Dr. Thomas Kingsley squinted a little as a dark blur washed across his line of vision. For three years, he had had to deal with these episodes and he didn’t think he’d ever get used to them. Struggling to sharpen his focus on the laptop’s glowing screen, his pulse rate heightened as he viewed the mountain in its entirety. Not too much geological information was available on his current fantasy as it was deemed too risky to survey. Even a peek into the classified NSA satellite interface feed didn’t bear too much in terms of what he was facing.

Having served in both Iraq and Afghanistan, he was finally glad to go home to Glendale, AZ for good this time. In his last deployment as Unit Commander, his convoy had been hit by an RPG while conducting a recognizance mission in Fallujah. He would lose three of his men in the blast and end up in shock suffering from extensive burns and trauma. A metal fragment from his Humvee’s mangled wreck had cozily embedded itself in his brain near his right optic nerve. No neurosurgeon would dare touch it.

As it turned out, going back home was the easy part. Completing the Med School program at the University Of Arizona top of his class, marrying his high school sweetheart and landing a successful career as Head of Residency at his Alma Mater, couldn’t put war behind him. He woke up on occasion in the middle of the night in a cold sweat and screaming. He had seen it all. Ills that he couldn’t shake or talk about. Ills that couldn’t be televised even by the most daring of film directors. It helped that Page, his wife, was a psych nurse in a facility all too familiar with his condition. On the most part, he had a good hold on these demons but would occasionally get overwhelmed. It was during these vulnerable times that he found it therapeutic to engage in daredevil antics that are dismissed as foolhardy by the average person.

It took a whole three months before his Nepalese contacts could find him a Sherpa equally insane and fit as him to embark on the mission ahead. He’d be the first person to scale Mt. Xhianug. At 27,500 feet, it was about 1500 feet lower than Everest’s highest peak, but its huddles were twice as odious. The Sherpa had offered he be called ‘Martin’ after his contorting facial muscles fatigued from Thomas’ butchering of his name. This unique tour hadn’t come cheap — $93k to be precise. Matthew never chatted much. All the same, he talked enough to show him around town before they made the trip to the village settlements on the foot of the ranges. By the time they got there, everyone had already got wind of the crazy American about to take a swipe at the only unventured peak around. At 6 ft 4, 240 lb of lean muscle, Thomas’ bore quite the imposing figure. The jeering and laughing would have to be made behind his back. A rough countenance and facial scars did a good job to hide the pain his eyes emanated.

As it were, two lonesome souls walked with measure towards the towering behemoth with everyone in the background standing in awe and chatting quietly…excitedly. It was almost a foreboding. The pair ignored their pessimistic spectators and kept up a steady pace hauling their giant backpacks and looking straight ahead. They trudged wearily through the unforgiving landscape towards the foot of the mountain. For the third time, Thomas noted Martin was growing apprehensive the closer they got. He opted not to address the observation. He’d advance with or without him..he was made for this. And anyway, it could be that he was misjudging and didn’t want to aggravate the only local willing to help him sate his unusual taste of adventure.

A full moon illuminated the mountain’s rocky face with an intensity almost as bright as day. It was around one in the morning and the elements were gradually starting to become adversarial. The Herculean ascent had now been going on for 7 hours. Up ahead, Kingsley noticed a change in the Sherpa’s pace again. There was an uncertainty to it and he kept glancing at a seemingly dark emptiness in the northeasterly direction. It reminded him of a wolf trying to steal a scent from the intermittent drafts wafting through a quiet arctic night laden with the scent of prey…or a mysterious predator. As if reading his mind, Martin turned around and looked at him uneasily.

“We’re being watched,” He announced in a flat tone. “Don’t…”

A salvo of suppressed automatic gunfire pierced the otherwise quiet night spitting up a baleful graph-like arc of snow a few inches from the guide. One moment the Sherpa stood frozen, too shocked to move. The next, a second hail of bullets completely missed the snowy ground and found their mark in his torso sending him to his knees and clutching his chest.