The rotors blew a spray of lake water over the boat and into our eyes.
Murphy raised his rifle to his shoulder.
With my rifle stowed under a bench already, I raised my machete as I eyed the greenish, dark water, hoping it was deep enough for a dive, hoping I could swim the long distance down shore to the next dock. I didn’t know if I’d have to make the attempt, but if I found myself in the water, I’d need to find somewhere to hide.
The helicopter’s skids weren’t ten feet above the surface.
In the cockpit, the copilot stared at us. The side doors of the cargo area were pushed all the way open. Several men in ragtag military uniforms sat inside—some looking out, others bored and staring at nothing. One sat with his legs dangling out in the air from his seat beside a mounted machine gun on the side of the helicopter. Through the passing of a second or two they all saw us—faces showing first their surprise, then their fear.
Shit.
“Go!” Murphy shouted.
The guy by the machine gun scrambled to get behind it as the helicopter lurched left and started to rise.
Murphy jumped out of the boat and onto the dock.
The machine gun ripped a rapid series of wildly aimed, panicked bullets. They tore through our boat’s deck and aluminum pontoons.
I dove for the water as another burst shredded our boat.
Chapter 6
Well, I can’t outswim a helicopter underwater. Not even on the surface. No surprise. I could swim deep though, and I knew that all I needed was a little more than three feet. Hey, I used to watch TV before the Whites made a mess of everything. You can learn some stuff there. What I knew was that about three feet was plenty of water to keep me safe from bullets. The other factor in my favor was the pea-green murk of Lake Travis that left visibility near the surface at maybe five feet on a sunny day. Thankfully, the sun was still behind a layer of clouds, which meant less visibility.
I swam.
With my backpack and my machete weighing me down, it was no problem to keep my depth.
I spun in a barrel roll as I kicked, getting a long glance at the surface and seeing nothing but glowing green. If I couldn’t see the helicopter, it couldn’t see me. I still heard its repetitive thumping. I still heard the machine gun fire. I heard rounds splash the surface and I saw bubble trails emerge from the glow. I let myself sink deeper. After all, you can’t believe everything you see on TV.
Feeling momentarily invulnerable, I was glad the helicopter’s gunner was firing at me, probably the most prominent blur of fast-moving white skin he saw after pulling his trigger. That would give Murphy time to escape. I didn’t entertain the possibility that Murphy was laying on the dock full of holes and bleeding.
I swam away from the direction implied by the bullet’s bubble trails. The gunner had guessed where I was based on how I dove into the water. I wasn’t going to come up for air along that vector. I wasn’t going to be easy prey.
Instead, I turned on a path that paralleled the shore, putting me on an intersecting course with the other dock I’d seen. I didn’t think I had enough air in my lungs to reach the dock, but I needed to try.
No, I needed to make it.
It was that kind of situation. To come up for air with nothing to hide me—a bright, white-skinned head with little hair against the green water—would make me an easy target.
The dock was cover. If I could get there and swim below it, I could surface on the other side where the men in the helicopter wouldn’t see me. I liked the unrealistic idea of surfacing in the air gap beneath the dock, but those gaps were only under the docks on Lake Austin below the dam. The water there was kept at a constant level—when it wasn’t flooding. The water on Lake Travis rose and fell by dozens of feet through the course of a year of normal rainfall. All the marinas and docks were built on enormous cubes of foam to keep them afloat on the water’s surface leaving
Murphy raised his rifle to his shoulder.
With my rifle stowed under a bench already, I raised my machete as I eyed the greenish, dark water, hoping it was deep enough for a dive, hoping I could swim the long distance down shore to the next dock. I didn’t know if I’d have to make the attempt, but if I found myself in the water, I’d need to find somewhere to hide.
The helicopter’s skids weren’t ten feet above the surface.
In the cockpit, the copilot stared at us. The side doors of the cargo area were pushed all the way open. Several men in ragtag military uniforms sat inside—some looking out, others bored and staring at nothing. One sat with his legs dangling out in the air from his seat beside a mounted machine gun on the side of the helicopter. Through the passing of a second or two they all saw us—faces showing first their surprise, then their fear.
Shit.
“Go!” Murphy shouted.
The guy by the machine gun scrambled to get behind it as the helicopter lurched left and started to rise.
Murphy jumped out of the boat and onto the dock.
The machine gun ripped a rapid series of wildly aimed, panicked bullets. They tore through our boat’s deck and aluminum pontoons.
I dove for the water as another burst shredded our boat.
Chapter 6
Well, I can’t outswim a helicopter underwater. Not even on the surface. No surprise. I could swim deep though, and I knew that all I needed was a little more than three feet. Hey, I used to watch TV before the Whites made a mess of everything. You can learn some stuff there. What I knew was that about three feet was plenty of water to keep me safe from bullets. The other factor in my favor was the pea-green murk of Lake Travis that left visibility near the surface at maybe five feet on a sunny day. Thankfully, the sun was still behind a layer of clouds, which meant less visibility.
I swam.
With my backpack and my machete weighing me down, it was no problem to keep my depth.
I spun in a barrel roll as I kicked, getting a long glance at the surface and seeing nothing but glowing green. If I couldn’t see the helicopter, it couldn’t see me. I still heard its repetitive thumping. I still heard the machine gun fire. I heard rounds splash the surface and I saw bubble trails emerge from the glow. I let myself sink deeper. After all, you can’t believe everything you see on TV.
Feeling momentarily invulnerable, I was glad the helicopter’s gunner was firing at me, probably the most prominent blur of fast-moving white skin he saw after pulling his trigger. That would give Murphy time to escape. I didn’t entertain the possibility that Murphy was laying on the dock full of holes and bleeding.
I swam away from the direction implied by the bullet’s bubble trails. The gunner had guessed where I was based on how I dove into the water. I wasn’t going to come up for air along that vector. I wasn’t going to be easy prey.
Instead, I turned on a path that paralleled the shore, putting me on an intersecting course with the other dock I’d seen. I didn’t think I had enough air in my lungs to reach the dock, but I needed to try.
No, I needed to make it.
It was that kind of situation. To come up for air with nothing to hide me—a bright, white-skinned head with little hair against the green water—would make me an easy target.
The dock was cover. If I could get there and swim below it, I could surface on the other side where the men in the helicopter wouldn’t see me. I liked the unrealistic idea of surfacing in the air gap beneath the dock, but those gaps were only under the docks on Lake Austin below the dam. The water there was kept at a constant level—when it wasn’t flooding. The water on Lake Travis rose and fell by dozens of feet through the course of a year of normal rainfall. All the marinas and docks were built on enormous cubes of foam to keep them afloat on the water’s surface leaving
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