Shockwave Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Priase for Cloudburst

  THE JACK COURTNEY ADVENTURES

  Dedication

  Chapter 1.

  Chapter 2.

  Chapter 3.

  Chapter 4.

  Chapter 5.

  Chapter 6.

  Chapter 7.

  Chapter 8.

  Chapter 9.

  Chapter 10.

  Chapter 11.

  Chapter 12.

  Chapter 13.

  Chapter 14.

  Chapter 15.

  Chapter 16.

  Chapter 17.

  Chapter 18.

  Chapter 19.

  Chapter 20.

  Chapter 21.

  Chapter 22.

  Chapter 23.

  Chapter 24.

  Chapter 25.

  Chapter 26.

  Chapter 27.

  Chapter 28.

  Chapter 29.

  Chapter 30.

  Chapter 31.

  Chapter 32.

  Chapter 33.

  Chapter 34.

  Chapter 35.

  Chapter 36.

  Chapter 37.

  Chapter 38.

  Chapter 39.

  Chapter 40.

  Chapter 41.

  Chapter 42.

  Chapter 43.

  Chapter 44.

  Chapter 45.

  Chapter 46.

  Chapter 47.

  Chapter 48.

  Chapter 49.

  Chapter 50.

  Chapter 51.

  Chapter 52.

  Chapter 53.

  Chapter 54.

  Chapter 55.

  Chapter 56.

  Epilogue

  About Wilbur Smith

  The Wilbur & Niso Smith Foundation

  Copyright

  Praise for the Jack Courtney Adventures

  ‘An exciting and realistic story, full of bandits, poachers and amazing wildlife … it keeps you turning the pages to the end’ – i newspaper

  ‘Unputdownable … Fast-moving adventure with heart and a message … Jack is as appealing a hero as Anthony Horowitz’s Alex Rider’ – LoveReading4Kids

  ‘You won’t be able to put it down’ – Angels & Urchins

  ‘Filled with so many twists and turns it will keep the reader guessing … Fans of Enid Blyton and Willard Price will enjoy Cloudburst, which takes these classics, injecting them with a modern influence’ – Reading Zone

  ‘An exciting and powerful story brimming with fast-paced action, unexpected twists and turns, an extraordinary backdrop and a cast of inspirational characters’ – Pam Norfolk

  ‘The Democratic Republic of Congo provides a colourful and vibrant backdrop for this exciting new children’s series’ – Natalie Xenso, CultureFly

  THE JACK COURTNEY ADVENTURES

  Cloudburst

  Thunderbolt

  Shockwave

  For all our young readers and their families

  Wilbur Smith & Chris Wakling

  1.

  The snow crust broke before I’d even cut my first turn down the slope. More fissures immediately shot out from the first. As I saw the whiteness around me shatter, I heard the electric crackling of the snow slab breaking up.

  I’d triggered an avalanche.

  It looked beautiful: like a spider’s web spreading out down the mountainside. But the cascading snow was behind me as well as in front of me, and although I tried to ski across it – that’s what our instructor Sylvan had told us to do if we found ourselves in this très grave situation – the white wave immediately engulfed me.

  I was upended. The snow ripped my skis from their bindings. I was swept away.

  Sylvan had also told us to jettison our ski poles if an avalanche struck. So, as I was rag-dolling my way down the slope, blinded, carried by the roaring snow, that’s what I tried to do. The pole straps were looped around my wrists. I somehow managed to shake one free. It took a ski glove with it. But I couldn’t get the other pole off. It spun with me as I cartwheeled down the mountain.

  How could this be happening?

  We’d been so careful. I’d studied the forecast, read the snow, checked everything.

  It didn’t matter. The avalanche was in charge now.

  Where was Amelia? She’d dropped onto the slope ahead of me. Would she have had time to veer out of the path of the thundering wall of snow? You can’t outrun an avalanche. Just like with a rip current in the sea, your best bet is to go at right angles to it and hope you can reach its edge. At least Xander was safe on his outcrop of rock. I didn’t know which way was up. It was like being mashed up on the beach by a surf wave, but much, much worse.

