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Back Whirlwind Save as PDF
Chapters (95)
  1. Title Page
  2. 1
  3. 2
  4. 3
  5. 4
  6. 5
  7. 6
  8. 7
  9. 8
  10. 9
  11. 10
  12. 11
  13. 12
  14. 13
  15. 14
  16. 15
  17. 16
  18. 17
  19. 18
  20. 19
  21. 20
  22. 21
  23. 22
  24. 23
  25. 24
  26. 25
  27. 26
  28. 27
  29. 28
  30. 29
  31. 30
  32. 31
  33. 32
  34. 33
  35. 34
  36. 35
  37. 36
  38. 37
  39. 38
  40. 39
  41. 40
  42. 41
  43. 42
  44. 43
  45. 44
  46. 45
  47. 46
  48. 47
  49. 48
  50. 49
  51. 50
  52. 51
  53. 52
  54. 53
  55. 54
  56. 55
  57. 56
  58. 57
  59. 58
  60. 59
  61. 60
  62. 61
  63. 62
  64. 63
  65. 64
  66. 65
  67. 66
  68. 67
  69. 68
  70. 69
  71. 70
  72. 71
  73. 72
  74. 73
  75. 74
  76. 75
  77. 76
  78. 77
  79. 78
  80. 79
  81. 80
  82. 81
  83. 82
  84. 83
  85. 84
  86. 85
  87. 86
  88. 87
  89. 88
  90. 89
  91. 90
  92. 91
  93. 92
  94. Also by DAVID KLASS
  95. Copyright Page

Amazon warriors hit the wire and start climbing beneath me. Dozens of Indians wrestle their way up the mesh, trying to get secure hand- and footholds in the gusting downpour. They’re used to scaling palm trees, and pass me on the way up, but coils of razor wire at the top stop them. Monkeys outstrip the warriors, but also stop when they hit the concentric rings of tiny blades.

We hang near the top, unable to climb over and too weak to clamber back down. Our combined weight makes the fence sag, but the posts still hold.

Then the whirlwind comes. It’s the mother of all friagems, a frigid blast that made it over the Andes and now howls like a monster as it gusts at our backs. The colonel wanted to destroy the earth with global warming, which hits the poles most severely. They’re getting some of their own back now. For a moment we’re pinned to the fence by the force of this Antarctic gale. It pushes my chest flat against the wire so that I can barely breathe.

These powerful winds would normally whistle harmlessly through the mesh fence. But the hundreds of us clinging near the top give the storm something substantial to blow against. Our backs become like the cloth of a sail, and as the friagem pushes against us, the metal barrier buckles and grinds and begins to give way.

The mesh dips inward, bowing submissively before the force of the blast. Then the posts start to snap, and soon large sections of the fence begin curling to the ground. We ride them all the way down, pick our way gingerly over the razor wire, and race off toward the colonel’s compound.

A wave of threatening shapes surges from the darkness to stop us. They’re soldiers and prison guards, armed with guns, clubs, and knives.

A guard with the long hair of Samson and the build of a rugby professional swings a club at me. I sense the blow coming, and just duck under it. I wrap him up in a two-legged wrestling takedown, and lift him off his feet. He’s still trying to club me as he falls, but my head is tucked tight to his chest and he has no target. I slam him down and his skull thunks against a rock. The impact knocks him cold. I grab his club and run forward.

The outline of the colonel’s compound looms in the darkness. I recognize the prison where I was confined. Something tells me that if P.J. is alive, that’s where I’ll find her. I feel a surge of adrenaline, and leap forward with a savage shout.