by Mark Romang
He looked down. Darkness cloaked the canyon floor far below his dangling feet. He estimated a thousand feet or more separated him from the water snaking along the bottom of Perdition Canyon. And the icy water wasn’t nearly deep enough to keep him from splattering into a million pieces.
Not liking the downward view, Maddix looked up. The canyon rim lay less than a dozen feet above his head. I can climb that, no sweat, he thought. He grabbed for a handhold on the canyon wall but stopped in mid grab when he heard a cracking sound. He knew what the sound meant. He clutched at the wall. His fingers clawed for purchase, but found nothing.
The scrubby tree snapped in half. Maddix plummeted. He fell fast and heavy like a piano thrust from a ten-story window.
His stomach rose to his chest. He could taste the fettuccine he ate at Sara’s place for supper. It didn’t taste nearly as good now as it did earlier.
His right shoulder smashed into an outcropping. Maddix cried out. The pain felt like a sledgehammer bludgeoning his nerve endings. And then his left shoulder thudded into the canyon wall. He tried to keep his body straight to avoid colliding with the walls. But then he realized the collisions were actually slowing his descent. It’s no use, though. I’m still falling too fast, Maddix lamented.
His body hummed as he plunged through the rain-filled air.
Far below him he could just make out a light shining up through the sodden gloom. It looked tiny and insignificant. He imagined it was Sara or Webb standing on the canyon floor, shining a flashlight up to try and locate him. But the farther he plummeted the greater the luminescence became.
The light shined a magnificent golden hue, not at all like the harsh white of an LED flashlight beam, but a convivial radiance like lights shining in a house hosting a party. Maddix felt strangely drawn to the light like a magnet to iron, or a moth to flame. Of course I’m being drawn to it. I’m falling at terminal velocity directly at it, he thought. The canyon wall to his left sloped inward. Maddix slammed into the slope feet first and slid on his butt down the rain-slicked sandstone. He dragged his gloved hands along the bumpy, pitted rock, trying to slow his hard-charging momentum. But it was no use. The slope leveled off and he skidded off its edge and into space, back into his free-fall.
He figured he was going to die an ugly death in three seconds or less. His body would look like raw hamburger after it smashed into the rocks.
The light possessed supernova intensity and beckoned him. Maddix careened toward it. He flailed his arms. A scream left his mouth.
About a hundred feet from the mystery light and the canyon floor, Maddix felt his momentum slow. The odd sensation baffled him, yet thrilled him even more. He felt as if strong hands were pushing back at him, slowing his fall, protecting him from certain death. The sensation comforted him. A smile broke across his face. He might survive his fall now. He’d be busted up for sure, but still breathing all the same.
Maddix closed his eyes and prepared for impact. In what seemed like less time than a heartbeat, he dropped through the golden luminescence and onto the softest bed he’d ever slept on. His body bounced once on the velvety-smooth material and then settled safely back down. Only he wasn’t nestled on a bed fitted with a down comforter. Maddix looked around wide-eyed, confused yet curious.
The shimmering golden light made it difficult to determine what he’d landed on. It looked like snow but with a feathery texture. Whatever the substance was, it relaxed him. He felt completely at peace. A part of him wanted to take a nap right there. But another side wanted to leave the canyon and find Adramelech’s carcass and retrieve the Eden sword. His responsible side won out. Maddix rolled over to the edge of the feathery ground covering and stood up. Water lapped at his knees.
And then his breath fled. His lungs shriveled up. Maddix saw four angels kneeling in the water, their massive wings interlocked together. They stood up and faced him. The angels’ glowing robes were pure white like freshly fallen snow, and each angel wore an exquisite purple surcoat over their robe. A slain lamb intersected by a cross formed a coat of arms on their surcoats. Maddix staggered back and dropped to a knee. These angels were the most powerful he’d seen yet. He held a hand up to his face to shield his eyes. The shimmering golden light continued to intensify. The dark slot canyon lit up as if stadium lights had suddenly turned on. His human eyes couldn’t take it all in. And then with a shudder, he realized the intense light sparkling off the angels wasn’t an aura that covered them, but an uncontainable force from within, divine and pure and bursting forth.
