Sudden Death

by Nick Hale

  They reached a double door.

  ‘As Mr Truman was saying,’ Dowden continued, ‘a hundred of these sails will be able to power a city the size of Paris.’

  Janné interrupted. ‘I didn’t think wind power could be so strong.’

  ‘It wasn’t,’ said Dr Dowden, pushing up his glasses, ‘until now. Welcome to the control room, Gentlemen.’

  He pushed open the door and they found themselves in what looked like a laboratory. There were banks of buttons, levers and flashing lights on three sides of the room. Two orderlies in white coats were studiously attending to monitors and gauges. In the centre of the room was a semi-transparent panel with a diagram of the two towers and various LEDs blinking. Everything was spotless.

  Jake found it hard to take in. This seemed like a miniature version of Mission Control at NASA. By the looks of the players, they were astounded, too. On the far side of the room was a glass panel leading into what seemed to be an empty white chamber.

  ‘What’s in there?’ Jake asked.

  ‘That’s the test chamber,’ said Dr Dowden. ‘We can channel the power from the blades above. With a flick of a switch, the air inside this chamber can shift from a gentle summer breeze to hurricane gales.’

  ‘Can we see how it works?’ Devon asked.

  ‘I thought you’d never ask,’ Dr Dowden said. He called to one of the other scientists. ‘Hans, shall we run a test for the visitors?’

  The male orderly nodded and quickly began flipping switches. Dr Dowden unlocked the test chamber door with a code. It hissed open.

  On the diagnostic panel in the centre of the room, both sails blipped into life, showing that the real blades above the trees were turning.

  Jake and the others gathered at the glass window. At one end were two fans, each ten feet across. At the other was a wall that seemed to be made of sharp rods, all about three feet long, sticking out like an upturned bed of nails.

  ‘What are those?’ Jake asked and pointed to the menacing spikes.

  ‘Those are high-tensile rods,’ Dr Dowden replied, seeming pleased at the interest from his audience. ‘The whole chamber is magnetised, generating a current from the energy created by the turbines.’

  ‘In English?’ joked Devon.

  ‘It’s also good for drying your hair,’ said Dr Dowden. That one didn’t get a laugh either.

  Dr Dowden closed the door behind him. His voice came over the speaker. ‘Just show them Level One, Hans.’

  The scientist flicked two switches and turned a dial. ‘Level One initiated,’ he said.

  A display above the chamber read Level 1. The blades at the far end of the chamber began to turn. A fraction of a second later, Dr Dowden’s hair stirred. ‘Level One can generate enough energy to power the floodlights at the new stadium,’ said his tinny voice. ‘The generator can run consistently at Level One for up to six months. Dependent on the wind, of course. Show them Level Two, please.’

  Hans twisted the dial. Now Dr Dowden’s shirt was flapping. ‘By changing the angle of the turbine blades we can adapt for different weather conditions.’ He made a twisting motion with his arm to demonstrate. ‘And deactivate please, Hans.’

  The wind seemed to pick up. The digital display said Level 3.

  ‘Repeat, deactivate the turbine,’ said Dr Dowden.

  The figure switched to 4.

  Jake and the others all looked to Hans, but he was frantically flicking switches.

  ‘Dr Dowden,’ he said, ‘there seems to be some sort of malfunction.’

  Level 5.

  Dr Dowden’s tie whipped behind him, trailing like a banner.

  ‘Override,’ he said. Panic was creeping into his voice.

  ‘Override unsuccessful,’ Hans said, equally panicked.

  Level 7.

  ‘I’ll get help,’ said Devon, breaking away from the group.

  ‘Get him out!’ Benalto said. He reached the door and tried to open it, but it seemed stuck.

  ‘The code!’ Jake shouted, remembering the keypad. ‘Dr Dowden, what’s the code?’

  The doctor reached the other side of the door. ‘Zero, seven, one, one,’ he shouted back.

  Jake punched it in, but a red bar flashed.

  Level 8.

  Dr Dowden’s glasses were torn from his face and smashed into fragments among the conducting rods. Jake noticed his lips had turned blue. The temperature inside must be dropping.

  Hans had come to the door now and punched the code again. No effect.

