The Devil's breath

23

The wind, roaring its urgency, caught the mouth of the hangar, surged inside, then, beaten by the voluminous space, subsided into a whisper.

Out of the brewing storm two 4?4 pickups pulled in. The men, covered in dust, lowered a body to the floor. It was the unconscious!Koga. A line of dried blood was traced across the back of his head-the injury from the blow Max had witnessed on the television screen when they hunted the Bushman boy down. Blood leaked from his right ear.

Shaka Chang nodded to one of the men nearby, who whistled the hunters to bring the boy’s body closer.

Tom Gordon put a restraining hand on his son’s arm. Uncontrollable anger was a weapon that could work against you.

!Koga’s body lay on the polished concrete floor, like a corpse on a mortuary slab. The hunters backed away respectfully as Shaka Chang nudged the boy’s body with his foot. “Doctor!” he snapped.

Zhernastyn, who, like Mr. Slye, had tried to keep out of Shaka Chang’s line of vision, gasped and made an unconscious gesture of easing his collar’s tightness.

“Is he dead?” Chang asked.

Dr. Zhernastyn knelt down and examined!Koga.

“He’s alive, Mr. Chang, but I would say his skull has been fractured. I don’t think he’ll live without hospitalization.”

Max could hardly bear it. His friend’s crumpled figure lay only a couple of meters away, but he couldn’t touch or help him.

“You can’t let him die!” he shouted.

Shaka Chang barely glanced at him. Slye had returned, the sealed computer disc in his hand. “It’s here, sir,” he said.

“Good!” Chang beamed. “Let’s check it. If it’s everything we expected, we can destroy it.” He paused, then strode towards the lift and glanced back at Max, his father and!Koga. “And them.”

Shaka Chang and Slye moved out of sight. Zhernastyn wiped the sweat from his face. He was walking a fine line with Chang.

“Can’t you do something?” Max begged him.

“No. I don’t have the facilities.”

“You must be able to do something.”

“I can’t!” Zhernastyn hissed. “Another few hours and he’ll be dead. Anyway, why should I? He means nothing to me.”

“He’s my friend. He’s just a boy. You’ve gotta help him! You’re a doctor!”

Zhernastyn sneered as he glanced at Max’s dad. “I use my skills for other purposes.”

He turned away with a nod towards the armed guard, but Max shouted after him. “I can still tell Shaka Chang that I sent that information. He won’t like the fact that you lied to him. There must be a hospital somewhere!”

Zhernastyn was back in control of his own life again; nothing Max could do or say now could harm him. “The nearest hospital is on a military base, a day’s drive from here, and Mr. Chang is hardly going to let him go there. Besides, you have no means of talking to Mr. Chang now, and in a couple of minutes, after he’s checked that disc, this man will shoot you. The vultures will pick your bones clean in hours. Why do you think they call this place Skeleton Rock?”

Zhernastyn walked away.

Max immediately slid across to his friend, his father at his shoulder. The armed guard kept his distance; these two were no threat.

Max touched!Koga’s clammy face.

“Dad, what do we do?”

His father eased open!Koga’s eyelids.

“The pupils are a different size, Max. I reckon that quack was right. His skull is fractured.”

Tom Gordon helped to raise!Koga’s shoulders so that they were supported on Max’s lap and chest. “That’s it,” his dad showed him. “Support his head against your chest. Keep it turned away from where the blood’s coming from.” As Tom Gordon kept a couple of fingers on the pulse in!Koga’s neck, he whispered, “Is there any other way out of here?”

Max’s back was to the armed guard, muffling his own whispered reply. “There’s another smaller hangar, but there’s only motorbikes and stuff in there. Dad, we can’t let him die.”

The Humvee’s key appeared magically in his dad’s fingers. “I don’t know how we could get him into that and escape. It’s a fair way to the doors, and they’d stop us as soon as they heard the engine start. Max, think, is there anything in there you could use to get!Koga away?”

It took only a heartbeat for Max to realize what his father meant.

“Dad, we’re all getting out of here together. I’m not leaving you. Not now.”

