Black Ice by Matt Dickinson Page B

mountainous landscape through which they were travelling.
    Crossing the range was largely a matter of following the natural weaknesses in the terrain, the rising valleys and cwms which glaciers had eaten into the mountains over millennia of passage.
    With every thousand feet of height gained, they lost another degree or two of temperature. Soon, Sean was shivering inside his many layers of protective clothing, his fingers beginning to freeze even though the gauge in front of him indicated the heated grips were still working. On the insides of his thighs Sean could feel sores starting to spread, the chafing from the snowcat seat eroding his flesh in the same way that a horse saddle will do after a long day’s ride.
    He put the discomfort to the back of his mind, knowing that only by the highest level of concentration would they beat a trail through these mountains without an accident. In front of him, Lauren was driving with considerable skill, rising from the seat to throw her centre of gravity forward on the steepest parts of the ascent and never failing to take the best line through the many dangerous icefalls which littered the route.
    They continued to climb, five miles’ progress taking them almost to the heart of the range, but eight miles into the traverse they found themselves out of safe options, creeping tentatively round the flank of one of the highest peaks and wondering if they could take the risk to continue.
    â€˜If we can crack this one, there’s nothing between us and the saddle.’ Lauren pointed out the straightforward trail which lay enticingly on the other side of the lethal slope. ‘Think we can do it?’
    â€˜I don’t see any other way,’ Sean confirmed. ‘Either we try this or we go back.’
    There was one truly heart-stopping section: a polished face as smooth as glass, on which they were forced to traverse. The incline was working against them, tipping the snowcats—and the sledges—out to the point where it seemed likely they would roll. Beneath the slope, revealed from time to time when the clouds allowed, was a three- or four-hundred-metre fall to a plateau littered with sharp rocks.
    They inched across, their hearts in their mouths, ready to leap off the seats in an attempt to save themselves if the worst happened. Both were painfully aware that if one of the sledges lost its grip and began to slide sideways there would be little they could do to recover the situation.
    The runners held. They reached the better gradient of the far side and stopped to celebrate with a shared bar of chocolate.
    Lauren showed Sean the altimeter. ‘We’re very nearly at the high point.’
    They kicked into gear and powered onward, choosing a direct line up the final obstacle, a forty-degree ice wall which they took at speed before gunning the engines for the last steep burst up onto the saddle, which was the only realistic crossing point of the range.
    This place was more exposed than the lee slope they had been climbing, the wind howling across the col so strongly that they had to crouch in the shadow of their snowcats as they considered the view. It was a dramatic vision, banks of rushing cloud scudding across the horizon as the black heart of the storm front continued on its path. Here and there they could see individual snow clouds bursting out from the mass, while beneath the cloud they could see small patches of the glacier which they were now to cross.
    â€˜The Blackmore. Biggest glacier on earth,’ Lauren told him. ‘You could fit France and Germany into the space this thing occupies.’
    â€˜How far do you reckon we can see?’ Sean tried to fix his eyes on the horizon.
    Lauren shrugged. ‘Five hundred miles at least.’
    â€˜Awesome. And no sign of man.’
    â€˜Not that you can see.’
    â€˜How do you mean?’
    â€˜The air.’ Lauren gestured into space. ‘It’s polluted even here.’
    Sean