  ‘What can we do?’ said Jake.

  Level 9.

  Dr Dowden’s feet suddenly went from under him and he scrambled on the floor, fighting against an invisible current of air. He managed to grip part of the door frame.

  Hans looked terrified, so Jake grabbed his shoulders. ‘Hans, there must be some way of shutting this down!’

  The others were urging Dr Dowden to hold on. The scientist couldn’t speak, but Jake could read his eyes. They were pleading for help.

  ‘The sails are controlled by the wind.’ Hans stared wide-eyed at Jake. ‘They only switch off when there’s no breeze.’

  ‘There must be another way,’ Jake said. ‘Think!’

  ‘Outside. On the mast itself. An override lever behind a panel. Near the top,’ panted Hans. ‘But it’s impossible to do when the sails are spinning.’ Hans looked at Dr Dowden, still clinging to the door frame. ‘There’s no time.’

  Level 10.

  Without looking back, Jake ran for the door.

  13

  The air outside was warm, but Jake’s blood felt cold. He immediately spied the simple ladder running up the side of the mast. At the top, the blades were spinning serenely – nothing to hint at the terror inside the control room.

  Jake sprinted to the bottom of the ladder and began to climb, hand over hand, as quickly as he could. Every second the turbine would be blasting harder into the test chamber, and the temperature would drop further. If Dr Dowden let go, his body would be punctured by the conducting rods. Jake felt sickened by the thought of such a gruesome end.

  By the time he was level with the treetops, his arms were starting to burn. A quick glance up confirmed he was more than halfway there. The wind from the immense blades buffeted over him.

  To one side, he could see the roof of Truman’s house. Devon should be there by now. He would have warned everyone what was happening just a couple of hundred metres away. Jake pushed on.

  He was close to the bottom of the blades now.

  He looked down. A mistake.

  The forest floor seemed tiny and he could see the players, anxiously staring up. They were shouting words he couldn’t hear. Jake had never been afraid of heights, but the sheer terror in the faces below seemed to infect him. Suddenly his legs were like jelly, and the sweat across his forehead turned icy. He forced himself to reach up again.

  And there it was: the panel. Daubed in Russian and English: MANUAL OVERRIDE: OPERATE ONLY IN CASE OF EMERGENCY.

  Jake pulled open the hatch. Inside was a T-shaped handle. He grabbed it. It didn’t move. He tugged harder, but still the lever wouldn’t budge.

  ‘Come on!’ Jake shouted. He couldn’t fail now.

  Bracing himself, he yanked as hard as he could. The lever flicked over. He felt a flood of relief as he heard a sound like a ratchet tightening and the blades slowed immediately. Then Jake felt his weight tipping – the handle had come off in his hand! He reached for the rung, but it was too late.

  Jake pushed off with his legs into the path of an oncoming blade. His fingers caught the edge and his body slammed into the fibreglass. The wind was knocked out of him and pain shot through his hand. As he struggled to breathe and wrapped his arms and legs round the blade, he felt himself lifted into the air.

  The rotating blade swung him upward and then descended again, before it finally ground to a halt.

  Jake was suspended, 150 feet above the forest floor.

  ‘Help!’ he called out, his legs swinging
wildly beneath him. A crowd had gathered below, tiny figures. ‘Help!’ he shouted again.

  He heard a creaking sound from above and looked up. A fine crack had formed where the blade he was hanging from joined the axle of the turbine.

  Fear hit him like a punch in the gut.

  Jake slithered along and reached for the axle, looping a hand around each side. Just as he did so, the blade sheared away. He watched it crash through the leaves and into the control room roof.

  But he wasn’t safe yet. The mast and the ladder were five feet away. Jake swung his legs towards the rungs, but he couldn’t get close. And with each swing his grip on the huge axle loosened.

  Jake looked down desperately, feeling the fire across his shoulders from the effort of holding himself up. This is how I’m going to die, he thought.

  ‘Jake! Just hold on!’ shouted a voice.

  His dad was scaling the ladder with surprising speed. His limp didn’t seem to bother him. ‘Hang on, son!’ he yelled, his face contorted with the effort of climbing. ‘Don’t let go!’

