Velocity (33 page)

The ‘get him talking thing’ hadn’t worked as Rhonda planned. The Frenchman had talked but he’d also looked at her the whole time. He now stares out the windscreen, seemingly lost in thought. She needs to get him speaking again but not about anything that will make him turn around. She goes with a technical question that, she hopes, doesn’t warrant eye contact. ‘How do you expect to fly this thing through US airspace without getting shot down?’

‘The trick is to be in US airspace for as short a period as possible. We’re going to fly over the North Pole, approach across Canada’s Eastern Territories...’ He doesn’t turn around.

It’s time to straighten, tense, roll. She draws her right arm as far down the flight suit’s sleeve as it will go, straightens it at the shoulder, tenses it and rolls it backwards. The pain is just as she imagined. She reminds herself not to scream and waits for the arm and shoulder to bid each other adieu.

It doesn’t happen. She stops tensing and draws in a rough breath, lets the pain subside. The Frenchman continues talking. She straightens her right arm again, tenses it, rolls it backwards.

It pops out of its socket.

The pain is imperious. Her arm is now at what seems like a 45-degree angle to her shoulder. She bites her bottom lip to stop any sound involuntarily escaping her throat and works fast. Within the suit she drags her right arm back, then up, and bends her hand back to clear the top of the sleeve.

Her wrist gets caught on it because there’s no power in the movement. She pushes again. Bright slivers of pain dance before her eyes.

It flips past the top of the sleeve and drops in front of her stomach. She breathes out, feels perspiration tickle her forehead.

The Frenchman continues: ‘We didn’t have any trouble when we took the Galaxy so I’m not expecting any this time .. .’

Rhonda gives herself three seconds to let the pain subside. One. Two. Three. It doesn’t subside, not even a little. She lifts her hand, searches for the suit’s zipper. Her fingers brush the metal teeth. She pushes her arm upwards.

Grunting. She hears grunting, then realises it’s her. She holds her breath and reaches for the zipper. Her forefinger touches it. It’s large, made of alloy. She hooks the nail over the top of it, pulls down. Another jolt of bright, shining pain. The zipper pull doesn’t budge. She bites her lip harder, tries again. The zipper creeps down the teeth, then gains momentum, slides to her belly.

She pushes her right arm out of the suit. Yes, she’s half-free. Pain pulses through the right side of her body as she wrenches at her left with her right hand. It doesn’t do any good because her dislocated arm has no strength. She scans the cabin, searches for something, anything to cut the plastic tie.

A glint, to the right. She leans to get a better look. Something’s jammed into the crevice between the seat and back of the chair beside her. What is that?

A Fisher space pen.
Steinhower’s
Fisher space pen, the one his daughter gave him. Just its clicker is visible. He’d misplaced it before he was killed. It seems like a year ago but it’s only been a day and a half. She reaches for it.

Her chair creaks. Her eyes flick to the Frenchman. He doesn’t turn, just keeps talking: ‘... and your country’s air defences are still shamefully porous . . .’

Her shoulder screams. She ignores it. It’s only pain. She stretches her fingers, touches the pen’s pocket clip, coaxes it from the cushions, slumps back into her chair, studies it. She’s never been so happy to hold a writing implement in her life. She thumbs the clicker and the ballpoint nib extends.

‘What are you doing?’

Henri stares at her, his expression dark as thunder.

Rhonda slashes at the plastic tie that binds her left arm with the pen. It doesn’t cut it. The pen is not a knife. She changes tack, rams the pen between her arm and the tie, twists it upwards, grunts as she does it, stretches it.

It snaps.

She’s free.

The Frenchman stands and pivots, drags the Glock out of the backpack, swings it towards Rhonda.

She’s not in her chair. Where is she? The cabin’s not that big —

Silver flashes from behind the pilot’s chair, slices into his shoulder. Ahhh!’

Rhonda had aimed for his throat but the pen is in her left hand so her accuracy sucks. She tries again, slashes the pen in the opposite direction. Henri throws up his left hand, blocks it. She drives the pen down, towards his chest.

