by David Gilman
Time and weather were against them.
The helicopters flew low and fast, but the rain still stung Max’s legs. The Namibian soldiers had told them that in less than an hour the mightiest of storms was going to break over the mountains. The helicopters would be unable to fly, and there’d be flash floods that would swamp the ground. Then there could be no attack.
So, there wasn’t going to be time to go in through any back door; they would assault the main building, with Mr. Peterson and Max with two of the SAS soldiers and four Namibian desert troops going straight into the main hangar. The other helicopters would have two SAS men in each, leading the local soldiers.
Priority one—stop Shaka Chang.
Priority two—rescue Tom Gordon.
It had to be that way. Thousands of lives were at stake.
The Namibian and South African governments had already sent troops to the dam, but nobody knew whether they would get there in time, nor whether Shaka Chang had any kind of remote device to open the dam’s gates. And even if he realized his plan had been discovered, he could still commit an act of vengeance and disappear.
The cloud base was down, hugging the top of Skeleton Rock, and as two of the helicopters went straight for the fort, Max’s chopper swung low and around. It was a scene he would never forget—helicopters dodging gunfire streaking from the fort, black clouds spitting rain, and the tight-banking, evasive flight of his own helicopter as tracer bullets cut through the darkening sky towards them. And Mr. Peterson grabbing him back from the open door, out of the danger zone. Max remembered—a lifetime ago—running across the moor towards Dartmoor High as other bullets cut red through the night and an assassin had tried to keep him from learning the truth. Well, it had been a long journey he had traveled, but the truth was out and the whole frightening episode was almost over.
Dad, hang on. I’m coming. Hang on. Please!
Shaka Chang climbed aboard the black helicopter in the hangar. The fire Tom Gordon had started had caused an enormous amount of damage, but Chang’s very expensive fire-protection systems prevented the blaze destroying the aircraft he needed to make his escape and complete his plan. As far as Shaka Chang was concerned, no one knew what he was going to do and, when Skeleton Rock disintegrated, any clues concerning Chang would be vaporized. The destruction of his African headquarters would be put down to a vicious fire that had got out of control.
Mr. Slye scurried like a rat behind Shaka Chang. The helicopter’s engine hummed and clattered into life.
“The landing strip at the dam! Twenty minutes!” Chang shouted at him as the helicopter lifted away towards the mountains, fighting the ever-increasing wind. Slye watched the helicopter go and made a calculated decision. He knew that damned Gordon boy had got a message out and it was only a matter of time before some prime minister or president told his soldiers to get Shaka Chang. And Mr. Slye had no illusions about where he would end up. He waved at the helicopter, not that Chang could see him, but Mr. Lucius Slye felt it appropriate that all his years of servitude should warrant a goodbye wave. For years he had been squirreling away funds into a Swiss bank account—and now the time had come to enjoy it.
Dr. Zhernastyn ran into the hangar. “Mr. Slye! Wait! What about me?”
The Learjet’s pilots waited for Slye to climb aboard.
“What about you, Doctor Zhernastyn?”
“How do I get out?”
“Is that a trick question? I don’t know. How do you get out?”
“Help me!”
“No. You’re very lucky I didn’t tell Mr. Chang that you allowed Max Gordon to fool you! You’re already playing in extra time, Doctor. Find your own way out. But I would do it quickly if I were you because, within twenty minutes, it won’t matter.”
The Learjet’s door closed behind him and the plane taxied out of the hangar towards the runway.
Mr. Slye liked the smell of leather seats, and the Learjet’s comfort was something he could quite easily get used to. He gave the pilots a sheet of instructions.
“There’s been a change of plan,” he told them.
He knew they wouldn’t dare argue with Shaka Chang’s right-hand man.
* * *
Max’s helicopter hovered beyond the hangar’s mouth. The pilot was fighting the storm and he signaled to the men that he couldn’t hold it much longer. They had listened to the troops’ firefight over the radio as they cleared the main area. Chang’s bullies were no match for a disciplined attack. But then, instead of the all-clear, a dreadful warning came over the radio—the place was ready to explode. Clear the area immediately.
