by Bobby Akart
He turned around and retraced his steps. He’d become excited at the prospect of finding water and had hurried toward it. Maybe he missed something?
He carefully observed the ground, and then he saw the opening. It was low to the ground, easily missed by a six-foot-tall human. Gunner lifted the branches and made his way under the palm trees until a small clearing emerged. It was well worn, with the tall grasses smashed down to the ground.
He smelled the odor of animal feces emanating from beyond the clearing. Was he in a den of some sort? The tapirs? Or something else?
He rushed through the clearing and continued following the path that ran parallel to the river, upstream toward the waterfall. After several minutes, he emerged at the edge of the ravine once again, but near the source of the falls.
He walked gingerly along the edge until he could see a small lake, its water as calm as glass except for the occasional ripple caused by a fish. The lake was fifty yards wide, easily swimmable by Gunner, who held advanced scuba diving certifications.
However, the waters of the jungle were fraught with danger, from electric eels to piranhas to the black caiman, a massive predatory alligator that fed on anything that unknowingly ventured into its territory.
Frustrated, Gunner sat on a nearby rock to rest and make a decision. He swatted at a giant yellow-leg centipede measuring eight inches that made its way along the muddy ground toward his ankles. Gunner had met up with one of these before in Venezuela. It had injected its deadly venom into an iguana, causing the creature to succumb to paralysis.
He called upon Heather for advice. “Downstream, the choice of a Boy Scout, but opposite to where I was headed. Or upstream, toward Central America, but higher into the mountains.”
Gunner awaited a response, but none came.
Until a flash of color in the otherwise green underbelly of the jungle’s canopy caught his eye. He turned his head and covered his eyes to block the sunlight that glistened off the small lake. He squinted, forcing his eyes to focus on the movement.
He could barely make it out, but the shape and color was unmistakable. It was rectangular and blue—Air Force blue. Somebody was carrying his duffle bag on the other side of the river.
Chapter 10
Unknown Tropical Jungle
Gunner resisted the urge to call out to the person carrying his bag. He was concerned they would dash into the jungle out of fear, never to be seen again. Clearly, whoever it was knew their way around the jungle, and he didn’t. It wouldn’t take long for them to escape and Gunner to get caught in a quagmire of vines, bamboo, and primal threats.
He trudged along the lake, swatting away mosquitoes as he slogged through the muck. Dusk was coming, the impenetrable darkness beginning to creep on all sides of the jungle canopy overlooking the water.
Gunner kept his eye on his duffle bag and the young boy who was carrying it. The kid ambled along the water’s edge, pausing from time to time to toss a stone into the lake, or to readjust the duffle slung over his shoulder. The dark-haired, tanned boy appeared to be eight to ten years old. He was wearing blue jeans and a simple black tee shirt with a white soccer ball imprinted on the back.
The lanky, Hispanic youngster with jet-black hair began to climb up some large rocks that lined the lake as another waterfall appeared before him. Gunner had to duck into the woods on occasion as the young man looked behind him, seemingly aware that he was being stalked.
Gunner pushed through the underbrush, one eye on the kid, the other eye on his footing so that he didn’t stumble over something, or some creature, that might kill him in an instant.
Higher up the hill, the second waterfall grew louder. Soon, Gunner was standing above a stream that poured over the side. He surveilled the other side of the lake, but the boy, and his duffle bag, was gone.
Panicked, he raced back to the edge of the waterfall and looked downstream, thinking the kid might have doubled back. When he didn’t see any movement, he took off up the hill again to the area overlooking the lake. He saw no sign of the boy.
Gunner had to take a chance. “Hey! Kid! Over here! Can you hear me!”
He paused to listen, walking slowly along the top of the bank, cognizant of his footing, but focused on the other side of the stream.
“Come on, kid! Oye, amigo! Aqui!”
Still no response. Gunner felt the darkness growing around him. He was running out of time. He began to run up the hill, focusing his attention on the other side of the stream.
“Amigo! Aqui! Por favor, amigo!”
He stumbled and fell, sliding down the bank toward the stream, which was now thirty feet below him, the rocky bottom growing larger in his field of vision. Gunner grabbed the roots of a tree to arrest his fall, and pulled himself up to a resting spot.
He considered climbing down, but the drop-off was steep and the dirt wall was moist from erosion. The jagged boulders below left him no margin of error.
“There has to be another way,” he mumbled. “Come on, kid. How’d you get—?”
Gunner abruptly stopped. In the darkening sky, he could make out a suspension bridge a hundred yards ahead of him. It couldn’t be seen from the top of the bank, but halfway down, it was within view.
“Bingo!”
Gunner looked to the top of the bank and began his climb, carefully tugging on tree roots to ensure they were secure, and that they weren’t a snake. The anaconda, and every other snake on the planet, would be in the forefront of Gunner’s consciousness for some time. He hated snakes.
He reached the top, took a moment to wipe the mud off his khakis, and walked as quickly as the jungle would allow until he reached the suspension bridge across the ravine.
At first glance, the structure appeared to be safe. He’d walked across these rope bridges before. Most of the ones he’d traversed were made with wooden planks as a floor, and steel wire to create the supports. Some even had a safety netting underneath.
