He starts toward me, stabbing at the ground with his boots, daring me to respond. I don’t think he intends to attack again so soon, but rather, he’s probing, testing my reaction time. I bite. I step forward, closing the distance between us and lashing out with the belt again. He’s sparring. He thinks he can sway and dodge. He’s counting on me missing, leaving myself open to a counterattack, hoping I’ll swing at the air like a punch-drunk boxer.
The buckle rakes across his face, catching him on his forehead and tearing down the bridge of his nose, leaving a deep gash over his eye. He shakes his head, smiling, relishing the pain. Blood drips from his nose with a steady rhythm.
I know what’s next. He’s got to get within my reach, inside the perimeter I’ve formed with the belt, negating my ability to use it as a whip. I can see his intent in the flex of his shoulders, the strain in the muscles in his neck, his clenched fists and angry stare. He spits blood onto the floor.
Every muscle in my body tightens.
Bring it.
The rebel lunges, and I strike again, raking the buckle across the back of his head as he dives in at me, charging like a linebacker. The buckle lashes at his neck. I pull it back with the same ferocity with which I struck, tearing a chunk of flesh away. Blood sprays through the air.
He collides with me, knocking me into the lockers, but he’s bleeding profusely. The soldier slams me into the steel doors, desperate to take control of the fight, but I’ve got the belt wrapped firmly around one hand. I swing it up and loop it around his neck, pulling tight. I’m pinned against the lockers, but I have the leather strap locked around his throat. I pull with all my might. Who wins is now a matter of endurance.
The soldier plants his boots on the slippery tiles, driving with his body. He presses his forearm across my neck, crushing my windpipe, trying to squeeze the air out of my lungs, but I’ve got him. I cinch the belt, gritting my teeth as I flex, tightening my grip. Our eyes are locked, but his flicker. His face is flushed with anger. Veins bulge from his neck as his nostrils flare, but I have him. He’s mine and we both know it.
His stance weakens. His arm sags and his eyes roll into the back of his head. He sinks to his knees, and I can breathe again. I cough, clearing my throat and sucking in air. My strength surges with the rush of oxygen flooding my lungs, and I increase the pressure around his neck.
In that moment, I’m not trying to kill him. This isn’t personal. He’s just an obstacle in my way, a cockroach being crushed underfoot. There’s no bitterness or desire for revenge, just unrelenting resolve, a refusal to surrender. Nothing is standing between me and that goddamn launch. Not him. Not the rebels. Not the entire U.S. Army.
His body slumps to the floor, but I’m not done. I drag his head up, flexing as I keep the pressure on. There was only ever going to be one of us walking away.
Finally, I relent, and his body sags lifeless to the tiles. Since I’ve been back on Earth, my life has been out of my control. I’ve been blown with the wind, running from one danger to another. Now I’m in charge. There’s no computer warning me of danger, no soldiers protecting me from Molotov cocktails hurled from an angry crowd, no hiding in the shadows or sailing away over the ocean. The bloodied belt buckle hangs by my side.
I pity the next person to walk through the door.
30
Found
“L—Liz.”
“Jai.”
Jianyu’s pupils are dilated. Blood seeps from around his plastic skullcap.
“Easy,” I say, but I resist the temptation to run to him. Instead, I drop the belt and pick up the AK-47. When we were attacked in the hotel, I felt intimidated by the guns stacked in the corner, but I’m not the same person I was back there. I’m not running anymore. I may have never fired a gun, but I’ve seen enough movies to know what to do. I pull back on the slide and load a round from the curved magazine. I finally understand how Chalmers felt when she took out that shooter on the military base. I will kill the next person to walk through the doorway, and that thought doesn’t bother me in the slightest.
With my free arm, I reach for him. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
“Wh—where are we going?”
“Home.”
I help Jianyu to his feet. He staggers, grabbing at the lockers for balance.
I nestle the butt of the rifle into the crook of my arm, knowing it’ll kick like a mule when fired. Russian rifles like this weren’t designed for precision. They were intended for one thing and one thing only: overwhelming the enemy with raw aggression. Right now, that suits me, although I’m aware direct confrontation is not a good strategy, given there’s only two of us against dozens of soldiers. Courage aside, those aren’t good odds.
