Page 136 of The Fourth Option
Walker was upside down, his shoulder jammed against the ceiling, water rushing past his ears, Paladin beside him thrashing, claws scraping at the walls, barks turned to bubbles, a piercing whine as the water filled the last pocket of air.
Reason. Then move.
The van’s interior was a tangle of blurred shadows and shifting debris. Scrapes, bumps, and bashes echoed through the metal shell as it slammed against the massive, jagged rocks lining the river like the teeth of a bear trap. The Army Corps of Engineers had placed them there to armor the shoreline, to keep the Mississippi from swallowing the city whole. Now they were tearing Walker’s van apart.
The van pitched again, tumbling over the underwater slope of stone and concrete. Glass shattered. Bent like a crushed soda can, Walker’s vehicle rolled nose-first into the dredged channel, where the river ran deeper and faster for the shipping lanes.
Get Paladin out of here!
Walker grabbed his dog by the collar and found the edge of the sink.
That meant that the sliding door should be to his right.
He pushed off the refrigerator and propelled himself toward the door, felt for the handle in the dark, found it, and pulled.
Nothing.
The van was on its side. The door was on the river’s floor.
Walker had a brief memory of being with his first platoon in the helo dunk tank at Marine Air Station Miramar. They had donned blacked-out masks and strapped themselves into a fuselage that was then dropped into a tank and rotated upside down. They had learned to find their way out using reference points.
Walker grabbed the back of the passenger seat with his right hand and, with Paladin’s collar in his left, pulled his way diagonally into the driver’s seat.
No way you can open the door against the water, but you can roll down a window.
He knew every inch of the vehicle. It was his home. As the van continued to slide, Walker rolled down the van’s window and pushed Paladin through. Then he grabbed both sides of the window frame to heave himself upward, when the van rolled again, sucking Walker back inside. He felt something with his feet and pushed off, slamming his head into the floor.
What way is even up?
He felt dizzy, his body craving oxygen.
He had oxygen, a nitrogen-oxygen mix and it was feet away.
Out of both habit and necessity, Walker had organized the equipment in his van with extreme care. It served a purpose when living in such a confined space. Everything had its place, including his dive gear.
He twisted his body and groped through the dark, his skin scraping against torn metal, pulling himself along the inside of the van. His fingers found the tank first. The bag with his buoyancy compensator and regulator was secured in the cargo compartment with a cambuckle strap. He loosened it, found the bag’s zipper, opened it, and felt for the first stage of his regulator. He attached it to the tank that was still strapped to the side of the van, turned on the air, and grabbed the second-stage mouthpiece, hitting the purge button to clear it of water before sucking in the life-saving gas mixture.
The van rolled again but Walker kept the regulator in his mouth as the vehicle lurched and slammed him into the opposite wall. He bit the regulator, and forced himself to breathe slowly, the dizziness subsiding.
Who hit you?
Cops?
The cartel?
Don’t you fucking die.
Paladin. You’ve got to find Paladin.
And you’ve got to find the motherfuckers who did this.
The van smashed off a rock.
Get out of here.
Grab your AR.
No time to mess with the vault.
