Chapter 16
Sawyer
Bennett’s voice through the VHF speaker was crisp, backed by the low background
chatter of the base operations center. "Three out-of-state snowmobilers entered
the Miller Creek drainage two hours ago. They triggered a class-three slide at
the narrow canyon choke point. One emergency beacon is transmitting from an air
pocket under a tree well; two riders are completely buried. Caleb and Jude are
at the canyon entrance with the tracked Sno-Cat, but a massive hanging wind slab
on the south headwall is threatening the entire access road. Ground rescue is
completely pinned down."
Declan leaned over the topographic map screen on the console, his fingers
tracing the contour lines of Miller Creek. "Gabriel cannot fly the Bell 412
through this cloud ceiling, Bennett. How much time do those buried riders have?"
"Jude estimates thirty minutes of viable oxygen for the buried victims," Bennett
replied. "If Caleb moves the rescue cat into the canyon without clearing that
hanging slab, a secondary slide will bury our entire team. You two have the only
high-ground position on the mountain."
Sawyer stepped up to the bench, pulling his heavy yellow ski jacket from the
drying rack. "We have six two-pound Pentolite boosters in the station cache. The
drop point above the hanging slab is accessible via the north ridge traverse,
but the ridge is too steep for snowshoes. I can ski the forty-five-degree line
in four minutes flat and deploy the charges onto the crown face."
Declan spun around, his jaw tightening into iron. "That traverse is a
forty-five-degree chute with zero runout, Sawyer. Your shoulder is taped and the
visibility is less than fifty yards."
"I am the best freeride skier in this state, Declan," Sawyer said, meeting
Declan’s fierce gaze with absolute confidence. "I know how to ski steep powder
without loading the slab. You spot the fracture lines from the ridge with the
rangefinder, and I will place the charges exactly where you call them."
Declan held Sawyer’s eyes for three seconds, his chest rising and falling in
deep, heavy breaths. The hesitation in Declan’s posture vanished, replaced by
complete, unyielding trust.
"We move together," Declan said, reaching into the steel explosives locker and
pulling out six orange Pentolite boosters, a spool of sixty-second delay fuse,
and two mechanical pull-ring igniters. He packed the ordnance into a reinforced
chest rig, buckling the straps securely over Sawyer’s yellow jacket.
Declan adjusted the chest rig, his hands lingering over Sawyer’s heart. He
leaned in close, his voice a low, rough rumble. "You drop the charges at my mark
and you ski straight out to the safety zone on the granite spur. Do not hesitate
on the slope."
"I will see you at the spur, Declan," Sawyer said.
They geared up in ninety seconds. Sawyer stepped into his heavy four-buckle ski
boots, latched his helmet, and pulled down his storm goggles. Declan racked his
carbon-fiber avalanche probe and haul ropes into his assault pack, grabbing the
long-range laser rangefinder and his handheld tactical radio.
Declan unlocked the heavy steel hatch of the telemetry dome. The door swung open
into the howling sub-zero wind, letting in a swirl of fresh snow.
Outside, Sawyer stepped onto his wide carbon powder skis, stomped his heels
until the titanium bindings clicked locked into place, and planted his poles
firmly in the snow. He looked across at Declan, gave a single sharp nod, and
pushed off into the whiteout toward the edge of Miller Creek.