by David Gilman
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 on
to 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-mémoire, 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.
Down in the airfield’s bar, Ferdie van Reenen was rolling a cigarette, a cold beer on the countertop in front of him, as Tobias poured himself a mug of coffee.
Kallie was sitting next to her dad. “I thought you’d quit smoking.”
“I did, but you’ve put me back on to them. I’m too old for all this stress, y’know. Anyway, I haven’t lit it yet, have I?”
He emptied the tobacco from the cigarette paper into his hand and began the process again.
Mike Kapuo came in, closing the door firmly behind him. “Wind’s picking up.” He nodded at Tobias as the barman offered the coffeepot.
“Storm’ll break in a couple of hours, then no one will be flying. When are those Brits getting here?” van Reenen asked.
Kapuo checked his watch. “About an hour, maybe a bit more.”
Van Reenen had rolled another cigarette. “And what about your blokes?”
“Bogged down in bureaucracy and infighting. Army wants one thing, police commissioner wants another, and the politicians all want to be covered in glory.”
“They’ll be covered in something else if they don’t get this mess sorted.” Van Reenen moaned as he put the cigarette between his lips.
Kallie eased off the stool and moved away. “Don’t expect me to look after you when your lungs pack up.”
“What I expect is your antics will have put me in an early grave long before then.”
“Whatever,” she said, and found herself a stool further along the counter. Their chitchat was a way of relieving the tension because, whatever else was going on, they were being forced to wait and it was driving them all crazy. Kallie stared at the receiver propped behind the bar. Wherever Max was, he might still be able to reach a radio and send a message.
The storm whiplashed the air. Max was struggling to keep the plane flying on an even keel while it was being buffeted by the violent wind. !Koga was still unconscious and Max couldn’t even be sure whether he was still breathing. Flying with o
ne hand, Max checked the radio; it was set to 121.5 megacycles. Was that right? Would that get through to anyone? Why would his dad have had that frequency tuned in? It must mean something. He pressed the handset to his lips. “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday.” He released the transmit button. Nothing. “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday. This is Max Gordon. I need help. Can anyone hear me? I’m flying a plane and I need help. Hello? Mayday. Anybody?”
Ferdie van Reenen had scrambled over the counter, spilled his beer, and grabbed the handset. “Max. We hear you! Over.”
Kallie was right behind him.
There was a garbled response that then was cut off. “Max, listen, son, this is Kallie’s pa. Speak into the handset, release the button, and listen. That’s how it works.”
Max’s voice came over the speaker. “I understand. I need help.”
“I know. Is your father with you? Over.”
There was a pause.
“No,” said Max. “Dad’s at Skeleton Rock. But I’ve got an injured Bushman boy with me. He’s really hurt and he needs a doctor. Over,” Max said, remembering the radio procedure.
There was no doctor. Not in these parts.
“That must be !Koga,” Kallie said.
“All right, Max. Let’s get you down first. Can you see any landmarks? Over.”
Max peered down. From the air, the wilderness he had traveled across looked different. A ravine, scrubland, in the distance becoming more obscured by the dust, a straight line that was a dirt road. He clicked the handset.
“Nothing. Just … nothing. There’s a road, a track, dead straight. Running across my flight path. Bottom left to top right. There’s a huge storm behind me. I can tell you that.”
In the bar, Tobias had already unfolded a map. Kapuo and van Reenen scanned it, trying to get an idea of where Max might be. Kallie gestured for the handset and her father passed it to her.
“Where’d he take off from? What’s his compass bearing?” van Reenen instructed her. “If the storm’s behind him, he’s flying in a southerly direction.”