This rope bridge was very primitive. There were four ropes tied off to twin black palm trees overlooking the ravine. The base was made of tree branches tied to the two bottom ropes, and the two top ropes provided handrails, sort of.
There was no safety netting. The floor made of tree branches was designed in a haphazard fashion with the branches nowhere close to being evenly spaced. Some were even broken.
Gunner sighed and rolled his eyes. He silently cursed the jungle gods for putting him in this position. He weighed the risks. If he slipped and fell, he’d land in the dark stream, probably full of piranhas or crocodiles or snakes. Death.
He shook his head and gingerly stepped onto the bridge. While the span was still located over the ground, he jumped a little, testing its strength and resiliency to his weight. The rope bridge swayed and bounced, but it held firm.
Gunner stepped out a little farther, allowing himself a quick glance to the water below. He shook his head side to side in an effort to put the worst-case scenario out of his mind. Clearly, he wasn’t afraid of heights. He’d proved that during the test flight of the F/A XX and aboard the Starhopper. He was not, however, fond of slippery things that resided in the murky waters of the jungle.
With a deep breath, Gunner went for it. He moved quickly across the bridge, avoiding the broken or weak-looking branches. He gripped the rope handrails with all of this strength, the course hemp fiber of the rope scratching his hands and wrists.
Gunner chuckled to himself, allowing his mind to wander from the predicament he was in. The marijuana plant had many uses apart from being the drug of choice for many with medical ailments. Making hemp rope from the fibers in the stalk of the plant was one of them. Gunner imagined that marijuana was grown in abundance in this part of the world, but nowhere near the number one cash crop in all of Western South America—the coca plant.
He reached the other end of the rope bridge and scurried onto the ground as if the thing were collapsing behind him. It was much darker, making the task of finding the kid with his duffle bag more difficul
t. But at least he had a lead.
And now he had a well-worn trail, one that had been built and made by humans and not the creatures of the jungle.
As Gunner progressed through the jungle, pleased to be walking on hardened soil as opposed to the mushy floor of decaying plants he’d experienced earlier, he thought about the new threat he’d face. The most vicious killer on the entire planet.
Man.
He caught a glimpse of light in the distance and his heart raced. He was going to get out of the jungle. Home. To Dog Island. His place with Heather.
And to Pop and Howard, both of whom had stood by him throughout his period of grieving. To Cam, his best friend since she wore pigtails and he grew the first few hairs on his chest. And Bear, the lovable beast of a man who’d lay down his life for Gunner.
He took a deep breath and picked up the pace. The single light turned in to several flickering flames partially obscured by the jungle foliage. His eyes darted ahead and then side to side, scanning for threats, as he’d been trained.
However, he didn’t look down.
He knew he was in trouble the moment his foot planted and it felt like it had landed on a cloud. The previously hardened path became a hole covered by palm fronds, and very deep.
The lights that had appeared suddenly disappeared. The darkening sky turned to black. Gunner’s excitement, the drive that had led him at a frenetic pace through the jungle to safety, landed him flat on his back, unconscious, in a twenty-foot-deep cavern.
Alone, but not alone.
Chapter 11
NORAD
Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado
President Watson hadn’t slept since Wednesday night. Throughout law school, during his days of handling complex trials as a judge, and even during the rigors of the presidential campaign, he managed to get three to four hours of sleep. Since the early hours of Wednesday morning, sleep had eluded him.
The White House physician, who traveled with the president at all times, had issued him a stern warning an hour ago—you’re not physically capable of working without rest, and as a result, you’re putting a tremendous strain on your heart.
He’d been cautioned about stress and his weight before. The advice given had been taken by the president, who had dramatically changed his appearance by losing nearly sixty pounds during the course of the campaign. While he still experienced tension headaches, he was pleased to learn during his initial physical upon taking the oath of office that he was as healthy now as he had been twenty years ago.
This was still not good enough for his doting White House physician, who nagged him about what he ate and his lack of sleep more than his loving wife did. Truthfully, as he got older, he needed less sleep. It was not unusual for him to wake up at four in the morning before shuffling out of the master bedroom of the White House to the kitchen across the West Sitting Hall. Long before the staff entered the president’s residence, he was scanning the cable news networks and reading online news sources on his iPad Pro.
President Watson was a workaholic who loved his country more than life itself. He was a devoted husband who never strayed, and a father who raised his two daughters to be respectable young women. He feared for their future, just as he did the future of America. Modern man had never faced a calamity like this one, and he hoped the news he’d received from Director Taylor and Dr. Zahn came true.
He addressed his wife, Patty, his college sweetheart who’d married him thirty-three years ago. “Honey, we may dodge a bullet, with a little luck. Well, at least a bomb. We, as a nation, can survive a bullet. Bombs can be far more devastating.”
Patty rubbed his shoulders and ran her fingers through his thinning hair. “Mack, do you feel good enough to rest now. From what you’ve told me, the worst of it will happen tomorrow through Monday.”
