Killer

“What we do is this: we make a small raft, perhaps of wood, and we pile it with dynamite, and we float it out to where they are, and then we shoot the dynamite . . .”

“But it must be almost a mile,” said Quick. “I’m not that good. Are you?”

“No . . . But Colin is. There are telescopic sights on the Weatherby, and it has the range.”

“He could never do it, man . . . his arm!”

“Actually,” said Ross. “I’m a better shot now than I ever was, under the right circumstances.” He gave a sheepish grin. “It takes out one of the variables, you see. It doesn’t shake, so it can make an absolutely rigid tripod for shooting from.”

“Can you do it, Colin?” asked Job.

“Well . . . There’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?”

In the event, they used a piece of ice as their raft, with a plank of wood wedged into it rather like a sail. Around the bottom of the plank they piled ten sticks of dynamite, four of which were attached to a length of fuse wound round and round the plank.

“That way, you see, I only have to hit the plank to set off the fuse,” explained Ross as he was working on it.

“Only!” said Preston, shaking his head.

Within half an hour it was ready. They lowered it carefully into the water and gave it a gentle shove, then stood mesmerised for nearly an hour as the gentle breeze took it and moved it slowly away.

Conversation began sporadically, rose in intensity, then dwindled away as the time passed. When Ross took the gun, there was silence.

The bundle, black against the water, was almost invisible to the naked eye, but it jumped into focus, surprisingly large, as Ross adjusted the telescopic sight. He was kneeling on his right knee, the elbow of his left arm firmly on the lower thigh of his left leg, the stock of the rifle sculptured on his cheek. The black sails passed restlessly between him and his target. He began to build up his concentration, cutting out everything in his immediate surroundings, focussing all of his mind on the bobbing target beyond the precise cross-hairs. He adjusted the sight, hearing the quiet click sound crisply on the air. He regulated his breathing, and held the cross of the hairs just a little above the top of the board when it was vertical. But, of course, it was vertical for only a very few seconds in every minute, for it swung from side to side like a metronome, moved by the waves.

Ross counted silently. “Over one two, Upright one two, Down one two, Upright one two . . .” At least it was regular; or it would be as long as the wind held. This time, then, before the wind could change. His gloved finger began to tighten on the trigger slowly, smoothly: Over one two, Upright one two, Down one two, Up . . .

He felt the fluke of the wind on his cheek, and saw the target hesitate; but it was too late. CRACK! The rifle jumped back against his shoulder. His snow-mask slipped down from his forehead and rested on the cold metal sight. His eye remained pressed against the rubber eyepiece, watching as the wood jumped just an inch or two left of centre, and the fuse exploded into action. Job’s hand came down on his shoulder and gripped. Preston breathed out loudly: “Hot damn!” Simon Quick nodded.

The fuse did not follow its spiral course as it burned. Once it had caught, all the carefully wrapped strands ignited together, and the top of the plank burst into flame. The single strand running down to the four sticks burned swiftly, which was as well, because as soon as the fuse began to burn, the black sails all vanished in golden swirls of water.

BOOM!

A great column of water and ice hurled into the sky as though there was some unimaginable cetecean blowing there. A cold, wet wind blew counter to the gentle breeze for a second, carrying with it the aftersounds of the explosion as the column began to tumble back into the water.

Kate came running over the rocking ice. “What was that?”

“Ross scaring off the whales,” said Preston with satisfaction. She stood, watching the distant column as the waves broke over the edge of the floe, sending shallow washes of icy water around their feet. Ross lofted the Weatherby with one hand to his shoulder again, and searched the gleaming water for the telltale fins.

Nothing.

“I think we may have managed it,” he said.

He turned, scanning to the south with the gun-sight. In the far distance the sun caught fine columns of water spray and vapour moving away.

“We’ve done it!” His voice was exultant. The others danced and capered and cheered. A distant voice demanded, “What’s all this then?” And Warren, fully dressed and as belligerent as ever, barrelled across the ice towards them, stopping only to slip an arm round Kate as she ran over to him.

“Well,” he said as they told him, “I think that calls for a little something. I for one am famished!” And so, lacking alcohol, they celebrated with ham, powdered eggs and beans. Preston saved his ham.

“Don’t you like the ham?” Kate asked him.