Power Down

by Ben Coes

  Dewey opened the door. Suddenly bathed in sunlight from the room, Pazur turned to look. For a split second he seemed startled. Then he moved, wheeling his gun at Dewey. But he was too late. Dewey fired one shot into the boy’s head, a single tap just above his right eye. The shot cracked loudly, echoed down the hallway. The bullet shattered the terrorist’s tanned skull into a dozen pieces and splattered his brains on the metal grating behind him.

  Dewey knelt, reached down, and pulled Pazur’s pistol from his hand just as the deck door at the end of the hallway opened. In the doorway, a gunman suddenly registered the sight of Pazur on the ground, then Dewey. A moment of shock as he looked at the blood-splattered wall behind Pazur, and Dewey, now moving the Colt toward him. The killer turned to run, screaming in Arabic, just as Dewey aimed and fired. The bullet struck the terrorist in the back of the head, felling him onto the deck just as the door swung shut.

  Dewey walked quickly down the hallway. He heard footsteps and frantic words in Arabic, just outside the doorway. At the door, where the terrorists would expect him to emerge, he took a sharp left and shimmied along the piping axis. It was barely wide enough to squeeze through. Behind him, he heard the sound of automatic weapons being fired at the door. The steel of the door blocked the slugs, but the gunmen continued, trying to shoot a hole in the door.

  Dewey stepped more than thirty feet, then angled toward another entrance to the deck, directly across from the door where the men were watching. As he peered out the slat, he saw seven men, weapons drawn. They had stopped firing. They were waiting for him to come out. But waiting at the wrong door.

  Overhead, the sound of the chopper grew louder as it descended toward the rig.

  Dewey felt a familiar rush, like a drug. All sense of fatigue, all pain from his injuries, simply melted away.

  He kicked the door open and walked into the brilliant sunshine of the marine deck, emerging quickly and without hesitation. The loud rhythm, the din of the descending chopper, cloaked the sound of his entrance. He was thirty feet from the doorway where the conspirators thought he would be.

  Dewey let his controlled fury, his instinct to survive, and his desire to kill all coalesce in a clarifying moment.

  He scanned the scene; seven killers in a loose line outside the far doorway, Kalashnikovs and Uzis out, trained at the door where they thought he would emerge; left, Esco lifting a duffel bag, running to the stairwell that would bring him to the chopper pad. The chopper’s wind and din blanketed the platform in chaos.

  Dewey stepped forward, arms crossed in front of him, right arm aimed left, left arm aimed right, Glock 39 and Colt .45 cocked to fire.

  The closest man, a dark-skinned Colombian named Juarez, saw Dewey, wheeled, started to turn his black Kalashnikov toward him.

  Dewey ignited the Colt first, a bull’s-eye tap into Juarez’s head an inch and a half above his right ear, shattering his skull and arching his large frame in the air for a brief, awkward moment before he tumbled onto the blood-wet grate behind him.

  Dewey moved toward the line of terrorists, pulsing the steel triggers of the semiautomatics as fast as his fingers would flex now, sweeping his arms east-west, rotating his torso as lead exploded from the weapons. One by one, the other killers dropped as slugs pinpointed skull and flesh. The killing arc ended where the last body fell, all seven terrorists down, terminated before they knew what hit them.

  Looking up, Dewey saw Esco running for his life up the north stairwell toward the helicopter pad. Dewey dropped Pazur’s Glock to the steel deck, unlocked the empty clip in his Colt and let it hit the ground, then pulled a fresh clip from his pocket, clicking it in as Esco ascended. The terrorist had two more deck levels to climb, and he took the stairs frantically, three steps at a time. Suddenly, he dropped the duffel halfway up the flight of stairs, as saving his own life became his sole concern. Dewey remained calm. He stepped coolly into the center frame of the marine deck. Esco glanced down at him as he climbed; their eyes made brief contact, Esco’s fear riveted across the space between the men, so desperate was he now to reach the chopper.