  Jake’s hands slipped, slick with sweat. ‘Dad! Hurry!’

  His dad came level, panting for breath. His eyes seemed to pass over the scene in a second. With one hand on the rung, the other was scrabbling at his belt. He unfastened the buckle and pulled it free.

  ‘Jake,’ he said, ‘listen to me carefully. ‘I’m going to swing this to you. You need to grab the end.’

  ‘I can’t,’ said Jake. Desperation clawed at his insides. ‘You won’t be able to hold me.’

  His dad looped the belt once round his own wrist, and looked Jake dead in the eye. ‘I won’t drop you, Jake.’ His voice was calm. ‘Ready?’

  There was no choice. Jake couldn’t hold on much longer. His dad swung the leather belt, buckle-end first, in Jake’s direction. Jake released his grip and reached for the belt. One hand closed on the buckle, he swung forward and a millisecond later the other hand grabbed a rung on the ladder. He saw his dad’s face in slow motion, clenched against Jake’s weight, his eyes pleading for his son to hold on.

  Jake slammed into the mast and his feet found the rungs. He sucked in deep breaths and the adrenalin seeped from his veins, leaving him weak as a kitten.

  I’m safe! his mind screamed. I’m alive!

  A great cheer went up from below, whooping and shouting in several languages. Jake closed his eyes and was aware of his dad speaking.

  ‘Time to go down, Jake. Can you climb?’

  Jake began the descent unsteadily. His limbs felt like lead but as the ground came nearer he began to recover. A new feeling crept up. Anger.

  Dr Dowden was lying on the grass in the recovery position, while Hans and the other scientist were tending to him. For a moment, Jake feared he might be dead, but a slight movement told him otherwise. Truman, Popov and two security guards were standing to one side, and the rest of the team stood further back. Devon Taylor came forward to help Jake from the bottom of the ladder. He bent over to catch his breath and heard the American say, ‘That was amazing, Jake. You saved Dr Dowden’s life!’

  His dad came down shortly behind him. Jake was surprised that he was hardly even sweating. The other footballers murmured praise, stepping forward to pat them both on the back.

  Popov was staring up at the turbine, his tongue playing against the inside of his cheek. He looked like he was controlling his emotions – but what emotions? Relief? Fury? Frustration? Dr Dowden groaned softly.

  ‘He needs to go to hospital,’ Hans said. ‘Hypothermia.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Truman. He pointed to one of the security team. ‘You there, call an ambulance.’

  Jake’s dad walked towards him and before Jake knew it he was in a tight embrace. ‘I thought I’d lost you, son,’ he said. His voice was choked.

  Jake remembered Daniel Powell’s body plummeting towards the centre circle. He’d almost met the same fate. He couldn’t contain his anger, and shoved his dad hard in the chest. His dad stumbled, but didn’t go down, much to Jake’s annoyance.

  Jake pushed past Devon and sprinted into the forest.

  ‘Jake!’ his dad shouted, sounding utterly confused. ‘Come back here.’

  Jake didn’t know where he was going. He wanted only one thing: to be away from his dad and all the lies and death and chaos that followed him. There was no track between the trees and the sound of his footsteps was swallowed up by the thick carpet of pine needles. He leapt over fallen trunks and dodged around stumps, his legs working on autopilot while thoughts thundered in his brain. Chernoff. Powell. The two pilots. Now Dowden. Innocent men, all caught up in some deadly game that his dad and Igor Popov were playing. He remembered bitterly how much he’d wanted to come to Russia. How he’d practically begged.

  He’d grown up thinking his dad was a footballer. A straightforward defender his team-mates could rely on. Who he could rely on. What a laugh!

  ‘Jake, stop!’ his dad called. The voice was close. Jake risked a glance back and saw his dad charging after him through the trees. Jake pushed on, but he couldn’t believe it. His dad was catching him.

  What about his limp?

  Jake pumped his legs harder and ducked under a low branch. He looked back again, but couldn’t see his dad at all.

  Something snagged his foot. The ground rose up to meet him, and Jake put out his hands. The smell of the forest floor was heavy as Jake rolled over.

  His dad was standing over him, holding out a hand.

  ‘That’s enough, Jake.’

