The Eye of Moses - Vatican Knights Series 22 (2020), Rick Jones [learn to read books txt] 📗

him over the lip mic. And then he was able to clamber back onto the wall to resume the climb.

“Are you sure?” Mr. Donatello asked him.

“Yeah. I’m fine. Maybe a bruised ego, but that’s about it.”

Nodding, Mr. Donatello continued the climb.

“Team One, come in.” It was Mr. Spartan.

“Yeah, everything’s all right, Chief,” Mr. Michelangelo confirmed. “No damage done. Moving onward and upward.”

“Copy that.”

Soon, Mr. Michelangelo caught up with Mr. Donatello, the two side by side as they maneuvered toward the mountain’s crest. The winds continued to pound them, to challenge them, but the pitons held tough.

Below them was nothing but absolute darkness, even with the NVG headgear. Mr. Spartan and company were hundreds of feet beneath them, too far and out of NVG range. So, they pressed themselves even as their fingers were beginning to numb, and eventually found themselves struggling to pull the triggers to the piton guns.

. . . Phooom . . .

Another piton was embedded into the wall.

The climb continued.

The wind continued to buffet and rock them along the face.

Then they came to ice sheets, which they scaled with the aid of their crampons.

Foot after foot they continued to climb until they could see the peak of the mountain, their systems bursting with a newfound adrenaline rush that prompted them to push through the cold, through the elements, which were beginning to take their toll.

The winds became stronger and more aggressive, the continuous pushing and pounding slowing progress, but not forbidding it.

As soon as they reached topside, both men hoisted themselves over the ridge and laid upon a blanket of snow while looking skyward, and then placed their quasi-gloved hands under their armpits to warm them.

Then from Mr. Donatello, he said into his lip mic, “Team Two . . . touchdown.”

“Send down the lines,” was all Mr. Spartan said.

“Copy that.” Then he turned to face Mr. Michelangelo, who lay there with wispy commas of vapored breath leaving his mouth upon every exhale. “You heard the man. Drop the line.”

Mr. Michelangelo, exhausted, nodded and removed his rucksack. Inside was 1,200-feet of titanium cord, the wire strong enough to hold and lift 1,500 pounds. Attaching a nine-inch spike into the piton gun, Mr. Michelangelo pressed the point to the surface, put a little weight against the downward press, and pulled the trigger. The gas cartridge did its job by pushing the stake four inches into the stone surface. After testing the stake and making sure it was secured, he attached the line and tossed it over the edge, the line unspooling itself as it fell to the valley floor. Then, as he fell back, he said, “Your turn.”

Mr. Donatello continued to stare at the pinpricks of light overhead, then said, “I’m too damn cold.” But the complaint was short-lived as he rolled over, grabbed his rucksack, secured a stake, and released the line.

Stage one was completed.

And stage two was about to commence.

* * *

The lines had landed at the mountain’s base.

“All right,” Mr. Spartan stated. “Kimball, you’re first. Attach your ascender. Toggle the switch. And off you go.”

“It’s that simple, is it?” He slung his weapon over his shoulder.

“That’s all there is to it.”

Hayden looked at the wire, which was as thin as a high-grade fishing line, and said, “You’re kidding, right?”

“It’s titanium,” Mr. Spartan said to Hayden, as if it was a guaranteed to hold. “The hardest metal there is. That line that you have in your hand can hold fifteen-hundred pounds when stressed. A ton when it’s not. It’s been proven safe time and again.”

Hayden tugged at the line before he grabbed it and pulled himself up. Then he remained suspended for some time to test the line against his weight, which held true. Letting go, he nodded. Hayden was assured.

After threading the line through the pulleys of the ascender and securing it, he then gave a thumbs up to Mr. Spartan. “I’m good.”

“Then we’ll see you topside,” said Mr. Spartan, who reached over and toggled Hayden’s ascender switch. “Au revoir.”

The pulleys and gears started to whine, caught, and began to pull Kimball Hayden upward along the line. The climb was at a constant rate of twenty feet per minute. Within the hour he’d be topside along with Misters Donatello and Michelangelo. But with every foot gained the winds picked up, pushing, and tossing him about as if he was a rag doll.

Hayden reached out with his fingerless gloves to steady himself against the wall. Though he was used to the brutal chill of buffeting winds, it still affected him. His fingers were growing numb, which caused him to blow hot breath to warm them along the ascent. And when he reached topside an hour later, he was never so happy to see the faces of Misters Donatello and Michelangelo.

After he’d been disengaged from the line, word had been sent down to Mr. Spartan and the rest of the unit to ascend, along with the duffel bags and gear.

Within two hours the entire team had been assembled along the precipice that overlooked the south face of the mountain stronghold. The lines and ascenders had been left behind along with the piton guns—their valued use now obsolete.

After removing their crampons from their boots, the team reexamined their weapons, their ammo, the Semtex charges and detonators, then made their way along an icy incline toward the mountain fortress.

The path was slick, but the boots gripped the ice. And for all the marching, the facility was still not in sight, even after a few minutes had passed.

They continued to press on against a clime that was brutally cold and unforgiving, without a man wagering a single complaint.

Above them, through their NVG goggles, countless pinpricks of light twinkled as the constellations looked down on them, guided them. And as they crested a final rise, they saw the glorious sight of the mountainside fortress.

It was a construction of concrete, steel, and glass—a futuristic style of development.

On the rooftop were two soldiers who appeared to be manning a gun turret with