Read Online Survivalist - 15 - Overlord by Jerry Ahern - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jerry Ahern
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their advance. The ice groaned around him, shifting, Rourke feeling it push against him. The crevasse was closing.
He had his shoulders to the level of both knives, holding on with his left hand to the larger handle of the Crain knife, shifting his right hand for a terrifying instant to get his forearm above the Russell knife. The little knife held. Rourke inhaled, shifting his grip on the Crain knife, his body thrusting upward, above the level of the knives. He
pushed himself upward, to maximum extension of his arms, nearly locking his elbows.
John Rourke closed his eyes for an instant, trying to ignore the groaning of the narrowing walls of ice in front and in back of him, then ripping the little Russell knife free of the ice with his right hand and, -as his left elbow locked, his grip started to go, stabbing the smaller knife into the ice above him, clinging there, taking some of the weight off his left hand and arm and shoulder.
John Rourke breathed. He could not see the opening in the ice above him, but he ignored the possibility that it had already closed and encased him here forever. But forever wouldn’t be very long. He would freeze to death quickly enough.
Already, his limbs were numbing from something else than pain.
But there was no time and each second he hung suspended here the ice would close that much more. He started pulling himself up on the little Sting IA Black Chrome, getting his left foot up, onto the hollow handle of the Crain Life Support System X. He stood, catching his breath, the knife not shifting beneath him.
To climb this way would be too time consuming, deadly. There was no way to gauge the exact distance remaining to the top, but he judged he had fallen some thirty feet, perhaps more than that. Rourke’s mind raced. The little Sting IA had a ring through its butt for attaching a lanyard. Rourke shifted slightly on his purchase, with his left hand grasping at the sling of the M-16. The sling was not made to be removed one handed. But he started working at it, prying, the sling of the clip type rather than one which threaded through the swivels and was bound by the buckle. He had one clip all but free — free now, the rifle starting to slip away. He caught the end of the sling in his teeth.
With his left hand, Rourke caught up the rifle and loosed the sling from his teeth. It was the waste of a perfecdy
serviceable M-16, but there was nothing else for it. He held the M-16 between his legs, working loose the other clip which was at the buttstock. He had it, as the rifle slipped away into the darkness of the abyss below, Rourke nearly losing his balance, catching himself. He reached up his left hand, snapping the sling into the hole at the base of the skeletonized handle of the Sting I A. Rourke breathed.
He was starting to grow numb all over from the cramped position, from the cold, from the —he had never seen any logic in self-deception — fear. Rourke started feeding the slack in the sling through the buckle to give himself as much length as possible with the sling.
If the sling held and if the short blade of the Sting IA bit deeply enough into the ice —Rourke was shivering. The darkness seemed to be increasing—was it the ice closing over him or simply a cloud passing in front of the three-quarter full moon?
He told himself the latter. Sometimes, self-deception was necessary, however illogical.
He worked the method through his mind several times.
Using the massive Crain Life Support System X, he would gouge into the ice surface while hanging by one hand from the sling attached to the little Sting IA, then get a foothold and raise himself up, then regrasp the sling and free the Crain knife, then repeat the process all over again. A third knife would have made it easier, pitons made it almost a practical means of traverse.
John Rourke reached to maximum extension, his booted feet balanced on the handle of the Crain knife, his right hand wrenching out the Sting IA, then his
He had his shoulders to the level of both knives, holding on with his left hand to the larger handle of the Crain knife, shifting his right hand for a terrifying instant to get his forearm above the Russell knife. The little knife held. Rourke inhaled, shifting his grip on the Crain knife, his body thrusting upward, above the level of the knives. He
pushed himself upward, to maximum extension of his arms, nearly locking his elbows.
John Rourke closed his eyes for an instant, trying to ignore the groaning of the narrowing walls of ice in front and in back of him, then ripping the little Russell knife free of the ice with his right hand and, -as his left elbow locked, his grip started to go, stabbing the smaller knife into the ice above him, clinging there, taking some of the weight off his left hand and arm and shoulder.
John Rourke breathed. He could not see the opening in the ice above him, but he ignored the possibility that it had already closed and encased him here forever. But forever wouldn’t be very long. He would freeze to death quickly enough.
Already, his limbs were numbing from something else than pain.
But there was no time and each second he hung suspended here the ice would close that much more. He started pulling himself up on the little Sting IA Black Chrome, getting his left foot up, onto the hollow handle of the Crain Life Support System X. He stood, catching his breath, the knife not shifting beneath him.
To climb this way would be too time consuming, deadly. There was no way to gauge the exact distance remaining to the top, but he judged he had fallen some thirty feet, perhaps more than that. Rourke’s mind raced. The little Sting IA had a ring through its butt for attaching a lanyard. Rourke shifted slightly on his purchase, with his left hand grasping at the sling of the M-16. The sling was not made to be removed one handed. But he started working at it, prying, the sling of the clip type rather than one which threaded through the swivels and was bound by the buckle. He had one clip all but free — free now, the rifle starting to slip away. He caught the end of the sling in his teeth.
With his left hand, Rourke caught up the rifle and loosed the sling from his teeth. It was the waste of a perfecdy
serviceable M-16, but there was nothing else for it. He held the M-16 between his legs, working loose the other clip which was at the buttstock. He had it, as the rifle slipped away into the darkness of the abyss below, Rourke nearly losing his balance, catching himself. He reached up his left hand, snapping the sling into the hole at the base of the skeletonized handle of the Sting I A. Rourke breathed.
He was starting to grow numb all over from the cramped position, from the cold, from the —he had never seen any logic in self-deception — fear. Rourke started feeding the slack in the sling through the buckle to give himself as much length as possible with the sling.
If the sling held and if the short blade of the Sting IA bit deeply enough into the ice —Rourke was shivering. The darkness seemed to be increasing—was it the ice closing over him or simply a cloud passing in front of the three-quarter full moon?
He told himself the latter. Sometimes, self-deception was necessary, however illogical.
He worked the method through his mind several times.
Using the massive Crain Life Support System X, he would gouge into the ice surface while hanging by one hand from the sling attached to the little Sting IA, then get a foothold and raise himself up, then regrasp the sling and free the Crain knife, then repeat the process all over again. A third knife would have made it easier, pitons made it almost a practical means of traverse.
John Rourke reached to maximum extension, his booted feet balanced on the handle of the Crain knife, his right hand wrenching out the Sting IA, then his
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