Ice Station - Matthew Reilly [119]
But the hovercraft didn’t slow down.
It was almost on him.
It only had to get over him and then slow down slightly and then the hovercraft would lower itself and he would be chopped to shreds by the turbofans underneath it.
The turbofans underneath it . . .
Schofield desperately searched his brain for something – anything – anything that he could use to –
His helmet.
Still being dragged behind the first hovercraft, Schofield quickly holstered his gun and yanked off his helmet.
He would have to get this just right. It would have to be bouncing, bouncing high, so that it would get caught up in the fan blades of the pursuing hovercraft.
Schofield tossed his helmet behind him.
The helmet flew through the air – it seemed to float for an eternity – and then it bounced on its dome and the pursuing hovercraft roared over the top of it.
Schofield guessed that the helmet must have bounced up into the forward fan of the hovercraft, because in that moment, in that sudden, shocking instant, the whole hovercraft just snapped over on itself and did a complete seventy-mile-an-hour cartwheel – it just flipped over on itself and came slamming down hard on its own cabin. The battered hovercraft slid across the flat icy ground – on its roof, right behind Schofield – for about fifty yards before it ground to a halt and shrank into the distance behind him.
Schofield rolled back over onto his stomach. His body bounced roughly on the hard, icy ground as it was dragged along behind the first hovercraft at phenomenal speed. Tiny flecks of kicked-up ice assaulted his silver anti-flash glasses.
Then Schofield hit the black button on his Maghook – the button that reeled in the hook without demagnetising it – and the Maghook began to reel itself in, drawing Schofield forward, toward the rear of the speeding hovercraft, until at last he reached the black rubber skirt. The wind from the hovercraft’s rear turbofan blasted his face, but Schofield didn’t care. He grabbed hold of a tie-down stud on top of the black rubber skirt and hauled himself up onto the hovercraft.
Five seconds later, he was standing in the open left-hand side doorway of the hovercraft. He got there just in time to see the SAS commando slap Kirsty hard across the face and send her crashing to the floor.
‘Hey!’ Schofield called.
The SAS man turned and saw him, and a sneer formed around his mouth.
‘Kirsty,’ Schofield said, never once taking his eyes off the British commando. ‘Cover your eyes, honey.’
Kirsty covered her eyes.
The SAS commando stared at Schofield for a long moment. They just stood there, in the cabin of the speeding hovercraft, like two gunfighters facing off against each other on a deserted western street.
And then in a sudden blur of movement, the SAS man went for his gun.
Schofield went for his.
Both guns came up fast but only one went off.
‘You can open your eyes now,’ Schofield said, as he stepped forward – over the body of the dead SAS commando – and bent down beside Kirsty.
Slowly, Kirsty opened her eyes.
Schofield saw the bruise forming around her left cheekbone. ‘Are you all right?’ he said kindly.
‘No,’ she said, tears welling in her eyes. She pulled her asthma puffer out from her pocket and took two deep, sobbing puffs on it.
‘Me neither,’ Schofield said, taking the asthma puffer from her and gulping down a couple of puffs himself before putting the puffer in his pocket.
Then he stood up and grabbed the steering vane of the British hovercraft. As he drove, he popped the clip of his Desert Eagle and jammed in a fresh magazine.
Kirsty stepped up alongside him. ‘When you . . . when you went under the hovercraft,’ she said, ‘I thought . . . I thought you were dead.’
Schofield jammed his pistol back into its holster and looked down at Kirsty. He saw the tears in her eyes.
As he looked down at her, Schofield realised that he was still wearing his silver anti-flash glasses. He took the silver glasses off, and crouched down in front of Kirsty.
‘Hey,’ he said. ‘It’s okay. It’s all right. I’m not going to die on