The Summit

  Not in this life.

  When Sammi Moon hit the summit, it would be as a free woman.

  * * *

  Unlike the other campsites, there was no set location for Camp Three. The expeditions bedded down wherever their Sherpas chose to hack out platforms in the Face.

  This Way Up’s tents were carved into the slope about sixty feet below SummitQuest’s. Dominic, Ethan, and Pasang arrived around four o’clock and immediately began chopping ice to melt for soup and hot chocolate.

  Dominic never saw the object that struck him full in the face. It was a terrifying moment because he was working unroped, and even a small falling rock could have swept him off the Lhotse Face. But the impact was light — a sudden slap.

  “Hey!”

  Then he noticed it, sitting in a rut in the ice — a small paper airplane.

  Ethan was disgusted. “Real smart. You could put a guy off the mountain with a stunt like that.”

  Dominic stared at the image on the folded paper. “If I didn’t know better,” he said with a frown, “I’d swear that’s Sammi’s boyfriend.”

  He reached over to pick it up. But a gust of wind dislodged the airplane from the Face and sent it spiraling down toward the Western Cwm.

  www.summathletic.com/everest/yellowband

  Trouble at 25,000 feet: SummitQuest cameraman Lenny Tkakzuk loses his goggles while filming in the inhospitable Yellow Band, a thick layer of crumbly limestone in the mountain’s midsection. Here, in a windchill approaching –100° F, a climber’s eyeball can actually freeze solid without protection.

  Help comes from an unlikely source. A Sherpa from an expedition called This Way Up offers his own eyegear for the remainder of today’s ascent to Camp Four. “Sherpas born in wind and cold,” the happy-go-lucky hero explains. “No need goggles.” CLICK HERE to see Pasang, the savior of the Yellow Band. It’s nice to have friends in high places!

  Dominic lay on his stomach, shivering against the mustard-colored rock. Staying active was the climber’s first line of defense against the blistering cold of this altitude. What was going on up there? He couldn’t make out the problem that had stopped SummitQuest in its tracks.

  Ethan returned to report that the coast was clear. “Pasang had to lend Sneezy his goggles. Let’s give Cap a head start and then get moving again.”

  Dominic nodded, his teeth chattering into his oxygen mask. The brutal chill penetrated deep into his gut, and his fingers felt useless, like fragile porcelain attachments. Ten minutes later the team resumed its climb, and he warmed a little, but his core was still ice.

  * * *

  “You wanted to see me, Cap?”

  Perry ducked out of the merciless cold into the guides’ tent at Camp Four. He frowned when he saw his open laptop on the communications table. “What are you doing with my computer?”

  “Sorry for minding your business, Noonan.” The team leader waved the red-haired boy in front of the small machine.

  Perry looked around in bewilderment. Dr. Oberman, Sneezy, and Babu were regarding him intently. “What’s going on?”

  “You’ll want to see this, Perry,” the doctor said gently.

  Perry turned his attention to the glowing screen — an E-mail from Uncle Joe:

  Perry, why didn’t you tell me? You mean more to me than all the summits in the world! I had no idea you felt this way.

  Turn around and get off that mountain. Call from Base Camp, and I’ll send a chopper to pick you up. My plane will be waiting at the Kathmandu airport. I’ll make this up to you if it takes fifty years….

  “I sent your message from Camp Two,” Cicero explained softly. “Part of my job — never climb with a client who doesn’t want to be there.”

  Perry sat stunned, reading and rereading the E-mail. It was hard to believe that this whole nightmare was over. Nine weeks of discomfort, deprivation, backbreaking effort, and insane risk-taking. Plus a month of boot camp. And now — a few paragraphs over the Internet, and he was done.

  I’m going home.

  The relief that washed over him wasn’t as sweet as he’d expected it to be. What a waste! The time. The effort. The fear.

  “You can start down with one of the Sherpas in the morning,” Cicero went on. “Let me say one thing first: I didn’t pick you. But you’ve turned into a heck of a mountaineer these past two months. You’re as tough as anybody here. Maybe even tougher, because you had to suck it up for every step. I’d climb with you any day.”

  The guides nodded their agreement.

  Perry was silent for a long time. Then he said, “I guess I should go pack my stuff.”

