The Snow Tiger / Night of Error Read online

  Miss Frobisher was of no use at all. She was curled into a foetal ball and whimpered from time to time. Turi ignored her and directed his attention to the children.

  McLean looked down at the spanner in his hand and frowned. Slowly his mind began to work. Why am I holding this spanner? he asked himself, and the answer came creaking into his mind. The generator!

  He moved stiffly towards the door and opened it. A light breeze came into the room, whirling up the powdered snow on the floor. He stepped outside and looked towards the rock of Kamakamaru and crinkled his eyes in disbelief. The generator stood where he had left it, even though it had not been bolted down. Thank God! he thought. What’s good for rabbits is good for generators.

  But the portable air compressor he had used to drive the drill had vanished, and he remembered it had stood on the place on the rock where he had first proposed to put the generator. He walked forward past a tree which had been sheared at a height of ten feet. He stopped and grunted in his throat as he saw the drill. The air hose which had connected it to the compressor had snapped and now swayed in the breeze; the drill itself was driven deep into the trunk of the tree as though it had been flung like a giant dart.

  When Ballard and his team arrived at the house he was thankful to hear the voices and even laughter. Children are resilient, and, once the shock had worn off, they became excited, even over-excited. He went inside and saw Turi sitting in a big armchair surrounded by a flock of children and looking somewhat like a biblical patriarch. ‘Thank God!’ he said. ‘Are you all right, Turi?’

  ‘We’re all fine.’ Turi nodded across the room to where Ruihi was supporting Miss Frobisher and administering tea. ‘She was shaken up a bit.’

  From behind the house came a whine which settled into a steady throb. Startled, Ballard said, ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I think Jock McLean will be testing the generator.’ Turi stood up. ‘Would you like some tea?’ he asked, as politely as though they were ordinary guests visiting his home.

  Ballard nodded dumbly. Turi sent one of the older children into the kitchen with instructions to bring back tea and sandwiches. Then he said, ‘What happened to the town?’

  ‘Turi, there is no town.’

  ‘Gone?’

  ‘I saw nothing standing except the church.’

  ‘And the people?’

  Ballard shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Mike is there now.’

  ‘I will come to help search,’ said Turi. ‘After you have refreshed yourselves.’

  Presently the tea and sandwiches arrived and Ballard ate as hungrily as though he had not eaten for a week. The hot tea was welcome, too, especially as Turi had laced it liberally with brandy.

  When he had finished he idly picked up the telephone and held it to his ear. All he got was silence. As he cradled it he said, ‘Communications – that’s what we’re going to need. There was some food supposed to come here, Turi.’

  ‘It came. We have plenty of food.’

  ‘We’ll take some back to town. It will be a load to carry but we’ll have to manage.’

  Ruihi said, ‘The car’s in the garage, isn’t it?’

  Ballard sat upright. ‘You have a car?’

  ‘It’s not much of a car,’ said Turi. ‘But it goes.’

  Ballard thought of the soft snow which covered Hukahoronui and thought that perhaps the car was not such a good idea after all; but he went out to have a look at it. It proved to be an elderly Australian Holden station-wagon and he ignored it because the Massey-Ferguson tractor standing next to it looked to be worth its weight in diamond-studded platinum. Fifteen minutes later it was loaded with canned goods and on its way to town, towing an improvised sledge.

  When Ballard arrived at the church he found more people than he had expected, with McGill at an improvised desk by the altar, the centre of a growing organization. In one corner Scott was very busy, aided by three women. Most of his patients had broken bones and two men were breaking up a pew to make splints. Ballard saw that Eric Peterson was in line for attention, so he strode over to him. ‘Is Liz all right?’

  Eric’s face was white and drawn. ‘I don’t know. She and that American girl were at Rawson’s shop, I think, when we were hit.’ His eyes were bleak. ‘The shop’s gone – not there at all.’ There was hysteria in his voice.

  ‘You have your arm fixed,’ said Ballard. ‘I’ll check.’

  He went over to McGill. ‘Turi’s place is okay,’ he said. ‘Everyone is fine there. They’ve got a generator working and I have a load of food outside – with a tractor. You’d better take charge of that.’

