Matthew Reilly - Scarecrow Returns

—when suddenly her view was blocked by the second Strela, bursting up and out of the river ahead of her, wheels turning, surging out of the water onto the shore.

“Fuck me,” Mother said, joining Zack and Emma.

She glanced over at the Antonov—it was now almost at the waterfall.

“Scarecrow!” she said into her radio. “I got Zack and Emma and one sphere-case, but we’re cut off from the cliffs!”

“ I’m up to my neck in bad guys here, Mother, ” came the reply. “ I’m afraid you’re on your own this time —”

The signal cut off.

Mother pursed her lips.

“Shit. Shit. Shit. Come on, kids, if we can’t get to the cliffs, we gotta find another way to dispose of these spheres before those bastards catch us.”

They hurried out of their shipwrecked cement mixer and dashed across the shore, heading south into the rugged mountainous interior of Dragon Island.

SCHOFIELD WAS still stuck on the Antonov, rushing toward the waterfall with two Samsonite cases—four spheres—still to get rid of.

Things had got completely out of control.

The waterfall was fast approaching. Mother was gone, along with Zack and Emma. Baba had been flattened against the wall by the cement mixer. Champion was slumped on the floor at his feet, on the edge of consciousness. He’d been shot and he still had two berserkers up in the cockpit about to—

The cockpit door flew open. The two berserkers came rushing out of it, their gunfire raking the hold.

But their fire went high, and just as the berserkers caught sight of Schofield at the base of the steps beneath them and re-aimed their weapons, the entire plane suddenly tipped precariously forward, outrageously forward—

The plane had reached the waterfall.

And was going over.

THE ANTONOV AND THE WATERFALL

BUT THEN abruptly the Antonov lurched to a shuddering stop.

With an ear-piercing shriek of metal on rock, the big plane came to an unexpected halt right on the lip of the waterfall!

It was an incredible sight: the big cargo plane, with its right wing belching fire and smoke, perched on the edge of the mighty Arctic waterfall, its nose tilted dizzyingly downward, its outstretched wings hanging low over the surging waves of the river, waves that rushed past it before launching themselves out into the void and falling 300 feet into the ocean far below.

On the nearby runway, the pursuing force of Army of Thieves vehicles skidded to a halt while on the opposite bank, one could see the two Strelas: Mother’s still with the cement mixer embedded in its bow, the other guarding the cliffs.

Everyone inside the plane was thrown forward by the sudden lurch.

Gripping Champion, Schofield was hurled forward and slammed against the wall, while the two berserkers—milliseconds away from killing him—were both flung by the inertia back into the downturned cockpit.

It took Schofield a second to figure out what had happened.

The landing gear.

The Antonov’s rear landing wheels must have caught on the lip of the waterfall and were now preventing the plane from going over.

This wasn’t how I planned this at all , Schofield’s mind screamed. We were supposed to get across the river, then I’d get to the cliffs where I would throw the spheres into the sea. Now I’m hanging off the edge of a waterfall in a plane with two insane attackers who in about two seconds are going to try and kill me again.

His searching eyes found the side door, only eight feet above and behind him. Did he have time to clamber up there and toss the spheres out—

Movement in the cockpit. The berserkers had regathered themselves. They’d be coming in seconds.

“Fuck it,” he said aloud, aiming his pistol through the cockpit doorway.

Only it wasn’t aimed at either of the berserkers.

It was aimed at the landing gear retractor lever that hung from the ceiling above the pilot’s seat.

Blam! He fired and a spark pinged off the landing gear lever and the lever swung forward.

The result was instantaneous.

With its landing gear retracted, the plane went over the waterfall.

IF THE sight of the Antonov perched on the lip of the waterfall was incredible, the sight of it falling down the face of the waterfall was just astonishing.

It fell nose-first in an almost perfect swan-dive, falling at exactly the same speed as the water falling around it, and for a moment, one might have been convinced it would swoop upward at the last second and soar to safety, but that didn’t happen.

The Antonov hit the churning white water at the base of the mighty waterfall with a great splash and plunged underwater.

The plane’s glass nose shot underwater, its pointed tip penetrating the surface like an Olympic diver, shooting downward in a rush of bubbles.

It was only the wings of the plane—or more specifically, the engines on them—that brought it to a halt: a bone-jarring, deadly halt. The plane’s cockpit had traveled about twenty feet under the surface when the wing-mounted engines hit the surface and the plane’s downward journey stopped instantly.

The experience of the two berserkers in the cockpit was utterly unique: as the plane hit the ocean’s surface, sea water rushed up at them through the shattered forward windows, a great foaming rush of it; but their downward inertia took them the other way and they were flung with terrible force down into the surging water.

In the hold behind them, Schofield sat with his back to the plane’s steel forward wall, flat against a flight seat, with the groaning Champion gripped tightly in his arms.

After firing into the landing-gear lever, he had leapt into the seat and quickly buckled the seat belt.

The shuddering impact of the plane against the ocean’s surface jolted him sharply, but the seat absorbed much of the shock and the belt held him tight. Champion was almost shaken from his grip, but somehow he managed to hold her.

But it wasn’t over yet.

The worst was still to come, for the Antonov around him was now vertical, bobbing in the ocean water.

Then, with horrifying speed, it began to sink.

WATER RUSHED up into the Antonov through its shattered cockpit windows, swarming up into the plane in a great roiling, bubbling rush, as if it were a sentient creature trying to swallow the plane from the inside out.

Schofield’s world was turned vertical—the plane was sinking nose-first, so his forward end of the hold was now the bottom end—and it was filling fast. Water swelled all around him.

He scrambled to unlatch his seat belt, still holding the barely conscious Champion.

As he did so, a mini-waterfall of sea water started flowing in through the open side door directly above him, raining down in an unbroken stream.

He looked upward, at the wide square opening at the very top of the hold: the plane’s rear ramp was still open and through the opening it created, Schofield saw the gray Arctic sky.

He took in the situation quickly:

The wings of the plane were currently providing some buoyancy, slowing their descent a fraction, but the plane’s fate was sealed: in a few moments, as it sank further, ocean water would come gushing en masse through that upper opening. At that point, the Antonov would become little more than a metal tube in the ocean, open at both ends, and it would sink to the bottom like a stone.