The pilot prepared to lift off. “No!” Max cried, and jumped to the ground. Without hesitation Mr. Peterson and the soldiers followed him as he sprinted into the hangar. “Dad! Where are you? Can you hear me?” he screamed.
A blur of white against the distant wall caught Max’s eye. Zhernastyn. He’d know where his dad was, but as he shouted his name Mr. Peterson caught up with him and grabbed him.
“Enough, Max! We have to get away! Take him!” Mr.
Peterson yelled to the soldiers, who roughly grabbed him and pulled him back towards the helicopter. “Mr. Peterson! Dad’s here! Right here! Don’t leave him! Please! Please!”
No matter how he fought and kicked, he was no match for the tough soldiers.
“The place is gonna blow, mate. You’ve done all you could,” one of the men shouted as he covered their retreat, his machine gun tucked into his shoulder. Max had never felt such despair. All the fight went out of him. He had lost. And he had used his very last ounce of energy to keep going. There was nothing left inside him now. No matter how much he willed himself, his body had finally failed him.
One last gasp of hope.
The key!
The Humvee.
Where else could his dad be? He would have crawled away from the blaze and the gunfire when Max had escaped. The armor-plated Humvee was the only safe place to hide, but if they didn’t get him out he would be burned to death.
“The Humvee!” Max yelled.
He looked into Mr. Peterson’s eyes and for a brief moment it seemed that Peterson faltered. He stopped as they dragged Max further and further away from finding his father. And then Mr. Peterson turned back into the hangar.
Somewhere in there, lights were flashing. Max could barely see now; the rain stung his eyes and the helicopter’s noise beat the air out of his ears, but there were definitely orange lights flashing and a siren—a car’s alarm. The weight of clouds sat over them now and the wind’s unearthly growl cut a frightening wound through the air.
His back scraped against the metal floor of the helicopter.
Voices shouted. They had to go. Time was up. They had to go now!
The black shape with the lights flashing and the struggling sound of the alarm was a Humvee. His dad hadn’t made it out, but he was in there. Max screamed at the soldiers, but no one could hear him shouting against the storm and the helicopter’s rotors that his dad was in there. That his dad must have heard the helicopter, must have heard Max’s voice calling to him. That his dad had set off the Humvee’s alarms. To alert them. For help.
Strong hands still held him. The helicopter quivered, the skids lifted.
Then one of the soldiers, eyes squinting against the rain, pointed.
From out of the hangar, through the curtain of rain, Mr. Peterson was holding his friend, Max’s dad, carrying him like an injured child towards the impatient helicopter.
Drenched by the rain, but alive, Tom Gordon was hauled into the helicopter. Soldiers yanked Mr. Peterson aboard, and the pilot worked hard to get them airborne.
Max’s eyes were closing. As the storm snatched at them, he saw a break in the clouds and spotted the figure of a man in a white coat, making his escape in a boat, down the slipway, into the river, where the boat settled for a moment and then began to sink.
In his panic to escape, Zhernastyn had forgotten that the boat was in need of repair.
Crocodiles don’t mind bad weather.
The wind and rain muffled the explosion, and the clouds shrouded the fort’s collapse. It didn’t matter anymore.
Father and son lay, soaking wet, next to each other on the cold metal floor. Max pulled himself against his unconscious father, lay an arm across him, and put his head against his chest.
He wanted to hear his heartbeat.
Nothing else mattered.
Fading words, snatched through the noise, penetrated his thoughts. Too late to reach Chang … troops can’t … thousands’ll die … poison water … weather shut down … rain cleared at dam … but … too dark … too late … too late.