“Do not be afraid, Andrew. Be courageous and continue your battle,” one of the angels said. His powerful voice—melodic and terrifying, echoed in the slot canyon.
Maddix couldn’t find his tongue. His brain struggled to form a cogent thought. At last, after several seconds of stammering, he said, “I lost the Eden sword. I plunged it into Adramelech and he took off before I could get it out.”
“The sword is safe. Adramelech collapsed outside the canyon. The child retrieved it,” the angel said.
“Cody has it?”
“Yes, now you must go, Andrew. Danger still pursues you. Just remember we’ll be around, guarding you from the Evil One.” The blinding golden light suddenly faded. Darkness retook Perdition Canyon. And Maddix found himself standing alone in the downpour.
“Andrew, the canyon is flooding! We have to get out now! Do you copy?”
Maddix was about to answer Sara’s static-filled call but noticed his boom mike was mostly gone. He guessed it snapped off at some point during his free-fall.
“Webb and I are climbing out. We’ll leave the rope for you. Put these coordinates in your GPS.” She rattled off the coordinates. “Whatever you do don’t get caught up in the giant logjam. It’s bad news.”
Maddix took off his dry bag and retrieved his GPS unit. He flipped his night-vision goggles back on and started to enter the coordinates Sara gave him, but stopped. A crack ran down the GPS unit’s lens. The device wouldn’t turn on. He shook his head. The violent free-fall took a toll on him and his equipment.
It was then Maddix noticed the roar of the floodwaters increase dramatically. He turned and looked upstream. A torrent headed straight for him. It looked like Hoover Dam sprung a massive leak. Maddix dropped the broken GPS unit into the water at his feet. He stifled a scream and reached for the canyon wall. Up was the only way out.
Chapter 29
Twelve minutes later
Webb followed Sara into Kyle Miller’s helicopter. They both slumped onto the bench passenger seat. Sara took off her backpack and dropped it to the floor. She buried her head in her hands. “He’s not going to make it. There’s no way anyone could survive that torrent,” she mumbled softly, doing her best not to let the others hear her voice crack.
Webb touched her knee gently. “You don’t know Mad Dog like I do, Sara. He’s been in worse scrapes than this. The man has more lives than an alley cat.”
Sara backhanded tears spilling down her face. She looked up at Coleton Webb. “I don’t care if he was an ex-SEAL, Andrew isn’t Superman.”
Webb smiled knowingly. “I’ll give you he isn’t Superman. But he is Aquaman. I’ve never seen anyone swim like Mad Dog. He was a state champion in high school and had scholarships to swim at universities all over the nation. I have no doubts he could have been an Olympian. He might very well have been another Michael Phelps. But Mad Dog chose to serve his country in other ways. Ways no one will ever know about.”
“You sound so confident. But don’t placate me, Webb,” Sara said. “I know what his odds of survival are.”
Webb took off his tactical helmet. He ran a hand through his blond hair. He smiled weakly at her. “Where is your faith in God, Sara? Isn’t it obvious that Maddix has been given special status with the man upstairs? I’ll bet he has a platoon of angels swimming alongside him right this moment.”
“God doesn’t always prevent bad things from happening to His people. Sometimes He allows terrible pain and suf
fering, and sometimes death.”
Kyle Miller got up from his pilot’s seat and joined them. “We need to take off soon. I figure we’ll wait another twenty minutes, and if Andrew doesn’t show up we’ll fly back to the airport. We can crash in the hangar and come back at first light.” He patted Sara’s shoulder. “We’ll find him. One way or another, we’ll find him.”
“You guys are forgetting something,” Cody piped up, his voice tremulous but determined. “We should be praying for Pastor Maddix. He desperately needs our prayers right now. What are we waiting for?”
****
Deep in Perdition Canyon, Maddix swam for his life. Despite the inherent danger threatening his existence, he felt no fear. Water didn’t frighten him. He felt equally at home in the water as he did on dry land. Even the massive floodwater barreling ferociously through the slot canyon didn’t trouble him. Swimming came so easily to him. He supposed deep down some part of him recognized he could very well perish in the gushing water. But at the moment he felt at peace.
