He had been lucky, in that the waist-thick fir had enough branches on it to break the main trunk's descent enough so it hadn't smashed him to a pulp. But the tree's bole had come to rest on the back of his left calf, and had pinned him to the ground face-down. He managed to clear away a few small branches on his back and thighs so he was able to struggle to a sitting position, his butt against the trunk. His left leg was pinned, his right leg free, but stuck more or less straight out in front of him.
Not the most comfortable position he'd ever been in. There was no pain in the caught leg. Was that good? Or bad?
He could still wiggle his left foot, feel his toes inside the insulated boot, so that was comforting. Might not even be broken, the tibia or fibula, but that didn't matter.
What mattered was that his virgil was safely locked to a nice D-ring on his pack, over there by his cook stove. It was only about ten feet away, but given the present circumstances it might as well be ten million miles. He wasn't going anywhere.
He had tried to lift the trunk, then to shove it off using his free leg, but that was not going to happen. He had about fifty feet of tree on him, and even positioned a lot better than he was, probably couldn't have moved it with his muscle power alone. Where it rested on his calf, the tree was about as thick as a telephone pole.
This was not a good situation.
He was in the middle of nowhere, staked to the snowy ground like a bug to a display board, his electronics out of reach. He was dressed for the weather, but come sundown it was going to get very cold, and sleeping face-down in the snow with the air temperature below zero was not generally a good idea.
Of course, if he went more than twenty-four hours without beeping in they'd call, and if he didn't answer they'd come and find the virgil and him with it, but by then he might already be a Howard-sicle. And they wouldn't come looking before noon tomorrow.
No, all in all he would have to say this was definitely not good.
He took a deep breath, blew it out, and watched the breath-fog hang in the air. It wasn't that warm. In fact, it seemed twenty degrees colder than it had when he'd got here a few minutes ago.
"Okay, John," he said. "Let's take stock here. What have you got in the way of good news?"
He had a lighter in his jacket shell. There were a lot of dead needles among the green, and a whole lot of branches, albeit somewhat cold and damp, but he was pretty sure he could make a fire. So he wouldn't freeze if he did it right. He might even be able to burn through the trunk. Break the weight enough to be able to shift the tree off his leg.
Or start a small forest fire in which he got cooked real good.
Hmm. Put that one on the backup list.
What else?
Well, he had his sheath knife. He reached back on his right hip, found the handle — there was a comfort — and pulled the knife from its scabbard.
The knife was a Cold Steel Tanto, so called for the angled, Japanese-sword-style point, and was eleven inches long, five of that the cutting edge. It was a full-tang, the blade was three-eighths-of-an-inch thick across the backstrap, and it wore an artificial rubber handle, crosshatched for a good grip, and was butted and guarded with brass fittings. A fine weapon, able to kill a man with one thrust from somebody who knew what he was doing, but it had not been designed for chopping away a tree bigger around than his thigh. Still, it was what he had, and he knew if he could twist himself around long enough, he could eventually cut through the wood. It might take a long time, but it wasn't as if he was going anywhere…
He felt better, knowing he had at least two options.
Well, okay, three — he could always cut his leg off from the knee down, right?
He smiled to himself.
"Okay, any other possibilities here, John? Maybe cut your jacket into strips, make a lariat, and try to lasso your pack? It's only about ten feet, you could probably manage it, and then you'd have your virgil back."
Yeah, and wouldn't that look great. Old Man Howard lets a tree fall on his stupid sorry ass, and has to call for help. Too bad he froze to death without a jacket before somebody could break a copter loose to go and get him…
Maybe not. Put that one right before setting the tree on fire.
He looked down at his pinned leg. Hold on a second. There was yet another option, the LAIC Maneuver.
LAIC–Look At It Crooked.
If you couldn't solve a problem going in through the front door, what about the back door? When you had an enemy too strong to attack head-on, flanking him would sometimes work.
Howard looked at his leg and grinned. The limb had pretty much squished the snow out of its way under the weight of the tree. He'd bet it was close to or on the ground below, but even frozen dirt wasn't as hard as wood, was it? Especially with that nice warm leg lying on it, thawing it out and all.
All he had to do was dig a hole under his shin, come in from the side, hollow enough out so the leg would drop. When the calf got below ground level, the tree would be resting on the edges of the hole, and all he'd have to do would be to pull the leg out, right?
Look at it crooked.
It made sense. It made a lot more sense than trying to play Paul Bunyan with a knife, or cooking himself into Howard the damned fool crispy critter, didn't it?
He laughed. "Dig, baby, dig. You do this right, nobody will ever have to know it happened."
He shifted his position a bit, and cleared away the snow down to the dirt next to his trapped leg. No blood. That was good.
The topsoil was mostly sand, and the rocky clay under it was frozen, but it took less than an hour to excavate himself. In the end, his bigger worry was that the pot he'd set to heating to make his lunch would burn up, the water having boiled away, but he managed to get to it and throw it into the snow to cool before that happened.
The ankle wasn't even sprained, the snow under the leg having cushioned things enough so his pants weren't even torn. His foot was sore, but not so much he couldn't walk on it, and Howard felt immensely pleased with himself as he ate his delayed lunch.
Okay, so he was older. He could could learn to fight smarter, not harder. Growing old might be hell, but hey, it still beat the only other option, didn't it?
Ah, John, you are quite the philosopher, aren't you?
That's me.
There was nothing like a victory to give you a sense of control. It might be an illusion, but it sure felt good in the moment. Yes, sir, it did.
Chapter Thirty-One
Somebody honked their car horn and laughed as they drove past, but Alex didn't care. The passion he'd thought frozen when he split from Megan was not dead, not even wounded. God, Toni felt so good. Her lips were warm, soft, her hands on his back pulled him closer, her breasts against his chest—
His virgil cheeped, and the incoming tone was the classical music sting he'd programmed from Les Preludes that indicated a Priority One call.
Damn!
He broke the kiss and leaned back. Fumbled with his virgil.
"Wow," Toni said. She was flushed and breathing heavy.
"Yeah. Hold that thought, okay?"
He tapped the speaker button on the virgil. "Michaels."
"Commander, Jay Gridley. Sorry to bother you, Boss, but, well, the shit has just hit the fan."
"What?"
"The Fried Sex guys just crashed the U.S. Internet Bank System. I hope you got some money in your pocket, ‘cause you ain't gonna be cashing your federal check today."
"Fuck!"
"Yes, sir, Boss, that is the key and operative word around here. The bank guys are foaming at the mouth, and the ripple effect is jamming through the net like a cattle stampede. Everybody and his kid sister have thrown up firewalls and lockouts, and the whole NorAm Net is one big crappy mess."