  ‘You’re quick for a guy with ligament damage,’ Jake spat out. ‘Or is that a lie too?’

  His dad shot a look around, his eyes alive with suspicion. Against the line of his trousers, Jake made out the shape of something concealed near his ankle. The gun . . . it had to be.

  ‘I can explain,’ his dad hissed. ‘Just keep your voice down.’

  Jake laughed grimly. ‘Or what?’

  ‘You don’t speak to me like that!’ snapped his dad. ‘D’you hear?’

  Jake made his decision. He’d had enough. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, grasping for his dad’s outstretched hand. With one hand he pulled himself up, but he kicked hard with his foot, raking the edge down his dad’s shin – an Olly Price special. His dad cried out and fell backward.

  ‘What the hell!’ he shouted.

  Jake scrambled on top of him, driving an elbow into his dad’s gut. While his dad tried to stand, Jake leant across his legs and tore at the bottom of his trousers. He pulled out the gun and rolled off. His dad sprang up quickly, panic in his eyes.

  Jake aimed the gun at his dad’s chest. ‘I’ll speak to you how I want . . . Dad.’

  14

  Jake wasn’t sure what he expected, but his dad didn’t raise his hands or cower He simply stood there, arms at his sides.

  ‘Put the gun down.’

  Jake’s senses were focused on his finger and the trigger it touched. He tensed. A tiny twitch, that’s all it would take . . . and I’d be a killer, too. Like father, like son.

  ‘Jake, you don’t know what you’re doing.’

  ‘This is the second gun I’ve held this week,’ Jake said, failing to keep the tremor out of his voice. ‘I know what to do with it.’

  ‘Jake, I’m your father for God’s sake. Don’t point that thing at me.’

  ‘Not till you tell me what’s going on. Why have you got a gun?’

  His dad took a step forward. Jake backed off, but kept a firm grip on the hilt. ‘You’re a killer, aren’t you? Some kind of assassin.’

  There were shouts from far off. The others were searching for them.

  ‘It’s not like that,’ his dad said. ‘I carry a weapon for protection.’

  Jake snorted and shook his head. ‘More lies. Like the fake limp.’

  His dad took a heavy breath. ‘Jake, there isn’t much time. I can explain everything, but you have to give me back the gun and give me a chance.’

  ‘Like you gave Chernoff, you mean? And Powell? You’re
nothing but a gangster, and you’re not going to get away with it.’

  ‘Coach?’ Devon yelled from somewhere between the trees. ‘Jake?’

  ‘Jake,’ said his dad, looking him dead in the eye. ‘Yes, I’ve lied to you. I’ve lied to you all your life. But now I’m telling you the truth.’ He cast a furtive glance behind him, then spoke quickly in a low voice. ‘I work for MI6. Popov is my target – the coaching job’s a means to an end. Andy was my informant. I found out after we arrived that Powell was CIA – the Americans are on to Popov too. Andy and Powell died because they knew too much, and I’m damned if that’s going to happen to you.’

  Jake was speechless.

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  Twigs cracked nearby. The others were close.

  ‘If they find us with this gun, it’s all over,’ his dad said. ‘Everything.’ He looked serious enough. His words were laced with desperation.

  No, it didn’t add up.

  ‘What about the fight with Powell?’

  ‘What fight?’ His dad’s face creased in confusion, which became a frown of anger. ‘You’ve been spying on me?’

  ‘Must run in the family,’ said Jake. ‘You warned him off.’

  ‘I was worried he was going to blow my cover. Powell was reckless – the CIA have never been good at playing the long game.’

  The rustle of footsteps came from nearby. ‘I think I’ve found them,’ shouted a voice. ‘This way.’

  Jake’s dad leapt forward. Jake felt a pressure on his wrist and then the gun was gone. His dad released and concealed it in a single movement. He placed an arm over Jake’s shoulder and turned him round so they were side by side.

  Christian Truman stepped out of the trees with Devon and Popov. The Texan was wearing a worried grin, and took off his hat to fan his face. ‘Say, you guys all right?’

  Jake’s dad pasted a smile on his own mouth and wheeled to face the others. ‘Sure, Christian. Just a dad-son dispute. Nothing serious, you know.’