His greatest fear, even more than colliding into Andre, was that he would go too fast, and miss him altogether.
Sam pointed his feet and toes as much as possible into a flat star position. He completely flattened his torso and tried to keep himself as flat as possible.
The result was like opening a parachute.
His speed reduced to a not so measly rate of 140 miles per hour within seconds. He lined up perfectly with Andre, bent his legs to take some of the pressure out of the jolt — and a moment later, slammed into him.
Andre cried out — startled and terrified.
Sam jammed his hand through the back of Andre’s parachute strap, forming a fist on the other side to form a natural lock. Now that he’d made the connection there was no way he was separating from Andre until they reached the ground — dead or alive.
Locked together, wind howled across them.
Andre tried to twist his body and free himself, but Sam had made certain that wasn’t going to happen.
With Sam’s free hand, he tried to draw the blade he’d taken from Naftali, but in the movement, the knife fell free. In a maddening act of ironic humor, the knife was falling mere feet out of his reach.
Together they continued to free fall.
Andre looked at him, his eyes widened and his face a hardened mess. He snarled, “Are you fucking crazy! There’s no way this parachute is going to take both our weights!”
Sam’s lips twisted into a sardonic grin. “Then you’d better let go.”
“No way.”
With his free hand, Sam punched him in the side of his chest.
Andre groaned.
The ground below raced to meet them.
Sam, riding on top of Andre’s back, had dominant control of their movement.
Andre struggled, but it was easier for Sam to keep his position. Just a simple fact of physics and airflow.
Below them, Sam took notice of the upcoming landscape. They were going to land somewhere near a large river beside a harbor. A massive fortress dominated the northern bank on its own artificial island, while large Baroque-Style Buildings adorned the southern. Something about the buildings seemed familiar to him, but he couldn’t seem to remember why.
Andre said, “We’re going to die!”
Sam was indifferent. “Hey, I’ve been saying that since I woke up this morning… don’t worry, it never happens.”
Andre brought his knees to his chest trying to alter their position. It was opposite to what Sam was expecting. Sam gripped hard and braced on the wrong side, his efforts causing him to roll over, and under Andre.
For a second, Andre had the upper position.
The ground threatened to greet them at 120 miles an hour. Sam slid his other arm behind the harness, braced for the jolt of his life, and pulled the rip-cord.
The pilot parachute opened, followed by the primary canopy.
Sam felt what he was certain were his arms being ripped free of their joints, but somehow, he remained attached to Andre’s harness. Andre’s position went from a belly-to-earth position, into a feet first one, with Sam holding onto the side of him.
Their speed instantly slowed to about 40 miles an hour — a reduction, but still fast enough to kill them almost certainly on impact.
The taut suspension lines flapped in the wind as the main canopy dragged against the opposing forces of gravity and air resistance.
The river greeted them.
Sam threw all his weight to the south, causing the canopy to reduce lift in that direction — and leading them to drift toward the southern bank.
Andre snarled, “You fool! We’re going to miss the water and die!”
Sam grinned. “One of us is. But it won’t be me!”
Sam glanced at the marbled paving that lined the river.
Andre realized what was going to happen and yelled, “No! Please…”
Sam pulled himself up on the harness in a single, hard jolt, and grappled up onto Andre’s back.
A split-second later, Andre’s body crashed into the marble paving.
Sam’s knees landed on Andre’s torso simultaneously, Andre’s ribs, cartilage, and chest wall all taking the brunt of the impact.
Sam felt all the wind rushing from his lungs.
For a couple seconds he laid there, wondering if he was still alive.
Everything hurt.
That was a good thing, right?
Pain meant he was alive.
Sam rolled over. Andre’s blood was spread out across the pavement. Enough of it was there that he didn’t need to check that the man was dead.
He glanced up at the sky.
Dusk appeared as though it would arrive sooner than expected, the last of the sun's rays cosseted behind dark grey clouds.
Sam grabbed his own backpack, from Andre’s clenched, dead hand — and put it on his back.
A beggar stared at him, his face set with a look of curious incredulity, as though for once, he had seen something genuinely different with his own two eyes.
The beggar’s eyes drifted toward Sam. His cracked lips formed a grin. “Bad day?”
Sam met his eye and replied. “You have no idea.”
The man glanced at Andre’s lifeless body. “What happened to him?”
Sam’s lips thinned into a hard line. “Him? I’m afraid we have a firm policy of no stowaways on board our flights.”
The beggar opened his mouth, closed it again having thought better about bringing attention to himself, and shook his head. To no one in particular, he said, “Tough airline.”
Sam nodded, “You’d better believe it.”
Sam leaned down, quickly searched Andre’s body and retrieved his cell phone and wallet, placing both in his pockets. He rolled the body a couple feet and dumped it in the river.
Sam glanced up at a large palace. The green-and-white structure was the shape of an elongated rectangle, and its principal façade was wide and tall, with what appeared to be hundreds of arched windows.
He turned to the beggar. “What palace is that?”
The disheveled man looked dumbfounded, as though he were an alien. “That’s the Winter Palace…”
Sam swallowed. The man had spoken in Russian and he had understood. Sam had replied in the same language, not perfect, nothing like a native born of the country, but certainly good enough to show that he’d spent a long time speaking the language. “The Winter Palace… where am I?”
The beggar looked at him like he was stupid. “Saint Petersburg, of course.”
Chapter Forty-Five
Day rolled over into night. The previously bright blue sky transformed into an ocean of blackness. Shimmering stars illuminated the moonless, jet black sky.
A ship rounded Copenhagen and entered the Baltic Sea.
Its dark, sharp-angled and low-lying hull gave the ship a predator like image, as though it was stalking some sort of mythical quarry beneath the sea.
A black Eurocopter AS350 circled overhead, before quickly landing on the ship’s helipad, despite the Tahila running at over sixty knots.
Tom Bower climbed out while the rotor blades continued to turn, while Genevieve set to shutting down the aircraft.
He stepped out and was greeted by Elise, whose face was set with concern and her intelligent purple eyes were somber.
Tom frowned. “That bad?”
“It’s not good,” Elise confided.
Tom nodded. “What have you got?”
Elise said, “Satellites have tracked the C17 Globemaster III since it left La Spezia. As we expected, it entered Russian airspace.”
“Where was it headed?”
“Saint Petersburg, we think.”
“It hasn’t landed yet?”
“No. There was an explosion on board. The aircraft lost a lot of altitude, straightened out, rose for a short while, and then plummeted into the Baltic Sea.”