SCENARIO

FOR AT LEAST THE TENTH TIME THAT DAY, Kurt was vanishing out of sight. “For Chrissake, Kurt, slow down!” Joey shouted.

Ahead of him on the narrow track, Kurt paused in his stride. He turned up, lip curled in an expression of contempt. “Can’t hack it, Joey? You go back if you want. I’m heading for the summit.”

“I don’t want to turn back. I just gotta…get my breath.” Joey felt suddenly dizzy. He sank to his knees. Kurt looked on, making no attempt to help.

“Great adventurer,” he said, making it sound like an obscenity. “I always knew you were a loser, Joey. Can’t even make it up Kilimanjaro. It’s barely six thousand metres. Nothing to an experienced mountaineer.”

Like you, I suppose, Joey thought sardonically, but he didn’t have the strength to argue. He had quickly realised that Kurt had never climbed a mountain in his life. He had approached this whole project like a Sunday afternoon stroll. Yet, so far, anyway, he seemed immune to the altitude sickness that befell almost anyone who tried to climb too quickly. Feeling sick, Joey groped in his jacket pocket for his Diamox tablets.

Kurt reached into his pocket as well. He took out a cigarette. “I’ll smoke this, Joey boy, then I’m going on. You can come with me, or you can head back. It’s your choice.”

It had all been very different two days ago when they had arrived in Tanzania. Although hot and tired from their long journey, they had both been full of excitement at the prospect of the adventure ahead. They spent their first night at the Hotel Marangu, a faded but still-elegant establishment which was presided over by two matronly Englishwomen. Over a meal of ‘Chicken Marangu’, they planned their assault on the mountain.

“Of course, most first-timers take the tourist trail,” Joey pondered. “But that’s the least scenic route…”

“Tourist trail?” Kurt slammed his glass down on the table, spilling his Pilsner beer. “Don’t make me laugh, Joey. We’re adventurers, for God’s sake, not tourists! We take the toughest route available.”

They settled on the Machame Trail. It wasn’t actually the toughest, but privately Joey figured it would be more than challenging. The hotel owners arranged climbing permits and the hire of a jeep. They also provided trail maps, and recommended the services of two local porters. Kurt wasn’t having that, though.

“Porters are for train stations,” he said. The older woman peered at him over her lorgnette. She pursed her lips, but said nothing.

Once the necessary arrangements had been made, they journeyed by jeep to the base of Africa’s highest mountain. The road wound through coffee fields and small forests of ferns and flowers. The heat was stifling, and Joey was glad when they reached their destination and could at last get out of the vehicle. They parked beside two other off-roaders and strapped on their rucksacks. Then, watched by a chattering tribe of tree monkeys, they began the hot and dusty five-hour trek through the forest to Machame Hut, where they had arranged to spend the night.

The next day the climb began in earnest. Leaving the hut early in order to make good progress before the sun grew too strong, they crossed a small valley, covered with exotic spring flowers. Then the landscape changed from forest to scrubland, littered with wild cactus plants. They crossed a river gorge and arrived, according to the map, at the Shira Plateau. The heat was intense, and on top of it Joey had a splitting headache. He knew it to be the first symptom of altitude sickness. More symptoms had swiftly followed.

Kurt finished his cigarette and ground it under his heel. He stared at Joey. “Well?”

Joey climbed to his feet. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He still felt lousy, but his head had cleared. The Diamox had done its work…this time, anyway. “I’m all right,” he said. “Let’s take it steady, shall we?”

They climbed on, up the track that led to the summit. Joey still felt pretty wasted, but thought he might just manage this last stretch, as long as they could descend straight afterwards. Kurt stopped suddenly. “Look,” he said.

Joey followed his pointing arm. Some way below, two other climbers were making their way down the mountain on another trail. One looked up and waved. At this distance, it was hard to tell whether it was a man or a woman. Joey watched till they disappeared behind some rocks.

“Looks like they made it,” Joey said. “That’ll be us in a few…” He stopped, staring at his partner.

Kurt was panting heavily. His face was covered in beads of sweat. “What are you looking at?” he snarled. He turned and took a few steps, then stumbled and fell. His rucksack flew open, scattering clothing and utensils. Joey rushed over to him.

Kurt lay on his back, mouth open. “My chest!” He gasped like a fish out of water. “Oh God, Joey, it feels like it’s being crushed.”

Joey didn’t like this at all. This was more than plain altitude sickness. He tried to remember what the book had said about High Altitude Pulmonary Oedema. He was positive the crushed chest sensation was a sign. Fluid was building up in Kurt’s lungs. Unless he got back to lower altitudes quickly, death would most certainly follow. They had to return to the hut where they had stayed last night. But there was no way that Joey could, in his present state, get Kurt back there on his own.

“I’ll get help,” he said. Kurt, still gasping, didn’t reply. Joey went back to the place where they had watched the other climbers descending; however, by now, there was no sign of them. He walked on a little way, shouting, but there was no reply. He hurried back to check on Kurt who was, by now, unconscious. His own heart pounding, Joey felt Kurt’s wrist. There was still a faint pulse.

There was no alternative. Quickly, Joey located and launched their emergency flare. There was a loud report as it erupted in a ball of magnesium light that momentarily rivalled the African sun.

Although others saw the emergency signal, they were unable to help and within two minutes of launching the flare, both Kurt and Joey were dead. Why?

– Detection level of difficulty: 9