  His computer under his arm, he crossed the seven feet of gale-force wind that separated the two tents. Ferocious conditions.

  Not my problem anymore.

  “What’s up?” asked Sammi.

  “I’m going home.” The words sounded strange — somehow unreal. “They’re sending a helicopter to Base Camp for me.”

  She nodded distractedly and said nothing. Perry recognized her game face under the oxygen mask. Sammi’s focus was made of the same titanium as her ice ax.

  Not so Tilt. As Perry gathered his personal items together, the big boy kept up a gloating, I-told-you-so monologue.

  “Oh, poor Perry, he can’t hack it on Mount Everest. The other kids are mean to him — he has to go crying home to Mommy. Uncle Joey, send a helicopter, send your Learjet — ”

  Perry was smoldering as he jammed a sweater into the pack. The words formed in his mind: Shut up! Shut up! But he didn’t have the guts to say them aloud.

  “What took you so long?” sneered Tilt. “I could have told you on day one of training camp: This wimp couldn’t climb an anthill, let alone the highest mountain in the world!”

  Cheeks flaming hot as his bright red hair, Perry wheeled on the bigger boy. And this time, the words did come: “Shut up, Crowley!”

  Tilt was taken aback at first. Then his features relaxed into an unpleasant smile. “Who’s gonna make me, Noonan? You?”

  Perry set his jaw. There was only one way to quiet Tilt. And only one way to undo the waste of these past months. To make this miserable experience mean something.

  The E-mail would be short and to the point. And this one he would have the guts to send: Dear Uncle Joe — not yet!!

  Perry Noonan was going to climb.

  The plan was for a ten-thirty P.M. wake-up. Tilt was up by nine forty-five, melting ice for oatmeal.

  He could not remember ever being this nervous. Tonight was the first night of his future. The blueprint for his life began right here, right now. Or not, if he messed up.

  He wouldn’t. He had been a monster on the climb up to the Col. Cicero had forced him to put on the brakes to keep from leaving the others far behind. He was in top shape, top acclimatization. He was even getting good at the eerie Darth Vader breathing of bottled oxygen.

  Besides — and this was the best omen of them all — the shrimp was down at Base Camp. Dominic’s amazing luck had run out. Surely that meant Tilt was bound for greatness.

  Sammi and Perry awoke, and Tilt made them breakfast. Why not? He had to do something to keep busy or the butterflies in his stomach would devour him from the inside.

  Cicero came in for some last-minute nagging. “I want to see three layers on your hands — nylon gloves, wool mitts, Gore-Tex mitts. You’re not getting out that flap till you show me.”

  Normally, Cicero’s control-freak personality drove Tilt crazy. But this time, he stood quietly and let the team leader check every piece of gear and clothing.

  “Just keep doing what you’ve been doing, Crowley. You’ll make it.”

  “Thanks, Cap.” It was the friendliest exchange that had ever passed between the two of them.

  Since Tilt was ready early, it was decided that he would set out ahead of the others. Sneezy would accompany him. That way, SummitQuest would take its best shot at the peak early, with its cameraman on hand to film the triumphant Tilt standing on top of the wor
ld. Then, on the way down, Sneezy could hand the camera to one of the other guides as the second team passed them en route to the summit.

  As Tilt waited for Sneezy on the rocks of the Col, he was surprised to see another alpinist braving the battering wind. He knew that two other teams were launching bids tonight — This Way Up and the Germans. But both of those expeditions were known for late starts. Who was this?

  The slight figure wore a Gore-Tex mask, full oxygen rig, and goggles. It had to be a woman, and a little one at that. He was doing a mental inventory of female climbers when it hit him. The bright red wind suit. The small boots and crampons. The oversized ice ax.

  Tilt moved closer, peering into the goggles. “Shrimp?”

  The figure began backing away.

  “Shrimp, it’s me! Tilt!”

  “Shhh!” Dominic pushed the oxygen mask aside so his warning could be heard. “Cap doesn’t know I’m here!”

  “Why are you here?” hissed Tilt. “How did you get here?”

  “I’m climbing with Ethan Zaph,” Dominic explained urgently. “Cap can’t know so he won’t be held responsible.”