  As I was punched forward, I had time to think that Xander, piloting the drone, would be filming the whole thing from above, just as the GoPro on my helmet was capturing every millisecond of what I could – or couldn’t – see.

  We were in the Alps to make a film for a project called On the Brink. It was one of Mum’s eco-initiatives. She’d taken a bit of convincing that epic shots of us carving fresh Alpine powder fitted with On the Brink’s save-the-planet ethos, but I’d eventually managed to persuade her that showcasing some of the world’s most beautiful – and threatened – landscape with a bit of extreme sports action, rather than just showing another scrawny polar bear on a melting ice floe, would add an unexpected angle.

  Also, since we were young, any halfway-decent film we made for the cause might generate a bit of publicity. This wasn’t exactly the footage I’d planned on capturing, but as long as I survived it would make for interesting viewing.

  What else had Sylvan told us about avalanches? First, get the right gear. That included transceivers, extendable probes and snow shovels. Also, inflatable backpacks. We had all of that.

  Second, learn how to work the gear. He’d demonstrated how to use the backpack on solid ground. I was still somersaulting inside the snow wave, but I knew what to do and managed to grab the toggle on my shoulder with my free hand.

  Instantly the top of the pack blew itself up into an air-filled pillow. This was supposed to lift me up through the moving snow, so that when the avalanche finally came to a halt I’d be at the surface. Sylvan had also told us to try to ‘swim’ upwards. That was easier said than done; I still had no idea which way was up. I thrashed about instinctively anyway, and I took another piece of his advice while I was at it: holding my breath so as not to fill my lungs with powdered snow.

  The avalanche couldn’t have lasted more than thirty seconds, but it seemed to go on for hours, days, weeks. I tumbled along with it, lungs burning, arms and legs and head yanked this way and that, hoping against hope that I wouldn’t hit a rock or tree. A quarter of all avalanche victims are killed that way. Most of the others who die suffocate when the snow stops. Would the backpack save me from that? The chaos ripped off my ski goggles. Finally, the frothing snow slowed down. I saw brightness above me. It was full of white mist at first, but as I came to a stop and craned my neck, I glimpsed blue.

  The sky! I’d never been so pleased to see it.

  Why was it so difficult to move though? My arm with the ski pole attached to it was wedged behind me, and my legs felt as if they were set in cement. I tried rocking my body forwards and backwards to free myself, but the snow, full of air and energy one minute, had instantly solidified when the avalanche stopped. I could move one arm at least, so I tried to gouge away the snow and dig myself free with gloveless fingers.

  What was that impatient buzzing? It took me a second to recognise the noise. I couldn’t see far enough behind me to spot it, but it had to be Xander’s drone. With his eye in the sky he’d surely spot me quickly and come to help dig me free.

  But just as I deciphered it, the buzzing was d
rowned out by more rumbling, which made no sense at all. The avalanche was over. I’d come to a halt. All I had to do was free myself and make sure that Amelia was safe. Hopefully she’d pulled her own airbag toggle, or been able to avoid the whole thing.

  The rumbling swelled to a roar. I turned my head to look back up the slope. What I saw simply couldn’t be true. I was still wedged tight, unable to get up, let alone run away, from a second wave of snow that was racing towards me. Sylvan had said nothing about this! But it can happen: one slab of fresh snow breaks from the slope and disturbs another, which follows it down. I’d survived the first onslaught, but I was encased in snow, powerless to escape the billowing second wave.

  It really did look like white water tumbling over itself as it roared down the mountain, terrifyingly beautiful. I used the last piece of advice I could remember before the snow reached me, and tried to hold my arm in front of my face to create an air pocket. The roar of the second wave was jet-engine loud. It ran straight over me, a great obliterating wedge of whiteness, burying me alive.

  2.

