CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
A slow fade back into life. The air is free and plentiful. A warm breeze moistens my eyes and stings my parched, cracked skin. Trimmed, lush green grass offers my aching body a slither of comfort. I am felled, slumped in the fetal position. The warm earth soothes my grateful limbs. My sight stutters clumsily to realise the view: a green, blue, earthly vision. No need for heaven when this close to Earth. From high on a hill, I look down on a rush of nature, on trees, grass, bush and plant. Every hue is ripe with life. Then buildings - a town, like a pixelated image, white, grey and brown dots scattered, unplanned. People, the chaos of people. Good for people. Shelter, from the other side of nature. And then a sea, finally a blue, sparkling sea touches the sky and closes the horizon. Is this Africa? Have they brought me? Why?
My feet are chained to the earth. My cell is a ruin. Three stone walls, one behind and two others on either side, enclose me. On a small, folding picnic table is laid out a laptop, binoculars, a picnic hamper, a bottle of water and a bottle of champagne, both chilling in a bucket of ice.
A helicopter tears through the sky. I look up and catch a flash of military green, this leaden, dead weight forced through space.
Without thinking, I crawl to the table and snatch the bottle of water. It is mine to consume, and I do so in one. It almost hurts, to feel it thawing this dead in my flesh.
Although irregular in height, the three walls all stand at least seven foot tall. In one, I see a small window, made to look toothless by a single rusty iron bar. I take to my feet, like the new born beast, unsure and unsteady, but still feral. No pain has the force to kick me down, so I jump up and take a hold of the wall, my arms hooked through the window. Scanning the view beyond, I see the ruin continue. Could it once have been a colonial fort? In the near distance, I see a group of twenty or so men, middle-aged to old, both white, black and Asian. They sit at tables enjoying food and champagne. All face towards the sea, all hold or wear binoculars. They could be a group of bankers snorting up a day at the races. One of them looks like Spitz, but no sign of Fox. Surrounding them are a dozen or so heavily armed men, both Black and White. The black men wear green military uniforms, the whites a mix of jeans, casual shirts and stone coloured bush clothes. Behind them, three civilian helicopters wait still on the ground.
As I let myself fall, I grab the iron bar and yank it from its root. Although partly decaying with rust it still has weight and, being sharp at one end, could prove a useful tool. Hearing footsteps and chatter, I drop it to the ground and kick it to the base of a wall.
Into the fourth empty wall steps Fox - dressed impeccably in a beige linen suit and holding a glass of what, I guess, is champagne. He flashes a happy smile, one lubricated with drink. He could be at the wedding of a well-loved niece. Behind him, stands one of the guards, a white man, who aims at me a rifle and a stare that seethes with hate. Fox speaks to me:
‘Ah, Mr. Dean. You wake, alive! Well done. Congratulations! In time to witness a bright, new day. A new dawn, Mr. Dean, set to rise from the horizon in exactly,’ he looks at his watch, then adds, ‘fifty eight minutes time…Don’t worry, you are perfectly safe. I can assure you we have everything under control. So relax, replenish yourself. Savour the moment. Hear our call to history!’
He smiles, knowingly then takes a sip of champagne.
‘Today, people will die, as they do every day, every single day, but you, you, I know, will have the strength to see beyond the death, to see beyond the devastation. You, Mr. Dean, will have the strength of mind to witness the truth, to see an act of kindness, one from humanity, to humanity, from the present, to the future…..A minor blip anyway, because in time, when our mission is concluded, a seam of human sacrifice will plate the entire earth…A seam that it will be stronger than any rock, more valuable than any fuel, and on which, Mr. Dean, we will lay the foundations for a secure and prosperous future. So, to us, Mr. Dean, to us!’
He raises his glass aloft. I remain passive, neither accepting nor rejecting his words.
‘The laptop will show you the island fall and then, the tsunami, it is yours to witness live. The greatest show on earth, Mr. Dean. Who needs that Jackson fellow now.’
He laughs, highly amused at himself. He then turns and ambles away. The guard watches him go but keeps the rifle leering at me.
The chain that binds me to the cell is about three metres in length and bolted firmly to the back wall. Fully extended my reach would just about breach the fourth, empty wall. Not enough, this time, to grab the guard who now turns to me, reaches in to his shirt breast pocket, pulls out a set of two keys and throws them towards me. I catch them without effort. He speaks, with a South African accent.
‘Yours. Go. Free yourself. I’ll give you ten, fifteen minutes, I promise. Then, it’s you and me.’
He wants me dead. Even so, I’m tempted. But still, I’ll need more than what is currently offered, so I toss the keys back. I must let him think, I am now appeased. I throw the keys to fall just short of his reach. He takes the bait, lunges forward to catch them, but misses. How easy it is to bruise a man. After snatching the keys from the ground, he looks at me and speaks.
‘Good men are dead because of you. You will never be one of us!’
He turns his back to face me then steps slowly away putting the keys back into his shirt breast pocket.
I move to the iron bar, sit and retrieve it. The guard stands ten metres from the cell, casting his stare towards the horizon. The bar could be fashioned into a knife, well a crude stabbing weapon, but nothing that would extend my reach. I look around. Could a champagne cork carry a blade? A short distance maybe, but with accuracy and force?
I twist and snap off a rusty piece of the bar, a three inch blade that will work as an arrowhead. As I sharpen the tip against the stone wall, the guard suddenly turns and looks at me. I stop and match his stare. His suspicion turns to contempt, and he looks away, back towards the sea.
I grab the bottle of champagne, strip away the foil then carefully remove the wire. Pushing the blade into the cork is tricky and takes considerable force, but finally it stands embedded, an inch deep. With my thumb held against the cork, I shake the bottle to give rage to the fizz.
Now to laugh, to force a laugh. I stand and walk as far as the chain will allow me, nose-to-nose with the fourth empty wall. I have my stage, my audience of one. This should be easy, I know the ante. Laugh for the people, for the silent people. Bruise this man and reel him in. But silence, still silence. Even held against this insanity, silence, still silence. No laugh or cry. He snaps his head around and looks at me, scowling like an animal chained and unable to attack. I fake a smile, a broad easy smile. I shake the champagne, full of cold, empty celebration. Then something ridiculous, a memory flashes - just me and my mother free and laughing. She told a joke, ‘why was the baby strawberry crying? Because his mother was in a jam.’ It comes, a stupid laugh. A man laughing to himself in a crowded room, crazed and uncensored. Thank you, mother, and on your behalf fuck them, fuck them all. Hear me laugh. Hear me mock you!
Confusion glazes the guard’s face. Then, as is typical with such a man, the confusion fires anger and propels him towards me. Laughing, I continue to shake the bottle, the arrowhead concealed behind a palm, the cork desperate to burst but held against my thumb. With the gap between as nearly dead, he swings the rifle around so that the butt is ready to beat me. With the attack a step away, I release the cork, aimed towards his face. His instinct is sharp, his reaction swift. Sensing my plan, he twists his upper body away. His face is saved, but the back of his head takes the rusty blade. A painful grunt bellows from deep within his body as instinct rushes a hand towards the wound. I grab the hand and pull him towards me. The arrowhead hangs from the back of his head, less than an inch into his skull. Twisting to face me, he thrusts the rifle towards my head. Using the bottle, I block the blow. The top half shatters; I ram what remains deep into his face. Pulling him close, I use my free hand to gag his rage. Attempting
to throw him to the ground, I fail. I can barely contain his struggle. With the cork close to my mouth, I clamp it between my teeth then push my head forward stabbing the blade fully into his skull. His body is shocked into a seizure. It shakes violently, both alive and as dead as Frankenstein’s monster.
With the keys now mine, I free myself from the chain, grab the binoculars then return to the body to scavenge all weapons. In a holster belt, I find an automatic handgun, extra ammunition and a large hunting knife. I strip it from the body and strap it to my waist. The rifle I carry in my hands.
From the cell, I flee; I run away. Down the hill and towards the coast. My plan, unknown. A dirt track provides a clear, rugged path. Dense forest on either side offers cover if needed. My pace is quick and steady. Heavy tyre tracks provide a smooth running surface. I look at my watch; I have fifty minutes left.
I have no mind to feel pain or to yield to fatigue. My mind is clear, tuned and set to detect any hint of pursuit. I am enclosed in an ever changing room, a tunnel of twisting track, arcing forest and a line of bright, white sky that hangs above me like an endless fluorescent tube.
The track levels out, and I leave the hill behind. The forest thins and merges into grassland. Turning to look behind, I doubt their need to pursue me. What threat can I be? How can I stop these men now teamed with nature? I have no answers only to run harder and faster. I have forty-three minutes left.
A dozen head of grazing cattle pauses to watch me pass. From behind them, appear a group of six carefree kids, as sunny as the day and shabbily dressed in Western hand-me-downs. Two carry long, thin sticks. Seeing me they catch a breeze and playfully give chase. I accelerate and leave them behind.
The town is built on the tip of a small peninsula. To avoid its streets, and to reach the coastline as quickly as I can, I veer from the path and continue across the rough contours of the open country. Again I trespass, into the green of pasture, waist-high grasses, bushes and trees. A pitch for players to hide, hunt and feed. What lays hidden, poised beneath the grass? Nothing as wild as that playing on the hill.
A small incline elevates my view. I pause and aim the binoculars towards the coast. In a small, natural bay a seaplane floats on a calm, blue sea. A black wooden jetty acts as a bridge to the land. A white man, carefully preened in jeans, white t-shirt and aviator shades, stands on one of the plane’s landing floats. He crouches down and examines what looks to be a video camera fixed to the plane’s undercarriage. Is this their means to film the island fall? A twin-engine, fixed-wing plane that could carry, I guess, the pilot plus eight to ten others. The windows, which are car-like, a windscreen plus two on either side are blackened so give nothing away. The man stands up straight, reaches into his waistband and pulls out a handgun. With it, he gestures to those inside to move on out. A side door is pushed open. The man climbs on-board, pulling the door shut. The propeller flashes into life, speeding into a blur. I have four hundred metres to race. I go, running. The land with its contours, trees and grass gives me a chance to approach unseen.
I take the first hundred, and the plane stays still. I take the second hundred, and the plane stays still. Why, for safety checks or to draw me in? I take the third hundred, and the plane begins to turn. The line-of-sight moves in my favour. Distance, I fear, does not. I demand more speed, but nothing comes. The land then delivers a smooth, gentle slope that files me towards the line.
I reach the jetty. The engine revs higher. I hesitate, and now, what now? Shoot my way in? The plane begins to taxi. I have no choice; I discard the rifle then lunge towards the plane. Hitting the water, my hand hooks me to a strut which connects the undercarriage to a float. The plane accelerates sharply away. Water piles over my body, nearly breaking my grip. I manage to hook another hand then haul myself up on to the float. Water screams at me time to get off. I barely resist. Finally, the force of water is replaced by the weaker rush of the air.
Looking down, the land seems smaller and yet more massive. The town is just one of several spilling over the land. I see people, their faces playing in my mind. Not one is an ant or insect to crush. If I must kill, and why, I must, then I must kill the gods and save the people.
Looking forward, I see the island, a cone-like structure with a flattened tip. Although small in the distance, I feel its size - a billion tones formed over a million years. I check my watch, I have thirty-five minutes left. Reaching the Island, this mountain of the sea, consumes another ten.
Needing the plane to land, I loosen my grip then carefully inch my body, feet first, through the now thick, angry air. Reaching the camera, I release a kick which continues until the camera hangs limply from its fixing. A minute passes before the plane begins to descend.
From the holster, I pull the handgun. Knowing it was submerged in water, I pull the trigger to test it works. It does, and a bullet flies wasted into nothing.