As he swam he thought about the angels who saved his life only moments ago. His mind still reeled at their mindboggling power, their radiant purity, and the way they so effortlessly defied the laws of physics and broke his fall. Surely the angels didn’t save him just so he could drown moments later. Yet dying remained a possibility if he didn’t concentrate on his strokes and kicks.
Floodwater sluiced through Perdition Canyon at a staggering rate. Maddix bobbed along like a soap bubble rinsing down a sink trap.
Maddix used the breaststroke to aid his breathing. The breaststroke lifted his head above the surface every other second. He also used this stroke because the canyon walls narrowed sometimes to only three feet apart. The breaststroke allowed him to streamline his body, and didn’t require him to rotate his upper torso like the crawl stroke demanded. The only modification involved his kicks. He had to shorten his frog kicks to avoid smashing his feet on the walls.
Like he often did when he swam competitively, Maddix slipped into a zone. His arms, hands, and feet moved in rhythmical fashion with no wasted motion. He inhaled and exhaled at precisely the same intervals. Maddix didn’t hear the floodwater roar; didn’t feel its wrath pushing and pulling at him, didn’t notice it stalking him like a skilled assassin. He ignored everything but what lay ahead; natural obstacles that could bash his brains in.
Because the canyon walls snaked continuously, the channel constantly turned right and left. Whenever a turn approached Maddix fought against the current to keep from being dashed against the opposing wall or boulders. It took his full concentration. He couldn’t decrease his focus for even a second or he’d lose the battle and succumb to the floodwater.
The NV goggles didn’t like to get wet, so Maddix relied on his small but very bright LED headlamp to illuminate the canyon. The headlamp barely cut through the murk, throwing a pencil-thin shaft across the raging water like an overmatched lighthouse beacon sweeping an ocean. It was a weird sensation swimming in Perdition Canyon. The narrow, dark canyon and the black water made him feel like he swam inside a sewer pipe, minus the rats and stench.
Maddix came to a long section where the canyon leveled out and ceased to twist and turn. He relaxed slightly, tried to trick his mind into thinking he enjoyed the swim. He wasn’t familiar with the canyon like Sara, and couldn’t pinpoint his location. But he assumed he headed south and toward the canyon’s mouth. I can do this. I will survive. I’ve endured worse, he told himself.
Maddix thought back to past SEAL missions he and Webb went on. He remembered one in particular where they parachuted into a frigid ocean and swam several miles in choppy water. I survived that night. I can survive tonight too. Discomfort didn’t register with SEALS. Pain was just another mission variable to deal with.
Just as his confidence started to soar, Maddix noticed a large obstruction blocking his way ahead. Each time his head bobbed above the surface he tried to determine what comprised the barricade, how big it was, and how he could overcome it. When the distance between him and the barricade reached ten yards he determined the makeup of the blockage. Sirens instantly knelled in his mind. Sara’s last words shouted in his head. Whatever you do don’t get caught up in the logjam. It’s bad news.
The current hurtled him directly toward the driftwood. Sheer canyon walls soared up on either side of him, preventing escape laterally. Just before he would’ve slammed into the giant logjam, Maddix took a deep breath and dived under the logs. He switched from breaststroke to an underwater stroke. His core tight, shoulders still, and arms held out straight, Maddix used dolphin kicks to propel him underneath the logs. The size and scope of the logjam surprised him.
Above his head and forming a bumpy ceiling, deadwood of varying sizes lay interlocked in a tangled heap. Maddix saw no escape holes in the logs, just a tight impenetrable weave. Wedged tight between the canyon walls, the logjam lay stationary and not even the bestial floodwater could budge it.
One of the tasks SEAL candidates are required to achieve at BUD/S school is a 50 meter underwater swim. The requirement isn’t all that difficult. Most SEAL candidates complete the underwater swim rather easily. But many candidates pass out as soon as they climb out of the pool. Of those in his BUD/S class, six had passed out. He’d been one of them.
Maddix had already swum half that length and still saw no end to the logjam. Once he eclipsed 40 meters or thereabout, warning bells tolled in his head. He briefly considered performing a flip and swimming back the way he came. Instead, he pressed on.
