Hancock sat in the pilot seat. He balanced a signal mirror on the flight console, angled it so he could see his reflection. He flicked open his lock knife and attempted to shave. He slowly dragged the blade across stubble.
The cabin shook.
He cut his upper lip.
Brief flash of anger. Fingers tight around the knife hilt in a white-knuckle death grip, like he wanted to stab.
He gently massaged his bandaged scalp, breathed slow and willed shit-happens acceptance.
He blotted a bead of blood on the cuff of his flight suit.
‘You okay?’ asked Noble.
Hancock ignored him. He looked out of one of the unbroken windows and watched swirling vortices of dust.
Noble got to his feet. He gripped a wall spar and braced against the roll.
Energy bars scattered on the gunner’s console. He ripped a wrapper with his teeth, spat plastic, then ate.
He offered Hancock a bar.
‘Hungry?’
‘Better save those,’ said Hancock. ‘We’ll need them for the trip.’
Noble gathered up the bars and stuffed them into a backpack.
‘What time is it?’ asked Hancock.
‘Eleven, give or take.’
‘Aim to set out around eighteen hundred. Sundown. Day turning to evening, desert starting to cool. We ought to get some sleep in the meantime, I guess.’
A sudden gust shook the plane. The flight deck shuddered. A blast curtain tore open. Hancock flinched from the stinging sand-blast. He reattached fasteners, lashed the screen back in place with fresh tape.
Frost leant across the pilot seat and looked out of one of the intact windows at the storm.
‘How long before it lets up, do you think?’
Hancock shrugged.
‘No idea. Got to blow itself out sooner or later.’
Frost looked down on Hancock’s head. Swollen, angry flesh beneath the chute bandage.
Faint smell of rot.
‘How long since that wound got cleaned out?’
‘About twelve hours.’
‘Maybe I should take a look. Dress it fresh.’
‘I’m okay.’
‘Looks pretty inflamed.’
‘Unless you can pull a fully manned ICU out your ass, there’s not much to be done.’
Frost sat next to the backpack. She took a map from a side pocket and shook it open.
‘We reckon to cover between ten and fifteen miles a night, is that right?’
‘Yeah. Although we have no real way of charting our progress, no way to measure the miles. Basically, we walk until we reach water or drop dead in the dirt.’
‘I’ve been mulling it over,’ said Frost. ‘We’ve got to head north. Not right away. But once we reach habitation and get ourselves fixed with a vehicle, we ought to head north soon as we can. Best chance to escape radiation. Bombs were just the start. Sooner or later every nuclear power station in the world will blow. Failsafe cooling systems can keep reactors stable for a while. After that: meltdown. There are a bunch of atomic power plants to our south in California. Diablo Canyon. San Onofre. Another big one at Palo Verde, Arizona. Best head in the opposite direction, put them far behind us. I vote we head for British Columbia.’
Hancock shifted in his seat. He folded his arms and closed his eyes.
‘No need to over-think the situation,’ he said. ‘No need for elaborate plans. Got to take things day by day. Right now, all we can do is walk and hope to strike lucky. Best thing we can do is rest.’
Noble lay on the floor and dozed, soothed by gentle white noise from the CSEL positioned near his head.
He snapped awake.
He snatched up the radio and held it to his ear.
‘Hear that?’
Frost jolted from sleep. She rubbed her eyes.
‘What?’
Noble upped volume and held out the radio.
Steady hiss.
‘All I can hear is static.’
‘There’s a voice,’ insisted Noble.
Frost took the handset. She held it to her ear and listened hard.
‘Nope. Can’t hear a thing.’
‘A voice. I heard “Liberty Bell”. I heard “rescue”.’
Frost listened a full minute. She shook her head.
‘No. Nothing.’
Noble grabbed the radio from her hand. He pressed Transmit.
‘This is US Air Force Liberty Bell, MT66, do you copy this message, over?’
White noise.
‘There,’ said Noble. ‘Hear that? A response. Can’t make out words. But they can hear us. They know we’re alive.’
‘Your mind is playing tricks. There’s nothing.’
Noble impatiently turned his back and listened some more.
‘I heard them. I heard them for sure. Voices. Got to be close by, right? So much interference. We couldn’t pick them up otherwise.’
He slowly lowered the radio and looked towards the ceiling.
‘Listen.’
‘Can’t hear a thing.’
Noble mimed hush. He cocked his head.
‘Rotors. Yeah, rotors. They’re here. They found us.’
‘Ain’t nothing but the wind.’
‘We’ve got to get out there, put up a flare. This weather, they could fly right over our position and not see a damned thing.’
He slid down the ladder to the lower cabin.
‘Nothing out there, dude,’ shouted Frost from above. ‘Sandstorm. Choppers can’t fly in this shit.’
Noble ignored her. He began to haul aside the equipment trunks that blocked the fissure in the fuselage wall.
Hancock stood at the head of the ladderway and looked down into the lower cabin. Sand blew through the split seam in the wall, dusting the deck plate.
No chopper noise. Just the mournful moan of desert wind.
Frost stood in the wall fissure, shielding her eyes, looking out into the storm.
‘Is he okay?’ shouted Hancock.
Frost didn’t reply.
Best leave Noble to his madness.
Hancock headed back to the pilot seat, holding the wall for support.
He stepped round the satcom case, attention immediately drawn to a winking green light.
He crouched beside the transceiver and lifted the lid. The screen blinked to life.
Comsec sign-in:
He keyed:
He hit Enter.
He keyed:
He hit Enter.
He sat back and watched a loading bar slowly progress towards 100%.
Noble stumbled from the plane and was immediately brought to his knees by a gust of typhoon wind which hit him between the shoulder blades like a shove to the back.
He tied a bandana round his face, masked his mouth and nose bandit-style. He cupped hands over his eyes to shield them from driving sand particles.
Rotor noise. A deep, pulsating beat audible beneath the wind-howl.
He shouted into his radio:
‘This is Liberty Bell. You are above our position. You are right overhead. Put down immediately.’
He switched his CSEL to transponder mode. He held it above his head, let it chirp a homing signal, an urgent electronic tocsin pulsing through the swirling electromagnetism of the storm.
Chopper noise getting stronger. A heavy, powerful machine. Sounded like a Chinook.
He braced for lacerating downwash, expecting to see the helicopter’s belly-shadow descending from the dust churning above his head.
Hancock’s CSEL on the floor next to the pilot seat.
The tiny speaker relayed Noble’s voice as he tried to raise the phantom rescue party: