Текст книги "Plague Ship"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Текущая страница: 24 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

“She’s something godawful ugly, isn’t she?” Butterfield said with pride. He rubbed a loving hand along the composite fuselage.

“What’s it like flying in her?” Eric asked.

“I wouldn’t know.” Butterfield tapped his chest. “Bum ticker.” The test pilot, Taggart, said, “Son, this thing is going to ruin you for them roller coasters you like so much

’cause this is one ride that’ll top ’em all.”

Overholt cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, it wouldn’t do for me to be here when Mr. Butterfield’s people arrive, so I will bid my farewells.” He shook hands all around, his grip firm despite his age. “Mr. Stone, please walk me back to my plane.”

“Certainly, sir.”

Eric had to stretch his stride to match the elder man’s pace.

“I would like you to convey to the Chairman, the next time you speak to him, that I had a word with our friends at the National Security Agency. They also detected the ELF transmissions, one from your Mr.

Hanley, I believe, and the other one a short while earlier. The very fact that someone has gone to the expense of building such a transmitter caused a bit of a stir, as you can imagine. Coupled with what you and your crewmates have been able to discern, almost all of it unsubstantiated”—Eric opened his mouth to protest—“I know you don’t follow Justice Department rules, but there are legalities that must be followed if we’re to prosecute Severance and his group.

“I helped grease the wheels for your little adventure tomorrow, so you know I am taking this threat seriously, but if we are going to expose the Responsivist movement for the monsters they really are I need facts, not second– and thirdhand accounts. Do you understand?”

“Of course, Mr. Overholt. Just so long as you understand that without us acting the way we have, millions of people would be exposed to the virus by the time you found satisfactory evidence for said prosecution.” Eric didn’t believe he had the courage to speak so frankly to the veteran CIA agent.

Langston chuckled. “I can see why Juan hired you. Courage and brains. Tell Juan that things are in motion here that may help take down Severance once his transmitter is destroyed.” They paused at the hangar door because the wind would make it impossible to speak once they stepped outside. “I wasn’t told who thought up the crazy idea of using that Cold War relic the Russkies left littering space?”

“I did,” Eric replied. “I knew Juan would nix my first idea of talking you into getting us a nuke.” Overholt paled at that. “Rightly so.”

“I had to come up with an alternative, and when Ivan Kerikov mentioned Stalin’s Fist and I researched it everything seemed to fit.”

“You know it was Cabrillo who sabotaged the satellite, right?”

“He mentioned it briefly.”

“Knowing him, he didn’t tell you the full story. Juan spent seven months behind the Iron Curtain, living the life of one Yuri Markov, a technician at Baikonur. The pressure to stay undercover for that long, and under the tight security the Russians maintained there at the time, must have been pure hell.

“When he got out, it was standard practice for operatives to see an agency shrink. They met for just a short while. I saw the doctor’s notes. His summary was just one line: ‘That is the coolest customer I have ever met.’ Truer words have never been written.”

“Just curious, what happened to the real Markov? Juan didn’t have to . . .”

“Kill him? Heavens no. We got Markov out in payment for first telling us about the Orbital Ballistic Projectile project. Last I heard, he works for Boeing’s space division. But I know this: if he had been ordered to sanction Markov, Juan wouldn’t have hesitated. He has the strictest moral code of anyone I know.

“The ends justify the means, for someone like Cabrillo. I know in today’s politically correct world that outrages a lot of people, but they live in the freedom men like Juan provide. It isn’t their conscience that bears the burden. It’s Juan’s. They just get to enjoy a false sense of moral superiority without understanding the real costs.

“Toss an animal lover into a pen with a rabid raccoon and he’ll kill it. He will feel bad, even guilty, but do you think he’s going to consider his peers’ outrage that he took that life? Not for a second, because it’s kill or be killed. That is what our world is coming to, I’m afraid, only people are too horrified by that concept to accept it.”

“Unfortunately, their acceptance isn’t a factor to the forces arrayed against us,” Eric said.

Overholt held out his hand to shake again. “That’s what makes our jobs all the more difficult. I fought my war when we all knew it was black and white. Since then, someone convinced us there is gray out there.

Let me tell you something, son: there isn’t any such thing as gray, no matter what you hear.” Overholt released Eric’s hand. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Stone. Good luck tomorrow, and Godspeed.”

CUTTING LIKE A KNIFE through blue silk, the Oregonraced across the Mediterranean. They avoided shipping lanes as much as possible so they could run her magnetohydrodynamic engines above the red line and not draw attention to her blazing speed. They slowed only once, when passing through the Strait of Messina, separating the tip of Italy’s boot from the island of Sicily. Fortunately, nature was in a cooperative mood. The seas were calm, and there was no trace of a breeze, as they dashed across the Ionian Sea and entered the Aegean.

Juan spent nearly every waking hour in the Op Center, wedged into his chair with a continuously recharged mug of coffee. In the top corner of the main viewing monitor, a digital clock remorselessly counted backward. In a little over eighteen hours, Eos Island would be wiped off the face of the planet.

And Max Hanley would go with it if Cabrillo didn’t think of something soon.

The ship didn’t feel right to him. Eric and Mark should be at the front consoles, navigating the ship and preparing its weapons systems for her defense. Max should be at the rear of the Op Center, hovering over the engine monitors like a mother hen. Linda should be here, too, ready to lend a hand to whatever section needed her. Eddie and Linc must have felt the same way. They rarely spent time in the Op Center, but, with so many of their friends in danger, there was no place else they would rather be.

“Nothing, Chairman,” Hali said from his station along the starboard side of the high-tech room.

This was the third straight time that Linda and Mark had missed their appointed check-in time. Hali had contacted the cruise line and been reassured that there were no communications problems with the Golden Sky. He had even phoned the ship’s communications center, pretending to be a passenger’s brother with news of a dying parent. The helpful secretary had assured him that she would get a message to cabin B123, a number he had randomly picked. The passenger never called back, but that wasn’t definitive proof of anything since he may have already lost both parents and thought it a cruel hoax. Juan had dismissed the idea of trying a few others with the same ruse, because the receptionist would have grown suspicious.

Even with the Oregon’s vast arsenal of weaponry and the best communications system afloat, there was nothing anyone could do but wait—wait until they were within range of Eos and hope that an opportunity presented itself. Max had figured out a way to elude his captors long enough to send the message, and the cagey old codger might come up with another trick or two yet. Juan had to be in position to help if he could.

Then there was the situation with Mark and Linda. Juan had no idea what events were unfolding on the Golden Sky. For all he knew, they had been identified as stowaways and were in lockdown someplace on a ship he had no doubt Severance had rigged with his virus. They still hadn’t figured out what Max had meant, that the virus did something worse than kill, but it didn’t matter. If they failed to knock out the transmitter, two of his top people were going to be among the first exposed.

Juan typed a command into his computer. On the monitor, the speeding seconds of the digital clock vanished. They had been reeling back depressingly fast, and he didn’t want to watch them anymore. The minutes display was reminder enough that time was running out.

CHAPTER 33

“THE FBI RAIDED OUR PLACE IN BEVERLY HILLS,” Thom Severance said as he burst into Lydell Cooper’s underground apartment. His voice nearly cracked with panic.

Cooper had been resting on a sofa and swung his feet to the floor. “They what?”

“The FBI raided my house, our headquarters. It happened just a few minutes ago. My secretary managed to call me on my satellite phone. The have a search-and-seizure warrant for all our financial records, as well as membership lists. They also have a warrant to arrest me and Susan on suspicion of tax fraud. Thank God, Susan is with her sister at our cabin in Big Bear, but it’s only a matter of time before they find her. What are we going to do? They’re on to us, Lydell. They know everything.”

“Calm down! They don’t know anything. The FBI is using their Gestapo tactics to intimidate us. If they knew about our plan, they would have arrested everyone in California and coordinated with Turkish authorities to raid this facility.”

“But it’s coming apart. I can feel it.” Severance sat heavily on a chair and buried his face in his hands.

“Get ahold of yourself. This isn’t a big deal.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Severance spat like a petulant child. “You’re not the one under arrest. You get to hide in the shadows while I take the fall.”

“Damnit, Thom. Listen to me. The FBI has no idea what we are trying to accomplish. They might have an inkling that we are plotting something, but they don’t know what. This is a—what’s that expression?—a fishing expedition. They issued a generic warrant to see our records in hopes of finding something incriminating. We both know there isn’t.

“We’ve made sure from the very first that our records are clean. The Responsivist organization is a nonprofit, so we don’t pay taxes, but we have filed our financials with the IRS like clockwork. Unless you and Susan have done something stupid, like not pay your income tax on the salary you’re paid, they have nothing. You’ve paid your taxes, right?”

“Of course we have.”

“Then stop worrying. There shouldn’t be anything at the house that could possibly lead them here. They might discover that we had an operation in the Philippines, but we can say it was a family-planning clinic that didn’t attract any visitors so we closed it down. The Philippines is predominantly Catholic, so that wouldn’t be out of the ordinary.”

“But the timing of the raid, so close to when we release the virus?”

“Coincidence.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in them.”

“I don’t, but, in this case, I am certain of it. The FBI simply doesn’t know anything, Thom. Trust me.” When Severance’s grimace didn’t soften, Cooper went on. “Listen. Here’s what we are going to do.

You are going to issue a press release demanding these scurrilous charges be dropped immediately and calling the FBI’s actions a violation of your personal and civil rights. This is pure harassment, and you are already preparing to file a civil suit against the Justice Department. You know the kind of thing I’m talking about. The helicopter we’ve been ferrying in personnel on is still here on the island. I will go to Izmir, where the jet is waiting. Tell Susan that she should get out of California. I will meet her and her sister in Phoenix and bring them back. We hadn’t planned on moving into the bunker until shortly before the virus manifests itself, but coming a few months early is no great hardship. Afterward, I guarantee that a bogus charge against you will be extremely low on the federal government’s priority list.”

“What about sending the broadcast?”

“It is an honor I leave up to you.” Cooper crossed the room so he could lay a gnarled hand on Severance’s shoulder. “It’s going to be all right, Thom. Your man Kovac will eliminate whoever killed Zach Raymond on the Golden Sky, and, in a few short hours, all of our teams will be in position with the virus ready for disbursal. We’re here. It’s our moment. Don’t let something like this ludicrous raid upset you, okay? And, listen, even if they seize the house and everything in it, our movement will have already achieved its greatest success. They can’t take that away from us, and they certainly can’t stop us.” Severance looked up at his father-in-law. It was disconcerting at times to look at his middle-aged face and know he was in his eighties. Lydell had been more than an in-law. He had been a mentor, and the driving force for all Thom’s success. Cooper had walked away at the pinnacle of his career so he could protect what he’d created from the outside, tossing away his very identity in order to bring them to this point.

He had never doubted Cooper before, and, while errant thoughts niggled at the back of his mind, he would trust their relationship more than his gut. He stood, gently placing his hand over Cooper’s arthritis-ravaged, gloved claw.

“I’m sorry. I was putting my petty fears above our goals. What does it matter if I am arrested? The virus will be released and will spread all over the globe. The scourge of overpopulation will end, and, as you’ve said before, humanity will enter a new Golden Age.”

“In time, we will be seen as heroes. They will erect statues of us for having had the courage to find the most humane solution to our problems.”

“Do you ever wonder if, instead, they will hate us for making so many of them sterile?”

“We will be hated by individuals, sure, but humanity as a whole understands that drastic change is necessary. They already see it with the global-warming debate. Things cannot go on the way they are.

You may ask, by what right do we alone do this?” Cooper’s eyes glittered. “And I say, it is by right of being rational rather than emotional.

“We do it by the right that we are right. There is no alternative. I wonder if Jonathan Swift was really being satirical when he penned A Modest Proposalin 1729. He saw then that England was being overrun by homeless urchins and that the country was going to be ruined. In order to save themselves, he said they ought to just eat the children and the problem would vanish. Eighty years later, Thomas Malthus published his famous essay on population growth. He called for ‘moral restraint,’ meaning voluntary abstinence, to reduce humanity’s swelling numbers.

“Of course, that would never work, and now even after decades of cheap birth control our numbers multiply. I said that change was necessary, but we won’t change. We haven’t yet, so I say to hell with them. If they can’t curb their instinct to procreate, I will give in to my instinct of self-preservation and save the planet by doing away with half of the next generation.” Cooper’s voice became a strident hiss. “And, in truth, should we even care if the great sea of unwashed out there hate us? If they are too stupid to understand they are destroying themselves what does their opinion matter to us? We are like a shepherd culling a flock. Do you think he cares what the rest of the sheep think? He knows better, Thom. We know better.”