Jianyu puts his arm over my shoulder. He leans heavily on me, shuffling his feet as we stagger out of the bathroom. I have no idea how many soldiers there are in this rundown estate, or where we are, but none of that matters. One shot and all hell is going to break out, but I don’t care. I’d run through the fires of Hades to make that launch, but such bravado is meaningless, hollow, and deep down I know it.
I keep the AK-47 leveled in front of me. Together, we cross the gymnasium floor and creep over the walkway. Guards patrol the perimeter with rifles shouldered, but they’re looking out at the jungle. Two figures crossing between buildings is entirely normal, something to be expected, and at a distance of fifty yards, we pass undetected.
After the officer left us, she headed upstairs, so I’m not expecting to see her, but around each corner, I’m wary of rebel soldiers. There were five or six of them out in front when we arrived, but they were specifically waiting for Durant. Will there be more now, given they’re expecting U.S. soldiers to turn up? How will the American troops arrive? There’s probably enough room for a helicopter to land on the lawn out in front of the main building, but it would be a squeeze, so they may come by road. Any rebel soldiers waiting by the entrance will be looking outwards and won’t be expecting a fight. They’re waiting on friendlies. That should play into our hands.
There were several vehicles parked on a gravel lot beside the entrance. If we can just get there . . . , I think, but I’m not being realistic. There’s no way we’re simply walking out of this hornet’s nest. At some point, things are going to get ugly.
A soldier walks past a broken window, but he’s not so smart, looking down at his smartphone.
We creep up to the main door. There are several sets of keys hanging on hooks. Each has a registration number on a tag.
Jianyu rests, leaning against a windowsill.
I take all of them except one, shoving them beneath a cushion on an armchair so no one can follow us. I hand the last set of keys to Jianyu, pointing at a four-wheel drive in the parking lot.
“Whatever happens, get that engine started.”
“Liz.”
“Go.”
We walk out onto the patio as three soldiers joke with each other down by the gravel driveway, smoking hand-rolled cigarettes. It’s impossible not to be seen, but I’m hoping we’re not recognized. If we’re just more people walking around, blending in with the background, we might slip by. I walk naturally, with the AK-47 in a relaxed position, angling down, and my head facing forward, making as though I belong here even though my eyes are hard to one side. Jianyu stays on my inside, sheltered from view.
A soldier straightens in surprise. His eyes go white at the realization I’m free and holding a rifle. In what I hope is just a bluff, I raise the AK-47, pointing it at him, hoping he’ll let us pass to one side, but he grabs his rifle from where it leans against the garden wall.
In a single, swift motion, I set the AK-47 into my shoulder, pulling hard and leaning into the shot. My finger tightens on the trigger. My eyes focus down the length of the barrel, seeing his frame in the distance. The other soldiers have their backs to me. I squeeze and, to my surprise, several shots lash out in rapid succession. The AK-47 is set on fully automatic. The rifle pulls high and to the right.
Bullets pepper the soldier before dancing across the statue as I struggle to keep the rifle from flying over my head. With that, any element of surprise is gone.
Jianyu tries to run, but he can’t. He hobbles along the patio as we rush toward the parking lot. The remaining soldiers scramble, diving for cover. I squeeze off another burst, but the spray of bullets is horribly inefficient. Chips of stone fly from the statue. Bullets embed themselves in the wooden pillars lining the old house, but it’s cover fire, buying us a few seconds to get to the vehicle.
We charge down the stairs at the end of the patio and are about to run the fifteen yards to the first of the vehicles when bullets rip through the sheet metal doors on the Land Cruiser, leaving distinct black holes in the white paintwork. Jianyu and I drop behind a low garden wall. Bullets ricochet off the stone just inches above my head.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah. You?”
The rush of adrenaline has kicked his mind into overdrive, and he stares at me, wide-eyed.
I reply, “For now.”
“What next?”