‘Fuck!’ It slams into the Frenchman’s sternum, stops dead. She pulls it back, stabs again.

Henri knocks her arm away, aims the pistol at her, finger tight on the trigger. ‘Stop!’ He doesn’t fire. He needs her.

The pen flicks up, hits his chin, cuts deep, drags across his cheek, the pain hot and sour. He wrenches his head away and it slices down his neck towards his carotid artery. He pulls the trigger.

The bullet hits Rhonda in the left shoulder, spins her around. She drops to the floor, lands on her right shoulder, jams it back into its socket. She realises, unhappily, that she brought a ballpoint to a gun fight.

‘I told you to stop.’ Henri stands over her, wipes at the long, stinging wound that arcs across his face and neck. He studies her wound, realises he needs to act quickly. He slides the pistol into his belt line, reaches into the backpack, pulls out the camcorder, opens its screen —

Rhonda flicks up her right foot, nails him in the groin. Henri is instantly wracked with pain and involuntarily doubles over.

Rhonda pushes up with her newly relocated arm and thrusts out her hand, shoves the space pen deep into the soft skin of his throat. Arterial blood gushes and soaks the collar of his shirt as he drops to his knees. He balances there for a moment, with, she is certain, a flabbergasted expression, then slumps to the floor behind the copilot’s chair.

Rhonda stares at his motionless figure in disbelief. There’s no time to process what just happened because there’s too much to do.

She needs to fire the explosive bolts that attach
Atlantis
to the Galaxy and fly it free. Then she must land it, preferably beside a hospital because she’s not feeling too great.

She pulls herself up - then her head swims and she slumps back to the floor, eyelids heavy. She wants to take a nap. No, she
needs
to take a nap, right now, except she knows that if she falls asleep she will never wake.

She pushes herself up - but doesn’t even rise an inch. When her head hits the floor her eyes are already shut.

**

48

Judd drags himself up to the twin viewports and peers in. Rhonda lies on the floor of the flight deck, her shoulder a bloodied mess. What the hell happened?! A minute ago she was fine. His stomach turns over. He needs to get inside
now.

Instant white-out. He can’t see anything, then the cloud passes and he looks inside again. A body is slumped behind the pilot’s chair. It’s the French guy from the launch. He’s dead, no doubt.

Judd lets go of the right hook, pulls the pistol from his belt. The freezing air buffets him, pushes him off the side of the fuselage. His cauterised wound screams. He grabs the right hook again, stabilises himself, presses the weapon’s muzzle onto the right viewport’s glass panel and pulls the trigger.

The panel doesn’t shatter or break. The bullet just buries itself in the silica-impregnated glass. He grits his teeth and fires into the same spot again. Same thing happens. He pulls the trigger again. Click. No more bullets.

‘Christ.’ He releases the weapon and it’s swept away in the air-stream. He grabs the right hook, twists it out of its tile and swings it at the glass panel. It bounces off. He swings again. It bounces off. He is
going
to get inside, no matter what. He swings again.

**

Corey watches Judd slam the hook against the viewport like a man possessed. He can’t get in. Sparkling blue catches the Australian’s eye. An ocean glimmers on the horizon. He thinks it’s the Gulf of Carpentaria, but he’s not certain. It’s not far away, a couple of minutes’ flying time at most.

He glances at the Loach’s instrument panel. Altitude is 7500 feet. The Galaxy’s gaining height as it burns fuel and lightens its load. That’s not what worries Corey. It’s the acceleration. Within a minute the jet will reach the Loach’s maximum speed and he will no longer be able to keep up. His eyes flick back to Judd. He continues to smash the hook into the viewport. He’s got sixty seconds to get inside or Corey’s going to have to drag him off.

**

‘No!’ Rhonda forces her eyes open. She takes in the viewports above her. A blur, then something hits one of the glass panels. Then again. She blinks.

A face appears behind the glass.

‘Judd?’
It’s not possible. She must be hallucinating - then their eyes meet and she knows it’s him. He came for her.