Carried into a storm-blasted lullaby, the swaying helicopter rocked him this way and that. But the frightening sensation of being at the mercy of a tremendous storm was not what Max felt. Part of him inside had stepped through that place again. His shadow-form had left him on the floor of that bucking helicopter and glided across the darkness that had settled over the land. Now he could feel his feet gripping rock as he ran, hard, unyielding in his determination, and he smelled the musty warmth of another animal nearby.
He ran into the night, instinct guiding him; his lungs burned; his eyes searched for the unseen quarry. Being earth-bound could not help him. And what was less than a thought-beat away became reality. The scudding clouds had taken the rain with them; now there was only the wind, but the wind was second nature to him. He no longer felt the hard-edged stone beneath him; now the sky was his domain.
He saw the steel bird that sheltered in an enclave of rocks, a safe haven from the storms. It sat unmoving, its wings silent. The sword and shield tattooed on its body were defiant in the night.
A movement caught his eye. A blackened shape loped across the rocks where moments earlier he had run, and he heard the familiar whinnying call. The dog-creature stopped. It had gone as far as it could on the clifftop. Max circled. The jackal looked upwards at Max as he heard his own keening call in response.
The lightning that crackled down from its hidden place above the clouds illuminated the mountains—ghostly veils of mist tearing away from the rock face. The concrete bridge between the two mountains. Images repeated themselves from his memory—the dark cave in a black night. He hurtled ever closer. Trying to understand.
The cave was a shape that moved. A man. Big and square-shouldered. He held a dully glowing light in his hand. A control. Some kind of remote device. And as the man held his arm out towards the stone towers that controlled this bridge across the night, Max knew he was at the dam.
Gates in the dam wall began to open. Far below, the white spume of the river’s overspill was already hurtling through the valley floor. As the floodgates opened wider, a tremendous force of water spewed out. The power seemed even greater than the storm that now punished the land on the horizon.
Was it instinct that made Shaka Chang turn and look upwards? Was it his unfailing ability to know when danger was close? It made no difference. He spun on his heel as Max fell ever faster, directly at him.
It was Shaka Chang’s turn to realize he was finished. Whatever it was that screamed out of the night sky in a near vertical dive shimmered through the darkness. His reflexes didn’t fail him as he smashed a hand through the air, and he connected with talons. The attack stopped him from completing the code on the remote control that would have fully opened the floodgates. He grappled, felt the bite of claw on his hands and arms. He dismissed the pain, but the attack caused him to drop the device, which arced away from his bloodied hands.
One hand grabbed the safety rail to counterbalance his lunge for the remote. The blood on the steel barrier was like oil on glass, and his bulk and weight carried his momentum forward. In his moment of disbelief he felt the breath of ice-cold water flare in his nostrils as he tumbled over the edge. Caught by the thundering torrent that he alone was responsible for, he was snatched and pummeled into oblivion. His scream was unable to escape his final gasp for life.
Max slept for two days. When he woke up he had a ravenous appetite. The private room in the military hospital was basic but comfortable, and the food they brought him was enough for two men.
The doctors insisted he should eat before they allowed anyone to visit him, but they assured him that his father was safe and being cared for and that !Koga had come through his operation.
Once he had scoffed every last morsel, he eased himself achingly onto the cold linoleum floor. His reflection in the bathroom mirror told him that someone had bathed him. His hair, longer than usual, left a pencil line of white between his scalp and a dark brown tan. Now that the dirt and ingrained grime had been scrubbed off, he could see the cuts and bruises he had sustained; some would leave permanent scars. It didn’t matter. What he wanted more than anything right now was to clean his teeth. They felt as though they were caked in cement.
No sooner had he got a mouthful of foaming toothpaste than Sayid barged into the room, and cuffed him round the back of the head. “You’re a bloody hero, mate. I’m gonna eat out on this for a long time to come.”
Max stopped himself from choking and spat the toothpaste out. “I’m OK. Thanks for asking,” he said.
“Oh yeah. How are you? You were out for the count. Couldn’t wake you.”
