James Frey - Sky Key

He doesn’t close his eyes.

SHIVERSHIVER.

The 400-gram, 6-centimeter metal sphere arcs soundlessly through the air. Four men move into position as it comes down. They don’t even see it. As soon as it clanks to the floor, it explodes at their feet.

Pressure waves roll through the ship. The sound is deafening. An pulls his fingers from his ears. Transfers the other grenade to his left hand, draws the blinkSHIVERSHIVERblink draws the Glock. He hears new sounds.

A man screaming. Blink. A steam pipe hissing. Blink. The alarm, still going, but fainter since the blast temporarily took some of his hearing.

Blink.

An waves through the doorway, half expecting his hand to get shot off. It doesn’t. He peeks shiverBLINKshiver . Checks right, where the explosion was, then left blinkblink then right again. Sees two dead men and another under them, his arm gone, moving slightly and moaning. A steam pipe over them hisses, a white jet filling the air.

CHIYOKO.

An moves into the corridor, holds his right arm out straight, and shoots.

The man stops moaning.

A bit of violence always clears the head.

A bit of death.

He moves aft. The metal floor is cold. The ship tilts. The air is warm and getting warmer from the steam. The corridor goes straight for five meters, has closed doors on either side, turns right at the end. More sounds up ahead. Footfalls, clicks and clanks of metal things. Men, but no voices this time. The men at the forward end of the hall were amateurs. These aren’t.

These are blinkblink these are special forces.

An takes eight quick steps, his bare feet completely silent, and stops where the corridor turns right. BlinkCHIYOKOshiverBLINK. An guesses that the men have assembled around the corner, at the far end. They’re waiting for him.

BLINKSHIVER.

They kill the lights.

It is completely black. They killed the lights because they have night vision and he doesn’t. But no matter.

BLINKSHIVERBLINKBLINK

An releases the spoon of his last grenade. Counts one second and throws it, overhand and hard, so that it caroms off the wall and hits the floor, bouncing crazily out of sight toward the special-forces men.

“GRENADE!” and two quick shots, the slugs ricocheting off the metal with high-pitched zings. An throws himself back the way he came and plugs his ears before the 2nd blast.

This blast is even more deafening than the first. An unplugs his ears before the echoes are done reverberating. He has maybe three more minutes before he loses the element of surprise. After those three minutes they will stop trying to contain him and instead simply contain the ship, making it impossible blink impossible blink impossible for him to escape, even if it’s just to jump over the side and take his chances in the water, which would not be ideal to say the least.

BLINKshivershiverCHIYOKOblink.

Time to go.

He raises the Glock and slips around the corner, running quickly and blind-firing into the darkness.

Twelve rounds, and by the sound of them, three find flesh and bone. No return fire. He runs 5.4 meters and slides like a midfielder trying to steal the ball from a charging forward. He reaches out and feels in the darkness—a head. Just a head.

BLINKBLINKSHIVER

The darkness in front of him is more open, the smoke from the grenade rising and rising. An guesses that he has just entered the ship’s hangar.

More moaning. But also a scrambling sound.

An lifts up the head he slid into and blink and blink and blink and gets his fingers around a pair of night-vision goggles. He yanks them free. As An pulls the goggles over his face, he realizes for the first time that his head is blinkSHIVERblink is bandaged. He tightens the straps and they squeeze blinkblinkblink they squeeze blinkblinkblink they squeeze the swollen skin and pull at the fresh stitches across his forehead and his hairline. He winces and stifles the urge to cry out. The goggles are in place, but they aren’t working.

“Who has eyes?” a faraway voice whispers, the sound echoing through the hangar.

He’s not alone.

“Almost online,” a 2nd voice answers, this one closer. “Come ON!”

This voice is only feet away. SHIVERblinkSHIVER An sees the soft green glow as the goggles come to life. Only three meters away.

“I see him!” the man blurts.

But he doesn’t shoot. He must have lost his rifle in the explosion. The ghostly light frames the edge of his face, his scruffy beard, gnashing teeth. It all surges toward An, who flops to the floor, aims his pistol, and fires.

The man falls against him. Dead. A knife stabs the floor just next to An’s ear.

BLINKBLINKshiverBLINKshiver.

Close one.

An pushes the man off shiver and feels the goggles blink again and finds the switch.

The room turns green.

It is indeed the hangar.

A shot screams from the far side of the room and misses An by a less than a meter. He spots a large blinkblink a large man shouldering a rifle. No goggles. He’s guessing. Firing toward the commotion. An raises the Glock, takes his time, and fires a single round. It passes through the man’s front hand and enters his skull directly over his right eye. He falls.

An pries a knife from the dead man’s hand, inspects it. Blinkblink. It has a 30-centimeter straight blade with a single edge and no serrations. Shiver. It’s more like a small sword than a military tactical knife. Probably this man’s prize possession, his weapon of choice. His signature.

Not anymore.

BLINKBLINKSHIVERSHIVERBLINK

An slaps himself, runs across the hangar, whispering, “Chiyoko Takeda Chiyoko Takeda Chiyoko Takeda.” He bobs and weaves just in case, but no shots come. He finds it blinkblink finds it odd. This is a large ship, probably a Type 45 destroyer, and even a skeleton crew would require over 100 seamen. By his count, he’s only killed 17. That means more will be coming.

Or maybe it means the rest of the ship doesn’t know about An. They don’t know what’s happening below deck. Maybe An’s a secret.

He scurries around an amphibious vehicle and between two pallets stacked with cargo blinkshivershiverblinkblink with cargo wrapped in plastic and nylon webbing. Three meters away is an open doorway, a set of stairs inside, going up, up, up.

A Type 45 destroyer has a blink has a blink has a helipad. Maybe a Merlin Mk1or a Lynx Mk8.

An has logged 278 simulated hours on the Merlin and 944 on the Lynx, plus 28 hours in a real one.

An makes for the door.

blinkblinkblinkblinkblink

He hits the narrow stairs and goes up.

One deck.

Up.

Two.

Up.

Three.

The air cools and he smells the blinkblinkblink the salty sweetness of the sea and best of all SHIVER best of all SHIVER best of all he hears the whomp-whomp-whomp of a chopper’s rotors coming to speed.

Thank you, special forces.

BLINKBLINK.

An is a few steps below the door that leads to the helipad. It’s open. The ship’s engines throttle up, as if the hunk of metal and electronics and weaponry is nervous. He feels the first breeze of the rotor wash from the helicopter and pulls Charlie’s coat closed around him. He sees the sharp, full moon, the sky clear and the stars bright and the void limitless above.

BlinkSHIVERblink.

Chiyoko would have liked this night, An thinks. Would have seen the beauty where I can’t.