CHAPTER 34

ERIC STONE’S STOMACH WAS TOO KNOTTED TO EAT the traditional astronaut’s breakfast of steak and eggs. He wasn’t nervous about the upcoming suborbital flight. In fact, he was eager for the experience. It was the fear of failure that cramped his body and turned his mouth as dry as the desert outside the hangar. He was all too aware that this was the single most important mission of his career, and, no matter what happened in the future, nothing would top it. He was facing a life-defining moment, with the fate of humanity resting in his hands.

And as if that weren’t enough, he also couldn’t get out of his mind the fact that Max Hanley was trapped on Eos Island.

Like Mark Murphy, Eric had been catapulted by his intelligence to early success without giving him the time to properly mature. Mark hid it by playing at being a rebel, growing his hair long, blaring loud music, and pretending to flout authority. Eric had no such persona. He remained shy and socially awkward, so it was little wonder that he had always needed mentoring. In high school, the mentor had been a physics teacher, at Annapolis, an English instructor, who, ironically, he’d never had a class with. After he was commissioned, he couldn’t find someone to take him under his wing—the military wasn’t structured that way—and he was ready to leave after putting in his mandatory five years.

Eric hadn’t known it, but his last commanding officer had gotten word to an old friend, Hanley, that Stone would make an excellent addition to the Corporation. When Max made the initial approach, Eric agreed to join almost immediately. He recognized in the former Swift Boat commander the same things he had seen in his old teachers. Max had this calm, steady demeanor and endless patience, and he knew how to nurture talent. He was slowly molding Eric into the man he always wanted to be.

This was the other reason Eric couldn’t eat and had slept only fitfully the night before. Success today would mean he had killed a man who had been more of a father to him than the man who had raised him.

“You okay, son?” Jack Taggart asked as they were putting on their flight suits in a locker room behind the hangar office. The space plane’s cabin was pressurized, so the suits were little more than olive drab overalls. “You look a little green around the gills.”

“A lot on my mind, Colonel,” Eric replied.

“Well, I don’t want you to worry none about the flight,” the former Shuttle pilot drawled. “I’ll get us there and back, no problem.”

“I can honestly say that the last thing I’m concerned with is the flight itself.” A technician stuck his head into the room. “Gentlemen, you’d better shake a leg. Flight director wants Kangarolling in twenty minutes.”

Taggart snatched up his helmet from his locker and said, “Then let’s go light this candle.” There were two reclined seats behind the pilot’s position in the sleek space plane, ’ Roo. Eric had spent the early morning hours securing his computer and the transmitter into one of them. He eased himself into the second and kept his hands away from his chest, as workers belted him in as secure as a Grand Prix driver. Above him was a pair of windows, through which he could see the underside of the mother ship.

There were small windows on either side as well. Taggart was in front of him, talking to flight director Rick Butterfield.

Eric jacked his helmet into a communications port and waited for a pause in Taggart’s conversation to do a radio check on the flight frequency, before switching over to another frequency, though he could still hear the pilot in one ear.

“Elton, this is John, how do you read me? Over.” Hali Kasim had picked the code names from the Elton John song “Rocket Man.”

“John, this is Elton. Reading you five by five. Over.”

“Elton, prepare to receive telemetry on my mark. Three, two, one, mark.” Eric hit a key on his laptop so that Hali could monitor the flight and the Russian satellite in real time aboard the Oregon. He’d even rigged a webcam so his shipmates could see what he was seeing.

“John, signal looks good. Over.”

“Okay, we’re about ten minutes from rollout. I’ll keep you updated. Over.”

“Roger that. Good luck. Over.”

The big hangar doors rattled open, bathing the cavernous space in the ruddy light of a new day. There were enough workers on hand to push Kangaout onto the apron. On the edge of the runway sat a ramshackle mobile home that was the flight director’s control center. Its roof bristled with antennae and a pair of revolving radar dishes.

“How you doing back there?” Taggart called over his shoulder.

Before Eric could reply, the two turbojets mounted on the top of Kanga’s fuselage roared into life.

Taggart repeated the question over the radio, because it was too loud to speak comfortably.

“Getting a little excited,” Eric confessed.

