Chapter 15
Declan
The kettle whistled with a sharp, piercing hiss. Declan pulled the steel pot
from the flame, poured boiling water over two scoops of dark coffee grounds in
their tin mugs, and handed one to Sawyer. The digital barometer on the telemetry
rack showed the atmospheric pressure beginning to rise, though the storm outside
still drove sheets of hard snow against the curved steel panels.
Declan sat down on the bench beside Sawyer, holding the hot metal mug between
his scarred palms. He stared at the glowing green LED readouts of the snowpack
sensors for a long moment before looking across at the younger man.
"Six years ago, I was a staff sergeant in the Tenth Mountain Division," Declan
said, his voice flat, low, and heavy in the quiet dome. "High-altitude combat
engineering in the mountains of eastern Afghanistan. We were running a winter
route reconnaissance patrol along an exposed ridge at eleven thousand feet."
Sawyer held his mug in both hands, listening in complete silence.
"A sniper opened fire from a granite outcropping three hundred yards above our
column," Declan continued, his jaw tightening as the memories surfaced. "I
called for a rapid tactical descent down a thirty-eight-degree couloir. I knew
the snowpack had a buried surface hoar interface from a storm three days
earlier, but I calculated that we could clear the slope before the slab
fractured. My spotter, Corporal Miller, dropped behind me. The slope released
forty feet down the line."
Declan took a slow sip of the scalding black coffee, his knuckles white against
the tin. "Miller was swept into a narrow rock ravine and buried under eight feet
of hard slab. I dug him out with an entrenching tool and my bare hands until my
fingernails were torn off, but his airway was packed with ice and his skull was
crushed. I spent three months in a military hospital with severe frostbite, took
an honorable discharge, and moved to Idaho to bury myself in snow telemetry so I
would never have to rely on another person on a mountain again."
Sawyer set his mug down on the workbench. He turned on the seat, reached out,
and slid his fingers between Declan’s calloused fingers, locking their hands
together in a tight, unyielding grip.
"You carried that mountain on your shoulders for six years, Declan," Sawyer said
softly, his hazel eyes completely steady and full of deep understanding. "You
thought if you became hard enough and rigid enough, you could control every
variable on the rock. But the mountain is bigger than both of us. That is why we
watch each other's lines."
Declan looked down at their joined hands, feeling the warmth of Sawyer’s grip
sink straight into his bones. The heavy, suffocating isolation that had defined
his life since leaving the military cracked open, replaced by a profound,
immovable bond with the man sitting beside him.
Declan brought Sawyer’s hand to his lips, kissing the knuckles with slow,
deliberate tenderness.
Before either man could speak, the red LED on the high-frequency VHF transceiver
mounted to the central rack began to flash, followed by three sharp electronic
beeps that broke the silence of the dome.
Bennett Hayes’s voice crackled through the speaker, urgent and sharp over the
radio frequency. "SPSR Avalanche Unit, this is Base Dispatch. Declan, Sawyer, if
you copy this transmission, acknowledge immediately. We have a priority
mass-casualty callout in your sector."
Declan stood up instantly, his hand releasing Sawyer’s as he keyed the
microphone. "Sawtooth Base, this is Declan Ross at high-altitude station one. We
read you loud and clear. Give us the situation."