The Devil's Breath (39 page)

If he lived.

Outside the bar, Tobias’s can of beer hovered between his chin and his lips. Van Reenen chewed an unlit cigarette and Mike Kapuo’s unblinking eyes were locked on to the two aircraft, now only a few hundred meters away. The one below the other seemed to be wobbling.

“The landing gear on those Cessnas is made from spring steel,” van Reenen said, to no one in particular.

Kapuo and Tobias dared a glance away from the unfolding drama.

“What does that mean?” Tobias asked.

“Anything other than just about a perfect touchdown, and he’ll be bouncing from here to kingdom come,” he said. “That might just finish off that kid with a fractured skull. And he’s too low. I hope she can see it. Come on, Kallie, tell him. Tell him,” he muttered to himself.

Pilots talk in feet, Max thought in meters, but his eyes told him he needed to be higher. Should he pull up? The wind was being difficult, a rush across the ground, a swirl at rooftop height. Whatever happened, Max did not have the skill to start side-slipping the plane. He had to come in dead straight.

“You’re getting a little low, Max, apply a touch more power. Keep her level, a little more power, come on.”

That was how you did it. Don’t pull up, just “a touch more power.” That was it.

Max didn’t take his eyes away from the ground as he reached out, pushed the throttle in, heard the engine pick up and then her voice telling him that was better, and that he could slowly reduce power again.

Couldn’t she make her mind up?

“You’re about thirty feet off the ground, Max. Twenty-five. Remember after touchdown to keep the plane straight.

Use your rudder, do
not
touch the brakes until you’ve lost speed and the tail wheel is on the ground. OK, good, twenty feet, lower thirty degrees of flap and try and keep the speed at sixty knots with the throttle.”

Her voice was now a continuous assurance. Calm, even, steady. Almost tender. “Ten feet above the runway, start reducing power and be sure not to let the nose drop.”

Max couldn’t see the runway anymore, it had slipped below the propeller, and it felt as though the plane was sitting back on her tail. The bloody wind snatched at him.

“Keep it straight! Don’t drop that wing. You are just about to touch down.”

The hum of tires on concrete vibrated through his seat.

“Great, you’re down, keep it straight and close the throttle completely!”

He pulled the lever all the way out. The propeller began to slow.

“Your tail wheel is on the ground, you can apply brakes gently. Well done! Raise the flaps and taxi in. Looks like you’ve got a welcoming committee.”

Max saw Kallie’s plane soar upwards to come around again and make her own landing. Mother Earth. Solid, unyielding. Welcome home, everybody.

The engine died, the last gasp of fuel spluttering, and then silence. For a moment he couldn’t move, but then he saw the men running from the jet; they were dressed in assault gear. Then someone yanked open the door and eager hands reached in for him.

“All right, son, bit of a blinder, eh? Good one.”

A cockney accent. What was its owner doing here? He didn’t have time to figure it out.

“My mate’s in there—” Max began.

Another man. Scottish. “Aye, don’t you worry about him, we know he’s hurt.”

The men passed him from one to the other down the line, until he stood clear of the plane and watched as one of them clambered in and began easing !Koga out.

Someone familiar looking was walking towards him. Max stared. It couldn’t be. Mr. Peterson!

“No!” Max yelled, turning back to the soldiers who had put !Koga on to a folding stretcher. He hadn’t gone through all of this to fall into Peterson’s hands.

One of the men grabbed him, not roughly but with enough strength so that Max knew he couldn’t compete with him. Everything seemed to give way inside him. He’d lost. Max almost cracked up.

It made no sense.

Kallie’s plane landed and stopped in a very short distance; Mr. Peterson was standing in front of him, a big smile on his face, and the men in black were carrying !Koga to the twin-engined plane, where a man with a wild beard sat in the cockpit, shouting for them to hurry.

The world had finally gone mad.

Max went down on his knees.

He saw Mr. Peterson frown, saw his mouth shaping his name.