  McGill gave a long sigh. ‘Thank God the kids are safe.’ He nodded. ‘Good work, Ian. That tractor will be useful.’ Ballard turned away and McGill said, ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To look for Liz and Stacey. They were in the chemist’s shop.’

  ‘You’ll do nothing of the kind,’ snapped McGill. ‘I don’t want any half-assed rescue attempts.’

  ‘But – ’

  ‘But nothing. If you go tramping out there you’ll ruin the scent for a dog, and a dog can do better work than a hundred men. That’s why everybody is being kept in this church – for a time, at least. If you have information about where people were when we were hit, take it to Arthur Pye over there. He’s our Bureau of Missing Persons.’

  Ballard was about to reply hotly but someone pushed past him and he recognized Dickinson who worked at the mine. Dickinson said quickly, ‘I’ve just come from Houghton’s house and it’s like a bloody butcher’s shop up there. I think some of the people are still alive, though. I reckon we need Dr Scott.’

  McGill raised his voice. ‘Dr Scott, will you come here?

  Scott finished knotting an improvised bandage and walked across. McGill said to Dickinson, ‘Carry on.’

  ‘The house looks as though it blew apart,’ said Dickinson. ‘I found Jack Baxter and Matt Houghton outside the house. Jack’s as chirpy as a cricket, but his leg’s broken. There’s something funny about Matt; he can hardly speak and he’s paralysed all down one side.’

  ‘Could be a stroke,’ said Scott.

  ‘I put them both in a car and brought them down as far as I could. I didn’t dare cross the river on that soft snow so I left them on the other side.’

  ‘And the house?’

  ‘Oh, it’s bloody awful in there. I didn’t stop to count the bodies but there seemed to be hundreds. Some of them are still alive, I do know that.’

  ‘What sort of injuries?’ asked Scott. ‘I’ll need to know what to take.’

  McGill grinned mirthlessly. ‘You’ve not got much. Better take the lot.’

  ‘Turi brought a first-aid kit from the house,’ said Ballard.

  Scott said, ‘That I can use.’

  They had not been conscious of the distant vibration in the air but now it burst upon them with a bellow. Ballard jerked and ducked his head, thinking it was another avalanche about to hit them but McGill looked up at the roof. ‘A plane – and a goddamn big one!’

  He got to his feet and ran to the church door, followed by the others. The aircraft had gone down the valley and was now banking and turning to come back. As it came closer they saw it was a big transport marked with United States Navy insignia.

  A ragged cheer broke out and there was a beatific smile on McGill’s face. ‘A Navy Hercules from Harewood,’ he said. ‘The Marines have arrived in the nick of time.’

  The Hercules finished its turn and steadied at a lower altitude, flying straight down the valley. From its stern black specks dropped and then the parachutes opened and blossomed like multi-coloured flowers. McGill counted: ‘…seven … eight…nine … ten. And those are just the experts we need.’

  THE HEARING

  EIGHTH DAY

  TWENTY-FIVE

  John Reed, Secretary to the Commission, poised his pen expectantly. ‘Your full name, please?’

  ‘Jesse Willard Rusch.’ The tall, squarely-built man with the decidedly unfa
shionable crewcut had a strong American accent.

  ‘And your occupation, Mr Rusch?’

  ‘By rank I am a Lieutenant-Commander in the United States Navy. By occupation I am, at present, Supply Officer to Antarctic Development Squadron Six. It’s the outfit that does all the flying in the Antarctic in support of our Operation Deep Freeze.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Reed.

  Harrison regarded the American with interest. ‘I understand that you were the first man trained in snow rescue to arrive in Hukahoronui after the avalanche.’

  ‘I understand that, too, sir. But there were five of us. My feet happened to hit the ground first.’

  ‘But you were the leader.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Can you tell us the chain of circumstances which took you there?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I understand that your Civil Defence people put in a request to Commander Lindsey, the officer commanding our Advanced Base here in Christchurch. Because the request concerned snow rescue and because I am Supply Officer to VXE-6 – that’s the squadron – he dumped the job in my lap.’

  Harrison stared at the ceiling and the notion crossed his mind that Americans were strange people. ‘I don’t quite see the connection,’ he said. ‘What has snow rescue to do with you being Supply Officer? I take it that a Supply Officer is of the nature of a quartermaster.’

