David Gilman - The Devil's breath

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.

The pilot prepared to lift off. “No!” Max cried, and jumped to the ground. Without hesitation Mr. Peterson and the soldiers followed him as he sprinted into the hangar. “Dad! Where are you? Can you hear me?” he screamed.

A blur of white against the distant wall caught Max’s eye. Zhernastyn. He’d know where his dad was, but as he shouted his name Mr. Peterson caught up with him and grabbed him.

“Enough, Max! We have to get away! Take him!” Mr.

Peterson yelled to the soldiers, who roughly grabbed him and pulled him back towards the helicopter. “Mr. Peterson! Dad’s here! Right here! Don’t leave him! Please! Please!”

No matter how he fought and kicked, he was no match for the tough soldiers.

“The place is gonna blow, mate. You’ve done all you could,” one of the men shouted as he covered their retreat, his machine gun tucked into his shoulder. Max had never felt such despair. All the fight went out of him. He had lost. And he had used his very last ounce of energy to keep going. There was nothing left inside him now. No matter how much he willed himself, his body had finally failed him.

One last gasp of hope.

The key!

The Humvee.

Where else could his dad be? He would have crawled away from the blaze and the gunfire when Max had escaped. The armor-plated Humvee was the only safe place to hide, but if they didn’t get him out he would be burned to death.

“The Humvee!” Max yelled.

He looked into Mr. Peterson’s eyes and for a brief moment it seemed that Peterson faltered. He stopped as they dragged Max further and further away from finding his father. And then Mr. Peterson turned back into the hangar.

Somewhere in there, lights were flashing. Max could barely see now; the rain stung his eyes and the helicopter’s noise beat the air out of his ears, but there were definitely orange lights flashing and a siren-a car’s alarm. The weight of clouds sat over them now and the wind’s unearthly growl cut a frightening wound through the air.

His back scraped against the metal floor of the helicopter.

Voices shouted. They had to go. Time was up. They had to go now!

The black shape with the lights flashing and the struggling sound of the alarm was a Humvee. His dad hadn’t made it out, but he was in there. Max screamed at the soldiers, but no one could hear him shouting against the storm and the helicopter’s rotors that his dad was in there. That his dad must have heard the helicopter, must have heard Max’s voice calling to him. That his dad had set off the Humvee’s alarms. To alert them. For help.

Strong hands still held him. The helicopter quivered, the skids lifted.

Then one of the soldiers, eyes squinting against the rain, pointed.

From out of the hangar, through the curtain of rain, Mr. Peterson was holding his friend, Max’s dad, carrying him like an injured child towards the impatient helicopter.

Drenched by the rain, but alive, Tom Gordon was hauled into the helicopter. Soldiers yanked Mr. Peterson aboard, and the pilot worked hard to get them airborne.

Max’s eyes were closing. As the storm snatched at them, he saw a break in the clouds and spotted the figure of a man in a white coat, making his escape in a boat, down the slipway, into the river, where the boat settled for a moment and then began to sink.

In his panic to escape, Zhernastyn had forgotten that the boat was in need of repair.

The clouds closed around the picture of the man in the rain-stung water as bow waves rippled towards him.

Crocodiles don’t mind bad weather.

The wind and rain muffled the explosion, and the clouds shrouded the fort’s collapse. It didn’t matter anymore.

Father and son lay, soaking wet, next to each other on the cold metal floor. Max pulled himself against his unconscious father, lay an arm across him, and put his head against his chest.

He wanted to hear his heartbeat.

Nothing else mattered.

Fading words, snatched through the noise, penetrated his thoughts. Too late to reach Chang … troops can’t … thousands’ll die … poison water … weather shut down … rain cleared at dam … but … too dark … too late … too late .