And couldn’t stop himself falling into blackness.

Something moved in the darkness.

He was sitting cross-legged, as if he were a small boy in school assembly, except that there was no one else with him. What he could describe only as a dark wind rustled the blackness, like silk being brushed by air. His father’s face became almost visible, yet Max felt no great compulsion to reach out to him. His father smiled, nodded approvingly, and faded back into the undulating night.

A silent streak of lightning tore across the darkness, exposing a massive walkway, like a bridge through the night sky. It was sheathed in dull moonglow, and Max watched himself running along it. He looked strange. Filthy, shorts torn, his hair matted and wild, and he was running harder and faster than he could believe possible. Running towards a gaping hole in the night. A dark cave in a black night. It made no sense. He watched as he collided with a force that
repelled him, like a glass door that didn’t break, heard his own cry of fear, and saw himself disappear over the edge into oblivion.

And the vision disappeared.

Max sensed another movement.

The jackal.

It loped towards him, swaying gently, until finally it stopped, sniffed his face and sat down, as before, on its haunches, facing him directly. Its eyes gazed into his own and, without surprise, Max heard it speak.

“You are Brother of the Night,” it said.

And licked his face like a dog with a puppy.

“Are you all right? Max? Are you all right?” a voice called, erasing the dream, merging the rhythm of the words.

Someone had stuck superglue to his tongue. It felt like Velcro when he peeled it off the roof of his mouth. He opened his eyes.

“Max! You idiot! You stupid idiot! You’re alive!”

Sayid?

Sayid jumped up and down like a lunatic. “I got airsick, I was puking in the loo when you were coming in to land. I had to clean up the mess. You’re alive. You’re crazy, man!”

Max groaned and eased himself up from the bed someone had put him on.

“Sayid. What the hell’s going on?”

Sayid took Max’s arm, hauled him to his feet, and dragged him outside. Three helicopters, armed soldiers and the assault troops who had dragged him and !Koga out of the plane stood with Mr. Peterson, who seemed to be in charge.

And then Kallie stepped out of the other building and smiled at him. That gave Max a really good feeling.

“Oh, so you’re back in the land of the living,” she said as she stepped towards him and kissed him on the cheek. Her lips almost touched his, but he reckoned that as his mouth felt like the bottom of a birdcage his cheek was probably her better option.

“Where’s !Koga?” Max asked, the fog clearing from his brain.

“He’s in the operating room now. We don’t know much more. Not for a while.”

Max looked at the gathered men. “Mr. Peterson is in on this?”

Sayid smiled. “He’s been on your side all along. And we got the info you sent.”

“Why don’t you get cleaned up and eat, then Sayid and I can tell you everything,” Kallie said.

Max shook his head. “Do you mind?” And he pointed to the water bottle in her hand. She passed it to him and he drained it. “Look, I can’t even start to tell you what happened to me and !Koga, but those men look as though they know what’s going on. And I have to get back to my dad.”

Kallie failed to hide her uncertainty.

Max flung the empty bottle down. “I know he’s alive! He has to be!”

“Max, don’t. There’s gonna be a lot of violence when those blokes attack Shaka Chang,” Sayid said.

“I hope so,” Max told him, and walked towards Mr. Peterson.

* * *

A blast of air pummeled his skin as he sat on the rim of the helicopter’s doorway. They were going in for the attack on Skeleton Rock.

Mr. Peterson had argued the case for him being present when the soldiers said they didn’t want a kid getting in the way. It was Max, he reminded them, who was the reason they were all there, and it was Max who knew his way in and out of the fort. If they wanted any kind of target appreciation, then Max was the one who could give it them. And once Max had told them how he got into the fort, through the Devil’s Breath, the men smiled. That was too tough, they had laughed, even for the SAS.

Time and weather were against them.

The helicopters flew low and fast, but the rain still stung Max’s legs. The Namibian soldiers had told them that in less than an hour the mightiest of storms was going to break over the mountains. The helicopters would be unable to fly, and there’d be flash floods that would swamp the ground. Then there could be no attack.