Every few feet he ceased kicking and rotated onto his side. The side stroke enabled him a better position to study the logjam ceiling and shine his headlamp onto the driftwood. There has to be a way to breach it, he thought. But Maddix saw nothing but a deadwood junkyard. He was still searching for an opening when he slammed into something. He nearly screamed at the pain knifing through his shoulder and elbow. It was as if someone stabbed him with a dull knife.
Maddix looked around and discovered he’d reached a dead end. The logs extended downward to the canyon floor. They formed a wall, a natural jail cell comprising driftwood instead of iron bars. He immediately tried to return back the way he’d come. But the raging floodwater held him in place. He increased the length of his dolphin kicks, applying more power. But it was as if he swam directly into a rip current.
I’m trapped.
In military circles, and especially in the SEAL brotherhood, a catchphrase called situational awareness is drummed into every soldier’s head. Situational awareness is simply being aware of what’s going on around you. Maddix took in his circumstances, his location, and how long it had been since he last took a breath and determined he would die in less than two minutes.
His body immediately began to undergo physiological changes. His hypothalamus triggered a release of stress-response hormones into his bloodstream. Likewise, his adrenal glands released cortisol, a hormone that can increase metabolic efficiency and control blood pressure. Finally, Maddix could feel extra blood flooding into his muscles to aid in his life-or-death struggle.
He didn’t have to tell himself he was in trouble. His body already knew it.
Maddix tried to calm himself down. He knew the best way to do this was to stop moving. Thrashing around all panic-stricken would only tax his lung capacity even quicker. Maddix knew of an obscure sport called “static apnea,” where athletes hold their breath underwater for a dozen minutes or more. The participants become almost trancelike and keep very still while underwater. And many of these athletes hyperventilate on pure oxygen before competing. He didn’t have such a luxury.
He once held his breath for five minutes. But that had been six years ago. He didn’t know if he could come close to repeating the feat.
Maddix leaned against the log barrier and kept very still. He studied the jumbled deadwood above his head, looking for a log wobbly enough he could pry free. Like a life-or-death game of Jenga, he needed to find a loose log he could remove that wouldn�
�t bring the remaining logs down onto his head. Lord, please show me which log isn’t a weight-bearing one, he prayed.
Moving very slowly, he nudged several promising logs. But none of them even budged.
Panic cascaded through his body. Each passing second was like a countdown to death. Maddix fought against the hysteria laying siege against his mind. Above all he needed to stay relaxed and focused. He tried another log, and then another. None of them budged.
Maybe it was despair that conjured up the memory. Whatever the cause, Maddix thought of Caleb Brennan, a SEAL PT instructor he had during his BUD/S training. Brennan was a short, barrel-chested man with a handlebar mustache. All sinew and fast-twitch muscle, he looked like a cowpuncher from the Old West—a cowboy who could break any horse and any man without even breaking a sweat.
No one ever saw Brennan smile or laugh. The Irish surname Brennan meant sorrow. And Brennan was legendary for spreading plenty of sorrow around Coronado Beach during PT sessions over the years. The man possessed an unparalleled mean streak.
Maddix unquestionably bore the brunt of Brennan’s cruelty during his time in BUD/S training. He never found out why Brennan singled him out. Maybe it was because Maddix could swim and run faster than all the other SEAL candidates. Perhaps Brennan wanted to even the field, or scare the other candidates by making Maddix DOR—drop on request. Trying to make him quit became a vendetta for Brennan. But all that did was make Maddix more determined.
It all came to a head one morning in PT class. They had just finished a four mile run on the beach. They then ran into the frigid Pacific Ocean, got all wet, and then came out and rolled around in the sand. And then to top off their misery, they had to perform flutter kicks—a wicked form of leg lifts—for an insanely long period of time.
Every PT class, Brennan carried a box of jelly donuts around with him. He taunted all the recruits with the donuts, especially Maddix. It was the same offer every morning. While Maddix performed flutter kicks, Brennan would squat down near him and say, “These donuts sure are good, Maddix. I think they put extra jelly in them this morning. You can have one if you DOR,” Brennan would say.
