Chapter 33

Lion Head Trail is the preferred winter route up Mt. Washington, beginning and ending on the famous Tuckerman Ravine trail, trod by thousands of spring skiers climbing to try their skills on the Ravine’s famous Headwall, after commercial ski areas closed for the season. But avalanche danger was still high, and the three were alone as they made their way from the Appalachian Mountain Club lodge in Pinkham Notch. They moved along quickly, skis and packs on their backs, snowshoes on their feet, all in top physical condition, stopping only for a cold breakfast at the Harvard Hut shelter. And explanation. The pace of their climb had not encouraged conversation, but now...

“Okay, give.” Todd said it first. “Kurt’s got a rifle. Who or what are the `killers’ we`re looking for? Do you know, Kurt?”

“It has to do with The Nutcracker, doesn’t it?” The blackmail story had been out for 36 hours, and only a hibernating bear would have been unaware. The collective name given the extortionists was now common, and fit people’s’ feeling about what was happening to their lives.

“Yes, Kurt, it does. I couldn’t tell you sooner, but if we don’t find them before noon tomorrow it won’t make any difference to a lot of people.” And Hudson. She restrained the urge to get climbing again. Todd and Kurt had to know what they were looking for.

“The Nutcracker, here?” Todd was incredulous.

“Let me tell you why I think so.” She told them what the Governor had learned of the frozen pods, and rivers as their delivery vehicle. “There are troops spread out along all major New England rivers looking for dispensers. They don’t expect to catch someone dumping pods in a river; they feel there must be equipment on the banks ready to spew them out, pretty sophisticated devices, cause they’ve got to keep the pods frozen until they’re released. But even if it’s there, the chances of finding it in time are zero.”

“And you think they’re here?”

“Do you remember why the White Mountains were made a National Forest?”

“Sure, the Weeks Act,” said Todd. “Because they’re the headwaters of New England’s rivers...” His voice faded out. Then, “So we’re looking for high tech dispensers!”

“Not high tech. One of the oldest dispensers on earth.”

Kurt nodded slowly, “Snow.”

“That’s right. Melting snow. The germ is harmless as long as it’s frozen. The pods can be spread on the snow around the headwaters and float downstream when the snow melts.”

“Wouldn’t the pods melt at the same time the snow did and release the germ...here?” An uncomfortable thought.

“From what I’ve gathered, the temperature of the water has to be a little higher than the ice water you get from melting snow. I don’t suppose they know just how far downstream they’d get warm enough to melt.”

“Or care,” said Kurt.

“True. Another hundred thousand people more or less won’t make a difference.

“Maybe it wouldn’t melt at all, go all the way to the ocean. How do they know that won’t happen?”

“Because they tested it in the Saco.”

“The deaths we’ve had!” Todd whistled soundlessly.

“Amanda Russell,” said Kurt.

“The little girl who died. But she wasn’t near the river.”

“She spent her day eating snow, snow we’d just made from Saco River water.”

Todd had been staring out at the snow-covered mountain. “Maybe it’s already here.” He turned to Cilla. “Why couldn’t they have spread the pods weeks ago?”

“Suppose they were paid the six billion. Sure, there’d be a major effort to find them, but nothing compared to the pressure if a half million people died afterward.” A small unspoken doubt. Would there really be much difference in the pursuit? Unproductive thinking. “Maybe there’s some significance to the date, March seventeenth I don’t know. I just think they’ll wait until noon tomorrow to start spreading.”

“But they could be anywhere in the mountains,” said Kurt. “Why here?”

“For widest distribution from the smallest area. Look at the map.” She unfolded it and spread it out so all three could read. “Streams originating on Washington flow not only into the Saco and down through Maine, but the Pemigewasset which, see...” she traced it with her finger...“becomes the Merrimac down here through Concord and Manchester and on into Massachusetts.”

“And the Ammonoosuc,” exclaimed Todd.

“But it flows north, toward Canada,” said Kurt.

“It’s deceiving. Follow it further. It actually turns south and empties into the Connecticut, and that, of course, is the big one.”

Todd’s finger moved across the map. “Yeah! That hits both New Hampshire and Vermont, then the middle of Massachusetts and Connecticut. So right from here on Mt. Washington they can infect five states.”

“Several times,” said Kurt. “With three major rivers carrying presents.”

“So let’s get moving,” said Cilla, shouldering her pack.

“I’m having trouble visualizing how they’d spread it,” said Kurt as they started off.

“A back-carried sprayer like a flame thrower,” suggested Todd.

“Which would only carry a small quantity of the pods. I picture something like a lawn sprinkler,” said Cilla.

“With hose connected to what?”

“A pod tank.”

“Why not dump it from a plane?” said Kurt.

“Didn’t you hear?” put in Todd. “All private planes are grounded. The TV said they’d shoot down any unauthorized.”

The trail got steeper, exertion cutting off conversation. But Cilla couldn’t get rid of the feeling that something had been said that had more meaning for her than the actual words spoken. Something important.