  Above the scrambling terrorist, the chopper touched down, the rig swayed ever so slightly, and wind ripped from the pad grid down, blowing Dewey’s sweat-soaked hair across his face, but it didn’t matter now, all he saw was Esco. All he felt was the desire to kill the man who’d killed so many of his men. Dewey stepped slowly across the steel grate of the marine deck. He held the Colt down by his side as he watched Esco climb. He felt the steel of the weapon pressing through his jeans, still hot from the firing sequence. Slowly, he raised his right arm. The Colt found its place in the air, extended at the end of Dewey’s arm. He waited, one last moment, as Esco reached the last flight of stairs beneath the chopper pad. He waited, one more moment, then another, and still one more, until the terrorist reached the last step before the helideck.

  At the top step, Esco looked down. Dewey made eye contact, then fired, one shot. The Colt’s blunt power reflected itself in the thunderclap of the bullet release. Dewey’s arm kicked back and he let the weapon bounce up to the sky, for he knew the shot was true. Above the chopper din, he heard the scream, then watched as Esco fell, tumbling down the steel stairwell, tumbling down stair after stair until he came to a contorted rest at the landing a full flight beneath the chopper pad.

  Dewey glanced around at the deserted rig. As the chopper’s rotors pulsed he could hear the crewmen yelling from the hotel. He ran across the steel deck and unlatched the large steel bolt that held them inside. His crew poured out of the door.

  “Thank God, Chief,” someone said as he ran out of the mess hall.

  “Listen to me!” Dewey yelled. “There’s a bomb on the rig. Capitana’s going to explode. Get in the lifeboats!”

  Dewey stood at the door and waved the men toward the lifeboats.

  “Each boat takes twenty men. Fill the boats. Paddle as far away from the platform as you can. Go!”

  As the men began carrying out his orders, Dewey made for the north stairwell. On the third level, he came to Esco’s supine body, his eyes staring up at him. Dewey’s shot had punctured the terrorist’s chest; Esco’s chest wound foamed red with each labored breath.

  “Chief,” he rasped.

  Dewey said nothing. He aimed the gun at his head, registered the fear in Esco’s eyes.

  “Detonator,” said Dewey. “Now.”

  Esco managed a laugh and looked away. Blood coughed from his lips and his teeth became dark with blood.

  Dewey shrugged and sent a bullet into his head. He searched the body but found nothing resembling a detonator. There was one last chance.

  He climbed over the body onto the last flight of stairs before the helicopter pad. He pushed the door to the landing area open. The wash from the still-whirling rotors caused him to duck as he ran to the open door of the chopper. He climbed inside, weapon drawn.

  “What happened?” the pilot shouted over the din. “Where is everybody?”

  Dewey studied the pilot, a tanned older man with a shaved head. He aimed the gun at the man’s head.

  “Esco?” asked the pilot.

  “Where’s the detonator?” Dewey yelled at the pilot.

  “I have no idea. I’m just a pilot.”

  “Who do you work for?”

  The pilot stared at Dewey. He pulled up the collective to get the chopper light on its wheels, in preparation for takeoff.

  Dewey raised the pistol, thrust it into the man’s ear. “Where’s the fucking detonator?”

  Quicker than Dewey thought possible, the pilot had the chopper lifting into the air; soon it was hovering fifty feet above the derrick.

  “Where’s the detonator?” Dewey yelled over the engine noise, holding the pistol at the pilot’s head. “Put it down!”

  But it was too late. The helicopter rose above the platform. At this height Dewey had no more leverage over the pilot. To shoot him would be suicide. To jump would be the same. The pilot turned to him and, as if reading hi
s mind, nudged the Colt aside. He pointed to a radio headset. Dewey put it on.

  The pilot steadied the chopper and moved the cyclic forward. The chopper began to move away from the rig. Capitana grew smaller as they ascended.

  “You killed Esco?”

  Beneath them, lifeboats dotted the sea. Dewey counted ten of them, oars chopping furiously at the water as his men paddled away from the rig. He could see more men still on deck, frantically untying, lowering, and loading the rest of the boats.

  Dewey nodded. “Where’s the detonator?”

  The pilot glanced at him and gave a dismissive laugh.

  Dewey put the Colt to the pilot’s temple. With his other hand he took hold of a finger on the pilot’s right hand, the man’s pinky. He quickly pulled it backward until it snapped.

  The pilot let out a scream, but Dewey held his hand fast.

