‘Well, it happened —’
The Loach’s turbine coughs. An alarm sounds. Corey scans the instruments. ‘Gotta put down.’
‘What? Here? What if they come after us?’
‘We either land or crash. Personally I prefer to land.’ Corey scans the horizon. ‘There. That’ll do.’
He aims the Loach at what appears to be a distant mountain range. As they draw closer Judd realises it’s neither distant or a mountain range but the lip of a large crater, hammered into the earth many millions of years ago by what looks like a meteor the size of the Titanic.
The Loach passes over the crater’s lip then quickly descends. With a blast of dust the chopper settles on the red surface.
In a flash they’re out. Corey points at Spike. ‘Keep a lookout. If you see or hear anything, don’t be shy.’
Spike barks.
‘It’s not my fault it’s the only job you’re qualified for.’ The Australian moves to the Loach’s now doorless rear hatch and studies the scorched black turbine through squinted eyes. ‘I can fix that.’ He unstraps a red toolbox from under the Loach’s rear seat, drops it to the dirt below the engine compartment and gets to work.
Judd approaches. ‘Need any help?’
‘I’m good.’
Judd glares at the word SEARCHING etched across the top of his iPhone’s screen. Still no signal. ‘Will it be quicker to fly back to town or carry on to the dish? I need to get to a working phone asap.’
‘Dish is closer.’
Spike barks.
‘You’re dreamin’. The dish is much closer and I’d prefer to fly away from the black chopper than towards it.’
Judd looks from Corey to the dog, confused. ‘So, you — do you understand what the dog’s saying?’
Spike barks.
‘He’d rather you used his name.’
‘Oh, okay, sorry — Spike.’ Judd stops, realises he just apologised to a dog. ‘Guess that answers the question.’ After everything that’s happened to Judd during the last forty-eight hours, a guy who thinks he can talk to his dog doesn’t seem like a big deal. ‘So, how long’s it going to take?’
The Australian’s head is buried in the hatch. ‘You’ll know when I know.’
Judd tries not to let his frustration show. He takes in the flat expanse of the crater then looks up and scans the bright-blue sky for any sign of the black chopper. There’s no two ways about it — they’re sitting ducks out here.
21
Severson wears a parachute and stands beside Captain Mike Disser. They’re at the end of a line of marines who move steadily towards an open door at the rear of the Greyhound then, one by one, jump out of the aircraft.
Severson watches, his face slate-grey. He turns to Disser and shouts over the roaring wind: ‘They said airlift not airdrop. Why can’t we land?’
‘Conditions are not appropriate, sir.’
‘Not appropriate?’ Severson looks out the window beside him. Far below, on the churning Pacific Ocean, sways the gigantic USS George H. W. Bush, the most advanced aircraft carrier in the service of the US Navy. ‘The ship’s right there. We land on it. It’s all very appropriate.’
‘Not today.’
‘Why?’
‘The hydraulic system that powers the arrestor cables deck-side is offline. We don’t have the gas to circle any longer while they fix it.’ The arrestor cables are the thick metal wires that catch and stop an aircraft when it touches down on a carrier. They aren’t working, which means if they tried to land the plane would just roll off the deck and drop into the ocean.
‘That’s why we have to jump, sir.’
‘Is there any way I could be lowered to the ship?’
‘That is humorous, sir.’
Another guy jumps and Severson’s just two away from the open door. He realises he’s has no choice but to tell this guy the truth, a secret he’s never told anyone. Ever. He leans in close, whispers: ‘I can’t do it. I’m afraid of heights.’
Disser honks a short, sharp laugh.
‘I’m not joking.’
Disser smiles at him. ‘Sir, you’ve been to orbit.’
‘I know. Isn’t it ironic?’
Severson watches Disser’s face as the pieces click into place: Severson’s reluctance to get onto the aircraft, his perpetually sweaty skin while on the aircraft, squeezing Disser’s thigh before take-off. The marine’s disappointment is all too obvious.
‘So you’ll understand if I wait here, fly back, catch the next plane out and hook up with you guys later.’ Severson cracks a grin to ice the cake.
‘Sorry, sir, that’s not an option. My orders are for you to accompany me wherever I go and right now that is out of this aircraft. Now remember your training. Release free of the chute above the water so you don’t get tangled in the lines and trigger your flotation device when you splash down. Zodiacs are in the water, you’ll be picked up as soon as you’re wet.’
Severson’s not really listening. He watches the last marine step out of the aircraft then peers through the open door at the surging Pacific below. It’s a long way down.
Disser herds him toward the opening. ‘Time to go.’
Severson seizes hold of the doorframe with both hands. ‘Does your stomach feel funny?
‘My stomach feels fine, sir.’
‘My stomach feels funny.’ Severson instinctively places his right hand on his stomach so only his left hand holds the doorframe. He realises his mistake a moment too late.
Disser nudges him in the back and Severson drops out of the aircraft. His man-shriek is lost on the wind as he tumbles towards the roiling ocean below.
Disser watches him go, then jumps out too.
The wave looms over Disser. It’s the size of a three-storey apartment block and compels him to make a deal, with the Lord or the Devil or whoever the hell might be listening, to help him find a way off this ocean.
He blinks, to clear the saltwater from his eyes and the fear from his heart, and braces himself. ‘Hold on!’ The wave breaks over the Zodiac and swamps the little boat, jamming it on its right side, its pump-jet engine screaming as it’s yanked from the water. To stop it capsizing Disser throws his weight against the boat’s left side, as do the three other soaking-wet marines aboard.
The Zodiac balances on its side for a long moment, then thumps back onto its hull. Disser’s relieved, but there’s no time to celebrate. He raises his head, scans the ocean. He can’t locate Severson Burke, but then he can’t see much of anything because these waves are just too damn big.
‘There!’ Disser points into the wind. Severson is 30 metres away, floating face down in the water. The marine driving the pump-jet swings the Zodiac towards him. Thirty metres become two in seconds. The marines reach down, haul him out of the water, lie him on the Zodiac’s deck.
The marine at the engine pivots the Zodiac, sends it up the side of another towering wave as Disser kneels beside Severson. He feels his neck for a pulse. Finds one, slaps his blanched face hard: ‘Wake up!’
Severson coughs out a stream of water then sucks air. ‘Wha-what happened?’
Disser stares at him. ‘You passed out and almost drowned. Sir.’
Severson blinks, pulls himself up. ‘Right. Sorry.’
Disser shakes his head. ‘How can you be afraid of heights? You’re an astronaut, for Chrissake.’
Severson leans against the side of the Zodiac and keeps his voice low: ‘Since my shuttle mission I just, I can’t fly. I don’t know why. It’s like someone flicked a switch and all I can think is how wrong it is to be up high. It’s not natural.’
Disser studies him for a moment then turns away, a picture of disappointment.