“I feel as though I’ve been run over by a steamroller.”
“Yeah, you look taller. So, what do you reckon? Freebies forever?”
“Odds are, the powers that be will shut the whole thing down and no one will say anything. Imagine the scare stories that could come out of this. No one would ever fill a kettle again.”
Before Sayid could argue, Kallie tapped on the door. “Up and about, hey? Next time, go on a guided bus tour, will you, this was too much trouble.” She kissed his cheek, which made Sayid examine the walls a bit more closely.
Max was wearing boxer shorts, but when she looked at him he felt uncomfortably naked. “They said I could come through. Thought I’d say hi. Feeling OK?”
“OK.”
“Yeah, I bet. You did all right.” She smiled. It seemed a hell of a compliment.
“Listen, Kallie, you did wonders out there. I mean, getting me down on the ground and everything.”
“Nah, it was nothin’. You didn’t need me, you’d have sorted it out. Even a monkey could fly one of those things.”
He smiled. It felt good to see her again.
She helped herself to one of the apples on the bedside table. “Pa’s got himself in a state. Says I’m not to be trusted flying around on my own, so he’s grounded me, literally, for a few days. Just long enough to make sure you Brits leave the premises quietly. Want to see !Koga? He’s doing great.”
“Absolutely. Dad first, though.”
“Doctors are doing their rounds, Max,” Sayid said. “Mr. Peterson’ll come and get us when they’ve finished.”
Max grabbed a T-shirt and pulled on a pair of shorts. He winced as he tugged them on.
“That cut on the top of your leg will take a while to heal,” Kallie said. “!Koga told us everything that happened. I reckon you must have done it when you fell into the Devil’s Breath.”
Max nodded. “I suppose it’ll take me a while to put the bits that hurt together with the time when I did it.”
Something didn’t sound right. The cut on the back of his leg was high up. Just below the cheek of his backside.
She smiled as she saw him realize. “Look, I’ve got a brother at home, there’s only one bathroom. They were short of nurses! Everyone was running around, looking after your dad. All right?”
“You washed me? All over?”
She shrugged.
He blushed.
“Gross,” said Sayid.
The military hospital was in a small town where mainly army personnel lived. It was where they took soldiers injured in battle. A quiet, little-known place with an airstri
p that seeped out of the desert at one end and disappeared into the trees and scrubland at the other. The perfect place to keep secrets.
!Koga had never worn pajamas in his life, but the military nurses had insisted. Now he sat with the window wide open, his jacket undone, the heat touching his skin. Anything less would be worse than a prison cell for a boy who had never slept under a roof before. There was little sign of the operation he’d had, other than his shaved head and the dressing that covered the surgical wound, and he looked as skinny as ever.
His face burst into white teeth and laughter as Max came into his room. The two boys hugged each other. “You saved my life! They told me!”
“You came back for me. What are friends for?” The tensions and danger of their journey were behind them, the freedom from fear gave them a lightness they had not known for a long time.
“Miss van Reenen told me everything, and your friend Sayid, and the man who came from England, and Miss van Reenen’s father has taken his plane down to find my family. Then we will go home.” His smile faded a little. “And you will go home.”
“Yes,” Max said, “I will.”
Mike Kapuo stood with Mr. Peterson at the door. “I’m Detective Chief Inspector Kapuo. I need to talk to you two boys. We have to piece this whole thing together from day one.”
“OK,” Max said. “Where do you want us?”
“Well, I know !Koga’s first language isn’t English, and I don’t speak much of the Bushman language, so I’ve brought in an army interpreter; he’s a Bushman, so we’ll talk to !Koga first, and maybe Kallie can stick around to help out.”
Max hugged his friend. “Don’t tell them about the cave paintings and the prophecy. They won’t believe you.” He went out, leaving Mike Kapuo and Kallie with bewildered looks on their faces.
“I will tell them because it needs to be told, and it is the truth,” !Koga said, and laughed.