  “The bomb’s set, on a timer,” gasped the pilot. “There is no detonator.”

  White-hot anger gave way to an even more corrosive wave of self-reproach. Dewey returned the Colt to the pilot’s temple.

  “What will you do, cowboy? Shoot me? I don’t think so.”

  The helicopter, which had been steadily climbing, suddenly shuddered.

  “The bomb!” yelled the pilot. Dewey swiveled to look behind them.

  A groundswell of movement rippled up and out from the water. Whitecaps suddenly began bursting out in a hundred different places as the seabed detonation reached the ocean’s surface. A low, loud sonic boom barreled through the air. The chopper lurched and jerked; the pilot struggled to hold it steady against the shock waves.

  The chopper wheeled around violently. In the distance, a mushroom cloud of black smoke burst out from Capitana. The bomb exploded and the rig was now consumed in an inferno of flames. A bright chemical plume of maroon, green, and orange barreled into the sky. Thick smoke swallowed up the horizon. The mini-TLPs, Capitana’s satellite platforms, became engulfed in flames and smoke. The picture was chaos.

  The boats nearest to the rig were instantly consumed by water and fire. Many seemed far enough away; they might survive. The pilot steadied the chopper and Dewey stared at the rig, the rig he’d helped turn into the most productive platform in the world, the place that for many years had been his home. Now it was a smoldering carapace. A graveyard.

  Dewey could only shut his eyes and think about the dozens of roughnecks who were drowning or burning alive. He had never been close to any of them. But they were his men. Some might survive. Most had died. He felt sick to his stomach. He wanted to turn and put a bullet in the pilot’s head. But he knew that he needed him to get back to the mainland alive, to find the minds behind this destruction, the architects of this apocalypse.

  Patience, he thought to himself. If you kill this one now you’ll die, whoever is behind this will win.

  He tuned the radio to channel 16, the maritime emergency frequency.

  “Mayday, Mayday!” yelled Dewey into his headset. “This is Dewey Andreas calling from Capitana Territory. Latitude four degrees north, longitude eighty-two degrees west. We have an explosion at Capitana. Mayday!”

  Dewey repeated himself several times, but heard nothing in response.

  “I hope you’re enjoying yourself,” the pilot said, cradling his broken finger. “The radio’s on a closed frequency. Nobody hears you.”

  Dewey sat back, still holding the Colt against the pilot’s head. The skyline was a hue of purple as far as the eye could see, the color of a bruise; a perfect symbol of Dewey’s own physical state. He was in pain. His body had suffered damage. Dewey was forty-two years old. Not an old man, but he wasn’t young either.

  He focused his thoughts. Survival, he knew, had to be his singular objective. Survival. He took a deep breath.

  “How far are we from Cali?” asked Dewey.

  “Ninety minutes.”

  A faint, scratchy whisper came over the headset. “Bell eighteen, this is Simon. How was the visit? Over.”

  The pilot looked over at Dewey. Dewey shook his head.

  “Bell eighteen, I repeat. Can you hear me?”

  The pilot looked again at Dewey. Dewey pointed at his broken finger. The pilot again said nothing.

  “Zaima, I need a signal that you’re alive. Over.”

  Without warning the pilot began talking rapidly in Arabic. Dewey reached out as quickly as he could and ripped the headset from the pilot’s head.

  “Fuckhead,” Dewey said. He took hold of the pilot’s injured hand and snapped two more fingers.

  The pilot screamed, then panted through gritted teeth. “You will die soon.”

  They flew for a long time in silence. After a time the horizon took shape, a wisp of arterial green. Then it grew quickly into a shoreline. The cliffs of the Colombian coast arose in dramatic earth tones. Soon, the country rose into sharp mountain peaks, visible past the green rain forest the helicopter now began traversing. After another fifteen minutes the industrial skyline of Cali began to take shape, skyscrapers stacked up in sharp lines at the center of the dusty city. Thick smog hovered like a blanket above the skyline.

  Dewey watched the pilot out of the corner of his eye. When their eyes met, he saw fear in the terrorist’s eyes. He sensed movement below the man’s face, caught the pilot’s injured hand settling on the small latch of the compartment between the seats. In a flash the pilot had the console open, his hand inside.

