A tight crawlspace.
‘Think there might be snakes? Scorpions?’ asked Noble.
‘Not this deep in the desert. Nothing can survive out here.’
They climbed inside.
The tail section of the plane had been designed to house four 20mm Vulcan cannons remote-operated by a gunner stationed on the flight deck. The quad weapon and feed chutes had long since been removed and the gun ports welded shut. The compartment was now home to a rack of electronic countermeasure gear. Ammo drums replaced by a radome and omnirange antennas. Access via a crawlway that ran the length of the plane from the crew cabin, through the bomb bay, to the rear.
Hancock shuffled along a short section of access tunnel on his hands and knees. Sheet metal slick with hydraulic fluid. Dancing flashlight beam.
Noble squeezed into the tight compartment. They crouched shoulder-to-shoulder, ignoring each other’s body odour.
The flight recorder. Mission data housed in a steel cylinder:
FINDER’S INSTRUCTIONS – US GOVERNMENT PROPERTY. IF FOUND PLEASE RETURN TO THE NEAREST US GOVERNMENT OFFICE.
The UHF beacon. A winking green light confirmed the beacon was active, operating on internal power, broadcasting a homing signal on SAR.
‘How long will she transmit?’ asked Hancock.
‘Four weeks, give or take.’
The backup cell. Twice the size of an automobile battery.
CAUTION – SHOCK HAZARD.
‘Is that it?’ asked Noble.
‘Yeah.’
He disconnected the terminals.
‘Watch yourself.’
They unscrewed hex bolts and jerked the unit from its rack.
Noble constructed a sledge from a section of deck plate. He cut a length of power cable and lashed it as tow rope.
Hancock watched him work.
‘Feel like an idiot. Sitting here while you break sweat.’
‘Best kick back awhile. Take it easy.’
‘Head keeps spinning. Can’t hardly see straight.’
‘You need rest. No use pretending otherwise. Normal circumstances, a head wound that bad would have you laid up in ICU a long while. CAT scans, the works. Weeks before the nurses let you throw back the sheet and put your feet on the floor. Soon as we get back to the plane, you ought to shoot some morphine. Pop a couple of Motrins, at least. You need to recuperate.’
‘Fuck that shit.’
‘You got to be dispassionate. Set the macho bullshit aside. Your body is equipment in need of repair. Treat it as such.’
‘Let you in on a secret,’ said Hancock, contemplating the dunes. ‘Truth is, I love it out here in the desert. I want to be awake every awful minute. Yeah, the situation is desperate. I want to get home same as you guys. But this is why I joined the military. Didn’t want to stare at the world through an office window. Wanted a mission. Clarity of purpose. Something real. Something fundamental.’
‘A true believer.’
‘You’re goddam right.’
Noble loaded the battery onto the deck plate.
‘Hold on,’ said Hancock. ‘I got to fetch something from inside.’
He struggled to his feet, climbed into the tight crawlspace and retrieved a ballistic Peli case from behind the battery rack.
Noble helped drag the Peli case from the tail.
‘What’s in this thing?’ asked Noble as he stacked it on the sled.
‘Something that might save our collective ass.’
A star shell to the south. Frost. A flare to guide them home.
They gripped the tow rope and began to haul the battery across the sand.
The nose.
Noble reached up and brushed dust from the hull of the plane. He flipped latches and unhinged a panel beneath the cockpit window.
A seven-pin power receptacle: four pos/negs, two grounds and a redundancy.
Frost dumped the battery in the sand beneath the open power panel. She ran jump leads from the battery pack to the terminals, clamped them with heavy alligator clips. Crack and spark as she applied the second clip. She snatched her hand away.
‘Better watch out,’ said Noble. ‘Whole fuselage is soaked in fuel.’
Frost sat in the pilot seat. Noble stood behind her.
He held a flashlight trained on the AC switch panel.
‘Here goes.’
Frost cranked the selector from AUX to EXT.
Spark-shower from the overhead air refuel panel. They ducked and shielded their eyes.
Power up hum. Winking console indicators. Cabin lights fluttered and glowed steady.
Faces lit harsh white. Each shocked by the deterioration they saw in their companion’s condition. Exhaustion and thirst. Stubble, sunburn, peeling skin.
They laughed. High-fives.
‘About time we caught a break,’ said Noble.
‘Well, let’s not waste precious volts,’ said Frost. ‘Pass me the headset.’
He handed her the pilot helmet. Brim stenciclass="underline" PINBACK.
She hesitated for a moment, then pulled on the helmet, creeped to be sharing skullspace with a dead man.
She plugged the interphone jack into the side-console, switched on the command panel above her head and began to flip through pre-programmed frequencies.
She switched from INTER to VOX. Speaker hiss filled the cabin.
She keyed the radio.
‘Mayday, Mayday, anyone copy, over? This is B-52 Liberty Bell, tail MT66 requesting aid, please respond.’
White noise.
‘Mayday, Mayday, this is B-52 Liberty Bell. We have crashed in the desert north-east of the Panamint Range, we require urgent assistance, over.’
The unbroken susurration of empty wavebands.
She flicked toggles, turned dials.
‘No good?’ queried Noble.
‘Quick II is giving me nothing on Guard. DAMA and AFSAT are returning No Comms. Line-of-sight is no fucking good with these mountains boxing us in. Best bet is the ARC one-ninety. Sooner or later, someone ought to respond. Don’t want to believe we’re the only folks broadcasting in the entire western hemisphere.’
Frost turned to Noble.
‘No point waiting around. Might take a while to raise anyone. Best if we take half-hour shifts. This could be a long night.’
Frost, alone on the flight deck, feet propped on the avionics in front of her. She had removed the pilot’s helmet. She toyed with the CSEL in her lap.
She’d managed to pick up fragments of BBC World Service. A news update which was, she suspected, days old, cycling from a console in an abandoned studio somewhere in central London.
British voice:
‘…extent of the pandemic… research centres across the world… no firm hope of a cure…’
The transmission momentarily overwhelmed by a strange tocking sound, an electronic pulse that rose and fell as it washed across the wavebands.
‘…refuge centres overrun… advise extreme caution… place of safety… away from major cities…’
Feedback whine. She tweaked Acquisition.
‘…asting from the United Sta… taken command of the continuity government… ecretary of State… sworn in at NORAD headquarters… continued state of emergency… executive posi… recall of overseas forces… concluded with a prayer… their trust in God…’
She shut off the CSEL and threw it aside.
America’s slow death evidently playing out like the final hours of Hitler’s entourage sealed in their Reichstag bunker. Guys awarding themselves meaningless titles. Studying maps, debating strategy, issuing futile orders. Pathologically competitive alpha males jostling for status even as the power failed, the lights and air con died, and they were left in choking darkness. Bad fucking joke.
She reached above her head and powered the ARC-190. She held the oxygen mask to her mouth and keyed the mask-mike.