So, there wasn’t going to be time to go in through any back door; they would assault the main building, with Mr. Peterson and Max with two of the SAS soldiers and four Namibian desert troops going straight into the main hangar. The other helicopters would have two SAS men in each, leading the local soldiers.

Priority one—stop Shaka Chang.

Priority two—rescue Tom Gordon.

It had to be that way. Thousands of lives were at stake.

The Namibian and South African governments had already sent troops to the dam, but nobody knew whether they would get there in time, nor whether Shaka Chang had any kind of remote device to open the dam’s gates. And even if he realized his plan had been discovered, he could still commit an act of vengeance and disappear.

The cloud base was down, hugging the top of Skeleton Rock, and as two of the helicopters went straight for the fort, Max’s chopper swung low and around. It was a scene he would never forget—helicopters dodging gunfire streaking from the fort, black clouds spitting rain, and the tight-banking, evasive flight of his own helicopter as tracer bullets cut through the darkening sky towards them. And Mr. Peterson grabbing him back from the open door, out of the danger zone. Max remembered—a lifetime ago—running across the moor towards Dartmoor High as other bullets cut red through the night and an assassin had tried to keep him from learning the truth. Well, it had been a long journey he had traveled, but the truth was out and the whole frightening episode was almost over.

Dad, hang on. I’m coming. Hang on. Please!

Shaka Chang climbed aboard the black helicopter in the hangar. The fire Tom Gordon had started had caused an enormous amount of damage, but Chang’s very expensive fire-protection systems prevented the blaze destroying the aircraft he needed to make his escape and complete his plan. As far as Shaka Chang was concerned, no one knew what he was going to do and, when Skeleton Rock disintegrated, any
clues concerning Chang would be vaporized. The destruction of his African headquarters would be put down to a vicious fire that had got out of control.

Mr. Slye scurried like a rat behind Shaka Chang. The helicopter’s engine hummed and clattered into life.

“The landing strip at the dam! Twenty minutes!” Chang shouted at him as the helicopter lifted away towards the mountains, fighting the ever-increasing wind. Slye watched the helicopter go and made a calculated decision. He knew that damned Gordon boy had got a message out and it was only a matter of time before some prime minister or president told his soldiers to get Shaka Chang. And Mr. Slye had no illusions about where he would end up. He waved at the helicopter, not that Chang could see him, but Mr. Lucius Slye felt it appropriate that all his years of servitude should warrant a goodbye wave. For years he had been squirreling away funds into a Swiss bank account—and now the time had come to enjoy it.

Dr. Zhernastyn ran into the hangar. “Mr. Slye! Wait! What about me?”

The Learjet’s pilots waited for Slye to climb aboard.

“What about you, Doctor Zhernastyn?”

“How do I get out?”

“Is that a trick question? I don’t know. How do you get out?”

“Help me!”

“No. You’re very lucky I didn’t tell Mr. Chang that you allowed Max Gordon to fool you! You’re already playing in extra time, Doctor. Find your own way out. But I would do
it quickly if I were you because, within twenty minutes, it won’t matter.”

The Learjet’s door closed behind him and the plane taxied out of the hangar towards the runway.

Mr. Slye liked the smell of leather seats, and the Learjet’s comfort was something he could quite easily get used to. He gave the pilots a sheet of instructions.

“There’s been a change of plan,” he told them.

He knew they wouldn’t dare argue with Shaka Chang’s right-hand man.

* * *

Max’s helicopter hovered beyond the hangar’s mouth. The pilot was fighting the storm and he signaled to the men that he couldn’t hold it much longer. They had listened to the troops’ firefight over the radio as they cleared the main area. Chang’s bullies were no match for a disciplined attack. But then, instead of the all-clear, a dreadful warning came over the radio—the place was ready to explode. Clear the area immediately.