  Dewey brought down his left elbow like a hammer, slamming the lid on the pilot’s hand. A terrible scream came from the pilot.

  “Remove your hand,” said Dewey. “Slowly.”

  “Not long now,” the man managed to grunt as he pulled his hand back. “They’ll be waiting.”

  “I’m counting on it.” Dewey kept the gun to the pilot’s head and reached down with his left hand to open the compartment box. He came up with the black steel of a handgun, a Glock.

  “Who do you work for?” asked Dewey.

  “You’re about to find out.”

  The city’s skyline now dwarfed the chopper. Cali was one of the quickest growing cities of South America, fueled by the tremendous natural resources of the country, and, of course, by drug money and the various industries it spawned and fed, such as banking and shipping. This resulted in a blend of old brick buildings, some of them shabby tenements and squat government-designed industrial buildings, and tall, modern skyscrapers, half of them still under construction.

  The chopper headed for the city center, aiming at a blue-tinted glass and steel skyscraper that stood taller than the others. On the roof, around a bright red X, gathered a small group of men, weapons drawn and aimed at the descending chopper.

  “You want to meet my friends?” asked the pilot. The roof loomed closer now, no more than a hundred feet away. Half a dozen men, Dewey counted. Too many to manage with his weaponry and their angle of descent.

  Dewey pressed the gun into the pilot’s neck. “Turn this thing around!”

  The pilot ignored him.

  The chopper descended into a slow hover above the building, now nearly at eye level with the gunmen. Dewey lowered the Colt and fired a single round into the pilot’s right knee. The shot blew his kneecap into bits. Blood spattered like paint drops across the concave windshield of the chopper. Another scream as the pilot cursed in Arabic.

  “Take us up,” Dewey barked.

  Tears of pain streamed from the pilot’s eyes, mixed with blood that had spattered from his kneecap being blown off. Dewey aimed the pistol at his other knee.

  “Pull up!”

  “No!” yelled the pilot.

  The chopper suddenly tilted left. The main chopper blade arched to the side, toward a line of armed gunmen, who scattered before the blade ripped the air where they had just stood. Dewey braced himself for what he thought would be the impact of the blade striking the rooftop, but the pilot pulled back, steadying the chopper. Holding his knee with his mangled hand, he managed to continue a wobbly descent. The chopper bounced and weaved
in the air just a few feet above the building. The gunmen, who’d just evaded the out-of-control blade, dived for cover again, yelling. The front right skid of the helicopter banged the pad roughly.

  Dewey aimed the pistol at the pilot’s other knee and fired. The scream was deafening. The chopper lifted momentarily, less than a foot off the ground, arched backward, then started to sweep around out of control counterclockwise.

  “Pull up!” yelled Dewey.

  The pilot was now covered in his own blood. The helicopter continued to rise in a semicontrolled veer.

  “The black building. Now!”

  As the pilot eased the chopper away from the rooftop, one of the gunmen charged, machine gun aimed squarely at Dewey.

  He was a big man, at least six five, and had curly dark hair and sunglasses. He was yelling at the pilot as he aimed.

  Dewey kept the Colt in his right hand aimed at the pilot’s head. In his left hand he held the pilot’s gun. He crossed his left hand beneath his right arm and fired through the door of the chopper. He missed. Fired again. This shot struck the gunman squarely in the forehead. The top of his head came off like a saucer as the man jerked backward from the force of the shot.

  “Get us out of here!” yelled Dewey.

  As the chopper climbed, the remaining gunmen opened fire. The windshield shattered and bullets ricocheted around the cabin. Slugs hit the chopper’s blades, its engines, and its tail. Dewey ducked as low as he could as the pilot pulled the chopper laterally away from the building, then higher into the sky. The chopper was struggling. The engine sputtered.

  “We’re not going to make it,” said the pilot.

  The helicopter frame vibrated furiously. The whole machine pitched violently to the left. Smoke enveloped the sky in a cloud of dark black.

  “I can’t hold it!”

  The chopper circled uncontrollably downward shrouded in black, as the engine coughed and the main rotor struggled to keep the chopper in the air.

  A stray bullet tore into the pilot’s head, snapping his skull sideways.