David Gilman - The Devil's breath

They burst out through spiraling smoke into a faceful of wind-lashed sand. With eyes barely open, Max maneuvered the sand yacht, filling the sail with the veering wind as he struggled for control. Rope burns already stung his hands, but once he got the yacht on a course that put the wind across his right shoulder, the wheels skimmed over the baked surface.

He dared a look back. There was plenty of smoke, but no flames. Shaka Chang must have had an extinguishing system that smothered any threat from fire, particularly in those hangars where the planes and vehicles were kept. Max knew he had to sweep around the fort and head back in the direction he and!Koga had come from. Luckily the black smoke curling from Skeleton Rock screened him from searching eyes.

They rattled along, the wind buffeting the lightweight sand yacht. Max almost lost control when one of the wheels lifted clear of the ground, but he leaned into it and it bumped down, spinning for purchase. A plume of sand sprayed behind them as they skimmed along, faster and faster. The speedo needle hovered between 77 and 80 kilometers per hour, and Max could hear the humming of the wing sail, taut with energy. The ropes vibrated between his fingers as he steered for the vast openness that lay before him. His mind raced almost as fast as the wheels. He had to remember where the broken fingers of cracked earth lay waiting to ensnare him-one mistake and he would drive the sand yacht to destruction. And kill them both.

He struggled to keep control. The wind was doing all the work, and he knew he had been lucky so far, but his limited skill could also be their downfall. He trimmed the sail, felt the speed drop slightly. If he could keep it going steadily, he and!Koga stood a better chance of survival. The heat from his friend’s body lying against him wasn’t just from the cramped conditions;!Koga’s temperature was burning up.

The sand yacht shuddered. He was hitting rougher ground. The fixed rear wheels bounced across the ruts, following wherever Max steered the front wheel, which was now twisting out of control. Max edged the yacht first one way then the other, until it settled again.

Now he had it. The harmony of wind and sail joined forces to push him at a steady speed: 80, 85, 87. As straight as an arrow he kept his heading. They were in with a chance. He had already saved thirty or forty kilometers by heading right out across the plain. When he and!Koga had crept within sight of Skeleton Rock, they had taken a roundabout, looping course. Now it was as straight as the crow flies. Or the vulture. And it still wouldn’t take much to give the scavengers breakfast.

His brief moment of satisfaction turned into one of fear when he saw the straining black fist that was a wind-filled sail soaring towards him from behind his left shoulder. It was the second sand yacht. But this pilot knew what he was doing. He was nursing the black, bullet-shaped body at an angle that would intercept Max. And it must have been doing over a hundred-its lethal beauty would be upon him in a couple of minutes at that speed.

Max wrestled with the ropes, he was getting it all wrong.

The sail flapped as he steered off-wind, then surged as he caught it again.

The hunter was closing.

Max knew he was trying to do too much. He had to hold!Koga close to him, so he only had one hand left to control the yacht. He decided to let the sail look after itself and steer with his right hand. He would keep the wind on the quarter as best he could and try to outmaneuver his pursuer.

The wind shifted again, lifting a veil of sand half a kilometer ahead and he realized that, despite his erratic piloting, he knew where he was. The rising land was where he and!Koga had camped before the Devil’s Breath sucked him down-and behind that escarpment was where he was heading. That was where the plane lay hidden. And that was his only chance to save!Koga’s life and radio for help.

His own thoughts and emotions fought each other. Images of his father, the explosion, the flames, that final look, the moments of danger together and the warmth and love from his dad. Deep down, he knew that no matter how rugged or tough his father was, he held a powerhouse of love for Max. He’d never felt so close to him as in those last few moments together. But his mind shouted at him. Don’t think about it! Concentrate! You’ve only got one crack at this! You muck this up and you’re dead! Concentrate!

A quick look behind showed only a wall of sand chasing him. If it overtook him, he would be piloting blind, his sense of direction would disappear. A flurry of rain blown in from the mountain storm stung his face. The rain was still too far away to make any impact, but if the sand cloud was behind him, then whoever was chasing him must be caught up in it.

Like a dust devil the leading edge of the sandstorm raced ahead of him, over to the left, about thirty meters away. Was it veering or was it going to cut back towards him and smother him?

He didn’t have time to consider his options.

The gloss-black hunter edged out of the fog of sand, its pilot’s head and shoulders just visible above the bodywork. He wore a helmet, its visor closed, giving his face full protection against the glare of the sun and the stinging, penetrating sand.

And then, like a charioteer of old, he swung the sand yacht sideways. Max had to stay on course, there were boulders ahead. Was that what the other guy had seen as well? Was he trying to force Max to pile up and rip himself apart?

Max held his line.

The guy came closer. Ten meters, six, three, two.

They were racing side by side. The man’s hand came free of the cockpit and pointed at him. Pointed something black, a dull sheen, an automatic. But before Max could react, the other sand yacht jigged a little. The control needed at that speed was so precise, the man needed both hands.

He dared another look. The pilot wasn’t even looking at him. He was concentrating on those rocks. Then Max saw why. The ground became broken; not only were there rocks on Max’s side, the other pilot faced the same challenge. They were both heading for the narrow gap. Only one of them could get through.

With what seemed a nervous glance towards Max, the other man moved his hands rapidly on the ropes, and his yacht surged ahead. He’d trimmed everything so quickly and expertly that Max could only eat his dirt.

With seconds to spare the two yachts hurtled through the gap, nose to tail. The other man had reacted instinctively, ensuring he was the one who got through, perhaps hoping the dust trail would blind Max and force him onto the rocks. But it was a fundamental error. As Max went through the gap, he eased the yacht to starboard, that was where he needed to go, and when he did, he stole the other man’s air.

As Max kept going, he saw his attacker’s sail flap as the yacht faltered. Forced to gibe, swinging the yacht around, he lost time trying to catch the wind and, as luck would have it, the sandstorm now hit the man side on, just as he was turning the yacht. Max saw the mast tilt and the wheels lift. The man couldn’t hold it. The yacht turned over.

Even if the other guy could get the yacht upright, Max knew he had gained valuable time. “Hang on,!Koga, we’re gonna make it!” he shouted, although he knew the unconscious boy couldn’t hear him.

Then the obvious thought seeped into his mind. He might be the only living witness to Shaka Chang’s plan. If the information hadn’t reached Sayid, he still held the knowledge of what was planned.

The sand yacht was probably not the only attempt Shaka Chang would have made to stop him. Somewhere out there in the confused storm, others might be searching.

Imagination is a dangerous thing when you’re scared. Deal with what you know and try to plan for the unexpected, but don’t let your mind make you seize up through fear , the voice in his head urged him.