‘We got the plane, right? We’ll be okay.’
‘Better get as much stuff stowed as we can.’
They hurried back to the plane. Noble supported Hancock, held his arm to keep him upright. Frost limped behind.
‘Best head inside, sir,’ advised Noble.
Hancock leaned against the fuselage and looked up at the sky.
‘Seriously, sir. Better head inside.’
Hancock looked like he wanted to protest, but couldn’t argue with the sense of it. He was a liability. Slow. Disorientated. If he were caught in the open when the sandstorm hit, Frost or Noble would have to risk their lives to save his ass. Better to head to the flight deck. Stay out of trouble.
He ducked inside the plane.
Frost turned to Noble:
‘Go with him. See if you can reinforce the windows and hatches. Keep the storm out.’
Frost picked up equipment and supplies scattered on the sand.
Toothpaste.
A canteen.
Remains of the flight manual.
She gathered an armful of gear and stashed it in the crew cabin.
She glanced up at the darkening sky. Wind whipped her clothes and hair. She looked east. An oncoming tsunami of sand. She could feel it. A hot magnetic charge. She ran a hand through her hair and felt it crackle with static. Saltating particles pushing an intense electromagnetic field ahead of them.
The nose section.
Hancock sat in the pilot seat, tore fresh lengths of duct tape and re-enforced blast curtains covering the broken windows.
He stood and looked up at the cabin roof. Two vacant ejection hatches patched with insulation blankets.
He stood on a trunk, pulled the satcom antenna back inside and resealed the hatch frames with tape.
Noble climbed the ladder to the upper deck.
‘How’s it going?’ he asked.
‘Not sure how long these taped sections will hold,’ said Hancock. ‘Guess we’ll have to keep up running repairs. Stick them down each time they tear lose.’
Hancock stepped from the trunk. He lost his balance, fell, hit the wall and slid to the floor.
Noble held out a hand and helped him to his feet.
‘Feel like a freakin’ invalid,’ muttered Hancock. ‘Sick of it. What kind of shape are we in? Did we get everything inside?’
‘Yeah,’ said Noble. ‘We’re locked down.’
‘Temperature is dropping. Soon be cold as a meat locker.’
Patched windows began to flap and billow. The fuselage creaked.
Noble slid down the ladder to the lower cabin.
He and Frost stood at the fissure in the wall, shielded their eyes and looked out at a curtain of driving sand.
‘Best close the plane.’
They slid equipment trunks across the floor, shunted them against the fractured wall and shut out the storm.
The flight deck.
Storm winds raged outside. The fuselage shuddered and flexed. Broken struts and spars deep within the war machine’s superstructure ground like fractured bone.
Noble placed his hand against the cabin wall. Static crack. Blue spark.
A fine vibration ran through the hull. High velocity granules scouring the aluminium skin of the plane.
So dark he could barely see. He switched on the cabin lights.
He lifted one of the blast screens that curtained an unbroken window and looked out at swirling red twilight.
‘Nasty out there,’ said Noble.
‘Silicosis,’ said Frost. ‘Get that shit in your lungs, well, I’m not a doctor. But you’d catch a real graveyard cough.’
One of the nuclear blast curtains tore open. The silvered nylon screen flapped and whipped. The cockpit was filled with swirling dust particles and hurricane wind.
Hancock threw himself into the pilot seat. He shielded his remaining eye from the gale. He pressed the curtain back in place, secured brass popper studs set in the window pillars.
‘Get tape,’ he shouted, fighting to keep the screen from ripping open once more.
Frost fetched duct tape.
Hancock tore strips and lashed the curtain with a triple layer.
He sat back. He rubbed sand from his ears and spat dust.
‘Check the hatches. See if they are secure.’
Noble trained a flashlight and inspected the hatch seals.
‘Good. So far.’
A sudden buffet slammed the fuselage. Groaning metal. The cabin gently listed starboard.
Noble stumbled, then regained his balance like he was walking the deck of a ship in high seas.
‘Jesus,’ said Noble. ‘This thing isn’t going to roll, is it?’
‘She’s bedded pretty tight.’
‘What can you see from the window?’
‘Not a damned thing.’
Frost sat cross-legged on the deck plate, back to the wall.
She switched on Hancock’s survival radio. Thirty-seven per cent battery. She set it for Acquisition and watched numerals flicker.
‘Why bother?’ asked Hancock. ‘We know the score. The world is in flames. We’re on our own.’
‘What if someone is trying to contact us? One in million. But what if they were? And we were off air?’
She sat, staring into the speaker grille, listening to whistling interference. The symphonic storm. Charged particles. Swirling, shimmering waves of electromagnetic interference.
Song of the desert. A living landscape. Vast. Unearthly. Implacably hostile to human life.
‘This is B-52 Liberty Bell, crew in urgent need of assistance, anyone copy, over?’
She broadcast a Mayday every sixty seconds.
‘This is the crew of Liberty Bell, tail MT66, hailing anyone who can hear my voice. Please respond, over.’
‘Seriously. Forget it.’
‘The storm might work in our favour. Atmospherics. You never know. It might extend our range.’
‘Doubt it.’
Flickering strength-bars. Brief signal lock.
Frost maxed the volume. White noise merged with raging wind. She retuned. A woman’s voice. Calm, digitised:
‘…four, seven, two, three, zero, four, three, nine, three…’
‘What the hell is that?’ asked Noble.
‘Sounds like a long-range numbers code. Odd to hear on this frequency. Usually broadcast on shortwave.’
‘…two, five, zero, zero, zero…’
‘What do you reckon it means?’
‘Wild guess: blanket instructions for US service personnel overseas. Battleships patrolling the Strait of Hormuz. Arctic subs cruising beneath the ice. Imagine the message cedes command authority. Tells crewmen they are on their own. Better find safe harbour where they can. Head for the southern hemisphere. Australia. New Zealand. Some place like that. Good place to hold up.’
‘God bless them,’ said Noble.
‘Tough break for the commanding officers.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Those vessels are a radiation hazard. A floating Chernobyl, a floating Fukushima. Reactor-powered engines, nuclear-tipped missiles in the firing tubes. Can’t leave them moored, unmaintained. Death-traps. I guess they’ll drop most of the crewmen in the antipodes, then a skeleton team will sail back north. Scuttle the boats in deep water. Position themselves over an Atlantic trench, then fire a bunch of hull charges.’
Hancock turned in his seat and watched Frost continue to scan wavebands.
‘You know, it’s okay to enjoy it.’
‘Enjoy what?’ she asked.
‘Doomsday. The enormity of the destruction. We got a front-row seat. Get to witness the dying days of humanity. No shame admitting there is an element of dark exhilaration.’
‘Can’t say I ever rubbernecked.’
‘Come on. New York in ruins. The mushroom cloud. The falling towers. Admit it. Must have been quite a show.’