Max felt the warmth of his father’s hand on his shoulder. “Every moment we’re alive, we’re beating the odds. I can’t move fast enough. I’m too weak. If you can get him out and make a run for that hospital, you have to take it, or he’s going to die. He may even die in the attempt. But we can’t just sit here and let them kill us. Then it will all have been in vain. Understand?” He nodded at his son, emphasizing the near finality of their lives. “You have to make the decision. Save him. If you can.”

Max fought the swell of tears. Then he nodded. “I think there’s a way. It’s a one-off chance, but I’ve got to get him to the next hangar, through that passage.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do.” His father took!Koga’s weight, allowing Max to prepare for the most important run of his life. “This kid’s been banged about so much, but we have to risk carrying him. Can you get him there?”

Max nodded.

“OK. You’ll know when to go.”

“I’ll come back for you, Dad. I promise,” Max said with a fierce determination.

His father touched Max’s face tenderly, then the boy saw his father’s expression harden. It was just like the time on the boat when the pirates had attacked. As if another person was in there under the skin. Hard and tough and unyielding.

Before the guard realized what was happening, Tom Gordon heaved!Koga’s weight onto Max’s shoulder, ready to jump up and make the run. As the guard brought the gun to bear, Max had the horrendous realization that his father could never reach the gunman in time, that he would be cut down in seconds. And his father had only made what seemed to be a feeble lurch towards the guard. But neither Max nor the guard had noticed a mechanic’s work trolley, just out of sight under the Humvee’s chassis. Tom Gordon’s lunge was to reach the wheeled inspection trolley and whip it into the guard’s ankles. And that was what happened. The trolley smashed into his ankles, the guard fell backwards, and suddenly his dad’s slithering body was across the floor and using the man’s AK-47 as a club.

He barely looked around as he dragged himself away. “Go, Max!”

Max snapped out of his stupefaction and pushed his legs upwards, gulping air as he ran for the passageway.!Koga was hardly more than skin and bone, but it was weight to be carried nonetheless. As he was about to plunge through the entrance, he couldn’t resist looking back. He saw that his father had reached the workbench, his hand stretching out for the wall socket that held the cable’s plug. Men were shouting now, their voices echoing around the hangar, their shadows making them giants as they ran to attack.

Max’s dad looked at him, nodded, and a second later a tremendous explosion erupted from the inspection pit where they had stored the petrol cans. He’d obviously pressed the switch and sent a surge of power down the bare-ended wires. The vehicle straddling the pit didn’t move for a moment as flames surged around it, then it too exploded in a muffled whooomp. Metal clattered, smoke billowed, men screamed. It was uproar. And Max’s dad had disappeared-consumed by the smoke and flames.

Max ran,!Koga’s body already feeling lighter as adrenaline surged through his limbs.

He reached the second hangar, hit the big red button that said On and heard the whirring blades of the industrial wall fan hum into life. Easing!Koga into the cockpit of the sand yacht, he could already feel the blast of air hitting his back. He climbed in behind him; it was an incredibly tight fit, but he lifted the boy’s body onto his lap, stretched out his legs, made sure!Koga’s head was still nestled down on its uninjured side and gathered in the ropes attached to the sail.

Gunfire echoed behind him from the other hangar; heavy black smoke billowed through the passageway into this area, sucked through the vortex of the narrow passage. It swirled like the turbulence behind a jumbo jet as the fan whistled into full speed. Max felt the air punch the sail as with a tremendous surge it hurled the sand yacht clear.

They burst out through spiraling smoke into a faceful of wind-lashed sand. With eyes barely open, Max maneuvered the sand yacht, filling the sail with the veering wind as he struggled for control. Rope burns already stung his hands, but once he got the yacht on a course that put the wind across his right shoulder, the wheels skimmed over the baked surface.

He dared a look back. There was plenty of smoke, but no flames. Shaka Chang must have had an extinguishing system that smothered any threat from fire, particularly in those hangars where the planes and vehicles were kept. Max knew he had to sweep around the fort and head back in the direction he and!Koga had come from. Luckily the black smoke curling from Skeleton Rock screened him from searching eyes.