“Don’t forget, I’ll flash a red light on your console when we’re ten seconds from the end of the burn. It’ll turn yellow when we’re at five and green when the rocket motor cuts out. At that moment, we’ll be at an altitude of roughly seventy-five miles, but once the motor runs dry we start falling immediately. So do your thing fast.”

“You got it.”

“Here we go,” Taggart announced as Kangastarted to taxi.

The gawky mother ship, with its droopy wings, rolled onto the runway and turned sharply to align with the center stripe. It began to accelerate immediately, the engines keening at full power. Designed for the sole purpose of getting ’ Rooup to its launch altitude of thirty-eight thousand feet, Kangawasn’t the most dynamic aircraft in terms of performance. It used up nearly the entire runway before transitioning into the air to start its long, stately ascent. Out the side window, Eric could see its bizarre shadow racing across the scrub desert. It looked like something out of a science-fiction movie.

It took an hour for the plane to spiral up to altitude. Eric spent the time double-checking his equipment.

Taggart merely sat quietly in his seat, playing a Game Boy flight simulator.

They were ten minutes early, according to Eric’s timetable, so the plane carved lazy figure eights in the sky. High above them, the Soviet satellite was fast approaching. Unlike the Shuttle or the International Space Station that orbited parallel to the equator, the Orbital Ballistic Projectile weapon swept over the globe from pole to pole. In this way, it crisscrossed every square inch of the planet in fourteen days, as the earth revolved beneath it. It was currently over Wyoming, coming on at almost five miles per second.

In its present orbital track, it wouldn’t arrive over Eos Island for another week, which was why one of the signals Eric had to send was to fire its maneuvering rockets and change its vector. If everything went as planned, the satellite would be in range to fire one of its rods in less than eight hours.

“Coming up on T minus one minute,” Eric heard Butterfield announce. “All boards are green.”

“Roger that, Ground. Sixty seconds.”

A timer on Eric’s console began to click backward, while the digital speed indicator mounted on the dashboard remained pegged at four hundred miles per hour.

“Thirty seconds . . . Ten . . . Five, four, three, two, one. Go for separation.” The pilot aboard the mother ship released a lever that held ’ Rooclamped to the aircraft’s belly. The space plane fell free for a few moments, to get distance from Kanga,before Taggart toggled the liquid-rocket motor.

To Eric, it felt as if every one of his senses was assaulted at the same instant. The roar of the engine was like standing at the base of a waterfall, a palpable sensation that beat on his chest. The airframe’s vibrations forced him to clutch the armrest while he was slammed back into his seat, as if by a giant fist.

His body shook inside his skin so much it felt like someone was rubbing him with sandpaper. His mouth had gone dry from the dose of adrenaline sent shooting into his veins. Focusing hard on the speedometer, he saw that, in seconds, they were nearing the sound barrier.

The g-forces kept him pressed into his reclined seat, as Taggart pointed the nose ever higher, the vibrations getting progressively worse, and Eric feared the airframe would come apart in midair. And then they burst through the sound barrier. The vibrations diminished, and while he could still feel the thrust of the engine they were traveling faster than its throaty snarl, and it grew noticeably quieter.

One minute after the motor kicked in, they burst above a hundred thousand feet, and Eric was finally coming to grips with the ride. His heart rate slowed, and, for the moment, he let himself enjoy the space plane’s raw power.

The airspeed gauge hit two thousand miles per hour and they still accelerated. Looking over his head, he noticed the sky darkening rapidly, as they roared up through the atmosphere. As if by magic, stars began to appear, faintly at first but brightening. He had never seen so many so clearly. Gone was the twinkle caused by their light passing through earth’s atmosphere. They held steady, and their numbers swelled, until it looked as though space was made of light rather than darkness.

He knew if he stretched out his hand, he would be able to touch them.

The indicator in front of him suddenly flashed red. He couldn’t believe four minutes could pass that quickly. Straining against the g’s, he moved his hand over to the laptop.

“Ten seconds,” he said on the frequency the Oregonwas monitoring. If Hali replied, it was lost in the rocket’s din.

The altimeter was still reeling off numbers in a blur. They hit three hundred and ninety-four thousand feet when the light went yellow, and, in those last five seconds, they rose another mile. The indicator turned green just as they hit the four-hundred-thousand-foot mark.