  The frustration threatened to detonate Tilt like a grenade. Dominic Alexis! Somehow, the kid had managed to pull yet another rabbit out of his little runt hat! And here he was on the Col, poised to ruin Tilt’s plans.

  “Promise you won’t tell,” Dominic insisted. “Give me your word.”

  Telling Cicero — that was exactly what Tilt should do. But would it work? The team leader would never let Dominic quit so close to the top. Not even if he had to strap the shrimp onto his back and carry him kicking and screaming up the southeast ridge.

  There was no way to keep Dominic from climbing at this point. What Tilt had to do was to find a way to prevent him from summiting. But how?

  All at once, he had the answer. “The secret is safe with me,” Tilt promised. “Listen, shrimp, I know we’ve had our problems. But I’m really glad you’re getting your shot. Good luck tonight.” He wrapped his arms around the smaller boy in a show of support.

  “You, too,” said Dominic.

  As the young climbers embraced, Tilt reached around Dominic’s back, found his oxygen regulator, and twisted the dial to maximum.

  He broke away. “Hey, here comes Sneezy. You’d better not let him see you.”

  Tilt watched Dominic melt into the shadows. Gobbling bottled gas at a rate of four liters per minute, the shrimp would run out of oxygen by twenty-eight thousand feet, still more than a thousand below the summit. Cold, exhausted, and starved for air, he’d have no choice but to give up and return to Camp Four.

  Dominic watched furtively as Sneezy and Tilt ascended the steep slope above the South Col. He squinted, trying to tell if they were front-pointing or climbing flat-footed. In the gloom, all he could make out were the hovering globes made by their helmet lamps glowing on black rock and white snow.

  Where were Ethan and Pasang? It was dangerous to spend so much time standing around in brutal conditions, although Dominic felt surprisingly warm and strong. He had no way of knowing this was largely because he was breathing double the usual amount of supplemental oxygen.

  Ethan wasn’t at the tent, so Dominic headed for the This Way Up Sherpas’ camp in search of Pasang. Inside, he found his Sherpa friend flat on his back with Ethan kneeling over him. When the beam of Dominic’s helmet lamp penetrated the small shelter, Pasang cried out in agony.

  “Douse that light!” ordered Ethan.

  The tent went dark. “What’s wrong?” Dominic asked anxiously.

  The Sherpa’s eyes were squeezed so tightly shut that beads of sweat stood out on his forehead.

  “Snow blindness,” Ethan explained gravely.

  Dominic was shocked. “How?” But he already knew. Pasang had climbed without goggles from the Yellow Band to the South Col. His eyes had survived the cold; the bright sun was another matter. This high up in the atmosphere, there was virtually no protection from ultraviolet radiation. The glare of a cloudless morning, reflecting off ice and pristine snow, had blinded Pasang. Although the condition was only temporary, the Sherpa’s ascent was over.

  Ethan was furious. “You know better! Why’d you do it?”

  The guide shrugged miserably. “Sherpas’ life very hard. Many climb, but only few jobs. But if Pasang on Summit Web site, maybe sahibs want hire this Sherpa.”

  Dominic put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay. We understand.” He had become so close to the Sherpas that he saw them merely as new friends. It was so easy to forget their poverty. Pasang was not a fellow adventurer. He was eking out a living the only way he knew how.

  “I let you down, little sahib,” he moaned to Dominic. “And my team. And myself.”

  Ethan tried to put a good face on it. “You’ve been up there three times already. You’re hogging the summit! Give somebody else a chance, will you?”

  “Go,” urged Pasang. “Climb summit. I make tea when you return Camp Four.”

  “You sure you’re okay?” asked Dominic.

  “Go now!”

  Dominic ducked out the flap and immediately ducked back in again. “It’s Cap!” he hissed. “The whole team!”

  Pasang had an idea. “There is” — he racked his brains for the words — “shortcut. Far west where Col curves down Lhotse Face. Much steep first, then simple walk to Balcony.”

  At 27,600 feet, the Balcony marked the start of the southeast ridge, the highway to the peak.

  “If we can beat them to the ridge, we won’t meet them again till we’re on the way down,” Dominic said excitedly.

