Hell's Gate(82)

There’s more gas outside than there ought to be, he thought, craning his neck to get a better view of the port side of the fuselage. What he saw plunged him into instant despair.

To anyone standing directly below, the fleck of light over North Carolina would have resembled a comet rising against the morning stars: a wisp of vapor nearly a third of a mile across, with a tail streaming tens of miles to the south.

But the apparition over the United States was not a comet—at least not a normal one.

Voorhees settled back into his seat, letting out a deep breath.

“One of the gunshots punctured a fuel tank,” he said to himself, his mind flashing back to the takeoff and the determined hobo, firing his pistol as he ran.

Probably started out as a flesh wound, he reasoned. Until the first “stone-skip.”

At that point, the “blowtorch” effect, as the ship bounced off the atmosphere, would have widened even a small hole into a full-fledged puncture. And now the unwelcome glow was a result of vented gases, excited by solar radiation.

The rocketeer glanced back, hoping that the flare of escaping gas might have ceased or at least gotten smaller.

It hadn’t. The dial from one of the main propellant tanks continued to notch downward.

“Shit!” he said, gauging his position as the northeastern border of North Carolina rose on the port side.

“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.