Fearful the landing will rip me from the plane and further wet the gun, I decide to use the gun while I can. With the plane just twenty metres from the sea, I take aim and fire. Bullets rip through the undercarriage, up into the plane where the passengers sit. Their reaction is swift, bullets roar back. One slashes my right thigh nearly knocking me from the float. Hooked by a single, slipping hand I manage to pound the remaining bullets into the plane, saving the final flurry for the pilot. I then fall ten metres and crash the sea.
I feel still, cocooned in cool, sinuous water. Reaching the bottom of my fall, I pause for a brief, calm moment before a sharp, burning pain jolts my body to kick and grab for the surface.
Breaking into the air, I see the plane land rough and hard, gorging a furrow deep into the sea. Suddenly, it spins rotating on its axis. I push the gun into the holster then set off in pursuit, swimming towards the plane and island.
As I reach the shallows, the plane slows to a halt. I take to my feet, barging my way through water stained red by the blood seeping from my thigh.
Now running, I pull the gun from the holster and load a fresh magazine. With the plane only metres a way I hear a man scream, pleading:
‘No!! Don’t!! I can fly us!!’
To test the gun, I pull the trigger. It jams. I grab the knife and reach the plane. The pleading man, pleads some more:
‘No!! Please!! I can fly us!!’
Stepping onto a float, I lunge for a side door, grab the handle and, with gun pointing, pull the door open. Inside, a handgun waits raised and aimed at my face. It is held by the preened white man. He sits on the back seat; his clothes are covered in blood. His eyes stare maddened, forced wide open to catch the final light, the closing moments of life. Between us is another man, a dead lump, ahead of us in the darkness. The white man speaks, punching his words towards me:
‘So, this is the cunt!’
On the front seat a nerdy looking man, no soldier, watches us with panic and fear. Next to him, the pilot lies dead.
We pause, our guns aimed and waiting for a command. In his other hand, the white man holds what looks like a handheld radio. Glancing at my gun, he speaks.
‘Does it work?’
A spiteful shriek of laughter briefly covers his pain. He then speaks again.
‘There’s nothing you can do! You can’t stop it. No one can stop it. But me, I can start it.’
The other man replies, again pleading.
‘I can fly the plane! I can get us out of here!’
‘Then fuck off!’
This other man turns to me.
‘I’m not one of them. They made me do it!’
The white man replies.
‘Made him. Paid him! A fuckin’ geologist! He could help but fuck him! You’re all comin’ with me!’
He releases the radio letting it rest on his lap. A radio? No. A device to fire the explosives and blow the island: a digital clock counting down to zero, a keypad, an antenna, a large red button protected by a plastic cover and a metal key. He grabs the key and turns it.
The geologist screams a final demand.
> ‘No!’
Then brings a third handgun into the fray, nervously aimed at the white man who responds with hateful contempt.
‘Two guns that won’t work.’
Even so, he pauses, weighing up the odds. Fear, he calls, wins. He flips the plastic cover and exposes the red button. Bang! A bullet puts pay to the light. The geologist freezes, distraught at having to kill so close to death. But how quickly we learn and soon the gun is tracking towards me. I make my move slashing the knife towards his face. I win, cutting his throat. He drops the gun and grabs the wound, a fool trying to catch and save his blood. I snap the plastic cover back over the button. The countdown shows I have twenty-three minutes left. The geologist shakes with pathological shock. His wound is gruesome but not, I suspect, fatal.
I search for and find a first aid kit. From it, I take two bandages. The first I use on the geologist, who is now a mute, submissive wreck, the second I use to plug the hole in my thigh.
And now, what now? Grab all the guns I can, three handguns and nine magazines. The emptied first aid kit acts as a case. Finally, I hook the detonator to my belt, pull the key from the plane’s ignition then leave the geologist to live or die.
The island seems vast and inhuman. But once, eternal and beyond the power of man.