  ‘Sort of,’ said Rusch. ‘I’ll have to explain. There’s always a lot to do in the Antarctic; there are usually more jobs than bodies, so it becomes normal for a man to wear two hats, as it were. It has become a tradition, a much prized tradition, that the Supply Officer of VXE-6 doubles up on rescue and is automatically in command of any rescue operations in the field, particularly those involving air transport.’

  ‘I see. That explains it, then.’

  ‘I ought to say that we are all trained parachutists. We do our parachute training at Lakehurst, New Jersey, and our field rescue training in the region of Mount Erebus in the Antarctic. Our training there is done with experienced instructors drawn from the Federated Mountain Clubs of New Zealand.’ Rusch paused. ‘So when a New Zealander makes a request we jump to it fast.’

  ‘You have made yourself very clear.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. At the time of the request, which was in mid-winter, the staff of our Advanced Headquarters here was run down. Flights to the ice – to the Antarctic – are not routine at that time of the year and any flights are for emergencies, or perhaps experimental reasons. We normally have twelve men tapped for rescue – all volunteers, I might add – but at that time only myself and four others were available.’

  Harrison made a note. ‘Have you ever run short of volunteers?’

  Rusch shook his head. ‘Not to my knowledge, sir.’

  ‘Interesting. Please proceed.’

  ‘We were briefed, together with the aircrew, and the aircraft was loaded with our equipment which is prepacked ready for instant use. The standard operating procedure is that a team of four men jump with one packed sled. However, in view of the briefing and the possible conditions at our destination I loaded extra sleds. We jumped with five men and five sleds and landed in Hukahoronui at 12.56 hours. To the best of my knowledge that was fifty-five minutes after the disaster.’ Rusch smiled. ‘Imagine my feelings when the first man to greet me turned out to be someone I already knew from the Antarctic – Dr McGill.’

  Rusch smothered his parachute and snapped the quick release button. He pushed back his face mask and checked the others as they came down, then turned to meet the group of men who were stumbling towards him across the snow. Arms akimbo, he stared incredulously at the man in the lead. ‘Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch!’ he said. As McGill approached Rusch stepped forward. ‘Dr McGill, I presume.’

  ‘Good morning, Lieutenant-Commander.’ McGill rubbed his eyes tiredly. ‘Or is it afternoon?’

  ‘It’s afternoon, and it doesn’t look too good to me. Where’s the town?’

  ‘You’re looking at it.’

  Rusch looked about him and whistled softly. ‘You’ve cut yourself a slice of trouble, Mike. Are you in charge here?’

  ‘I guess I am.’

  ‘No!’ Ballard came forward, his hand gripping Eric Peterson’s good arm. ‘This is Eric Peterson, a town councillor – the only one around. He represents the civil authority.’

  Rusch gave McGill a quizzical glance, then shook Peterson’s left hand a little awkwardly. ‘We could have met in better circumstances, Mr Peterson.’

  Peterson was taken wrong-footed. ‘Me!’ he said to Ballard. ‘What about Matt Houghton?’

  ‘He seems to have had a stroke.’

  Peterson’s face worked. ‘Well, now,’ he said indistinctly, and indicated his right arm. ‘I can’t fly fast on a broken wing. You’d better be co-opted, Ian. You and McGill.’

  ‘Right!’ Ballard turned to Rusch. ‘We need medical supplies.’

  ‘Those we’ve got.’ Rusch swung around and yelled, ‘Hey, Chief, I want the medical sled – on the double.’

  Ballard said, ‘Dr Scott, you take charge of that, and make all necessary arrangements. What about communications, Lieutenant … er …?’

  ‘Rusch. Lieutenant-Commander Rusch. We have five walkie-talkies, so we can set up a network. There’s a bigger transmitter in one of the sleds for outside communication. We ought to be able to raise Chi-Chi … Christchurch, that is.’

  ‘That had better go to the church,’ Ballard decided. ‘That’s our headquarters. I’d like to talk to somebody at Civil Defence as soon as possible.’ He paused. ‘By the way, I’m Ian Ballard. Let’s get busy.’