With her last remaining shred of energy she reaches out with her good arm, drags the pistol from the Frenchman’s belt, points it towards the viewport and fires.

His face numb from the freezing wind, Judd watches the bullet bury itself in the viewport’s panel. He swings the hook and hits the point of impact with everything he’s got. The hook bounces off without effect.

She fires again. Another pockmark. Judd swings the hook, hits the glass. It bounces off. A small crack snakes its way across the panel. This isn’t going to work —

The glass explodes out of the viewport, whacks his face on the way past. A torrent of dust follows, momentarily blinds him. He doesn’t care. He blinks away the grit, pushes his head over the hole and looks in.

Yes, the Frenchman is dead and Rhonda isn’t far behind. Her eyes are glassy and a pool of dark-red blood frames her pale face. Her right hand drops the gun and applies pressure to what looks like a bullet wound on her left shoulder. It’s one hell of a mess, a lot more serious than the one he cauterised earlier. She moves her head, focuses on him, smiles. It’s weak but it’s a smile. He returns it, pulls himself into the open viewport.

The rope round his waist is wrenched tight and he’s dragged out. ‘No!’ He flips the hooks down, catches the viewport’s edge.

The Loach drops back as the Galaxy accelerates and there’s nothing Corey can do about it. He tries to squeeze more power out of the little chopper but it’s not working. It’s time to cut Judd free. Corey pulls the knife from its pouch on the side of his seat and saws at the rope.

Thump-thump-thump-thump.

The familiar sound cuts across the soundscape. Corey glances in the side-view mirror. ‘Oh come on!’ In the distance the black chopper rises into view. He’s very disappointed. The lucky bucket didn’t work after all.

**

It hadn’t taken as long as Dirk feared. The windscreen had been knocked out of its frame by what appeared to be a bucket filled with rocks. Thankfully it didn’t hit a rotor or shatter the windscreen, the latter taking only a few minutes to jam back into place. Big Bird, who was dazed but otherwise okay, did the job with the soles of his shoes.

It was only a temporary fix but then they wouldn’t be in the air for long. They were to escort the Galaxy as far as the coast then abandon the Tiger and head for the rendezvous point in Berlin. That was the plan, anyway, but then this little yellow chopper turned up again and threw a spanner in the works.

If Dirk wasn’t looking at it he wouldn’t believe it. A rope runs from the Loach’s cabin to the front of the shuttle, where it’s tied around a man’s waist. It’s the astronaut. Judd Bell is somehow
attached
to the shuttle’s fuselage.

Dirk could finish him now, open up the Tiger’s cannons and blow him off there. He doesn’t. He’d risk sending live rounds into the flight deck where Henri is. His eyes move to the rope tied around the astronaut’s waist and he instantly knows what to do: take out that yellow chopper and he takes out the astronaut.

**

Corey furiously saws at the Dynamica rope. He won’t be able to take any evasive action until it’s severed. His eyes flick to the rear-vision mirror. The black chopper closes in, spits white fire.

Bullet rounds slam into the Loach’s fuselage. The turbine coughs, makes a God-awful sound Corey’s never heard before, then begins to wind down.

The chopper lurches to the right and the rope pulls at Judd. ‘Not good.’ Corey plays the controls but there’s no response. The Loach is dying.

How does he get out of this? The answer is in his hand. He twists his left arm around the last metre of rope, takes the knife with his right hand and saws at it. It severs and instantly unravels around his arm, zips through his fist and scorches his skin. Corey drops the knife, grabs what little remains of the rope around his right hand and wrenches his fists in opposite directions. The rope skids to a stop, 10 centimetres to spare —

The Loach tips right and Corey scrambles left, dives over the passenger seat towards the open doorway. He’s not sure what’s worse, not knowing if his life’s about to end or abandoning the chopper his father left to him in his will.

**

The rope around Judd’s waist goes light. He looks back, watches the Loach tumble away. Its cockpit misses the shuttle’s engine pod by centimetres then its tail boom swings around and slams into the Galaxy’s tail, shears it off at the base.