What can I do? First what do I know? When using explosives to demolish a building or a rock face a series of relatively small explosions, timed to explode in an exact and precise sequence is used. This, if used here, could give me a chance. If I can interrupt or break the sequence then maybe the island will hold.
I head for the summit, a good hundred and fifty metres high, over steep, grey, barren rock that is slippery underfoot and has little to offer a hand. As I go, I scan the ground looking for drill holes, for surely the explosives must be planted deep beneath the surface.
With fifty metres complete, I pause to catch my breath. I check the clock, I have nineteen minutes left.
As I continue to climb, I feel increasingly exposed, at odds with the vastness that surrounds me. Like the child, dizzy at the thought of infinity. All that contains me seems still and at ease, silent, suffocating.
As I near the summit, the incline flattens, so an easier place to drill. With the tsunami aimed at the mainland, the side of the island primed ready to fall must also face the people.
I fall to my knees to examine my find, a brown plastic disc fixed to the ground by a single screw. I grab the disc and rip it free. Beneath it is a hole, eight inches wide and drilled deep into the ground. A length of nylon rope bolted to the top of the hole extends down into the darkness. I grab it and pull. It carries weight, fifteen kilos minimum. As I haul the weight to the surface, I count each pull, taking each as a metre. Thirty pulls later and a copper cylinder, six inches in diameter and half a metre in length reaches the light. I pause, holding a bomb.
Extending through the top of the cylinder is a thin metal tube on which is fixed a small collection of electronic components. Is this the detonator and the electronics to control it? Seeing that the top of the cylinder is lipped, I twist it to see if it gives, it does, so I slowly continue to unscrew it. The thin metal tube remains still as the top rotates around it. Once free, I slowly lift the top away. Inside, I see the explosive, a compacted, white crystalline material into which the thin metal tube is pressed. With a gentle grip, I take hold of the tube. Fear then forces hesitation. Could a spark explode the fuel? Suddenly, ahead of my thoughts, I yank the tube free of the bomb.
One beat in the sequence is dead.
Leaving the detonator and cylinder apart on the ground, I take to my feet and sprint in search of the next hole. Ten metres along, I find it. Without stopping, I continue ahead. Another ten metres and another hole, and so on and so on and so on. If this pattern continues, then some fifty holes must cradle a bomb. I check the clock; I have fifteen minutes left.
Pulling a gun from the case, I move to the nearest hole. I rip the plastic cover free then fire a single shot into the darkness and towards the bomb. Nothing. No sound, no explosion, nothing. Another bullet but again, nothing. In frustration, I pull the trigger until the gun clicks empty but still, the bomb remains live.
In the sky, near the mainland an object catches my eye. A helicopter is racing towards me.
Grabbing the rope, I haul the cylinder to the surface - forty pulls, stealing a minute. As soon as the detonator comes into view, I snatch it from the bomb and discard it, jabbing it hard into the air. Leaving the cylinder on the ground, I get ready, go! Exploding from the blocks like a sprinter to the sound of a starter gun - an actual bang. Twisting my head to locate the sound, I see a fading cloud of grey smoke rising above the detonator. Is this the spark, the switch to destruction? Of course. A small, volatile explosive used to snap a more stable mass.
No bullet, not mine, would strike such a thin metal tube, but a rock?
From the ground, I choose my weapon, a rock just small enough to fit the hole and a good eight kilos in weight.
Smashing the plastic cover with my foot, I then drop and release the rock. Three seconds later the ground shudders and quakes. A flume of grey smoke and shattered rock flees the hole. A second beat in the sequence is dead.
I sprint twenty metres to another hole. Only smaller, lighter rocks lay near-by. I take the largest, tear off the plastic cover then send the rock falling. As soon as it leaves my grip I go, sprinting to take the next twenty metres. Beneath me the ground vibrates. Another beat in the sequence is dead.
I continue, on and on, the fog of desire numbing my pain; the fear of death mauled by a raging need for victory.
