Henri won’t allow himself to dwell on the emotion of leaving the men he has commanded for over two decades. There is too much to do. He moves to the ladder that leans against Atlantis’s open hatch and climbs towards the shuttle.
**
The plastic tie around Rhonda’s right wrist is loose but not yet loose enough. Martie has only turned around twice since they were left alone and each time Rhonda stopped flexing before her ex-friend saw what she was doing.
Someone climbs the ladder. Rhonda stops flexing and turns to the Frenchman as he steps onto the flight deck. He moves to Martie, lays a hand on her shoulder, leans down and whispers something in her ear.
Martie stands and hugs him, long and tight, then quickly exits the flight deck with her head bowed. Rhonda glimpses Martie’s face as she turns to climb down the ladder and sees her eyes are wet with tears.
Why is Martie crying? Whatever the reason it surely can’t be good. Rhonda hears the hatch close and lock, then turns to the Frenchman as he sits in the commander’s chair. ‘What’s going on? Why am I here?’
‘You’re here because you are my conduit.’
‘What does that mean? And don’t give me that “all will become apparent” bullshit again.’
He doesn’t give her that, or anything. He remains silent. Rhonda’s first impulse is to unleash a torrent of abuse. She thinks better of it and pushes the anger down, into the pit of her stomach, so she can access it later. She doesn’t want him to pay her any attention, she wants him to forget she’s even here so she can get on with what needs to be done.
She takes a deep breath and continues flexing her arm. The plastic tie needs to be much looser.
**
41
Thompkins yanks the D-ring handle between his legs and it all happens. The Article’s canopy flips off, the ejector seat rockets fire and he is catapulted out of the aircraft.
‘Ohmigod!’ It takes everything he’s got not to black out as the wall of air smacks into him. Then the man/seat separator separates man from seat and Thompkins freefalls.
A big jolt. A parachute flaps open from his harness and he slows. Then the chute detaches. ‘What the hell?’ He looks up. The chute disappears into the orange sky above.
He can’t believe it. After everything, the chute fails! He looks down. The ground rushes towards him.
Another jolt, much harder than the first. ‘Sonofabitch! A glorious 10-metre canopy flaps open above him. This is the first time he’s ejected from an Article and he’d forgotten a key fact from his training: the first chute was just a drogue to slow him down before the main chute opened.
He breathes for the first time since he pulled the D-ring, then turns and searches for the Article.
He finds it, a distant black smear against a lightening sky. It lists to the left then gently rolls over until it is tail down. In that position it hits the desert with a bright flash followed by a dull thud.
What he’s doing suddenly feels real. Watching the destruction of that magnificent aircraft, the last of its breed, makes him profoundly sad, almost as much as the death of Mahoney.
He looks down, takes in the shuttle perched atop the Galaxy. A black chopper, blades turning, waits nearby. He angles the chute away from them, doesn’t want a gust of wind to blow him into a turbofan or rotor blade.
The ground comes up quickly. He assumes the landing position, hits hard, rolls onto his side then to standing. It’s surprisingly graceful.
He looks over at Atlantis and the Galaxy. They’re a good kilometre away. The chute billows around him. He works the clips, detaches it from the harness.
Whack! A fist slams into his face.
‘Where is she?!’
Judd throws another punch, hits Thompkins in the jaw, stuns him. He stumbles backwards, falls into his chute.
‘Where is she?!’ Judd drops onto him, pins him to the ground with knees on his chest, clamps both hands around his neck.
Thompkins gasps for breath. ‘Where’s who?’
‘Rhonda!’ Judd vibrates with anger. ‘Is she on board Atlantis?’
‘I don’t know what you’re —’
‘Tell me!’ Judd squeezes harder.
‘— talking about —’
Judd loosens his grip. If he kills him he has nothing. No information, no options, nothing.
Thompkins drives a knee upwards, knocks Judd aside, reaches inside his flight-suit pocket, grabs a Glock pistol, points the weapon —
It’s wrenched from his hand. He looks up through the swirling dust, focuses on his assailant.
It’s Judd Bell. Thompkins is genuinely shocked he’s alive. Instantly he has second thoughts about sending him out here, though he’s not sure what else he could’ve done. During the launch Judd had seen both Dirk and Henri’s faces. Thompkins couldn’t have him reporting that information to the authorities so he sent him directly to the Northern Territory, to be eliminated when he arrived at the Kinabara Dish.
Thompkins plays it straight. ‘Judd? What are you doing?’
‘Wrong answer.’ Judd’s fist shoots out like a piston, cracks Thompkins’ nose.
‘Stop it!’
‘Where is she? Is she alive?!’
‘I’m on your side.’
‘Liar. You sent the marines to Tunisia.’
Thompkins is, once again, shocked. How does he know this? Judd drives the pistol under his chin.
‘I’m just here to help.’
‘Bullshit.’
A noise. They turn, see a black chopper skim the desert towards them.
‘They coming to get you?’