They rattled along, the wind buffeting the lightweight sand yacht. Max almost lost control when one of the wheels lifted clear of the ground, but he leaned into it and it bumped down, spinning for purchase. A plume of sand sprayed behind them as they skimmed along, faster and faster. The speedo needle hovered between 77 and 80 kilometers per hour, and Max could hear the humming of the wing sail, taut with energy. The ropes vibrated between his fingers as he steered for the vast openness that lay before him. His mind raced almost as fast as the wheels. He had to remember where the broken fingers of cracked earth lay waiting to ensnare him-one mistake and he would drive the sand yacht to destruction. And kill them both.

He struggled to keep control. The wind was doing all the work, and he knew he had been lucky so far, but his limited skill could also be their downfall. He trimmed the sail, felt the speed drop slightly. If he could keep it going steadily, he and!Koga stood a better chance of survival. The heat from his friend’s body lying against him wasn’t just from the cramped conditions;!Koga’s temperature was burning up.

The sand yacht shuddered. He was hitting rougher ground. The fixed rear wheels bounced across the ruts, following wherever Max steered the front wheel, which was now twisting out of control. Max edged the yacht first one way then the other, until it settled again.

Now he had it. The harmony of wind and sail joined forces to push him at a steady speed: 80, 85, 87. As straight as an arrow he kept his heading. They were in with a chance. He had already saved thirty or forty kilometers by heading right out across the plain. When he and!Koga had crept within sight of Skeleton Rock, they had taken a roundabout, looping course. Now it was as straight as the crow flies. Or the vulture. And it still wouldn’t take much to give the scavengers breakfast.

His brief moment of satisfaction turned into one of fear when he saw the straining black fist that was a wind-filled sail soaring towards him from behind his left shoulder. It was the second sand yacht. But this pilot knew what he was doing. He was nursing the black, bullet-shaped body at an angle that would intercept Max. And it must have been doing over a hundred-its lethal beauty would be upon him in a couple of minutes at that speed.

Max wrestled with the ropes, he was getting it all wrong.

The sail flapped as he steered off-wind, then surged as he caught it again.

The hunter was closing.

Max knew he was trying to do too much. He had to hold!Koga close to him, so he only had one hand left to control the yacht. He decided to let the sail look after itself and steer with his right hand. He would keep the wind on the quarter as best he could and try to outmaneuver his pursuer.

The wind shifted again, lifting a veil of sand half a kilometer ahead and he realized that, despite his erratic piloting, he knew where he was. The rising land was where he and!Koga had camped before the Devil’s Breath sucked him down-and behind that escarpment was where he was heading. That was where the plane lay hidden. And that was his only chance to save!Koga’s life and radio for help.

His own thoughts and emotions fought each other. Images of his father, the explosion, the flames, that final look, the moments of danger together and the warmth and love from his dad. Deep down, he knew that no matter how rugged or tough his father was, he held a powerhouse of love for Max. He’d never felt so close to him as in those last few moments together. But his mind shouted at him. Don’t think about it! Concentrate! You’ve only got one crack at this! You muck this up and you’re dead! Concentrate!

A quick look behind showed only a wall of sand chasing him. If it overtook him, he would be piloting blind, his sense of direction would disappear. A flurry of rain blown in from the mountain storm stung his face. The rain was still too far away to make any impact, but if the sand cloud was behind him, then whoever was chasing him must be caught up in it.

Like a dust devil the leading edge of the sandstorm raced ahead of him, over to the left, about thirty meters away. Was it veering or was it going to cut back towards him and smother him?

He didn’t have time to consider his options.

The gloss-black hunter edged out of the fog of sand, its pilot’s head and shoulders just visible above the bodywork. He wore a helmet, its visor closed, giving his face full protection against the glare of the sun and the stinging, penetrating sand.

And then, like a charioteer of old, he swung the sand yacht sideways. Max had to stay on course, there were boulders ahead. Was that what the other guy had seen as well? Was he trying to force Max to pile up and rip himself apart?

Max held his line.

The guy came closer. Ten meters, six, three, two.

They were racing side by side. The man’s hand came free of the cockpit and pointed at him. Pointed something black, a dull sheen, an automatic. But before Max could react, the other sand yacht jigged a little. The control needed at that speed was so precise, the man needed both hands.

He dared another look. The pilot wasn’t even looking at him. He was concentrating on those rocks. Then Max saw why. The ground became broken; not only were there rocks on Max’s side, the other pilot faced the same challenge. They were both heading for the narrow gap. Only one of them could get through.

