To his alarm he saw the fuel gauge was flickering dangerously close to empty. When he had last checked ten minutes before, it had read three-quarters full, and there was no way the ensuing action could have expended half the tank. He remembered the hit aft from Dalmotov’s sniper rifle as he left the helipad. If the bullet had struck a fuel line, the jolting as they passed through the thermal could have exacerbated the damage, severing the connection and causing massive fuel loss.
He had no time for confirmation. He cut back on the throttle to minimize fuel consumption and dropped to thirty metres. The distant form of the island appeared out of the morning haze, the twin peaks with their distinctive bull’s horn shape just as he had first seen them from Seaquest three days before. His only hope now was that the Hind would last long enough to get him within swimming distance of the northern shore.
As the twin turboshafts began to splutter and gasp, Jack’s view was momentarily obscured by a pall of black smoke. He recoiled from the smell, an acrid reek of cordite and burning plastic. Seconds later it cleared and he was confronted by the hulk of Seaquest less than two hundred metres in front of him.
The satellite images were no preparation for the shocking reality. IMU’s premier research vessel was wallowing with her foredeck nearly awash, her superstructure smashed beyond recognition and her starboard side rent with cavernous holes where Vultura’s shells had splayed open the plating as they tore through. It seemed a miracle she was still afloat, but Jack could tell that the forward bulkheads would soon be breached and she would be dragged under.
The Hind barely hung in the air as it shuddered over the ravaged hulk. Almost immediately it began to descend, the rotor no longer able to provide lift. As the engine coughed out its death throes, Jack only just had time to act.
He quickly unbuckled his safety harness and jammed the cyclic forward as far as it would go. By tilting the helicopter down he raised the stub wings behind the compartment out of his way, but in so doing he had also aimed the machine to nose-dive. With only seconds to spare, he threw off his helmet, ducked behind the cockpit and hurled himself out, his legs tightly crossed and his arms pressed hard against his chest to prevent them from ripping upwards as he hit the water.
Without his helmet he reduced the risk of whiplash but even so the impact was bone-jarring. He sliced into the sea feet first and plummeted deep enough to feel the thermocline. He splayed his limbs to halt his descent. As he swam back towards the surface, he felt a stabbing pain where the wound in his side had torn open. Partway up there was a tremendous concussion that sent a shock wave coursing through the water. He broke surface and saw the burning remains of the Hind a short distance away, a scene of devastation that could easily have been his own funeral pyre.
He cracked the CO2 cartridge on his lifejacket and made for Seaquest. He was suddenly overwhelmed by fatigue, the adrenaline rush having taken its toll on his already depleted reserves.
Seaquest was so far down on her bow that he was able to swim over the submerged forecastle and haul himself on the sloping deck in front of the gun emplacement. It was the scene of York and Howe’s last stand the day before. After grimly surveying the scene, Jack stripped off his lifejacket and picked his way cautiously towards the remains of the deckhouse. Just before reaching the hatch into the hold, he lost his footing and fell heavily. He realized with dismay that he had slipped on congealed blood, a crimson splatter that trailed to the starboard side of the hull.
Jack knew there was nothing to be gained from dwelling on the final moments of his crew. He sank back for a moment’s respite beside the hatch while he summoned all his remaining willpower and strength.
Almost too late he saw the helicopter out of the corner of his eye. It was far away, just off the corner of the island, and the sound of its rotor was drowned out by the noise of Seaquest breaking up. He knew from the vacant pad at the heliport that Aslan had a fourth attack helicopter, and he guessed this was a Kamov Ka-28 Helix flown off Vultura. He squinted into the morning sun and saw the helicopter low over the water, aimed directly at him. Jack had been at the receiving end of enough helicopter attacks to know what to expect, yet rarely had he felt so vulnerable.
There was a distant flash as a telltale halo dropped and began to enlarge with horrifying speed. It was a heavy anti-ship missile, probably one of the feared Exocet AM.39 warheads he had seen stockpiled at Aslan’s headquarters. Jack hurled himself through the hatch and tumbled to the lower deck, literally falling into the command module. Just as he spun the locking wheel, there was an immense crash. He was thrown violently back against a bulkhead and the world went dark.
CHAPTER 26
The door slammed behind Costas as he flew into the bulkhead. It was a jarring impact, the protruding ridge of metal taking him full in the chest and leaving him fighting for breath. The blindfold had been ripped off but all he could see was a crimson blur. He rolled back slightly, his whole body convulsed with pain, and slowly raised his arm to feel his face. His right eye was swollen and closed over, numb to the touch. He moved his fingers to his left eye and wiped away the sticky sheen before opening it. Gradually his focus improved. From where he was lying he could see whitewashed piping running along the bulkhead, the front stamped with symbols and letters he could just make out as Cyrillic.
He had no sense of time or place. His last clear memory had been Jack collapsing inside the audience chamber. Then there was blackness, a hazy memory of movement and pain. He had come to strapped in a chair with a blinding light thrust in his face. Then hour after hour of torment, of screaming and agonizing blows. Always the same black-clad figures, always the same question shouted in broken English. How did you get from the submarine? He guessed he was on Vultura, but all powers of analysis had shut down as his mind focused on survival. Again and again he was hurled into this room, then dragged back just when he thought it was all over.
And now it was happening again. This time there had been no respite. The door crashed open and there was a violent blow to his back, forcing up a slurry of blood and vomit. He was hauled to his knees retching and coughing and the blindfold was yanked on again, so tight he could feel the blood squeezing out of his swollen eye socket. He thought he could never feel another type of pain, but this was it. He concentrated his whole being on his one lifeline, that he was taking the punishment and not Jack. He had to hold on whatever it took until Seaquest arrived and the discovery of the warheads was made known.
He came round facedown on a table with his hands tied behind the chair he was sitting on. He had no idea how long he had been there and could only see a nauseating speckle of stars where the blindfold pressed against his eyes. Through the throbbing of his head he could hear voices, not those of his tormentors but a man’s and a woman’s. Earlier he had gathered from snatches of overheard conversation that his captors were expecting the return of Aslan by helicopter from their headquarters complex. Even the worst of them seemed apprehensive. There had been some kind of crisis, a downed helicopter, an escaped prisoner. Costas prayed it was Jack.