Chapter 9
Declan
The wind on the leeward spur reached ninety miles per hour, turning the air into
a deafening wall of ice needles that scoured every exposed inch of fabric.
Declan kept his left hand sliding along a three-eighths-inch braided steel
safety cable anchored into the granite rock rib, pulling Sawyer along the trench
behind him. Sawyer stumbled twice in the chest-deep drifts, but Declan’s heavy
arm caught the tether each time, hauling the younger man forward through the
blinding whiteout until the dark, curved silhouette of the telemetry dome
emerged from the storm.
The research station was an insulated geodesic steel dome sixteen feet in
diameter, bolted directly into the bedrock with two-inch forged foundation
studs. The exterior was coated in high-visibility orange polyurethane, though
the windward side was completely encased in a four-inch armor of blue rime ice.
Declan reached the entry hatch, unhooked his ice axe from his harness, and swung
the flat hammer adze three times against the frozen perimeter of the steel door.
The ice shattered in ringing cracks, freeing the heavy three-spoke wheel lock.
Declan grabbed the wheel with both hands, hauled it sixty degrees
counter-clockwise, and threw his full body weight against the door to break the
rubber weather seals.
"Inside, Sawyer!" Declan barked over the gale.
He pushed Sawyer through the hatch into the dark entry vestibule, climbed in
behind him, and dragged the heavy steel door shut. He spun the locking wheel
until the four internal locking pins slammed into their frame recesses with
heavy, solid thuds.
The sudden absence of wind was immediate and absolute. Outside, the blizzard
screamed against the steel dome, but inside, the thick structural insulation
reduced the roar to a low, rhythmic vibration through the metal floor grating.
Declan switched on his headlamp. The beam swept across the interior of the
research outpost: two walls lined with computerized meteorological telemetry
racks, deep-cycle marine battery banks, an aluminum electronics workbench, a
single narrow steel bunk frame with a closed-cell foam pad, and a wall-mounted
catalytic propane heater.
Declan walked over to the heater unit, opened the main valve on the
hundred-pound propane cylinder, and hit the piezo ignition button three times.
A clean blue ring of flame flared to life behind the ceramic mesh with a soft,
steady hiss, immediately radiating dry, intense heat into the freezing
twelve-foot space. The ambient temperature began to climb from twelve degrees
toward room temperature.
Declan turned back to Sawyer. The pro skier stood leaning against the entry
bulkhead, breathing heavily through his mouth, his blond hair plastered to his
forehead with melting frost. Sawyer’s Carhartt bibs and heavy yellow jacket were
encrusted with white snow crystals that began to drip onto the rubber floor mat
under the rising heat of the propane burner.
Declan unclipped their short-rope tether, tossing the frozen nylon coil onto the
floor grating. He took off his heavy leather gloves, dropped his helmet onto the
workbench, and stepped directly into Sawyer’s personal space.
"Shoulder holding?" Declan asked, his voice low, gravelly, and commanding in the
warm, enclosed silence of the dome.
Sawyer looked up, his hazel eyes bright, dilated, and defiant beneath the amber
glow of the heater. "The shoulder is fine, Ross. We just survived a
thousand-foot fall and a class-five natural release on the summit ridge."
Declan reached out, placing his large, warm bare hands flat against Sawyer’s wet
shoulders, checking the alignment of the deltoid muscle through the canvas
jacket. "The storm is locking this entire range down for thirty-six hours,
Brand. Gabriel cannot fly and the valley roads are buried. It is just you and me
up here."
Sawyer held Declan’s gaze without backing away an inch, his lips curving into a
slow, intense smile. "Good thing I don't mind the company, Captain."