Thompkins plays dumb. ‘Who? I don’t know what you’re talking about —’
‘Get up!’ Judd drags Thompkins to his feet, the pistol pushed against his chest.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m gonna trade your sorry arse.’
**
The Tiger chunters towards the two men standing in the middle of the desert. One is Thompkins, Dirk knows that. He saw him eject, saw the parachute open, saw him land. The other guy is a bit of a mystery. Then he looks closer and realises it’s no mystery at all.
Dirk couldn’t be happier. After days spent trying to kill the astronaut, Judd Bell has come to him.
‘What are we doing?’ Big Bird’s voice buzzes in Dirk’s headset.
‘Put it down, fifty meters away.’
The Tiger settles onto the desert in a swirl of dust. Dirk draws his pistol, cracks open the cockpit and climbs down. Buffeted by rotor wash, he approaches Thompkins and Judd Bell, stops 20 metres away.
‘Are they alive?’ The astronaut shouts over the rasp of the Tiger’s turbine.
‘Who?’
‘The women.’
‘Ms Jacolby is safely strapped into the shuttle as we speak. Ms Burnett is in the Galaxy.’
Judd points the pistol at Thompkins’ neck. ‘You want this guy alive then you release them both, now.’
‘I don’t think Ms Burnett would like that. She’s with us, and has been for a number of years.’
Judd recoils. ‘Bullshit.’
‘It’s true. As for Ms Jacolby, I’m afraid we can’t spare her. She still has an important role to play.’
‘Hand them over or he dies.’
Dirk waves his pistol at Thompkins. ‘You seem to be under the impression that his death would somehow concern me.’ Dirk’s eyes move to Thompkins. ‘How did you get yourself into this situation?’
‘Do it. It’s an easy trade.’ Thompkins’ voice is edged with panic.
Judd pushes the gun hard into his neck. ‘Don’t know what I’m talking about, huh?’
Thompkins ignores him. ‘Come on, I did everything for you people. Let me talk to Henri.’
‘He is no longer in charge.’
Thompkins frowns. ‘What? Then who is?’
Dirk grins. ‘Me.’ His eyes fall on the astronaut. ‘While I consider your offer, Mr
Bell, I must know one thing. Have you told anyone about me?’
Judd’s surprised by the question, then nods at Thompkins. ‘Only this prick.’
‘Thank you.’ Fast and smooth, Dirk raises his pistol and fires the way professional soldiers do. The bullet slams into Thompkins’ forehead; his head snaps back and he crumples to the desert.
Judd swings his weapon at Dirk but he’s not a professional and the German has already aimed and fired. The bullet thumps into the astronaut’s chest and he drops to the dust.
Dirk pivots, strides back to the waiting Tiger. He’s pleased Judd Bell is dead but not sure if he was telling the truth. The German will just have to wait and see if Thompkins is the only person he told about his past. It’s not ideal but then Dirk knows it’s no one’s fault but his own. He pulls the walkie from his belt, speaks into it: ‘Nico, get the Galaxy airborne.’
The Italian’s voice crackles in response: ‘Roger that. What about Thompkins?’
‘He won’t be making the trip.’
Yes, Thompkins had proved useful for the years he’d been on the payroll, had been instrumental in helping enlist the all-important Martie Burnett and giving them access to information regarding the shuttle’s systems, but now the crew is under new management and those days are over. Just as Thompkins had been disloyal to NASA, he would eventually be disloyal to Dirk so he could never become part of the crew, and if he wasn’t part of the crew he couldn’t be out in the world knowing what he knew. So he had to go, as would Martie Burnett and Kelvin Atwater once the mission was complete.
Dirk climbs into the Tiger, pulls on his Top Hawk helmet and barks into its headset’s microphone. ‘Let’s go.’
**
42
It hurts like a motherfucker and he couldn’t be happier about that. If he’s feeling pain then he’s alive.
Judd forces his eyes open. The sunlight dazzles him. Yep, still alive. He blinks, reaches his right hand to the profound pain at the left side of his chest, finds the bullet’s entry wound, to the left and down from his nipple. He’s certain the slug has cracked a rib but it doesn’t seem to have punctured a lung because he can breathe okay. He moves his hand to his side and finds the exit wound under his arm. He’s one lucky son of a bitch. Yes, he’s been shot, but it’s a ‘through and through’ that doesn’t seem to have hit any major organs; essentially it’s a flesh wound with delusions of grandeur.
He feels moisture at his back. He shifts, sees the large, dark puddle in the sand beneath him. Suddenly he doesn’t feel lucky at all. He’s lost a lot of blood and is still losing it. His shirt is drenched and his head feels light. He breathes in, wills the dizziness to pass.
The whine of turbofans sweeps across the desert. His eyes move, focus, find the Galaxy with Atlantis on its back. It’s taxiing, a good kilometre away. Tango in Berlin’s black chopper hovers behind it.
