The Edge of Armageddon

CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN

Drake and Dahl saw nothing of the initial underwater explosion, but the enormous wall of water that erupted from the sea behind them was enough to make their hearts falter. A liquid mushroom cloud exploding thousands of feet into the air, dwarfing all else, shooting up toward the atmosphere as if striving to drown out the very sun. A spray dome surged up, the precursor to shock waves, a spherical cloud, high surface waves and a base surge that would rise to a height beyond five hundred meters.

The blast wave was unstoppable, a manmade force of nature, an energy corruption. It struck the rear of the chopper like a hammer blow, giving Drake the impression he was being pushed along by the hand of a malicious giant. Almost immediately the chopper swooped, lifted and then turned to the side. Drake’s head struck metal. Dahl clung on, a rag doll being thrown around by a vicious hound.

The chopper rocked and rolled, buffeted and beaten by the endless blast, the dynamic wave. It spun again and again, its rotors slowing, its body pitching. Behind it, the immense curtain of water continued to rise, propelled by a titanic force. Drake struggled to stay conscious, abandoning all control of his destiny and just trying to hang on, remain awake and in one piece.

Time was rendered irrelevant and they might have lurched and bucked inside that blast wave for hours, but it was only when it surged past and they found themselves in its wake, that the true toll of its devastating power became clear.

The chopper, almost upside down, plunged toward the Atlantic.

Out of control, Drake braced himself for the impact with the knowledge that, even if they did survive the crash, they had no life raft, no life vests, and no hope of rescue. Somehow retaining enough cognizance to hold on with every last ounce of strength, he watched as they plunged into the ocean.