With what seemed a nervous glance towards Max, the other man moved his hands rapidly on the ropes, and his yacht surged ahead. He’d trimmed everything so quickly and expertly that Max could only eat his dirt.

With seconds to spare the two yachts hurtled through the gap, nose to tail. The other man had reacted instinctively, ensuring he was the one who got through, perhaps hoping the dust trail would blind Max and force him onto the rocks. But it was a fundamental error. As Max went through the gap, he eased the yacht to starboard, that was where he needed to go, and when he did, he stole the other man’s air.

As Max kept going, he saw his attacker’s sail flap as the yacht faltered. Forced to gibe, swinging the yacht around, he lost time trying to catch the wind and, as luck would have it, the sandstorm now hit the man side on, just as he was turning the yacht. Max saw the mast tilt and the wheels lift. The man couldn’t hold it. The yacht turned over.

Even if the other guy could get the yacht upright, Max knew he had gained valuable time. “Hang on,!Koga, we’re gonna make it!” he shouted, although he knew the unconscious boy couldn’t hear him.

Then the obvious thought seeped into his mind. He might be the only living witness to Shaka Chang’s plan. If the information hadn’t reached Sayid, he still held the knowledge of what was planned.

The sand yacht was probably not the only attempt Shaka Chang would have made to stop him. Somewhere out there in the confused storm, others might be searching.

Imagination is a dangerous thing when you’re scared. Deal with what you know and try to plan for the unexpected, but don’t let your mind make you seize up through fear, the voice in his head urged him.

Max held!Koga tighter across his chest and headed for his dad’s plane. Knowing what he had to do when he got there was scary enough.

The sight of the trees encouraged him. The sand yacht had faltered, a couple of kilometers away, when the ground changed into shrub and grassland. He had let it slow, easing the sail so it spilled the air, ensuring they didn’t tip over.

Carefully lifting!Koga out of the yacht’s cockpit, he carried him at a slow jog, stopping every once in a while to catch his breath. The wind was gaining strength, a more consistent push against his back-the storm building itself, ready to release its pent-up rain. If the storm broke before he could reach the plane, the ground would flood and the wheels would never get through it. Max’s heart pounded, not from the exertion but from the anticipation. He had to fly the plane out.

His visual memory snatched at images, like scenes from old movies, remembering things Kallie had done when she flew him in; trying to hear her voice as she explained things; but they wouldn’t gel. They didn’t make sense. Fractured elements of recall made their own jigsaw puzzle.

And then they reached the plane.

Max pulled aside the camouflage netting, climbed into the Cessna, then turned and dragged!Koga in behind him, ever mindful of the boy’s injury. It took longer than he wanted, but he couldn’t rush this, not now.

With!Koga securely fastened, Max clambered into the pilot’s seat. The last time he had sat there, his mind had focused on the opening through the windscreen and a changed consciousness had taken him high up, letting him see the landscape and the way to the Devil’s Breath. But not now. Now his hands rested on the controls and he could barely think straight.

The way ahead was clear of camouflage net and branches. He needed to start the plane, roll it forward and then turn onto the flattened grassland. His eyes glazed over at all the instruments. He chastised himself. Come on, you do one thing, then something will happen, then you do the next thing, and so on. It’ll happen. It’ll work. Something will click and you’ll do it.

He pointed at a dial. What’s that? “Fuel gauge,” he answered himself.

And that? “Airspeed indicator.”

And? “Altimeter, lights, master switch, ignition and magnetos! Right! OK, got it!”

It came back to him. He pulled down the sun visor and the worn tag that held the key fell into his lap. He put it in the ignition. There were things he should have checked, he knew that. At Windhoek, Kallie had done a complete visual check outside her own aircraft. Well, that took time, which was a luxury; this was time-has-run-out time. The sign on the control panel warned him to make sure there was no water contaminating the fuel-another risk he had to take. This was his main chance. Some things had to be left in the lap of the gods. There was a toggle switch to prime the engine. That made sense. You primed a lawn mower before you started it. How long? Couple of seconds, five, ten? Middle. Five should do it.

