tarmac, his revolver bouncing along with him. Right into his hand. As he slid to a stop, he fired again.
The bullet sparked the tarmac well wide of Charlie’s door. The Amphibus bounced, Charlie along with it, his head striking the roof liner. “What the hell?”
“Grass,” Drummond said.
Now Charlie saw it. The Amphibus was crossing the strip of lawn that paralleled the runway. A moment later the heavy vehicle clomped onto the runway itself.
Charlie looked up, bracing for impact with a descending 747.
The sky was empty, but a trio of police cars was converging on the Amphibus.
Extraordinarily composed, or perhaps just drained of panic, Charlie focused on the Caribbean, outlined by the moonlight, a mile up the runway. He tried to turn the Amphibus, wrestling gravity for control of the wheel. The tires howled. Whines and groans suggested the vehicle was about to collapse into a mass of spent automotive parts. It careened toward the water with the exception of a cylindrical tank—
a fire extinguisher?
—which burst through the rear door and bounced down the runway, leaving a comet trail of sparks.
The first police car slalomed to avoid being struck, then accelerated, closing to within a city block of the Amphibus. The two other police cars fell behind the first, forming a triangular formation, suggesting to Charlie that they intended to “T-bone” the truck, or disable it by ramming its flanks.
Although the engine roared like a blast furnace, the Amphibus seemed to have maxed at seventy kilometers per hour.
The police cars closed to within striking range.
The water was half a mile ahead.
“Now would probably be a decent time to figure out how to turn this thing into a boat,” Charlie said.
Drummond stared across the cabin as if Charlie were the one with lucidity issues. “Turn this into a boat?”
One of the police cars was now close enough that Charlie could make out the driver’s mustache—the traditional Burt Reynolds model. He also saw the gun that the man’s partner braced on the passenger side window. Getting closer. The options were to get rammed, get shot, both, or to stay the course to the Caribbean at the runway’s end.
“Dad, this thing is an
Amphibus
,” he said. “If we can’t make it live up to its name, when we reach the water”—seconds away—“we’re literally sunk.”
“Oh, that. We could always retract the wheels. The power train will shift from driving the wheels to driving the jet propulsion system.” Charlie exhaled. “You’ve been in one of these things before.”
“I don’t recall. On the other hand, once, back in the early seventies—”
“How do you retract the wheels?”
“Push this.” Drummond pointed at a big button on the console. Pictured on the peeling decal directly above it were a tire and an arrow that curved upward.
The police car closest to Drummond slammed into his side of the Amphibus. Charlie felt the crunch of metal in his teeth. Impact with any more force would knock the ungainly vehicle onto its side.
His eyes went to the blur outside his window. The second police car was charging straight at his door. He clenched head to toe in anticipation of the blow.
The police car suddenly slowed, braking close enough that Charlie could read the lips of the man at the wheel: “
Merde!
”
The runway ended, and the Amphibus took off into the sky, or so it seemed.
An instant later, it belly flopped into the Caribbean. And began sinking. Seawater rose above the windows, darkening the inside of the cabin save for a few faint white circles on the instrument panel.
Charlie groped for the button that turned the thing into a boat, found it—he hoped—and hammered down.
The wheels ground inward, and the inboard engines roared to life, bringing the water around it to a boil.
The craft popped back to the surface.
And, incredibly enough, floated.
As far as Charlie could tell, just one problem remained: “How do we make it go?”
“Just keep
The bullet sparked the tarmac well wide of Charlie’s door. The Amphibus bounced, Charlie along with it, his head striking the roof liner. “What the hell?”
“Grass,” Drummond said.
Now Charlie saw it. The Amphibus was crossing the strip of lawn that paralleled the runway. A moment later the heavy vehicle clomped onto the runway itself.
Charlie looked up, bracing for impact with a descending 747.
The sky was empty, but a trio of police cars was converging on the Amphibus.
Extraordinarily composed, or perhaps just drained of panic, Charlie focused on the Caribbean, outlined by the moonlight, a mile up the runway. He tried to turn the Amphibus, wrestling gravity for control of the wheel. The tires howled. Whines and groans suggested the vehicle was about to collapse into a mass of spent automotive parts. It careened toward the water with the exception of a cylindrical tank—
a fire extinguisher?
—which burst through the rear door and bounced down the runway, leaving a comet trail of sparks.
The first police car slalomed to avoid being struck, then accelerated, closing to within a city block of the Amphibus. The two other police cars fell behind the first, forming a triangular formation, suggesting to Charlie that they intended to “T-bone” the truck, or disable it by ramming its flanks.
Although the engine roared like a blast furnace, the Amphibus seemed to have maxed at seventy kilometers per hour.
The police cars closed to within striking range.
The water was half a mile ahead.
“Now would probably be a decent time to figure out how to turn this thing into a boat,” Charlie said.
Drummond stared across the cabin as if Charlie were the one with lucidity issues. “Turn this into a boat?”
One of the police cars was now close enough that Charlie could make out the driver’s mustache—the traditional Burt Reynolds model. He also saw the gun that the man’s partner braced on the passenger side window. Getting closer. The options were to get rammed, get shot, both, or to stay the course to the Caribbean at the runway’s end.
“Dad, this thing is an
Amphibus
,” he said. “If we can’t make it live up to its name, when we reach the water”—seconds away—“we’re literally sunk.”
“Oh, that. We could always retract the wheels. The power train will shift from driving the wheels to driving the jet propulsion system.” Charlie exhaled. “You’ve been in one of these things before.”
“I don’t recall. On the other hand, once, back in the early seventies—”
“How do you retract the wheels?”
“Push this.” Drummond pointed at a big button on the console. Pictured on the peeling decal directly above it were a tire and an arrow that curved upward.
The police car closest to Drummond slammed into his side of the Amphibus. Charlie felt the crunch of metal in his teeth. Impact with any more force would knock the ungainly vehicle onto its side.
His eyes went to the blur outside his window. The second police car was charging straight at his door. He clenched head to toe in anticipation of the blow.
The police car suddenly slowed, braking close enough that Charlie could read the lips of the man at the wheel: “
Merde!
”
The runway ended, and the Amphibus took off into the sky, or so it seemed.
An instant later, it belly flopped into the Caribbean. And began sinking. Seawater rose above the windows, darkening the inside of the cabin save for a few faint white circles on the instrument panel.
Charlie groped for the button that turned the thing into a boat, found it—he hoped—and hammered down.
The wheels ground inward, and the inboard engines roared to life, bringing the water around it to a boil.
The craft popped back to the surface.
And, incredibly enough, floated.
As far as Charlie could tell, just one problem remained: “How do we make it go?”
“Just keep
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