He keyed:
The screen cleared. Winking cursor.
He glanced around at dunes lit by weak flame light, checked for any sign Early was watching from the shadows.
Nothing but darkness.
He wondered what the deranged airman might be doing at that moment. Stumbling among the dunes. Or sitting in the moonlight, rocking back and forth, head full of phantasmagoric torment. Or lying dead in the sand.
Hancock turned back to the screen and typed. Same message he’d typed a dozen times:
He hit Send. Then he shut down the terminal, folded the antenna, and began to drag the case back towards the plane.
Hancock hefted the trunk onto his shoulder and heaved it up the ladderway, onto the flight deck.
He climbed the ladder and sat on the trunk a while to catch his breath.
He lifted a blast screen. A glance out the flight-deck windows. The signal fire.
Strange sight:
Two figures lit by weak flame light.
He hurriedly leaned across the pilot seat, tried to wipe dust from the windows with the sleeve of his flight suit for a clearer view.
The figures were gone.
‘Noble?’ he shouted. ‘You still down there?’
Noble, from the lower cabin:
‘Yeah.’
‘Were you outside just now?’
‘Been right here.’
Hancock wondered how much he could trust his own vision. One eye. No depth perception.
‘Stay sharp down there, you hear? Don’t nod out on me.’
He flipped latches and threw open the lid of the trunk.
The antenna packed in foam. He lifted it free. Tripod extended. Segmented aluminium petals fanned into a dish.
He stood on the trunk, reached up to the roof and tore back the insulation blanket masking the gunner’s vacant ejection hatch. He pushed the antenna out onto the roof and adjusted alignment.
The terminal. Coaxial cable jacked into a side-socket.
Boot up. Scrolling BIOS. Flickering loading bars.
Comsec sign-in:
He keyed:
He hit Enter.
He keyed:
He hit Enter.
The ticking clock glyph of signal acquisition.
Clatter of boots on ladder rungs.
Noble climbed up onto the flight deck. He stood beside Hancock and looked at the screen, the endless sweep of the clock.
‘Nothing left, is there? Nothing coherent. The Joint Chiefs are probably down a bunker someplace. Maps. Time-zone clocks. Yelling into their war-phones, issuing orders to units that no longer exist.’
‘We played our part,’ said Hancock. ‘Did our duty. Reason to be proud.’
Noble shook his head.
‘We should have made for Canada while we had the chance. Hit the coast, found a boat, headed for Vancouver Island. You can bet a few other folks had the same idea. The last of humanity. That’s where they will be.’
Frost, from down below:
‘Guys, you better come outside.’
They went outside. They stood beneath the starlit sky. Breath fogged the night air.
Frost held up the sand-dusted flag.
She trained her flashlight on a depression in the sand.
‘Captain Pinback is gone.’
20
Survival, Evasion and Escape exercise, Thompson Falls.
The forest at night.
Incessant rain.
Frost shared body heat with her instructor, Major Coplin, as they huddled beneath a brushwood lean-shelter.
She shivered. No allocation beyond the standard flight suit and survival gear she would have if she had punched out and parachuted into thick tree cover.
Coplin held out his hand and caught raindrops in his palm.
‘You got lucky. Rain will throw off the dogs. Wash away your scent. Downside: plenty of mud. You’ll leave tracks when you move out tomorrow. Take a lot of ingenuity not to leave a trail.’
She pictured restless German Shepherds pulling at a taut leash chain, waiting for handlers to unclip their collars and send them darting into undergrowth.
‘Has anyone made the full eight days?’
‘Five. That’s the record. Cajun kid. Inbred, banjo-strumming runt. Worked in a chicken plant before he signed. Plucking, beheading. Should have seen him with a knife. He could gut a kill in seconds, make music with that thing. Lad could barely write his name but, damn, he was whip-smart. Know how he beat the dogs? He climbed a tree. Moved branch-to-branch while the hounds scoured the forest floor below him. Got two miles down the hill without setting foot on the ground.’
‘Outstanding.’
‘Managed two days in the Red Room before he gave up his key word. Most guys tap out after a couple of hours. Stubborn motherfucker. He broke hard.’
‘So who are the capture team?’
‘Ex-Delta. Real snake-eaters.’
‘And you?’
Coplin smiled. He pulled up the sleeve of his camo coat to expose his forearm. A faded Hemingway quote:
There is no hunting like the hunting of man, and those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it, never care for anything else thereafter.
‘Tell the truth, you’ve done well to make it a third day,’ he said. ‘Most guys panic. They run through the woods, no plan, no direction. Don’t think to climb in the stream to mask their scent. Get chased down by a German Shepherd soon as their lead time expires. Back in the truck by lunchtime.’
‘Do the capture team use infrared?’
‘They’ve got all kinds of shit. All you got are eyes. Still ought to move at night, though. Best way to see in shadow? Don’t look directly at your target. Look to the side. Probably told you this before, but it’s worth repeating. Centre of a person’s sight is good for colour and focus during the day. At night, peripheral vision is sharpest for shape and movement. Remember that. Might save your ass.’
Frost put up a star shell. Desert lit cold white.
She stood at the top of a dune, survival blanket drawn over her head and shoulders like a shawl.
Hancock joined her. He checked his pistol. Loaded. Chambered.
‘How many of those flares we got left?’ he asked.
‘Plenty.’
They looked out over the Arctic landscape. A three-sixty survey.
‘There should be night-vision gear aboard Liberty Bell, right?’ said Hancock. ‘Standard kit. Monoculars, somewhere on the flight deck.’
Frost shook her head.
‘You saw the plane, saw the state she was in. An antique. Pretty much out of commission. Probably flew Arc Light missions back in the day, bombed the crap out of some Hanoi railyards. She was mothballed. A reserve. Hadn’t been in the air for months. Sitting in an Alaskan hangar collecting dust and webs. Final flight would have taken her to an Arizona boneyard to be chopped. Turned into washing machines or some shit.