Paul Levine - False Dawn

I could make a run for it. The lifeboat had reached the water, Lourdes still screaming. I’m-not-Jose was saying something to Xavier, both of them looking toward shore where multicolored laser beams were piercing the sky. I put both hands on the rail and vaulted over, landing twelve feet below on the steel deck. I hit and rolled, trying to take the pressure off the knees. It worked, but I turned an ankle, and my shoulder thudded hard against the deck.

I limped toward the stern and the helicopter. Yagamata was just ducking under the whirling blades when I called his name. He stopped and turned, looking puzzled. He stood, frozen for a moment. Then, realization crossing his face, he rushed toward the door of the passenger cabin. He had it half open when I slammed into him. It was picture perfect, just the way Coach Sandusky used to teach it. My shoulders were squared up, my legs pumping. I didn’t have the leverage because of my throbbing ankle, but still it was a good stick. I caught him in the middle of the back and smashed him into the door. I could feel the wind go out of him.

With my arms still around him, I slipped a hand into his suit pocket and pulled out the velvet pouch. A second later, the little gold train was in my hand. I backed off a few feet and held the chain over my head, twirling it like a lariat. The rail was only six feet away.

Yagamata turned and faced me. He was breathing hard, his face red. “Are you crazy? What are you doing?”

“Hitching a ride.”

“My pilot is armed. He will shoot you if you enter the aircraft.”

“Tell him to throw his gun onto the deck.”

“No.”

“Then say good-bye to the little engine that could.”

By now, my two companions had scrambled down a ladder, and I’m-not-Jose was pointing a. 45 at me.

I positioned myself in front of the rear gas tank on the helicopter. “Tell him to back off.”

“Don’t shoot!” Yagamata yelled at I’m-not-Jose.

“Take me with you!” I ordered.

“You’re crazy! They’ll shoot us down.” He was shouting, but his voice barely carried over the roar of the helicopter.

“Your train’s going into the drink in ten seconds.”

I leaned over the rail and dangled the trinket of an emperor.

“No! Something must survive this madman. Give it to me!”

“Take me. Tell the pilot. Now!”

“Give it to me,” he repeated, his mouth tight.

Over my shoulder, I saw Xavier hustle toward the hoist where the lifeboat had descended. Probably to get orders from Soto. I’m-not-Jose still had the gun trained on me. I wondered how much time I had.

Yagamata yelled something in Japanese, lowered his head, and came at me, flailing away. Like much in life, it caught me by surprise. His fingernails tore at my neck as he reached for the train. I ducked and pivoted away from his claws, intending to smash him in the gut with a left. Which is precisely when my ankle decided to desert me. It gave way and I dropped to the deck. Yagamata grabbed the gold train from my hand.

I started to get up, but he was behind me. He was quicker than he looked. I felt a sudden, sharp pressure on my neck. He was using the train as a garrote. It bit hard into my flesh, choking me and drawing blood at the same time. He had one hand on the engine and one on the caboose. I struggled to my feet, wheezing, and he leapt onto my back, inexorably tightening the chain. I tried to hit him with a backward elbow smash but just grazed his ribs. I tried to work a finger under the chain but couldn’t do it. My Adam’s apple wanted to explode.

I staggered in the direction of the helicopter, wanting to turn and bang him backward into the fuselage. Still he rode me, his knees digging into my sides. I straightened up and tried to shake him off. I heard the piercing shriek of giant rockets from the shore and the whompeta-whompeta of the helicopter. I caught a sidelong glance of I’m-not-Jose, now with Soto and Xavier standing next to him. Three guns were pointed at us.

I took two more steps, and again I tried to buck Yagamata off, hoping to flip him over my head, praying my ankle would hold. I have strong legs from the days of running up stadium steps in full gear, but still he stayed put.

My energy was nearly gone, my vision blurred. Loss of air was dragging me under. Another step, one last try. I flexed my knees, lowered my head, pushed up on his legs with my hands. Then I jumped, a little hippity-hop, a bucking stallion desperately trying to toss its rider.

I felt the pressure lessen on my neck and heard a whompeta-clunk-whompeta.

Everything happened so fast. So many sensations.

My load weighed less.

My shoulders and face were covered with something red and sticky.

Everything seemed so quiet, though it couldn’t have been.

Soto, Xavier, and I’m-not-Jose were looking down at a spot on the deck a yard in front of Soto’s feet. Looking up at them was Matsuo Yagamata. Or, more precisely, his severed head. His eyes were open. So was his mouth. He seemed startled.

The rest of him was still on my back, my arms clenched tight against his legs. A gurgling sound came from above me. Blood sputtered from what had been his neck and flowed down his body, drenching me. I hurled the body to the deck where it landed with a thud. The dull, heavy weight of a dead man.

The pilot revved his engine and took off, and I rolled underneath the ascending helicopter. Soto shouted something at his crewmen. I hoped it was “Don’t shoot.”

The first shot pinged metal. I hit the deck and rolled toward a ladder that descended into the hold. The second shot was wild, probably high.

I hobbled down a ladder into the hold, hearing shouts above me. It couldn’t have taken more than thirty seconds. Another minute to get in, maybe take a shotgun blast in the chest, but maybe the gun would jam, and I’d take down the crewman at the control panel.

I was at the steel hatch. Door closed. I tried turning the wheel. It didn’t budge. In frustration, I slammed the wheel with my list, cursing. It still didn’t move, but my hand flared with pain, then went numb. I whacked the door with my shoulder. An old rotator cuff with a grudge reminded me of its existence. The compartment was sealed tight from the inside. I couldn’t open the door with a blowtorch.

So this was it. Not even a chance to die like a man.

Footsteps on the ladder above. I turned and headed for the stern. My ankle was starting to swell, and I was galumphing along at a half trot, half limp. I heard a tinkling sound that seemed to be coming from me. I touched my neck. The gold train, dripping Yagamata’s blood, was still hanging there, the engine and caboose intertwined into a knot.

Two compartments to pass through to get to the stern. Shouts from behind now. I forced myself not to turn. A gunshot, ricocheting off metal, then another, this one banging loud and close.

I crouched low and stumbled along. At the same time, I was zigzagging as much as I could along a narrow corridor. It reminded me of hopping through the tires on the practice field, the coaches studying stopwatches.

Time.

How much time?

Two minutes maybe.

The anchor chain came through a well at the stern. Thick, greasy steel links. I took two giant steps and leapt onto the chain. Then, squeezing my body against it, I lowered myself through the well. In ten seconds I was in open space and could drop into the water. Except that my jeans were stuck. Somehow the fabric was caught in a joint between two links of the chain. I pulled against it, but succeeded only in lodging it deeper. Then a grinding sound from above me, the motor that operated the winch. They were hauling the anchor, trying to pull me back into the well.

A huge explosion above me-God, this is it! — a shower of light, and I winced and closed my eyes. I opened them to discover a sunflower of exploding fireworks, a symphony of cannon bursts. The Grand Finale of the celebration.