The mini-bar flipped open, spilling garbage. He was pelted with snack wrappers, empty cans and plastic vodka bottles.
The Humvee at forty-five degrees. Noble clung tight to stop himself sliding into the streams of dust slowly inundating the body of the limo.
He dropped his flashlight. It tumbled along the limo floor, bounced over the driver partition, beam quickly smothered by cascading sand.
He grabbed his backpack as it slid past.
He clawed towards a side door, kicked at it, desperate to get clear of the vehicle before he got buried alive.
He rammed the door with his shoulder. Jammed.
He climbed towards the rear window, desperate to escape the fast-filling passenger compartment.
Roof glass burst inwards. A stream of sand slammed his head and shoulders like it was jetting from a fire hose. He fought the torrent, pawed dust from his eyes, coughed and spat.
The rear window was cracked and frosted. Noble punched an opening. Glass crumbled to granules as he forced his way through the aperture.
He squirmed out the rear window and tossed his backpack. He jumped and rolled clear.
Shriek of rending metal.
He lay on his side and looked back.
The limo jerked fully vertical, dust streaming from the rear wheels and transmission.
The vehicle was relentlessly hauled beneath the ground. Awful cracks and groans as body panels buckled and the roof collapsed. Windows frosted and shattered. Sand poured into the passenger compartment.
Last glimpse of the trunk, the chromed rear fender and canary yellow SINCITY plate, as it submerged.
Sudden silence.
Noble got to his feet. He stood at the lip of the crater and tried to comprehend what he had seen.
Granules of glass glittered in the sand. Empty whiskey miniatures.
He backed away.
He turned, snatched up his backpack and ran.
44
Noonday sun.
Frost sat in shadow, back to the fuselage. She kept still as she could, tried to breathe steady and slow. Eyes half closed. Sweat dripped from the tip of her nose. She watched heat ripple from surrounding dunes.
Hancock knelt in full sunlight, head bowed, arms lashed cruciform. He cooked in the heat. Cracked lips, peeling skin.
‘Sure you don’t want some shade?’ said Frost. ‘All you got to do is say please.’
‘Fuck yourself.’
She uncapped her canteen and took a swig.
‘Let me know if you change your mind.’
Movement at the top of a distant ridgeline.
Frost got to her feet and shielded her eyes. A figure stumbling out of thermal haze. Olive green flight suit. Black hair.
Noble.
Frost ran as best she could. She reached the foot of the dune. Noble collapsed and tumbled down the gradient towards her.
Cracked, bleeding lips. Burned and blistered skin. He looked up at Frost slack-faced and blank eyed. He had retreated within himself, no longer aware of his surroundings.
She struggled to get him to his feet.
‘Come on. Couple more yards, then you’re done.’
She put a supporting arm around his shoulder. He showed no reaction as she half-guided/half-carried him to shade and lowered him to the ground beside the fuselage. He didn’t react until she held her canteen to dust-dry lips and let him gulp.
Noble lay in the shade, back propped against the slate hull of the B-52. Heatstroke had set his ears ringing. Hours of sand glare had messed with his sight, made him blink away sunspots like bad concussion.
Frost leant into his field of vision. She waved a hand. She clicked her fingers.
‘Harris. Can you hear me? Can you hear my voice?’
‘Let me rest,’ said Noble, almost inaudible.
‘What happened? How far did you get?’
‘Give me water.’
She held the canteen to his lips and let him drink some more.
‘Did you find anything? Anything at all? Did you make it to the aim point? Did you make contact with anyone?’
Noble wearily shook his head.
‘Bullshit. The entire mission. Nothing but bullshit.’
‘But what did you find?’
‘Death.’
‘Nothing we can use? Nothing at all?’
He shook his head.
Frost fetched the trauma kit. She unzipped it and took out a clear bag of saline.
She stabbed her knife through the aluminium skin of the fuselage and hung the bag. She uncoiled clear tubing, tore open a sterile wrapper and took out a wide bore cannula. She held Noble’s arm and slapped for a vein.
She hesitated, needle poised over skin as she tried to find a trace of blue beneath dust-matted, sunburned skin.
Noble leant forwards. He slowly raised a trembling hand and took the needle. He pumped a fist to boost bloodflow. Needle sunk into a vein. He slumped back against the plane.
Frost lashed the cannula in place with micropore tape and attached the IV tube. She checked the tube for kinks, made sure there was a clear feed.
‘How’s that?’ she asked. ‘Feel better?’
He nodded.
She took a bottle of burn gel from the trauma bag.
‘I’m going to put some of this on your skin, okay? I’ll be gentle.’
She squeezed gel onto her fingers and massaged it into his shoulders and arms.
He held out his hands and let her rub gel onto red-raw fingers.
He tipped his head back and let her wipe gel across his forehead, nose and cheekbones.
She unzipped a side pocket. Saline wash. She held back each lid with a thumb and flushed dust from his eyes.
‘Thanks.’
He blinked away the artificial tears and tried to focus on Hancock. Blurred glimpse of a cruciform figure kneeling, head bowed, in the sand.
‘What’s going on with the AC?’
‘Tell you later,’ said Frost. ‘Rest. Get your strength back.’
He leant his head against the hard metal of the fuselage and closed his eyes.
Frost watched the sun sink low and approach the horizon.
She inspected the drip. Two-thirds depleted.
She examined Noble, leant close and checked he was still breathing. She lifted his wrist and took his pulse.
Nothing to do but let him rest.
She untethered Hancock and led him to shade. He fell and lay still.
‘Guess you’re done for the day, give or take.’
She stood over him and sipped from her canteen. They stared each other down. She crouched, held the canteen an inch from his lips and let a few drops fall on his tongue. He greedily licked the water, gaze still locked, beaming pure enmity.
She recapped the canteen.
She sat on the sand and released the ligatures binding her injured leg. She pulled up the pant leg of her flight suit.
‘Swollen. Not as much as before. Guess it was a facture. And it’s starting to heal.’
She talked to Hancock, expecting no reply. She used him for company, same way a person might confide in a cat or dog if they found themselves alone.
She unlaced her boot and pulled it free. She slid the crusted sock from her foot. She felt her toes.
‘Still got circulation.’
Noble opened his eyes.
‘Feeling any better?’ asked Frost. ‘I’d offer you something to eat, but we’re out of food.’
He pointed to the backpack he’d brought with him.
She unzipped and searched the main compartment. A wad of documents. Empty water bottles. A plastic bag full of loose medical supplies.
‘Found some meds, huh?’
‘Morphine,’ he croaked.
‘You want morphine?’
‘No. For you. For your leg.’
‘Thanks, fella,’ said Frost, genuinely touched. She slotted a couple of hypos into her bicep pocket. ‘Thanks. That means a lot.’