  The traverse to Pasang’s shortcut was an easy ten-minute hike. There, at the northwest corner of the Col, Ethan and Dominic got their first glimpse of the Sherpa’s definition of much steep. The “route” took them straight up a sheer cliff. It was so punctuated with both solid ice and naked rock that crampons would be a necessity one minute and a hazard the next.

  “Pasang’s going to owe us one first-class cup of tea,” Ethan muttered.

  There were no fixed lines. The two boys roped themselves together in the traditional style.

  Their progress was exhausting and agonizingly slow. They inched up the wall, painstakingly placing CAM units and ice screws as they took turns belaying each other. An hour later, they had ascended a grand total of sixty feet.

  Perry should be here, Dominic reflected, releasing a spring-loaded CAM in a small crack in Everest’s hide. This is his kind of climbing. Dom-inic now respected the red-haired boy’s rope work one hundred percent.

  Ethan’s fatigue and frustration were beginning to boil over. “Shortcut? Nightmare would be more like it! By the time we hit the ridge, everybody and his grandmother will be in front of us!”

  Dominic could only shrug miserably as he struggled up the wall. A summit bid was a race against time. With every tick of the clock, the top of the world, in a sense, moved farther and farther away.

  * * *

  Only a quarter mile to the east, Sammi, Perry, Cicero, Dr. Oberman, and Babu were making much better time. They attacked the massive rock buttress of Everest’s summit pyramid through a shallow gully. The terrain was not overly difficult, but the route was unroped, and the ice was like shatterproof glass. All was well as long as their crampons bit. If not — Perry didn’t want to think about that.

  Not thinking turned out to be a fairly easy thing to do. This high up, brain function was so impaired that thoughts were awkward and sluggish — if Perry managed to think at all beyond his movements. There was a brutal, yet strangely comforting simplicity to a summit push. This was no place for philosophers. The meaning of life lay in placing one foot in front of the other.

  Fatigue came quickly. The South Col was barely out of the range of his helmet lamp, yet every few steps brought him to a standstill, leaning on his ax as he sucked breathlessly at his oxygen mask.

  Cicero’s reminders were gentle but firm. “You’ve got to climb faster, Perry. This expedition could put the younge
st climber ever on that summit. But we could also summit the oldest if you don’t hurry up.”

  Ten yards ahead, Sammi and Dr. Oberman were also flagging under the crushing effects of altitude. Her face contorted in a determined grimace, Sammi refused to rest, attacking the mountain with every cramponed step.

  Only Babu seemed immune to the impossibly thin air of the upper mountain. Doubly amazing was the fact that he climbed without oxygen.

  The guy’s not human, Perry thought to himself. He kept an eye on the altimeter on his watch: 26,800 … 27,000 … 27,200 … Every vertical foot put more of a spring in Babu’s step. They were almost at the Balcony. If this kept up, he’d be doing cartwheels on the summit!

  Perry was never sure exactly how it happened. It wasn’t a trip; not even a slip, really. But somehow, his crampons lost their purchase on the sheer ice.

  When he first went down, he wasn’t that scared yet. It felt like a routine skid, one of many on an icy climb. It was only when he became aware of the wind rushing past him, saw the blur of his surroundings flashing by in the gyrating glow of his helmet lamp, that panic set in.

  He thought he heard Cicero’s voice: “Perry!” But it might have been wishful thinking, his mind conjuring up the one person who could save him.

  In a desperate attempt to slow his acceleration, Perry dug his crampons into the rime. His downward momentum stopped abruptly, and his slide became a head-over-heels tumble. Jolted and dizzy, never knowing which way was up, he closed his eyes and waited for his life to end. Would it be the rocks of the Col that snuffed him out? Or worse, would he be pitched down the seven-thousand-foot Kangshung Face? Or the four-thousand-foot Lhotse Face?

  For God’s sake, what difference does it make?

  The jolts and bumps seemed to fade into a full-body numbness. All he knew was speed as gravity hurled him off this mountain he hated, and would now never escape.

  Suddenly, he was airborne, flung by a ramp of ice. Those few seconds aloft brought with them a soul-crushing horror. For there was no way of telling if he was a few feet off the frozen slopes, or a mile and a half above the Kangshung glacier.