"Would
you
shut
up,
please?"
Jacqueline desperately covered her ears and buried her head once
more.
Carter
glanced over at her for a second, but then kept talking in a quiet,
gravelly voice, aiming his unlit cigarette at them as if it were a
piece of bent chalk.
"I
know exactly what I'm going to do when your colleague comes back with
that image. I'm going to slaughter the bastard like a sick dog,
whoever it is. Here and now. And if it's me..." He stopped, as
if considering a startling possibility. "If it's me, you'll have
the pleasure of watching me blow my brains out."
THE
tiny
UH1Z cockpit lurched like an old bus on a dirt road. Imprisoned by
the modern, ergonomic seat, complete with tightly crisscrossed seat
belt, Harrison's head was the only part of his body moving, but it
jerked and jiggled in every direction his vertebra would allow.
Sitting opposite him, their knees touching, was Previn, the woman
soldier, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. Harrison noticed that beneath
her helmet, her pretty blue eyes were dilated. The others didn't look
much better. Only Jurgens, in the back, sat unflappable.
But
Jurgens was the other face of death, so he wasn't a fair standard.
Outside,
it was as if the wrath of hell had been unleashed. Or maybe it was
heaven; who could tell? The four angels flew recklessly against an
almost horizontal rain pounding straight into the front windscreens.
A hundred and fifty feet below them, a colossal monster rose up with
the force of a thousand tons of water arched into a wave. Luckily,
they couldn't make out the sea's maelstrom in the dark. But when he
looked out the side window long enough, Harrison could see millions
of foam torches atop miles of choppy velvet, like a capriciously
decorated Roman palace during the carnival orgies.
He
wondered if Previn blamed him somehow. He very much doubted she could
reproach him for that idiot Borsello's death. At Eagle, they'd
applauded the news.
The
order came at noon, five minutes after Borsello had been shot between
the eyes. It came from somewhere up north. It was always the same:
the north gave the orders and the south obeyed. Like the head and
body: everything went top to bottom, Harrison thought. The brain gave
the orders, the hand carried them out.
The
"head" had deemed Borsello's death admissible. Harrison had
done the right thing, Borsello had been inept, the situation was
imperative, and Sergeant Frank Mercier would stand in for him.
Mercier was a young guy, and he was sitting beside Previn, across
from Harrison. He was scared, too. His fear was legible in the
bobbing of his Adam's apple. But they were good soldiers. They'd been
trained in SERE: survival, evasion, resistance, and escape. They knew
everything there was to know about their weapons and equipment;
they'd received supplementary training in securing and isolating
regions. And they could do more than defend themselves: they had XM39
assault rifles with high-explosive bullets and Ruger MP15 automatic
rifles. They were all strong as bulls, with glassy eyes and shiny
skin. They looked more like machines than human beings. Previn was
the only woman, but she wasn't out of sync with the group. He was
happy to have them by his side and didn't want them to think badly of
him. With Jurgens and those soldiers, he had nothing to fear.
Except
the storm.
After
the last jolt, he decided to react.
He
looked at the pilots. They were like giant ants, with those black,
egg-shaped helmets shining around the edges in the instrument panel's
glow. There was no way he could take off his seat belt and get up
there, of course. But he bent the arm of the mike attached to his
helmet, pulling it down toward his mouth, and pushed a button.
"Is
this the storm?" he asked.
"This
is just the Beginning, sir," one of the pilots responded. "These
winds haven't even reached sixty-five miles an hour yet."
"It's
not a hurricane, though," said the other pilot into his right
ear.
"Or
if it is, it hasn't been named."
"Will
the chopper make it through this?"
"I
guess so" came into his left ear, spoken with remarkable
indifference.
Harrison
knew that the angel was a tough, sophisticated piece of military
machinery designed to withstand all kinds of atmospheric conditions.
The blades even self-adjusted depending on the force of the winds.
Right then, for example, they weren't rotating in the typical
crisscross pattern, but instead looked like two diamonds. Still, the
very idea of an accident made him anxious—not because he feared
death, but because he couldn't stand the thought of not attaining his
goal.
"When
do you think we'll get there?" He felt sweat coursing down his
neck and back, beneath his helmet and life jacket.
"If
all goes well, we should be in sight of the island in an hour."
He
left the frequency open. The voices buzzed in his ear like a
lunatic's hallucinations.
Angel
One to Angel Two, over...
THEY'D
fallen
asleep, or at least that's what it looked like.
He
didn't want to shine the flashlight at them to check for fear of
waking them, though that seemed unlikely. It was obvious everyone was
absolutely exhausted. And looking at them one by one, he was sure
they were fast asleep. Jacqueline was neither peaceful nor silent.
Her breasts quivered under her shirt with each breath, and she was
making a sort of guttural moaning sound. Carter looked like he was
awake, but his lips were pursed into a small, round, black hole
resembling the barrel of a gun. Blanes snored.
