Prime (Chess Team Adventure, #0.5)

“Unless you’ve got a better option, we’re going to make it work.”


“I admire your ‘can-do’ attitude, but this is a question of physics. I’m not sure this can be done. Or that you will survive it.”

King eyed the temperature gauge. The needle was creeping toward the red zone. “No time to discuss this,” he said. “We’re going ahead with it. Let Senior Citizen know. King, out.”

“Jeez, it sounds like you’re asking grandpa for a ride,” Rook muttered. “We really need another name for that damn plane.”

“Put it in the suggestion box,” King replied. “Give me some detcord. I’ll get the front.”

Knight passed forward a spool of what looked like thick orange wire, but which was actually Primacord—plastic tubing filled with a thread-thin strand of the high-explosive compound pentaerythritol tetranitrate. King reeled off about two feet and carefully cut it with his KA-BAR.

“All set here,” Queen announced, giving Sasha’s harness a final cinch for good measure.

As King wrapped a length of detcord around the front doorpost on his side, Rook and Knight signaled that they were ready to go. There was a blast of warmth from the Surf’s vents. Bishop had turned on the heater in an effort to bleed off some of the rising engine heat. It was a stopgap measure, and one that wouldn’t keep up with the spiking temperature from the near constant acceleration. King tied the detcord off and then pressed a small blasting cap into one end of the tube. He repeated the procedure on the driver’s side, awkwardly reaching past Bishop to do so, and then settled back into his seat.

“All set.”

“Get down if you can.” Knight’s voice was eerily calm, but everyone took his admonition seriously. “Three… two… one… Fire in the hole.”

The charges all detonated simultaneously with a noise as loud as a gunshot, but the smoke and heat of the small explosions was whisked away in the rush of air that swept through the now exposed interior of the SUV. The roof, cut loose from its supports, was gone, skittering along the road in their wake.

King now had an unobstructed view of the landscape in all directions. They had left Maragheh behind and were now traveling through the lightly wooded countryside. That was something in their favor at least. The open road meant almost no traffic to impede them, but it also meant there was nothing to slow down the pursuit. Behind them, the line of flashing colored lights swerved around the remains of the Surf’s roof; the lead police car was perhaps only a quarter-mile behind them.

Queen passed King a pair of heavy-duty locking carabiners, both of which were connected at intervals to a long rope that sprouted from the rucksack. Everyone in the back seat was already clipped in. He hooked one to Bishop’s harness and then secured the remaining one to his own.

Despite the noise of rushing air, King could now hear a rapid ticking sound, the noise of the engine block starting to expand as it heated up. In a few seconds, one of the pistons would probably seize and the motor would stall, leaving them at the mercy of their pursuers.

“Rook, send up the balloon.”

Rook pulled a shapeless mass—it looked like an enormous deflated red football—from the rucksack and held it over his head. “Ladies and gentleman, in preparation for our flight, please make sure that your seat backs and tray tables are in the upright position, and I want to stress this, make sure that your seat belts are not fastened.”

There was a whooshing sound as the object in Rook’s hands suddenly expanded, filling up with pressurized helium. The wind whipped against the inflating bladder, but Rook held on until it was nearly bursting at the seams. When he let go, the rush of air seemed to yank it straight back, but as soon as it was clear of the Surf, it started rising, trailing a heavy line out behind it—the same rope to which they were all attached. There was a weird zipping sound, like two pieces of fabric rubbing together, as the cable spooled out from the rucksack. The balloon rose up and out of sight, and then with a twang, the line went taut.

Sasha gaped in disbelief, finally overcoming her shell-shocked paralysis. “That balloon isn’t big enough to lift all of us.”

“Nope,” agreed Rook, sounding almost miserable. “But grandpa is.”

“What?”

King heard a new voice over the radio. “Chess Team, this is Senior Citizen. We have visual contact. Hang on to your nuts.”

Queen gave a derisive snort…and then she was gone.





FORTY-THREE