“I can make it to Washington, D.C.,” he told himself. “I will make it.”
The second “stone-skip” was, as predicted, weaker than the first, and it gave Voorhees a small measure of hope that the wound in the hull would not worsen.
Thankfully, gravity was beginning to exert itself again and Voorhees was able to move his limbs more normally. He had found the disorientation of high-g and even zero-g interesting, but not entirely pleasant.
The engineer checked his watch and prepared for the next course correction. Soon, if the fuel tank lasted just a little longer, he would be able to make one final course change, jettison the bombs on a path toward the mid-Atlantic, vent off any remaining propellant, and set a glide path toward Washington.
“All right, time to—”
tap, tap, tap
“What the—?”
The sound, barely audible, had come from somewhere behind him. Voorhees craned his neck but it was impossible to see the bulkhead.
tap, Tap, TAP
It’s definitely coming from inside the cabin.
Something has come loose, he assured himself, even as he felt a flutter in his belly.
Voorhees quickly ran through a mental checklist. There were pipes and ductwork back there but not much more. What could be—
TAP, TAP, TAP
It was coming from under his seat.
The flutter in his guts transformed itself into a worm.
Voorhees leaned forward, straining against the canvas harness, but he could see no farther back than the tips of his boots.
For a moment, he felt an odd vibration run through the seat frame, accompanied by a faint clicking sound. And then silence.
Kommen sie nicht herein.
But Voorhees knew that something had come in.
“It’s all right,” he said, trying to calm himself.
Then, without warning, he kicked back violently and felt the back of his boot impact against something soft.
Voorhees heard a snap, and a mass of flesh skittered backward.
He flinched as his uninvited passenger scrabbled against the aft bulkhead.
The scrabbling and skittering stopped. And then . . .
Nothing.
With both rockets now away and Eugen S?nger having set off on a final mission, Colonel Gerhardt Wolff gave the order to abandon the base. A minute later, a frightened-looking soldier handed him the backpack he had been ordered to retrieve from the Nostromo. Little more than a boy, the private helped Wolff slip the pack on, but before he could muster the courage to ask the colonel where he should go or what he should do, the officer slipped into the mist and disappeared.
After abandoning his bewildered underling, Wolff met up with an Indian guide at a prearranged point along a narrow trail leading out of the compound. The man was nearly nude, his body painted red and black. Without a word or an acknowledgment, the local turned and set off down the trail at a fast jog.
Wolff was unconcerned with his guide’s appearance. The only thing that mattered was that the man was clearly knowledgeable about the escape route they were taking; as they zigged and zagged through impenetrable haze, the sounds of occasional gunfire and explosions began to fade behind them.
The rockets have been launched successfully, Wolff thought, breathing hard now as he chased the younger man. And maybe . . . just maybe . . . I too will get out of here.
Several minutes later, the colonel slowed as the guide came to an abrupt halt. Catching up to the painted man, Wolff could see that the trail ended at a small clearing, perhaps five meters across. In the center of the clearing, someone had lit and was maintaining a small fire.
“What is this?” he said, gesturing toward the forest beyond the fire. “We must keep moving.”
But the painted man said nothing, and before Wolff could respond, a dozen Xavante tribesmen materialized out of the mist.
It was immediately clear to the colonel that his guide knew these men, each of whom was similarly unclothed and garishly painted.
The officer could sense someone coming up behind him as well. I will not turn around, he vowed. For a moment he actually thought about bolting into the forest. But there was something about the way the tribesmen were watching him that made him decide against it.
They want me to run, he thought. They have even left a gap for me to—
Almost gently, Colonel Wolff felt the weight of the backpack being lifted from his shoulders. Simultaneously, someone removed the Luger from its holster and, a moment after that, he could hear one of them rummaging around in his pack.
They’d love me to run. They—
Click. Click.
The sound had come from behind Wolff and he identified it instantly.
“No!” he said, and turning, he saw his former guide removing the Stradivarius from its case.