‘Almost.’
‘Can you get it right this time?’
‘Consider it practice.’
‘It’s only practice if you improve. We only have so many missiles, you know.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.’
**
‘Tango in Berlin.’ Judd can’t believe it, realises he should have googled the guy’s real name back in Florida.
Corey glances at Judd. “‘Tango in Berlin?” I love that song.’
‘Well, the guy who sang it is trying to kill you.’
‘What? But I bought his album. Are you sure?’
‘Pretty sure.’
Streaks of light erupt from the black chopper’s cannons and slice towards the Loach. Corey sees them in the side-view mirror and jolts the Loach into a steep, curling dive. ‘Hold on!’
‘Sweet Jesus!’ Judd grabs the doorframe, watches the red desert race up to met him as the bullets slide past.
‘Whoa!’ The Loach lurches left and all Judd can see is blue sky. They’re barely 10 metres off the deck. Judd can’t help but be impressed. This guy can fly.
The astronaut tries to process what’s going on. Why is Tango in Berlin here? He goes straight to Ockham’s Razor and the simplest answer: they’re going to land
Atlantis
out here.
The black chopper’s cannons blaze. Corey tips the Loach hard right but this time he’s not quick enough. A bullet slams into its fuselage. The turbine coughs.
‘Damn it!’ Corey focuses on the gauges. A buzzer sounds. A light blinks. ‘Losing fuel pressure.’
Judd looks back. Smoke pours from the Loach’s rear hatch. ‘We got smoke! Lots of it!’
‘I know.’ Corey can see it in his side-view mirror. He turns to Judd. ‘In the side hatch is the fuel line. It’s red. I think there’s a hole in it. You need to plug it.’ He holds up a stick of chewing gum. ‘With this.’
Judd looks at the gum, then Corey, then the gum. ‘What?’
‘Climb along the skid, open the hatch and cover the hole with the gum.’
‘Are you joking?’
‘Do it now!’
Judd considers his options. He can do nothing and die. Do something and die. Or do something and succeed - then get word out that
Atlantis
is going to land in Central Australia. What would a steely-eyed missile man do?
Judd grabs the gum, unwraps it and shoves it in his mouth. He then unbuckles his seatbelt, pulls off the headset, sees the winch, unlocks it, drags out three metres of rope, locks it, wraps the rope around his waist and knots it tight.
Corey watches, tries to work out how he does it. ‘Careful with the hatch. The hinges are loose.’
Judd nods, grips the doorframe with both hands and swings onto the landing skid. Wind smacks into his back. He jams his heels down, takes a breath and turns to the rear hatch. It’s less than two metres away but it feels like hundreds.
The black chopper closes in.
Judd slides towards the hatch as fast as he can, one hand wrapped around the doorframe, the other flat against the Loach’s fuselage.
Bullets spit from the black chopper’s cannons, slash towards the Loach. The yellow chopper tips hard right. ‘Christ!’ Judd goes horizontal, thumps his chin against the fuselage as the bullets zip past. Then the Loach tips hard left and Judd is yanked upright again.
The hatch is half a metre away. Judd hits the end of the skid with his foot, reaches for the door’s circular twist lock.
The black chopper surges forward. It’s as close as it’s been. It won’t miss from there. Judd stretches for the lock, touches it.
‘Ahhh!’ It’s hot. He ignores the pain, grabs the lock, twists it. A ball of flame blasts the hatch door open. The wind catches hold of it and rips it off its hinges.
In his side-view mirror the Australian watches the door flip away. ‘I really should’ve fixed that.’
The door spins through the air like a ninja star - and slams into the Tiger’s windscreen. It doesn’t shatter the glass but it jams there, one side wedged under the maintenance handgrip built into the frame.
Judd watches the black chopper slow to a hover then descend to the desert.
‘He can’t see where he’s going!’ Judd’s so happy he shouts it. He shuffles back to the cabin, swings inside, pulls on the headset. ‘The hatch came off, jammed on the chopper’s windscreen —’
‘I saw. Now can you tell me why the guy who sang “Tango in Berlin” is trying to kill me?’
‘I don’t know why he’s trying to kill
you
but I know why he’s trying to kill me.’
Corey’s confused. ‘Kill
you
? What?’
‘I’m an astronaut. From NASA. The guy in the chopper is one of the crew who hijacked shuttle
Atlantis
off the pad at Cape Canaveral two days ago.’
Corey stares at him. ‘Come on, I’m not an idiot.’
Spike barks.
‘That doesn’t count.’ Corey studies Judd. ‘A space shuttle was hijacked?’
‘You haven’t seen the news?’
‘No.’
‘It’s been all over the TV.’
‘I don’t presently own a television.’
‘What about the radio?’
‘I listen to tapes.’
‘The internet?’
‘It’s so slow out here there’s no point.’
‘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.
‘Forget about it, kid. Really. It’s over now. I like boats.’
The Zodiac crests a wave and a very big boat looms before them. It’s the aircraft carrier USS
George H. W. Bush,
one of the largest warships on the planet. The Zodiac motors towards the rear of the iron-grey carrier, where it can be boarded from the waterline.