The Devil's breath

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.

Max held!Koga tighter across his chest and headed for his dad’s plane. Knowing what he had to do when he got there was scary enough.

The sight of the trees encouraged him. The sand yacht had faltered, a couple of kilometers away, when the ground changed into shrub and grassland. He had let it slow, easing the sail so it spilled the air, ensuring they didn’t tip over.

Carefully lifting!Koga out of the yacht’s cockpit, he carried him at a slow jog, stopping every once in a while to catch his breath. The wind was gaining strength, a more consistent push against his back-the storm building itself, ready to release its pent-up rain. If the storm broke before he could reach the plane, the ground would flood and the wheels would never get through it. Max’s heart pounded, not from the exertion but from the anticipation. He had to fly the plane out.

His visual memory snatched at images, like scenes from old movies, remembering things Kallie had done when she flew him in; trying to hear her voice as she explained things; but they wouldn’t gel. They didn’t make sense. Fractured elements of recall made their own jigsaw puzzle.

And then they reached the plane.

Max pulled aside the camouflage netting, climbed into the Cessna, then turned and dragged!Koga in behind him, ever mindful of the boy’s injury. It took longer than he wanted, but he couldn’t rush this, not now.

With!Koga securely fastened, Max clambered into the pilot’s seat. The last time he had sat there, his mind had focused on the opening through the windscreen and a changed consciousness had taken him high up, letting him see the landscape and the way to the Devil’s Breath. But not now. Now his hands rested on the controls and he could barely think straight.

The way ahead was clear of camouflage net and branches. He needed to start the plane, roll it forward and then turn onto the flattened grassland. His eyes glazed over at all the instruments. He chastised himself. Come on, you do one thing, then something will happen, then you do the next thing, and so on. It’ll happen. It’ll work. Something will click and you’ll do it.

He pointed at a dial. What’s that? “Fuel gauge,” he answered himself.

And that? “Airspeed indicator.”

And? “Altimeter, lights, master switch, ignition and magnetos! Right! OK, got it!”

It came back to him. He pulled down the sun visor and the worn tag that held the key fell into his lap. He put it in the ignition. There were things he should have checked, he knew that. At Windhoek, Kallie had done a complete visual check outside her own aircraft. Well, that took time, which was a luxury; this was time-has-run-out time. The sign on the control panel warned him to make sure there was no water contaminating the fuel-another risk he had to take. This was his main chance. Some things had to be left in the lap of the gods. There was a toggle switch to prime the engine. That made sense. You primed a lawn mower before you started it. How long? Couple of seconds, five, ten? Middle. Five should do it.

Fuel selectors. He fingered the small lever into the Both position. Kallie was a great pilot and she had warned him about getting things wrong. What had she said? It seemed a lifetime ago since he had seen her. He reran the video clip in his head. Meeting her, liking her, no, not that stuff, what else? The flying. Leaving Windhoek. The old plane, the … saying. There was a saying.

He pictured the instruments in her plane. There was a small sign. My dad worries. He taught me how to fly. That was what she’d said. And there was a tattered laminated postcard stuck on the panel. She hadn’t remembered what it was called. It was a mnemonic, he had told her. That was right, an aide-memoire, she had agreed.