Judd looks back at the wound. He needs to get steely-eyed and quickly solve this life-or-death problem before he bleeds out. Instinctively he knows what the ingenious solution is: he saw it in a movie years ago, Rambo III, when Sylvester Stallone was the biggest movie star in the world.
Judd pushes his hand into his shirt pocket, pulls out the Marlboro soft pack. He upends the pack and the zippo and cigarette drop onto his chest. He brushes the cigarette away, knowing that if he survives this he has given up smoking. If the last couple of days have taught him anything it’s that there are altogether too many other ways to die prematurely so he must eliminate one, even if he will always miss those seven seconds.
With his right hand he picks up the zippo - Deke Slayton’s zippo. With his left arm he reaches across the dusty ground and pulls the Glock pistol towards him. Just moving the arm a few inches sends a jolt of pain through his chest. He feels lightheaded again. He breathes in, wills it to pass, then stops as he realises he may want to feel lightheaded considering what comes next.
He lifts the pistol to his chest as he flips open the lighter’s cover, flicks the flint wheel.
It doesn’t ignite. ‘Come on!’ He tries again. Nothing. He doesn’t know why it would suddenly work now. ‘Please.’ He tries one more time, slams his thumb down on the flint wheel.
The wick bursts into flame, flickers, steadies. ‘Thank you, Deke!’ He pushes the end of the pistol’s muzzle into the flame and holds it there. Lets it heat. Moments pass. The flame wavers. He keeps the pistol in place. The flame stutters out. He swaps the gun between his left and right hand and drives the superhot muzzle into the bullet’s entry wound.
Pain. Purple pain. Against his every instinct he holds the gun against the wound. He breathes as deeply as he can, unsure what’s worse, the sizzling sound of his flesh cooking or the sharp smell it produces. Either way he needs to stop the bleeding and cauterising the wound is the only option available to him. He also realises Stallone’s performance in Rambo III was spot on. It hurts like a bastard.
Judd pulls the weapon from the entry wound then jams it against the exit wound under his arm. Interestingly, it’s even more painful than the entry wound. It’s so bad he shouts at the sky. He no longer feels lightheaded.
He checks his handiwork as best he can. It seems the Stallone Procedure has worked a charm and staunched the bleeding, at least in the short term.
He drags himself to his feet. The pain is all-consuming. He gingerly pockets Deke’s zippo, keeps the pistol in hand and locks eyes on the Galaxy, which is still a kilometre away. He sets off towards it. The bullet wound throbs with every step but he ignores it. The jet is so far away he can’t imagine how he’ll reach it.
The Galaxy pivots and Judd realises it is coming back towards him. He looks down and sees that he’s on the runway. He’s thrilled. It’s his first piece of good fortune since he arrived in this country. He jogs to the middle of the runway and stops. It’s a relief to stand still.
The Galaxy’s turbofans run up and kick back a rolling cloud of red dust as it starts towards him, obscuring Tango’s chopper. Judd cocks the pistol.
**
Kelvin throttles up. He’s going to need every inch of the runway to get this double-decker monstrosity into the sky. Not only is the Galaxy carrying Atlantis, but it also has a full load of fuel in its wings and the new reservoir tank in the hold, plus a full complement of passengers. It’s a heavy package, perhaps the heaviest Galaxy to ever fly.
He sees something on the runway. ‘What the hell is that?’
Nico focuses on it, confused. ‘A man?’
‘What do I do?’
‘Keep going.’
‘You sure?’
‘What’s he going to do? We’re in a Galaxy.’
‘You’re the boss.’ Kelvin throttles up.
**
The Galaxy thunders towards Judd, 300 metres and closing. He’s directly in the path of the fuselage so he takes ten steps to the left. Two hundred metres and closing. He aims the pistol at the front tyres, tracks with them as he starts to run, the shriek of turbofans deafening. One hundred metres and closing. The desert shakes under his feet as he squeezes the trigger . ..
The Galaxy is upon him. He sprints. The nearest of the four front tyres is 10 metres away but it’s impossible to get closer because the fuselage is so large. He fires at it.
The bullet hits its mark - and has no discernible effect. He can’t keep up with the front tyres so he turns, aims at a rear tyre, fires. Again, the bullet does nothing. This is not working. This will not stop the jet from taking off.
He looks at the turbofan above. Maybe shooting that will. He aims the pistol, squeezes the trigger - and stops. The engine could explode, detonate the fuel in the wing and destroy Atlantis. Or it could flame out and stop the Galaxy from taking off.
He doesn’t know what to do.
Then he does.
He fires.
Nothing happens.
Judd falls behind the Galaxy, tries to stay close to the fuselage to avoid the jet wash, but that doesn’t
work either. The wall of dust slams into him, slaps him to the dirt.
The Galaxy thunders away.
He’s lost her.
Just audible above the roar of the engines is a noise. Drums, rhythmic and African, then percussion, like someone’s tapping a bottle with a stick.
Velocity Page 24