The president closed his eyes and nodded. Her shoulder rub served to relax him, allowing his mind to clear. “I don’t want to be overly optimistic, but thanks to what the crew of the Starhopper achieved, far fewer people will die. Still, many lives will be lost.”
“They haven’t found them yet, have they?” his wife asked.
The president frowned and shook his head. “No, and truthfully, they didn’t offer much hope. Patty, they’re American heroes for the risks they took and the mission they accomplished. If not for their efforts, half of the six hundred million people living in North America would die in the next few days. They deserve our highest praise, but I’m afraid we’ll never get the chance to give it to them.”
He patted her hand and stood. He was known for pacing a room when he was thinking, and despite his upbeat mood, the wandering commenced as usual.
He felt older and was none too pleased to see how he’d aged since becoming president just a few months ago. He paused and looked in the mirror. He squinted, intentionally exaggerating the wrinkles around his eyes. Then he frowned, causing the tissue between his eyebrows to gather into a fold. Years of frowning had left deep wrinkles in the skin between his brows and on the bridge of his nose, as well as at the corners of his eyes.
Wrinkles are like pages in a story, he thought. In a novel, every word, paragraph, and chapter gave the reader an insight into the writer’s mind as he tried to relate a story via written words. A person’s wrinkles told a story, as well.
Did the face indicate a life full of worry? Or laughter? Was the person always sad? Did they work in the sun, causing damage to the skin? Was their skin flawless, despite their age, indicating that they nurtured their bodies?
He was deep in thought and feeling philosophical, so he poured out his emotions to his wife. “Patty, catastrophic events—like tornados, hurricanes, and now, this asteroid—don’t discriminate. They don’t pick and choose their innocent victims based upon class, race, gender, or sexual preference.
“The people who die, are seriously injured, or who lose all their belongings don’t deserve it. Nor are they singled out for some reason like a past misdeed or a disbelief in God. They’re simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“Natural disasters like volcanoes, earthquakes, and asteroids are very unpredictable. If they weren’t, we could save most people. Heck, almost everyone, if they heed the warnings.
“This asteroid isn’t going to pick and choose which city or community to strike. It doesn’t care if a place has already suffered its share of pain like New York after 9/11 or Los Angeles after the 2019 earthquake. Calendars, schedules, frequencies mean nothing. Suffered enough already? Too bad, suffer again. There is no rhyme or reason. Only probabilities and hope.
“It’s like playing roulette in the casinos back home in Las Vegas. Is it possible that the white ball could land on red twenty-three twice in a row? Yes, but the chances are slim. Could it happen three times in a row? Near impossible, but again, it could happen.”
The president paused and ran his fingers through his hair.
His wife was genuinely concerned for her husband. “Honey, are you all right?”
President Watson nodded, although his face looked glum. “Yeah, well, I don’t know. Maybe I’m just being too philosophical. Yet, something in my gut tells me that we’re entering strange times—an epoch. You know, a period of time that’s marked by important, history-altering events.”
Patty joined her husband and wrapped her arms around his thinning waistline. “Do you think this asteroid is the beginning of something, um, biblical? Like end times?”
President Watson paused. “No, I won’t go that far. I don’t know, it just seems like this asteroid is only the beginning of some major challenges that we, and our country, will face. I just hope I’ll be up to the task.”
Patty turned him around and stood on her toes to kiss her husband. “We, as a family, will get through this, just as we have dealt with other problems in our past. You’re a good man, Mack Watson, and the country, and the world, is lucky to have you navigating this ship through troubled waters. Please never doubt that.”
He smiled and hugged his wif
e. Then he whispered, “Time will tell.”
Chapter 12
NASA Mission Control
Johnson Space Center
Houston, Texas
Colonel Maxwell Robinson had no trouble sleeping, unlike the president. He kept abreast of the developments by staying in Mission Control Director Mark Foster’s hip pocket, following him around every waking moment for news about the Starhopper’s mission and the fate of its crew.
His efforts to keep Gunner Fox on the ground by planting the drugs in his room at Building 9 had been unsuccessful. Robinson was generally concerned that Gunner would come in contact with the three members of the Russian crew who were on board the ISS the day that Heather was killed.
Robinson knew what had happened, as did Foster. But the secret remained with them and a handful of Russian Cosmodrome personnel who were surely sworn to secrecy by one form of threat or another.
The two men understood why the colonel’s superiors, on direct orders from the White House, ordered the incident details to be sealed. The clamor and uproar from the war hawks within the halls of Congress and the American people would be deafening. The second cold war could easily result in a hot war as America sought retribution—an eye for an eye.
So Robinson followed orders. He contained the truth and unwillingly entered into a conspiracy with Director Foster to maintain the cover-up. As he saw it, releasing the details of Heather’s death would not bring her back, nor would it provide him, and others, the motive for what happened.
The Russians had refused to confirm the names of the people responsible for putting her outside the ISS in the first place, nor would they tell him whom she had been accompanied by. He never bought the Russians’ explanation that a tragic accident had occurred resulting from her tether malfunctioning after being hit by space debris. Robinson understood the use of subterfuge. He was an expert at it himself.
