Falling Hard (Colorado High Country #3)(6)

Yeah. You couldn’t make this shit up.

Most people would have told Jesse he was insane, but Matt just nodded. “I have a few ideas. I’ll ask around.”

“Thanks, man. I really appreciate it.”

Other patrollers began to arrive—Travis, Ben, Christa, Kevin, Amanda, Doug, Steve. They shuffled in, poured themselves coffee, and gathered at the dispatch desk.

Matt glanced down at his clipboard, where he’d written the day’s schedule in chicken scratch, assigning each patroller to one or more trails. “We got almost thirty-six inches of new snowfall. We’ve had the snowcats running on the greens and blues. Christa and Travis, I’d like the two of you to hit Little Bear Mountain and mark any hazards.”

“Little Bear again?” Travis muttered.

Little Bear was home to most of the greens and blues—beginner and intermediate trails. Travis had a thing for the expert-only stuff, the black diamond and double-black diamond runs.

Matt ignored Travis. “Doug, you’ve got the blues on Bella Vista. Amanda, work with the grooming crew on the terrain park.”

The freestyle terrain park was the newest addition to the resort and featured jumps, rails, and a 20-foot-long half-pipe. It was a hit with snowboarders.

“Jesse, Ben, and Kevin, head up to Eagle Ridge, throw some bombs, and check out the double-blacks and the glades. We’ve got dry powder on top of hardpack, so the risk of avalanche is sky high. Roger is already up on the mountain, making sure all the patrol huts are shoveled and toasty warm for you. We’ve got miles of terrain to open and not a lot of time. Let’s get to it.”

Matt had trusted Jesse with explosives from the moment he’d joined ski patrol because of his military experience. Jesse had to admit that he much preferred blowing up snow to blowing up people.

Kevin walked over to him. “Get geared up and pack the fuses and charges. Try to steal a thermos of coffee if there’s any left. I’m going to get the sled.”

Ben stepped out of the kitchen, his gaze met Jesse’s. “What a dick. He always drives, and we always ride.”

“It’s called seniority.” Jesse couldn’t help but grin. “But, hey, we get to blow shit up and ski glades on a fresh powder day. I’m not complaining.”

Skiing through glades—stands of trees—was one of the most dangerous things a skier could do and Jesse’s new favorite winter pastime.

Ben acknowledged the truth of what Jesse had said with a nod and a greedy grin. “The stoke meter is on high today.”

Jesse grabbed a radio and hand mic out of the charger, then went to the locker room for his gear. He traded his blue parka for his red ski patrol parka with its yellow cross, then grabbed his skis, boots, and his helmet. Five minutes later, he and Ben were skiing to the locked facility where they kept the explosives. Kevin was already there, sitting pretty on the blue Sherpa, his skis in the rack. The snowmobile had been custom-built so that it could carry a team of four patrollers, together with gear, skis, and a patient on a litter.

“Did you bring coffee?” Kevin called out.

“There wasn’t any left,” Ben shouted.

“Fuck!”

Jesse stepped out of his skis and propped them against the building, then swiped his ID, opened the door, and flipped on the light. It took him and Ben all of five minutes to gather what they needed—a dozen charges, and double that number of fuses and pull-tab igniters. They packed the igniters and fuses separately from the charges and piled all of it onto the back of the Sherpa. Then they stowed their poles and skis in the rack and climbed aboard the snowmobile.

Jesse called up to Kevin. “We’re good to go.”

The Sherpa’s engine roared as they headed up the mountain.



*

Jesse watched while Kevin studied the terrain. The man was an expert at knowing when to call a slope safe. It was one of the most important jobs at the resort. If he fucked up, people could die.

Jesse was learning to read the landscape, but it would take years before he’d have anything approaching Kevin’s skill. Still, some things were obvious even to him. That big cornice hanging from the cliff at the top of the ridge would have to be blasted into oblivion. That would dump more snow onto the slope below, which would have to be bombed, too.

Yeah, they had their work cut out for them.

Kevin pointed. “Let’s take down that cornice. Two charges—one high, one low.”

The goal was to trigger a series of small avalanches so that the shifting layers of snow would be settled before skiers hit the slopes.

Jesse prepared the charges. Not much bigger than cans of soup, each held two pounds of pentolite—a chalky mix of trinitrotoluene, aka TNT, and pentaerythritol tetranitrate, or PETN. A single charge could easily blow the three of them to shit if mishandled.

Ben bent down to watch. “Did you work with pentolite as a Ranger?”

Jesse chuckled at the idea of Rangers throwing soup cans. “Uncle Sam had more powerful shit for us to play with.” He inserted the fuses, then attached the igniters. He held out one charge for Ben, kept the other for himself. “You ready?”

Ben nodded. “Let’s do this.”

They got into position, then synced their movements, igniting the fuses at the same time. They had 90 seconds to throw and take cover before the charges exploded.