As I drop the rock to snap the eighth beat dead, the helicopter looms ever near, a military green predator effortlessly rushing to strike.
With time edging ahead of me, and the sequence still long and intact, I decide to extend my run, to leave two in the sequence live.
I continue on and on, lost in the fog. Come, time, come. I am touched only by the present.
Fourteen beats now dead. Working the fifteenth, the bullets come, a poorly aimed volley from an ever nearing machinegun. With the rock falling, I take off. Bullets track my path.
Completing the thirty metres, I dive towards the next hole. Bullets shatter rock beneath me. Close but not close enough. I destroy the beat then sprint away.
I look at the clock; I have ninety seconds left.
The bullets pause, waiting for me, the soon-to-be point blank dummy. Reaching the hole, I destroy the bomb then rise and sprint away.
Have I done enough? Can I take one more? The helicopter slows to a hover, thirty metres above me, the sword of Damocles waiting to fall.
Another hole. I hit the ground, my body collapsing. I pull the cover free then look for a rock. Finding one, I leave it; instead I grab the rope and haul the bomb up towards the light. The helicopter hangs still in the air, poised to savour the kill. It begins to turn, to bring the gunman into view, to hand him an easy shot.
As I face my executioner, the bomb reaches the surface. I wrap my hands around the cold copper casing then, ripping all energy from me, launch it high into the air. As it rises towards the helicopter, I move a hand to the detonator, flick the cover then press the switch. And now, what now, have I done enough?
I cower to the ground, arms covering my head. The explosives fire. A shockwave from above flattens me, grinding me into the rock, from which a dense, physical sound is flushed. I look up at the sky; the helicopter is twisted in the air and plunging towards me. I race to my feet then burst away. Flumes of smoke and broken rock line the run of holes. Reaching the summit, I dive over the edge. Behind me, the helicopter smashes into the ground. I plunge several metres before the filled in crater violently halts my fall.
Has it held? I stare at the ground, at the grey, blank rock, my mind concussed, my body shattered and gasping for air. I cannot look or see. The ground is still. The loudest noise is the helicopter crumbling towards the sea. I wait, for some time I wait, then twist on to
my back and look up at the sky. Smoke and dust cloud the air but the ground, the earth is still and solid. The island has held. It has stood against man. A thought then suddenly appears, I have saved enough to kill some more. I must, and can, kill some more.
I stand, rising through the pain that my body screams. Limping away, I see a stash of unused copper cylinders piled on the ground. As I near them, I see that each has a detonator. Are they bombs? They are. I remove a detonator, throw it hard into rock and watch it explode. With three such bombs tightly gripped, I stagger away, back towards the plane.
With a lack of care, but no diminished need to kill once more, I shuffle and slide down towards the sea.
As I near the plane, I pass the bodies of its crew, now lumbering in the shallows. The side passenger door is pushed respectfully open. So what, is this what it takes to get staff?
I load the bombs into the plane; the Geologist watches me, fearful and compliant. I pull the ignition key from my pocket and hold it towards him. He hesitates for a second, but then takes it, gladly. He knows his job and doesn’t complain. Once airborne, he takes my directions, and we fly towards the mountain.
Should I fall with the bombs? Guide them to a final destination? Who, in me, is left? Only my innocence, my proof that I didn’t kill, her the Woman. That is my rebooting. That may allow me to live with the noise.
The fools, they remain, waiting and watching. They’ve paid their money and now demand a show.
We pass high overhead. Then turn to retrace our path. As we approach, I direct the geologist to fly low and fast. We are open and obvious and quickly seen. I expect gunfire to rage our way, but instead they stand and stare, confused and bewildered. Using a handgun, I shoot the glass from a side window. Finally, a rogue mercenary pumps bullets our way. Thirty metres from the ground and fifty to reach the crowd below, I release the bombs. Man and earth are churned and scattered.
The geologist looks at me with a nod of his head, as if right has been done, as if we are now a team. I blank him.
And now, what now? End it, fly me back to Malta.