‘Give or take.’
‘He wants to save the aircrew. That’s great. That’s admirable. But we’re putting our necks at serious risk out here. Totally reliant on the limo. If anything happens to the vehicle, we’re fucked. We lost one wheel. What happens if we lose a second? Long fucking walk.’
‘He saved your ass back at the airfield. Remember that.’
‘Yeah, I get it. Believe me, I’m grateful. But it won’t help a soul if we die out here on some kamikaze rescue mission. Talk to him. Make him see sense. We need to find a highway, start making long-term plans.’
Osborne grabbed the jack from the trunk. He threw it down beside the flat wheel. He ducked inside the passenger compartment and ripped the door from the snack cabinet.
He shoved the laminate door beneath the front axle, used it as a base to stop the jack sinking into sand.
He took off his field jacket, stretched his arms, then began to work the crank. The wheel slowly lifted out of the sand.
He crouched and prised the chrome hub. He threw it aside, skimmed it like a Frisbee.
He unscrewed retaining nuts with a four-way cross wrench and lifted the heavy radial clear.
He turned to Akingbola:
‘Check the ignition is shut off, okay? Don’t want to kill the battery.’
He examined the burst tyre. It was a run-flat, military spec, should have retained pressure even when punctured. But a chunk of femur had punched a hole big enough for his finger. Put the tyre beyond repair.
Faint cry behind him.
He turned around.
Morgan, gesticulating from the crest of a high dune.
He waved back.
‘Yeah. I know. Sandstorm.’
‘Help,’ screamed Morgan. ‘Jesus Christ, help.’
Osborne sprinted up the steep gradient.
Morgan was waist deep in sand and sinking fast.
Osborne gripped his arms and pulled. Trenchman and Akingbola joined him.
‘Something’s got me,’ said Morgan. ‘Something’s got my legs.’
‘Quicksand?’
‘There’s something in the sand. Something alive. It’s gripped my leg.’
The three gripped Morgan’s arms and pulled hard as they could. Hard to get a firm footing on sand. Morgan screamed and grimaced, shoulders at the point of dislocation.
‘A snake?’ asked Trenchman, desperately trying to make sense of the situation. ‘Some kind of sand snake?’
Morgan was now wrenched neck deep.
‘Oh Jesus, help me.’
Osborne and Akingbola gripped his wrists and pulled. Trenchman crouched behind Morgan and dug with both hands, feverishly scooped sand aside like a dog burying a bone.
Morgan’s head hauled below the sand. He screamed and coughed dust. Osborne and Akingbola fell to their knees and dug to expose his mouth and nose, restore his airway.
‘Mother of God.’
Trenchman stood back, drew his side arm and expended a full clip into the sand behind Morgan.
A final, whimpering scream, then Morgan was jerked below ground. Osborne gripped the stricken man’s hand.
Final wrench.
Morgan was gone.
They stood back and contemplated the depression in the sand.
‘What the fuck just happened?’ said Akingbola.
The sand in front of Trenchman’s feet shifted and bulged.
‘Shit.’
He jumped backwards, slotted a fresh mag into his Beretta.
They began to edge back towards the limo. Osborne and Akingbola drew their pistols and trained them at the ground.
The ground in front of Osborne swirled and seethed. Something beneath the sand was moving towards them with a purpose.
‘Run.’
They turned and sprinted back to the limousine. They vaulted onto the hood, scrabbled for purchase, then jumped onto the roof, boots skidding on slick metal.
They stood, looking down at the sand surrounding the vehicle.
‘This is fucking insane,’ murmured Osborne.
‘Isn’t happening,’ murmured Akingbola. ‘Can’t be happening.’
Trenchman adjusted grip on his Beretta.
‘Make them count.’
The ground beside the limo bulged and heaved. They opened fire, triple volley of gunshots merging to a continual roar, air filled with gun smoke and dust.
24
They sat in the limo and listened to the storm rage outside. Semi-dark. Nothing beyond the windows but swirling sand. Dust accumulated against the windshield, slowly blocking out the light.
The typhoon buffeted the vehicle. Whistle and moan. The car rocked on its suspension.
None of them spoke. Each locked in their own private horror.
Akingbola loaded an AR-15 and chambered a round.
Osborne picked up Morgan’s helmet and turned it in his hands. He contemplated the interior webbing. Nylon stained with sweat. Trace evidence of Morgan’s physicality, testament he had, moments earlier, been a living, breathing thing.
Akingbola lay the rifle across his lap and cracked a Coke.
‘Take it easy with those,’ said Trenchman. ‘Best save a few for later.’
Osborne took a cigar from his breast pocket and bit the tip. He chewed the unlit Cohiba.
‘We got to change that tyre.’
‘Better wait for the storm to pass,’ said Trenchman.
Osborne shook his head.
‘The thing beneath the sand. God knows what it is. But it tracked us easy enough. Not sure how. Body heat, footsteps, whatever. But the storm might give us good cover. Lots of noise, lots of dust. A chance to haul ass before it realises we’re gone.’
Trenchman thought it over.
‘Yeah. Worth a shot.’
‘But we got to do it from the car. That’s the trick. We got to bolt that wheel in place without setting foot on the ground.’
Trenchman pulled back the sunroof and emerged into the storm. Shemagh wrapped round his head, eyes shielded from driving sand by wraparound shades.
He climbed out onto the roof, crouched and braced against the buffeting wind.
Osborne followed.
Akingbola stood upright in the vacant sunroof, rifle at port arms, ready to provide cover fire.
Trenchman lay on the hood. Osborne knelt behind and gripped his legs.
Trenchman hung over the left wing of the limo. He pushed the punctured wheel aside. It rolled a couple of yards then toppled flat. He waited to see if the vibration of the falling tyre would lure whatever nightmarish thing snatched Morgan beneath the ground.
No movement. Just shifting, wind-driven sand.
The spare tyre stood propped against the side of the vehicle. He rolled the heavy radial into position in front of the vacant wheel-well. He struggled to lift the wheel, line it with the hub bolts and slot it home.
‘Lower,’ he shouted. ‘Get me lower.’
Osborne pushed him forwards. Trenchman’s entire torso hung from the car, letting his arms reach the ground.
He raked the sand. He found the cross wrench. He probed the dust trying to locate the eight lug nuts. He unearthed them one by one, tried not to think what might be hiding beneath the sand, ready to seize his hands and drag him head first beneath the dunes.
He engaged the bolt thread and screwed the lugs finger-tight. He used the cross wrench to wind them secure. His ballistic glasses fell to the ground. He ignored them and continued to anchor the wheel.
‘We’re done,’ he shouted.
He reached for his Oakleys. The sand bulged and puckered, and suddenly they were gone.
They dropped through the sunroof. Akingbola secured the window, shutting out the storm. Typhoon wind howl abruptly silenced.
‘We cool?’
‘It’s still out there,’ said Trenchman. ‘Whatever the fuck it is. Circling like a shark.’
‘So let’s split.’