. “It looks as if it would be hard pushed to touch five.”
Lowry smiled. “Forty. Not on rough terrain, of course. Incidentally, these don’t come cheap — four thousand dollars — but then the unique never does. I understand that you gentlemen are in a hurry. First three drivers up, please.”
Dr. Kenmore returned from the plane with Mackenzie while Willoughby and his two men were learning the controls of the Finncats. Kenmore said, “Concussion. Nothing very serious, not the blast, he must have hit his head on the ice — there’s a beauty of a bruise just above his right ear. I’ll have him brought across here — we have a heating and lighting generator running all the time when the motors are switched off.”
Brady said, “Thank you, doctor. We appreciate it.”
“Nothing. May one ask where you’re off to in those toys?”
“Don’t let young Lowry hear you. He’d have a fit,” Dermott said.
Brady said, “Please understand we don’t mean to be churlish. We’ll tell you when we come back. How’s your expertise on shotgun wounds and bones shattered by high-velocity bullets?”
“Not very extensive, I’m afraid.” Kenmore’s expression hadn’t altered. “You plan to remedy that before the night is out?”
“I hope not.” Brady’s face was suddenly serious. “But it may come to that.”
The six men left at four-thirty, exactly one hour after the Sikorsky had touched down. The helicopter’s crew were there to see them go. Lieutenant Brown said, “Air Force personnel are not as stupid as they look. We know where you’re going, naturally. Good fortune.” He looked at the arsenal of weapons they carried, ready for action, shoulder-slung or in holsters. “Dr. Kenmore may be in for a sleepless night.”
The Finncats were everything that Lowry had promised, nimble, manoeuvrable and possessed of remarkable traction. Two carried small but efficient headlamps which picked out a path through the straggling alders. It said much for the dogged willingness of the little two-cylinder engines that a heroically suffering Brady had to get out only twice — the Finncat on those occasions had refused to budge another inch — and walk a total of two hundred yards on the way to the gently rounded convexity which marked the watershed of the Birch Mountains. Shortly before the little army reached this point, they had switched off their headlights.
The descent was simple but just as slow as the ascent because, in the absence of lights, the half-seen alders had to be negotiated with care. The engines, no more than idling, were gratifyingly quiet. Willoughby called softly and the three Finncats came to a halt,
“Far enough,” he said. “We can’t be more than three hundred yards from the shore.”
“Okay.” Dermott agreed. “How many crew at the Met. Station, Willoughby?”
“Just two. I shouldn’t imagine that any harm has come to them. They have to keep sending their regular radio reports. Any breakdown in those would have brought an official helicopter out here very quickly. So the reports must have continued to go out — under duress.”
They made their way down to the lake’s edge, keeping their voices low — sound travels as well over ice as it does over water. Tall reeds grew by the frozen shore. Carmody parted these, unpacked his infrared night sight, pressed his face against the rubber eye piece and switched on.
The Crowfoot Lake meteorological station consisted of only two huts, one about three times the size of the other. The smaller one had a variety of poles, boxes and what appeared from that distance to be uncovered recording instruments on its roof. This smaller hut was dark: the larger, presumably the living quarters, showed two brightly lit windows. Beyond this hut was parked a large, white-painted helicopter.
Jones passed the night sight to Brady, who studied the station briefly, then handed the instrument on. The last man to use it, Dermott, took the sight from his eye and said, “As a target for tonight, I’ve seen worse. We go now?”
“We go now,” Brady said, “And we don’t treat them like human beings. No warnings. No fair play. No sportsmanship. Shoot first, questions afterward. People who plant time bombs in aircraft — or steal my Jean and Stella — aren’t full of finer feelings or the rules of civilized warfare.”
Willoughby said, “Fair enough. But shoot to cripple, not to kill. I want those men to stand trial.”
Brady said, “Of course, the conduct and termination of the trial would be greatly speeded if we had their confessions in advance.”
“And how do you figure on getting those?” Dermott asked.
“Simple, George. It all depends upon how intrepid you’re feeling this afternoon.”
Fifteen
The wicked wind hissed through the clump of alders some twenty yards behind the meteorological station. The trees offered little in the way of cover, but it was the best and closest that the men could find. Luckily, the night was moonless: the buildings showed as black lumps in the snowy landscape.