  The noise and movement completely disorientated me. Had the second avalanche tumbled me further down the mountain? I didn’t know. When the snow stopped, I wasn’t sure which way was up. At least I still had my arm in front of my face. I managed to work it forward and back, enlarging the pathetically small hole it had preserved, but only a little. I blinked the snow from my eyes. Everything was ice blue.

  I breathed out, then in.

  Gravity, my enemy when the snow had been tumbling me down the mountain, was now my friend. I let a trickle of spit dribble out of my mouth. It slid down my chin. I hadn’t been turned over, then: that way was still down and my hand was still pointing up.

  How much snow was above me? Ten centimetres? A metre? Two? I worked my fingers into the roof of the hole, punch-jabbing at it, trying to break through, but I couldn’t. Above me was just more snow. I was pinned in a straitjacket of the stuff, clamped tight from all sides. Panic bubbled up inside me.

  ‘Help!’ I shouted. ‘Help!’

  Though I bellowed with all my might, I could barely hear myself; I may as well have been yelling into a pillow wrapped in a duvet. My heart galloped in my ears. This wasn’t good.

  I fought to stay calm. They would be searching for me. The avalanche transceiver attached to my jacket would be pinging out its signal. And Xander had the drone footage. He and Amelia – I had to believe that she had escaped the avalanche and wasn’t also trapped in it – would look back over the film to establish a good last-seen point. That’s the first step in locating an avalanche victim. Then they’d use their own transceivers to listen out for the signal from mine, and come to find me.

  Sylvan’s instructions had been clear: searchers should sweep the debris field in quick zigzags until they pick up a signal. Once they’ve locked on, the next step is to slow down, pay close attention to the distance readings and directional lights on the transceiver, and pinpoint the casualty.

  At two metres the directional lights turn off and the transceiver simply indicates distance. You have to look to find the lowest number – or burial depth, as it’s known. Once you’re certain the casualty is as near as dammit beneath you, you assemble your pole and start probing.

  We’d practised that. You probe perpendicular to the slope in concentric circles until you have a positive strike. A body feels squishy but firm, Sylvan had said. We’d practised because knowing what to do could save a life. I’d memorised the whole drill. I’d just never seriously considered that the squishy-but-firm body in question might be mine.

  The heat of my breath was melting the snow in front of my face, making droplets that instantly froze again. I tried to sip at the air, forced myself to breathe slowly, eke out the oxygen in my air pocket for as long as possible. Avalanche victims have about fifteen minutes before they suffocate. How long had I been buried? A minute? Five? Ten? What if they didn’t get to me in time? I couldn’t … wouldn’t … mustn’t die like this!

  I thought of Mum. She’d lost my brother Mark in an accident I’d caused. And because of me she’d lost her husband, the man I’d called Dad, who I’d exposed as a corrupt villain, prepared to sacrifice us both for his own gain.

  Her last words to me this morning had been ‘Stay safe’.

  And now look at me.

  I’d taken Sylvan’s briefings seriously. I’d tried to implement them. But I’d failed. I’d misread the snow, triggered the avalanche and got myself buried in it. I knew Mum was a strong woman, but if I died here, I’d be leaving her on her own.

  Though I knew it would only make things worse, I couldn’t stop myself from struggling in the snow, yelling for help, wasting energy and oxygen.

  When I stopped, exhausted, a blackness descended. I felt cold, lost, ridiculous. They hadn’t found me. Perhaps my transceiver was broken, or the drone had lost sight of me. Maybe Amelia was buried too. Hopefully Xander was digging her out. He wouldn’t have time to find us both.

  Another wave of loss – or a sense of unfinished business – crashed over me. I still had so much to do! Mostly I wanted to resolve things with the Leopard – the man Mum claimed was my real father, but who I’d seen buying child soldiers in Somalia. They both insisted he’d been trying to save them. The guy had written to me, asking to meet. I had blanked him. Why? To protect myself. Instinctively, I distrusted the guy: though I was intrigued by him, something about him made me wary. How stupid was that? I decided there and then that, if I got out of the snow alive, I’d find out exactly who the Leopard – or Jonny Armfield, to give him his actual name – really was.