Next? Yeah, for a scientist, I’m not having my finest moment. My grand theory of escapology is failing in practice. I’ve allowed us to become isolated, pinned down just a few feet away from fleeing in a vehicle.
I turn sideways, holding the AK-47 with one arm and using the top of the waist-high wall for support as I squeeze off a short burst. My ears ring from the savagery of the gunfire.
“We have one advantage,” I yell, slipping back down the wall again.
“What?”
I’m probably being overly optimistic, but: “They want us alive.”
There’s lots of yelling behind us but no more gunfire. Seems no one wants to perforate two hundred million dollars’ worth of bounty. We’re hopelessly outnumbered and just minutes away from being outflanked and overrun.
The trees beyond the mansion sway. Rotor blades thrash at the air as a helicopter comes in low and hard, swooping over the compound and circling around us. Branches swirl violently in the wash.
“The Americans,” one of the rebels yells, and I catch a glimpse of him waving his arms, pointing toward us. It’s over. Our gambit for freedom was valiant but futile. Could it have ever ended any other way? A shadow falls over us as the helicopter sweeps around the mansion, pushing hurricane winds down on us and deafening us with the beat of its rotors.
I feel lost. I’m overwhelmed by the thought of what happens next. We’ll be caught, imprisoned, and taken from here to some warship before being flown to the U.S. mainland. What will unfold once we’re dragged back to Washington in chains? The world needs a scapegoat. Facts be damned. As far as anyone cares, I’m guilty, but of what? Is there any crime worse than daring to think? War is no place for reason. My heart sinks at the thought of what will happen to Jianyu.
The helicopter banks, swinging out wide and gaining altitude, which at first is confusing as I thought it was going to land. Then I see the markings. This isn’t a military flight. It’s the corporate helicopter we were on earlier today.
“Lucifer. He found us.”
The rebels are confused, waving madly with their arms, gesturing toward the helicopter, wanting air support, but I know what’s coming.
“Get down.” I push Jianyu flat against the grass.
The helicopter reaches close to a thousand feet before turning on its side and plummeting toward the jungle, racing in toward the mansion. I fire my AK-47 into the underside of the first floor, emptying the magazine. My shots are aimless, intended only to distract the rebels for the five to ten seconds Lucifer needs for his run.
The helicopter comes racing in at hundreds of miles an hour, screaming as it dives at the building. I flatten myself next to Jianyu as the Sikorsky plunges through the roof of the building, crushing the upper floor and plummeting through to the ground.
The explosion rattles my body, breaking like thunder around us. Shattered glass and splinters of wood tear through the air like bomb fragments. Heat radiates as jet fuel ignites into a fireball. A dark mushroom cloud billows high into the air, enfolding on itself as it rises hundreds of feet above the jungle. Bricks and debris rain down around us. The ground shakes. A shock wave races out through the trees as the building collapses.
Smoke chokes the air. Burning embers fall from the sky. Soldiers scream in agony. We scramble to our feet and run.
The all-wheel-drive truck is unlocked. Jianyu hands me the keys and we clamber in. Within seconds, the diesel engine roars to life. Gears grind as I struggle with the stick shift, and the truck lurches forward. Fire engulfs the building. The remaining parts of the roof collapse. Flames lick at nearby trees, marking where jet fuel has sprayed across them.
The last we see of the rebel stronghold is dark clouds rising above the jungle canopy as we race down the muddy track, bouncing out of potholes.
Jianyu rummages around in the glovebox and finds a map.
“I—I . . .” I’m not sure what I’m trying to say. I’m speechless, bewildered, and in shock after what just happened. The sheer ferocity of the blast was overwhelming. Even though we were sheltered behind the stone garden wall at the far end of the building, the shock wave seemed to tear at the very cells of our bodies. Such an explosive reaction was terrifying to behold. Having been strapped into plenty of rockets, I’ve known about the dangers of an unbridled chemical reaction for years, but those were theoretical and never realized. Living through one was harrowing. My ears are still ringing.
“It is okay,” Jianyu says in stilted English that I don’t think even he believes. “We are alive. That’s all that matters.”