Eric typed in the command, as the rocket motor consumed the last of its fuel and the cyclonic pumps that fed it went quiet. The g-forces that had hammered him into his seat suddenly released him, and the silence left his ears ringing. They had gone weightless. He had often experienced moments of it on roller coasters, and on a few flights with Tiny Gunderson, when they were fooling around, but this felt different.

They were on the very edge of space now, not playing tricks with gravity but almost out of its reach.

In the cockpit, Jack Taggart activated the armatures that raised the entire wing so it was at an angle to the fuselage. The added drag, and the dynamics of the new configuration, kept the plane incredibly stable, as it started its long glide back to the airfield outside of Monahans, Texas.

“What did you think?” he asked.

“Just a moment.”

Taggart thought Eric might be sick and he craned around to look, but Stone was concentrating on his computer. The kid had just been given the ride of his life and he was already working. Taggart admired the dedication, thinking back to his first Shuttle mission. He hadn’t been able to do anything but stare out the window his first hour up here.

“Repeat that, Elton. Over.”

“I said, we’ve got confirmation from the bird’s onboard telemetry. She has fired her maneuvering thrusters and is changing orbit. Targeting computers are online, and it’s going through its prefire checklist.

Congratulations. You did it!”

Eric didn’t know if he wanted shout for joy or cry. In the end, he settled for simple satisfaction that his plan was going to work. He had to give credit to the Russians. When it came to their space program, they knew what they were doing. Where NASA was all about elegant finesse, the Soviets had gone for simplicity and brute force, and, as a result, they built to last. Their Mirspace station remained in orbit twice as long as originally planned. Had it not been for lack of funds, it would likely still be up there.

“Roger that. Over and out.”

“Well?” Taggart asked.

“It worked. We now have control of the Russian satellite.”

“I wasn’t asking about that. I want to know what you thought of the flight.”

“Colonel, that was the most amazing thing I have ever experienced,” Eric said, feeling weight slowly returning to his body. His stomach settled back into its normal position.

“I know it won’t go into the books, but, just so you know, we broke the altitude record. We’re going to limit our paying flights to about three hundred and thirty thousand feet, so it’s a record that’ll be around for a while.”

Eric chuckled to himself, thinking how jealous Murph was going to be—and how impressed Janni would be. But, no sooner had the thought crossed his mind, the smile died on his lips, and he once again considered Max Hanley’s fate.

CHAPTER 35

MAX HAD RACKED HIS BRAIN, THINKING OF A WAY OUT of the subterranean fortress, and he had only one solution. On a late-night foray, he had discovered triple guards on the stairwell leading to the garage, and he knew that he wasn’t going to bluff his way past them. Kovac had left his face a swollen mess, and the guards would be suspicious the moment they saw him.

He wasn’t getting out the front door, so he had to sneak out the back.

He left his hiding place in the closet of the executive wing and made his way to the generator room. He made sure to hide his face from the few people he passed in the hallways. He rounded a corner nearest the room where the jet engines spun the turbines that powered the facility and saw that Kovac had ordered a guard to stand watch here as well. Keeping his pace steady and measured, he walked down the corridor. The guard, a kid of about twenty wearing a blue police-style uniform and with a nightstick in his belt, eyed him as he approached.

“How ya doing?” Max called jovially when he was still ten feet away. “Yeah, I know, my face looks like hamburger. A bunch of antiabortion zealots jumped me day before yesterday at a rally in Seattle. I just got here. Hell of a place, huh?”

“This is a restricted area unless you have a clearance badge.” The kid forced authority into his voice by deepening it, but he didn’t seem overly wary.

“Is that so? Only thing I’ve been issued so far are these.” Max pulled his last two bottled waters from the pockets of his overalls. “Here.”

Rather than offer it and give the kid an opportunity to refuse, he tossed a bottle to the guard. He caught it awkwardly and glared at Max. Max grinned stupidly and twisted off the cap of his bottle. He held it up in a salute.

Etiquette and thirst overcame the young guard’s limited security training, and he pried off the lid and returned Max’s salute. He raised the bottle to his lips and tipped his head back to take a swig. Max lunged like an Olympic fencer, ramming the stiffened fingers of his right hand directly into the soft spot at the base of the kid’s throat.

Water spewed from his mouth as his airway swelled closed. He couldn’t cough. He managed a gurgling sound, as his eyes bugged from his head and he clutched for his throat in a desperate attempt to get air.