‘Except we wrecked the antenna driving it in.’ Hunt stirred the thickening oats. ‘Anyway, if you transmit, Alpha knows your position. Has to be radio silence.’
‘I can live with that,’ Raul said. ‘By the way, there’s a set of skis in the galley up the front. Must have belonged to one of the aircrew. We take those, too. He beamed at them all. ‘Life’s full of solutions. After breakfast, we get to work.’
Solutions, Cain thought, remembering Rhonda’s maxim, that are simple, neat and wrong.
After he’d eaten, Cain checked on the civilians. Eve was the only one up in her stale-smelling tent. Hair matted, face grave, she sat half out of her bag, priming the stove. ‘I heard a plane. Are we going to be rescued?’
‘No.’ He lifted the pee tin near the entrance, disappeared to empty it outside, came back, replaced it.
She said, ‘How do we survive down here? What do we do now?’ She was a woman in despair — a woman whose child had killed her half-sister.
He passed her one of the small snow blocks Hunt had positioned between the skins of the tent. ‘I’ll get Hunt to come in and help you. How’s John?’ He nodded at the pope who still lay, eyes closed as if exhausted, beside Nina. Both seemed to be dozing.
‘He’s worn out,’ she said. ‘Finds it hard to breathe. And who on earth are you people? This is Pope John Paul I! I thought I’d seen him before. What have you done to our Church? My God, how could you…’
‘Can’t always choose who you sleep with. Can you get Nina to make herself useful?’
‘Impossible. Containment’s the aim.’
The pope opened his eyes, gasped, ‘Ray. How are you managing?’
‘Ray?’ Eve looked confused.
‘We’re still alive,’ he told John.
Nina sat up and told the pope, ‘He screws my mum.’
The pope turned to her. ‘Have you ever felt someone loved you?’
‘You’ve got to be kidding. No one gives a stuff about me.’
The pope smiled and took her hand. ‘Don’t be too sure.’ Cain expected her to snatch her hand back. But the powerful presence of the man and perhaps the knowledge of who he was made it difficult for even Nina to deride him. She jerked her head away, not wanting her reaction seen.
Zia half sat up in his single bag and winced. His face had a sickly pearl-like sheen. ‘The helicopter?’ He spoke in Urdu.
‘EXIT.’
‘Why didn’t they attack us?’
‘No need. They know we’ll die.’
He nodded. ‘And which way is Mecca?’
‘You can’t make prostrations with that leg.’
‘Your advice doesn’t interest me. Which way?’
Cain pointed toward the rear corner of the tent. ‘Consider your mirhab to be there. But best now to worship at the Kaaba of the heart.’
‘You infidel. You upstart! Do you presume to tell Zia how to pray?’
‘I’m trying to help, General. I feel for you and your injury. I mean no offence.’
‘I need to — wash.’
He knew Zia wished to wash before praying and pointed to the splitting tips of the dark man’s fingers. ‘This dry air cracks skin. Washing isn’t good.’
Nina said, ‘Wankers. What language is that?’
The old general raised an arm, grimacing with pain. ‘You are insolent, Rahib. The unworthy are promised fire, where they will ever abide without relief. You have profaned Allah and His Apostle and you will burn in fire.’
‘God knows. Consider your own acts, Zia ul-Haq.’
‘I cannot will except by the will of Allah.’
‘Then may I point out that Islam forbids tyranny?’
‘Do not sully this place with your arguments.’
Cain shrugged. ‘Keep that leg up. I’ll come back later. You have my good wishes, General. And I’ll help you if I can.’
‘And I will kill you if I can, Rahib Badar.’
‘If Allah wills.’ Cain backed forlornly out of the tent. The old soldier hated him but at least it was keeping him alive. Religions, he thought — all pointing to unity but made lethal by interpretations. He trudged toward the wreck. What did Seng Ts’an’s poem say? ‘Do not seek after the real. Only cease to cherish opinions.’ Zia, who had grown up with state corruption, had probably done his best, as he saw it. And now, displaced, abandoned, dying, self-image was all he had left. Pride — angel and devil. Sometimes nothing was sadder.
‘Cain?’
Bell and his storm troops padded into sight from behind the shattered radome. Mullins carried a piece of dented aluminium panel.
‘Want to get that vehicle up,’ Bell said. ‘Have to find tools.’
‘Then keep your inner gloves on,’ Cain warned. ‘No bare flesh against metal.’
He followed the ungainly figures into the plane, removed his goggles. The Hagg was a mess, the right side of the front cabin bashed in. The mercenaries discussed how to patch it against the weather. The front window was still holding together so it was drivable. He looked at the frozen bodies of the loadmaster and Jane. Their staring eyes were ice.
Bell said, ‘I’ve checked the APU. It’s wrecked. Was it battery start?’
‘Yes.’
‘The battery’s where?’
‘Forward of the crew entry door.’ He adjusted his goggles and followed Bell outside.
They prised the bay open. The battery looked undamaged. The plane’s starboard list had helped.
Bell peered in. ‘You say the Hagglunds’ engine has a coolant warming element. So could we wire that up to this?’
‘Could try.’
They uncoupled the battery. Bell lifted it out, staggered. ‘Heavy.’
‘It’s lead acid. Not nicad.’
‘Voltage?’
‘Around 20 to 30 volts DC, I think.’
‘And what’s the heating element in the Hagg?’
He shrugged.
In ten minutes they’d salvaged enough wiring to connect the battery to the vehicle.
‘It’s cold-soaked,’ Cain said. ‘Got to warm it.’ Then he spotted a packing-carton-sized box in the cargo bay, opened the cardboard lid. ‘Bingo!’
Bell puffed across. ‘What are those?’
He held up colourful plastic envelopes. ‘Chemical hand warmers. You pierce the plastic, scrunch up the sachet, blow into it, whatever, to get oxygen in and it starts a chemical reaction. They’re a one-shot wonder but stay warm for hours.’
‘So if we pack them around the battery. Then insulate it with something…’
As they did it, the two mercenaries looked for things to patch the damaged cabin. With the battery warming, they helped the others strip lining from the cargo bay, then searched outside for more panels. Raul’s troops, Cain noted, didn’t seem to believe in face protection. For that they’d pay. On bad days here, exposed skin froze in minutes.
Bell went back to work on the ramp and waved Cain to follow. Aft of the port side paratroop door was a hand-pump and valve. Cain switched the pressure release valve handle to the manual position while Bell read instructions off a control plate. ‘Move door valve handle to OPEN.’
He did it.
‘Pump until door is up and locked.’
Cain pumped. The gauge pressure rose but nothing happened until he found and pulled the door uplock manual release. Slowly, the door began to rise into the upper tail. A black metal flag with a yellow circle swung out and down like some form of congratulation.
Cain said, ‘You know Raul’s not with it, don’t you? That we’re not going to make it?’
‘Energy in all things — road to fortune.’
He was sick of Bell’s dangerous zeal. ‘Get real. We’re stuffed.’
The other turned to him, eyes brilliant with conviction. ‘Gustave Raul is the Master of this Age. We’re tremendously fortunate to have him with us. And if he says we can do it, we can. There are thousands of people on this continent. Permanent bases everywhere. All we have to do is reach someone. There could be some temporary base or expedition just over the horizon.’