  On the way back to the church McGill fell in step with Ballard. ‘What did Turi feed you on at the house? Raw meat?’

  ‘Someone must take charge of administration and it’s not going to be you. You know about snow rescue, so get to it. But before you go let me have a list of what you need so I can make sense when I talk to Christchurch.’

  ‘Okay.’ They walked a few more paces, and McGill said, ‘What was the idea of pushing Peterson forward like that? He’s as much use as a fifth wheel.’

  ‘Strategy. He abdicated – didn’t you hear him? I knew it would happen. Look, Mike: I’m a trained administrator and I’d be wasted doing anything else. You’re a snowman and you’d be wasted doing anything else. Let’s get our priorities right.’

  ‘Makes sense.’ McGill grinned. ‘And legal, too. We’re now town councillors, you and me both.’

  They went into the church, Rusch stopped just inside and frowned as he surveyed the scene. ‘Worse than a war.’

  The pews were full of white-faced, lethargic men and women with lustreless eyes. They sat or lay in abandoned attitudes, still and silent, gazing back in horror at the closeness of death. Only a few of them moved and, of those, only a scant half-dozen were attempting to help the others.

  McGill said, ‘You’re not going to get much help from this lot. They’ve been hit badly by disaster shock.’

  ‘Blankets,’ said Ballard. ‘We’ll need blankets. Come up to the office.’ He led the way to the desk that McGill had set up, and sat behind it. ‘Right, Mike. What else do we need?’

  ‘Trained rescue men – in quantity. They can come in by helicopter and light planes equipped with skis. And they can get these people out on the return trip.’

  ‘We’ve got some helos at Harewood,’ said Rusch. ‘We’ve been stripping down for winter maintenance but I know that four are serviceable.’

  ‘We need rescue dogs, too,’ said McGill.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Rusch. ‘There are none in the country as far as I know. I could be wrong, though. Try Mount Cook and Coronet Peak.’

  Ballard nodded. Those were popular skiing and climbing areas. ‘There should be trained men there, too.’

  Rusch said, ‘Your doctor has gone to a house the other side of the valley. One of my guys has gone with him. I’ll leave another here to help with the radio, and then he can help with the injured
here. We’re not exactly medicos but we can set bones. The rest of us will take a general look at the situation and set out a plan.’

  Ballard raised his voice. ‘Arthur, come here for a minute.’

  Arthur Pye, who was trying to question one of the survivors and not getting very far, straightened up and walked to the desk. His face was haggard and his movements stiff, but there was that spark of intelligence and comprehension in his eyes which was missing from most of the others.

  Ballard said, ‘What’s the score, Arthur? How many missing?’

  ‘God, I don’t know.’ Pye wiped his face with a big hand. ‘How could anyone know?’

  ‘Then make a guess. I have to tell Christchurch something.’

  ‘It’s bloody hard getting anything out of anybody.’ Pye hesitated. ‘All right – say three hundred and fifty.’

  Rusch stiffened. ‘That many!’

  Pye waved his hand. ‘You’ve seen the town – or what’s left of it. They’re still drifting in, one or two at a time. I reckon the final tally will be very much less.’

  McGill said, ‘The ones who are coming in now are the lucky ones. There’ll be others who are buried.’

  ‘Come on, Mike,’ said Rusch. ‘Let’s start looking. Our radio man is fixing up the transmitter, Mr Ballard. If you want to contact me use his walkie-talkie.’

  Rusch and McGill left the church and Ballard looked up at Pye. ‘Are you sure about the number?’

  ‘Of course I’m not sure,’ said Pye wearily. ‘But it’s about that. I think John Peterson bought it. Mary Rees says she saw him run out into the street just before the avalanche hit.’

  One of the Americans walked up the central aisle unreeling wire from a drum. He stopped in front of the desk and said, ‘CPO Laird, sir. I’ve got the radio set up outside; it’s better there because of the antenna. But I have a portable handset you can use here. It’s two-way – you use it like an ordinary telephone.’ He put the handset on the desk and plugged it in.

  Ballard looked down at the telephone. ‘Who will I be talking to?’

  ‘Communications centre, Operation Deep Freeze. I’ve just been talking to them.’