Fuel selectors. He fingered the small lever into the Both position. Kallie was a great pilot and she had warned him about getting things wrong. What had she said? It seemed a lifetime ago since he had seen her. He reran the video clip in his head. Meeting her, liking her, no, not that stuff, what else? The flying. Leaving Windhoek. The old plane, the … saying. There was a saying.

He pictured the instruments in her plane. There was a small sign. My dad worries. He taught me how to fly. That was what she’d said. And there was a tattered laminated postcard stuck on the panel. She hadn’t remembered what it was called. It was a mnemonic, he had told her. That was right, an aide-memoire, she had agreed.

He could see it. Almost. The words were there, forming in his mind’s eye. Rather Too Many Pilots Forget How It Goes. That was it. His mind raced with anticipation as his fingers did the work.

Radio and Rudder-check.

Trim Elevator for takeoff-OK.

Throttle tension, set for start-done.

Mixture, rich; Magnetos on-got it.

Fuel select, both tanks-already done.

Flaps. Something about flaps.

What else did F stand for? Forgetful.

He couldn’t remember what the other letters meant, but he had done what his memory told him and everything had flickered into life. The engine coughed and spluttered, the propeller suddenly spun, and when he released the parking brake the plane moved forward. Max let out a cry of victory. As he eased the throttle forward on the instrument panel, the propeller roared louder and they broke free from the safety of cover.

It demanded all his attention. The Flight Simulator game on his computer at school was one thing, but this was quite another, and he was going too fast, like driving a lorry with his foot flat down. He had jammed his feet on the pedals and his hands turned the controls, but he had gone the wrong way. He had to face into the wind for takeoff.

Rudder, controls, throttle eased back-the plane turned.

The brakes were awkward, sitting just above the rudder pedals, and they pulled to one side. But he raised his foot slightly, found the right position, and the plane wallowed to a halt. Now it sat, braked, facing the wind. Max could feel it trying to lift the wings-exactly what he wanted-but through the high-speed blur of the propeller he could see the leaden sky. It flattened all the color of the landscape: the malignant clouds in turmoil, the storm fit to burst. Max had to take off, but he couldn’t stay on that heading once he was up there. That turbulence would chew him up and spit him out. In pieces.

He hesitated. The radio had hummed into life once the engine started. He could just call for help, the batteries were charging now, he could simply keep on calling until someone heard him, and then they’d come and rescue them. Maybe.

The decision was made for him.

The same pickup truck that had hunted!Koga was coming straight for him, from exactly where he had abandoned the sand yacht. Men hung on in the back as it jolted across the uneven ground-they’d obviously seen him, but they couldn’t get a clear shot at him yet.

Max scanned the dials and gauges. Had he forgotten anything? Too late to worry about it; he released the footbrakes, pushed in the throttle, and the plane bucked forward. It veered, lurching because of the propeller’s gyroscopic pitch-not that Max knew why it had pulled. Instinctively he tapped the left brake with his foot and it corrected itself. But the plane still swung left and right, the tail wheel bouncing across the uneven ground, causing it to sway. Max didn’t know what to do except ride out the problem. Then, as the airflow moved across the wings, it stabilized.

Faster now, trying to maintain direction with the rudder pedals, heading straight towards that heavy sky on the horizon. More speed; fifty knots, he had to go faster. He shoved the throttle all the way forward; sixty, seventy. Bumping badly now, the controls vibrating in his hands; the men less than two hundred meters off; the end of the grass in sight-it had to be now. Eighty.

Max pulled back the controls and the plane lifted its nose-if he went too steep he would stall-he remembered, light touch, nothing too brutal with a plane-nurse it upwards, let it do the work. Hailstones clattered against the fuselage … three holes appeared in the port wing-they weren’t hailstones. Come on! Come on! Take off! The pickup truck was almost on him. The men’s mouths yelled silent curses. The plane soared upwards.

As the wind helped lift the wings, the altimeter told him he was already at three hundred feet. He adjusted the throttle until the air speed indicator showed he was flying at a hundred and twenty knots. Max eased the plane around in a long, sweeping turn, watching to see that the nose stayed up, the propeller tip nudging above what he could see of the horizon-he knew that was the ideal attitude for a plane. Now he had the storm at his back, it was time to call for help.

Taking off was one thing. Landing was a far more terrifying problem.