With his right hand he picks up the zippo — Deke Slayton’s zippo. With his left arm he reaches across the dusty ground and pulls the Glock pistol towards him. Just moving the arm a few inches sends a jolt of pain through his chest. He feels lightheaded again. He breathes in, wills it to pass, then stops as he realises he may want to feel lightheaded considering what comes next.
He lifts the pistol to his chest as he flips open the lighter’s cover, flicks the flint wheel.
It doesn’t ignite. ‘Come on!’ He tries again. Nothing. He doesn’t know why it would suddenly work now. ‘Please.’ He tries one more time, slams his thumb down on the flint wheel.
The wick bursts into flame, flickers, steadies. ‘Thank you, Deke!’ He pushes the end of the pistol’s muzzle into the flame and holds it there. Lets it heat. Moments pass. The flame wavers. He keeps the pistol in place. The flame stutters out. He swaps the gun between his left and right hand and drives the superhot muzzle into the bullet’s entry wound.
Pain. Purple pain. Against his every instinct he holds the gun against the wound. He breathes as deeply as he can, unsure what’s worse, the sizzling sound of his flesh cooking or the sharp smell it produces. Either way he needs to stop the bleeding and cauterising the wound is the only option available to him. He also realises Stallone’s performance in Rambo III was spot on. It hurts like a bastard.
Judd pulls the weapon from the entry wound then jams it against the exit wound under his arm. Interestingly, it’s even more painful than the entry wound. It’s so bad he shouts at the sky. He no longer feels lightheaded.
He checks his handiwork as best he can. It seems the Stallone Procedure has worked a charm and staunched the bleeding, at least in the short term.
He drags himself to his feet. The pain is all-consuming. He gingerly pockets Deke’s zippo, keeps the pistol in hand and locks eyes on the Galaxy, which is still a kilometre away. He sets off towards it. The bullet wound throbs with every step but he ignores it. The jet is so far away he can’t imagine how he’ll reach it.
The Galaxy pivots and Judd realises it is coming back towards him. He looks down and sees that he’s on the runway. He’s thrilled. It’s his first piece of good fortune since he arrived in this country. He jogs to the middle of the runway and stops. It’s a relief to stand still.
The Galaxy’s turbofans run up and kick back a rolling cloud of red dust as it starts towards him, obscuring Tango’s chopper. Judd cocks the pistol.
Kelvin throttles up. He’s going to need every inch of the runway to get this double-decker monstrosity into the sky. Not only is the Galaxy carrying Atlantis, but it also has a full load of fuel in its wings and the new reservoir tank in the hold, plus a full complement of passengers. It’s a heavy package, perhaps the heaviest Galaxy to ever fly.
He sees something on the runway. ‘What the hell is that?’
Nico focuses on it, confused. ‘A man?’
‘What do I do?’
‘Keep going.’
‘You sure?’
‘What’s he going to do? We’re in a Galaxy.’
‘You’re the boss.’ Kelvin throttles up.
The Galaxy thunders towards Judd, 300 metres and closing. He’s directly in the path of the fuselage so he takes ten steps to the left. Two hundred metres and closing. He aims the pistol at the front tyres, tracks with them as he starts to run, the shriek of turbofans deafening. One hundred metres and closing. The desert shakes under his feet as he squeezes the trigger..
The Galaxy is upon him. He sprints. The nearest of the four front tyres is 10 metres away but it’s impossible to get closer because the fuselage is so large. He fires at it.
The bullet hits its mark — and has no discernible effect. He can’t keep up with the front tyres so he turns, aims at a rear tyre, fires. Again, the bullet does nothing. This is not working. This will not stop the jet from taking off.
He looks at the turbofan above. Maybe shooting that will. He aims the pistol, squeezes the trigger — and stops. The engine could explode, detonate the fuel in the wing and destroy Atlantis. Or it could flame out and stop the Galaxy from taking off.
He doesn’t know what to do.
Then he does.
He fires.
Nothing happens.
Judd falls behind the Galaxy, tries to stay close to the fuselage to avoid the jet wash, but that doesn’t work either. The wall of dust slams into him, slaps him to the dirt.
The Galaxy thunders away.
He’s lost her.
Just audible above the roar of the engines is a noise. Drums, rhythmic and African, then percussion, like someone’s tapping a bottle with a stick.
Judd tries to place the sound as it grows louder. A bass joins in, then strings and horns fill out the song as a familiar voice cuts across the landscape.
‘Her name was Lola…’
43
The Loach screams over the desert, Barry Manilow booming ‘Copacabana’ from its speaker. Corey watches the Galaxy race along the runway, then looks to the desert below.
Spooked by the music, three hundred and fifty head of cattle stampede towards the jet. Behind them Spike is in full gallop, barking expertly as he drives them on. He could be a pain in the arse but he was one hell of a cattle dog.
The herd closes in on the Galaxy. They’re less than 500 metres away.
Judd searches for the source of the music, glimpses a blur of yellow in the sky, focuses on it.
The Loach. Corey came back! Then below the chopper Judd sees the cattle, hundreds and hundreds of cattle. They swarm onto the runway in front of the Galaxy. Judd lets out a sharp, delighted laugh, pulls himself up and runs on.
Kelvin stares at the cattle, dumbfounded. He doesn’t know if he can get the Galaxy in the air before it reaches them.
He realises this is what he’s been looking for. This is his escape plan. He’ll pretend to stop the jet, but plough into the herd. The landing gear will be destroyed and they’ll crash. In the ensuing pandemonium he’ll slip away, alert the relevant authorities and then: hero time!
And if, for some reason, he can’t slip away, at least it looked like he was trying to avoid the accident. No one can blame him if there’s a herd of cattle in the middle of the runway.
Corey turns down the volume, watches the Galaxy race towards the livestock. He had only flown as far as Clem Alpine’s cattle station before the guilt of leaving Judd kicked in. Then he had the bright idea of ‘borrowing’ Clem’s cattle for a few hours. Clem would be pissed off when he found out, but then Clem was always pissed off about something. Moving the herd across the desert had taken the rest of the night.
Suddenly Corey feels real concern for the herd. He knows they’re just beef, destined for McDonald’s or the supermarket, but he still doesn’t want to see them hurt. It’s not their fault these people stole a space shuttle.
Kelvin can’t do it. He can’t bring himself to plough into the cattle because he doesn’t know if he’ll survive it. He may have only six months to live but that’s better than six seconds. So he forgets about being a hero and decides to take the money.
He throttles up, and feels a slight hesitation through the levers. Decades of experience tells him there’s a problem with the Galaxy’s inboard portside engine. It could be any number of issues. Usually he’d throttle back, abort take-off and send the jet over to the boys in maintenance, but he has no such luxury today. That herd is too close.