  That’s all I had in those moments: a resolution rattling around my head. The snow had snuffed out everything else. I shut my eyes against the blue light and did the only thing I could: hung on in there. It didn’t matter that everything ached, that my lungs hurt, that I was alone, trapped, cold, dying. I wasn’t dead yet.

  3.

  Just as I was about to give up hope, something jabbed my thigh. I yelled Xander’s name, but my voice was weak. For long seconds the probe didn’t find me again. I began to doubt myself: had I imagined the sensation by wanting it so badly? No! The second time he poked me, he caught me in the side, quite hard.

  I yelped, louder this time.

  Squidgy but firm, I thought.

  ‘Xander!’ I shouted as loudly as I could.

  This time I heard a muffled reply. Then the probe pierced the snow right next to my head. Quick as a flash, I grabbed the probe-tip with my free hand – partly to stop him taking out one of my eyes with his next stab, but mostly so I could hang on to it and let him know where to dig. He tugged; I tugged back. I’d thought I might die. Now I was being reborn. My hand was almost as blue-white as the snow in front of my face, but my grip on the probe was vice-like: nobody was about to tear that pole away from me.

  Xander would be digging down the slope beneath me. Sylvan had explained: once you’ve located the casualty with your probe you dig a metre downhill from them, clearing the snow to the sides. The digging is usually the part that takes the longest, particularly if the casualty is buried deep. I waggled the probe above me, trying to create an air hole I could breathe through while Xander worked. I called out to him again. ‘Is Amelia OK?’

  The muffled reply came from not Xander but Amelia herself. ‘Of course! I’m fine! You are too now. Unless you’re hurt. Are you hurt?’

  The relief I felt on hearing her voice was almost unbearable. ‘I’m fine,’ I yelled. ‘Fine!’

  ‘That’s an overstatement,’ she shouted back at me. ‘But whatever.’

  ‘Sit tight,’ said Xander. ‘We’ll get you out of there.’

  I knew it was a joke, but Amelia took the bait all the same. ‘Sit tight? He’s hardly going anywhere.’

  She was right. I was buried under one and a half metres of tumbled snow. It took them quite a while to shift it. By the time Amelia and Xander had dug enough away to pull me free, a French mountain rescue team –
called by Xander – had joined them. The cold had evidently got to me. I was beyond shivering. All I could think – or talk – about were my lost skis and missing pole. I wanted everyone to search for them, and even tried to set off and look myself, but the rescue team were having none of it. They wrapped me in two space blankets and loaded me onto their blood-wagon instead. I’d seen these bright red stretchers-on-skis before, but not up close. It was surprisingly snug and comfortable. I felt like I might fall asleep in it. In fact, I drifted off, only to be rudely awakened by a poke in the arm.

  ‘Keep your eyes open!’ Amelia told me. To Xander she said, ‘He’s hypothermic. It affects judgement first. Sufferers often spout nonsense. Then they fall asleep. Severe cases die.’

  The ski-rescue guy evidently spoke good English. He stared at Amelia then said to me, ‘She’s a friend of yours, yes?’

  I nodded.

  Xander grinned. ‘She means well. She just has a habit of telling it as it is.’

  The ski-rescue guy shrugged and said, ‘Nobody’s dying.’

  ‘Obviously,’ replied Amelia. ‘Foil blankets are highly efficient. He’ll warm up again soon.’ To me she added, ‘But stay awake. Concentrate.’

  Once the rescue team had strapped me in, they skied me across to the nearest piste and all the way down to the resort. It was the weirdest sensation to skim down the mountain on my back, watching the clouds and trees slide by above me, with Xander and Amelia skiing alongside as the two-man mountain rescue crew, one at my head and one at my feet, made easy work of the slopes.