“Okay. Okay.” I’m manic, trying to calm my shaking hands and steady my thinking. “Where to? Where are we going?”
“Gate E3, right?” He points at the map, referring to the instructions we watched while in flight.
“Yes. Gate E3.” Truth is, I’m on autopilot. The captain has taken leave of the seat and is wandering aimlessly. Come on, Liz. Don’t falter now.
Jianyu seems to recover quicker, which helps ground me.
“Take a left at the end of this track. There’s a turnoff about twenty miles north.”
31
Ariane 6
After half an hour, we leave the main road and drive onto a graded track, following a drainage ditch around the perimeter of the ESA launch facility. Chain link fences topped with razor wire surround the area. The ditch is flooded and almost thirty feet wide, acting like a moat, making the fence impossible to approach on foot.
From the track, none of the administration buildings are visible. Even the multistory construction building is obscured by trees. The Ariane rocket is visible above the jungle, but only just. I’ve seen aerial photos of this site, but I’ve never been here before. The land close to the rocket has been cleared, probably for upwards of a quarter mile around the launchpad, but we’re still a long way off.
We reach Gate E3 on the east side of the property near the ocean, far from any buildings. There’s a narrow wooden bridge leading across the ditch. The gate is unlocked.
“We’ve made it,” I say.
Jianyu isn’t convinced. “When we set foot on Mars, we’ve made it.”
“Okay. I can live with that.”
Once inside the perimeter, we follow a dirt track and emerge from the low scrub into open, grassy fields. The Ariane towers above Earth, looking entirely alien, a machine destined not for this world but another.
Every aspect of its design speaks of escape, not from our pursuers but from the tyranny of the planet itself. The stark white rocket is unearthly, as is the vapor drifting in the breeze from its fuel tank. These are no ordinary clouds. They whisper secrets, speaking of the balance between science and madness, articulating centuries of experimentation, from the ancient Chinese with their war rockets and pageantry to Sputnik and Apollo.
They promise escape from the clutches of gravity.
For at least a million years, Homo sapiens have tame
d fire, harnessing chaos to cook food, clear land, forge tools, and, finally, to escape the planet. To my mind, rockets are the pinnacle of our engineering prowess, taking rocks and fluids out of the ground, refining and rearranging them in such an astonishingly precise manner so as to allow us to thunder into the heavens.
We drive down a vast concrete ramp leading down to the exhaust channel and leave the truck out of sight, knowing it’ll be incinerated during the launch.
The ladder running up the side of the lightning tower is little more than a bunch of steel bars placed at even intervals and welded onto the side of one of the support struts. There’s no railing. It’s clearly intended for emergency access or perhaps sporadic maintenance. There are clips every few feet for safety harnesses we don’t have. I try not to look down, but Jianyu’s below me and I feel I need to pace myself and stay close so I can help him, although it’s a ridiculous notion: if either of us fall, we’re dead. At best, we’d collide with the steel cross-members and break a few ribs, arms and legs before bouncing off the concrete. At worst, we free-fall and go splat. In either scenario, there’s no walking away and life is over.
I pace myself, climbing hand over hand, pressing on with my legs, pushing with my thighs and trying to stave off fatigue.
From below me, there’s a mumble. “Looked easier in the video.”
“Yeah, it did,” I manage between breaths.
I stop halfway up; at least, I hope it’s halfway. I suspect it’s not. I wrap my arms around the support column and look down. Jianyu’s fallen behind. He’s pulling with his arms. Not a good sign. Thighs are a much bigger muscle group than shoulders and biceps. He should be pushing off, not pulling up. He’s running on empty and in danger of being unable to continue. Like me, I suspect his muscles are starting to tremble under fatigue.
“Keep going.” I’m not sure why I said that. It’s counterproductive and causes Jianyu to stop and look up at me. His baseball cap catches in the wind and sails away, floating on the breeze and drifting lazily to the ground roughly a hundred feet below. “You’ve got to keep going.” He doesn’t answer. He simply looks back at the thin steel bars and crawls higher.
Reentry Page 24