It
was ten to twelve and Elisa hadn't come back yet.
Almost
time.
His
heart pounded. He wondered if the others could hear it beating, if it
would wake them. But he couldn't stop it.
In
slow motion, he placed the big flashlight on the ground, took the
small one, and turned it on. Baptism by fire, so to speak.
He
turned the big flashlight off. Waited. Nothing happened. They were
still out.
The
glow from the little flashlight was tiny, like the dying embers of a
campfire, but it would be enough to keep them from getting scared if
anyone woke up unexpectedly.
He
left the flashlight on the floor, by the other one, and took off his
shoes, making sure to keep an eye on Carter. That man was terrifying.
He was one of those violent types who lived in a parallel universe as
out of place in Victor's life of aeroponic plants, math, and theology
as a donkey at Princeton. He knew the ex-soldier wouldn't think twice
about hurting him to protect himself.
Still,
neither Carter nor the Devil himself was going to stop him from doing
what he wanted.
He
got up and tiptoed to the door, which he'd purposely left open. After
padding out into the dark hallway, he took the matches from his
pocket. Hours earlier, when Carter had been searching for them to
light his cigarette, he was afraid he'd be caught. Luckily, Carter
hadn't realized who'd taken them.
Holding
up the flickering flame before him, he turned right and made it to
the first barracks' hallway. From there, he could hear not only the
rain hammering down but the gale-force winds, too. Victor cupped his
hand around the flame, thinking it might blow out.
The
darkness was nerve-racking. He was terrified. In theory, Zig Zag (if
that monster actually existed, and he still wasn't sure that he did)
wasn't a direct threat to him, but the others had instilled him with
a bloodcurdling fear. And the riotous storm, the darkness, and those
cold metal walls didn't exactly do much to calm him down.
The
match was burning his fingers. He blew it out and threw it on the
floor.
For
a second, before he struck another one, he couldn't see a thing.
Fear,
in large part, is nothing but imagination: Victor had read that over
and over. If you didn't let your imagination run wild, darkness and
noises had no power over you.
He
dropped the match. No way was he bending down to try to find it. He
pulled another one from the book.
In
any case, he was almost there. After striking the third one, he could
make out the door, a few feet to his right.
"WHERE
did
Victor go?"
"I
don't know," Jacqueline replied. "And I don't care,
either." She turned over to try to go back to sleep.
Unconsciousness was the only way to keep her fear at bay.
"We
can't carry the weight of this ourselves, Jacqueline. Victor is a big
help. If he weren't here, we'd be as lost as a sailboat, with no wind
and no sea."
Jacqueline,
who had closed her eyes, sat up and looked at Blanes. He was still in
the same chair, his head leaning against the screen, his green shirt
stained with sweat, legs stretched out and crossed in his baggy
jeans. His friendly, open face—stubbly gray beard, pockmarked
cheeks, and big nose—was turned toward her affectionately.
"What
did you just say?"
"That
we shouldn't let Victor go. He's our only help."
"No
... I mean ... You said something about the wind and a boat."
Blanes frowned.
"It
was just a turn of phrase. Why?"
"It
reminded me of a poem Michel wrote when he was twelve. He read it to
me over the phone and I loved it. I encouraged him to keep writing. I
miss him so much..." Jacqueline fought back her tears.
"The
wind and the sea have gone. Only the old boat remains ...
He's
fifteen now, and he's still writing..." She rubbed her arms and
looked around, suddenly uneasy. "Did you hear something?"
"No,"
soothed Blanes.
The
room's darkness was overwhelming. Jacqueline was sure it was bigger
than the space it occupied.
"I'm
next." She was half whining and half pouting, like a naughty
girl who's been punished. "And I know exactly what he's going to
do to me. He tells me every night. I thought about killing myself so
many times, and I would, if he'd let me. But he won't. He likes me to
keep waiting for him, day after day. And in exchange, he gives me
pleasure and terror, in equal doses. He tosses them to me the way you
toss a dog a bone, and I gnaw on them both... Do you know what I told
my husband when I decided to leave him? 'I'm still young and I want
to live my own life, do what I want to do, follow my heart.'"
She shook her head, flustered, and smiled. "Those weren't my
words. He said them for me." Blanes nodded.
"I
abandoned my husband and child ... I
abandoned
little
Michel... I had to;
he
wanted
me to be alone.
He
comes
to me at night and makes me crawl on the floor and throw myself at
his feet.
He
made
me dye my hair black, he makes me wear all this makeup, and dress
like a ... Do you know why my hair is this color?" She ran a
hand through her copper tresses and smiled. "Sometimes, I rebel.
It's hard, but I do it. I've done too much for
him
already,
don't you think? Left my whole life behind: my job, my husband ...
Michel, my only son. You have no idea how hateful
he
is,
the horrible things he says about my son. Living alone, at least I
can... I can take all that hatred myself..."