‘Go. Make sure no one is left behind.’
Trenchman ran to the Humvee limo. Flame light from the runway fire turned white bodywork pink.
He checked for keys.
He opened the passenger door, threw a couple of AR-15s and a case of ammo into the passenger compartment.
He ran to a jumbled stack of supplies. He grabbed bottled water and a jerry can full of fuel. He threw them inside the car.
He ran back to the Chinook.
He stood at the lip of the loading ramp. Quick survey of the cargo compartment. Twenty-six guys strapped into side-seats. Sweating, fearful, desperate to be gone.
Dawson ran past, anxious to get aboard the chopper. Trenchman grabbed his arm, held him back.
‘Nobody left behind?’
‘We’re clear.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘I’m fucking sure.’
Dawson tried to pull his arm free. Trenchman maintained his grip.
‘You’re in charge now, sergeant. Get the boys somewhere remote, somewhere safe.’
‘What about you, sir?’
‘I got business elsewhere.’
Trenchman stepped from the loading ramp onto asphalt.
He took out his radio and buzzed the pilot:
‘That’s it. Get the fuck out of here.’
Escalating motor whine. The Chinook’s massive twin blades began to revolve.
Osborne unlatched his cargo seat harness and ran down the ramp to Trenchman. He shouted over escalating rotor roar.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘I’m going after Liberty Bell.’
‘The crew? They’re dead.’
‘What if they’re not?’
‘Then it’s a crying shame. But you don’t owe them a damned thing, Phil.’
Trenchman pointed to the flag on his sleeve. Engine scream so loud Osborne had to read his lips:
‘Got to do what I can.’
Osborne stayed by Trenchman’s side. Warning klaxon. They watched the loading ramp rise and seal shut. Last glimpse of the ribbed interior of the hold, troops strapped in opposing rows.
They crouched and covered their ears as engine noise reached a crescendo. Typhoon rotor-wash tore at their clothes, enveloped them in dust.
The Chinook ascended into the night sky.
Engine noise quickly diminished. Running strobes headed north.
Osborne lit a cigar and tossed the match. He watched infected shuffle through the dying flames of the fuel fire and head towards them, clothes ablaze.
‘Guess it’s time to go.’
They strode towards the limo.
Voices behind them:
‘Hey. Wait the fuck up.’
Two soldiers running across the slipway, screaming, trying to flag down the long-gone chopper.
They skidded to a halt, bellowing at distant strobes.
‘Get in the damned car,’ shouted Trenchman. He ran, grabbed them both by the shoulder and propelled them towards the limo.
They tumbled into the rear passenger compartment.
Quick glance:
MORGAN.
AKINGBOLA.
Sweating, terrified kids.
‘What happened to you guys?’ asked Trenchman. ‘How the hell did you miss the chopper?’
‘Manning a tower. Didn’t realise what was going down until it was too late.’
‘Don’t shit your pants. I’m not kidding. Combat stress. Clench, for God’s sake. We could be in here a while.’
Osborne took the wheel.
The limo pulled away, swung a wide arc and headed down the runway towards the burning figures. Cadaverous creatures reached for the automobile, got flipped across the hood, slammed aside by the fender. A cop went under a wheel, got balled up and jammed in the well. Bone-snapping disintegration, thick-tread tyre spraying fabric and flesh chunks like slurry.
Osborne ran screen-wash and wipers.
They drove through the fuel fire. Brief flurry of smoke and flame beyond the windows.
They accelerated down the runway, headed for the collapsed section of perimeter fence.
Jolt across the kerbs of Vegas Boulevard. Trenchman and the two grunts thrown around.
The vehicle lurched across the grounds of the Bali Hai Golf Club. Headbeams lit ghost figures stumbling aimlessly across the fairway.
They joined the two-one-five and headed out of town.
Trenchman relaxed on the bench seat. He turned to Osborne.
‘Either put out that damned cigar or raise the partition.’
Osborne cracked the side window for air. He opened the glove box, scattered CDs on the passenger seat. He found Cypress Hill and fed it into the dash.
Trenchman tapped a booted foot to ‘Ain’t Goin’Out Like That’.
Osborne shouted over his shoulder:
‘Looks like The Luxor is burning pretty good.’
Trenchman glanced out the window. The great bronzed glass pyramid. Infernal glow from deep within the structure. Flames licked from the broken apex. It looked like a volcano.
‘Sin City,’ he murmured. ‘Abandon all hope.’
They headed down the interstate.
16
Salt flats gave way to dunes. The limo lurched across sand. Heavy tyres cut deep chevron tracks.
Osborne, Morgan and Akingbola sat in the rear, rocking on a bench seat, sipping Diet Cokes.
Trenchman had the wheel.
‘Doing okay so far,’ he shouted over his shoulder, ‘but if the terrain gets worse, might have to park and walk.’
Morgan leant over the driver partition.
‘I don’t mean to speak out of turn, but maybe this rescue mission isn’t such a good idea. After all, we’ve got finite gas.’
‘Crew of the Liberty Bell are out here, somewhere. They’re counting on us. For our own peace of mind, we’ve got to do whatever we can.’
Noon. Tinted glass and air con shielded them from the worst of the sun. Osborne swigged pretzels from a bag and looked out at unbroken desolation.
‘They must have bailed out the plane, right? Some kind of engine fault.’
‘I guess.’
‘Wouldn’t want to find myself alone in this fucking place. Dead as the moon.’
Akingbola contemplated the shimmering heat-haze horizon.
‘Hate to say it, but if we don’t find these guys within twenty-four hours, well, this little rescue party will become a burial detail.’
The limo rolled to a halt, parked amidst an endless vista of sand.
They got out the car. Fierce heat. Fierce light.
Morgan climbed the ridgeline and looked around
Akingbola took a piss.
Trenchman and Osborne leant against the car. They contemplated the dunes a while.
Trenchman licked his academy ring and squirmed it from his heat-swollen finger. He threw it as far as he could. It arced out of sight.
He climbed onto the hood, then stepped up onto the roof.
He tuned his radio.
‘This is Colonel Trenchman, US Army, calling the crew of Liberty Bell, anyone copy, over?’
No response.
‘Liberty Bell, anyone out there, over? Anyone hear my voice?’
No response.
Suddenly tired, suddenly angry. Maybe Morgan was right. Perhaps he should have stayed aboard the Chinook, pushed the ’copter’s range to reach somewhere defensible like Alcatraz instead of risking his neck prosecuting a futile rescue mission.
He rubbed his eyes.
‘Come on, guys, talk to me. This is Trenchman, acknowledging your Mayday. I need your grids. If you can’t manage verbal communication, switch to transponder.’
Dead channel static.