by Adam Baker
She limped across the sand, hands still bound at the wrist.
She crawled up a dune and rolled down the shadow side. Her vague plan: travel in a wide arc. Put as much distance as she could between herself and the B-52. Create the illusion she had headed into the desert. A trail of footprints stretching to the horizon. She would then circle back to the wreck site in the early hours of the morning and plunder supplies. Creep into the lower cabin while Hancock lay beneath survival blankets in the cockpit. Stealthily remove food, meds, water. Then head east.
She tried to walk. Her legs gave out so she crawled on her knees.
Panting ascent of the next dune. Uncontrolled roll down the other side.
A splinter of her consciousness watched her progress with detached interest. How much pain could she endure? How much suffering could she shoulder while willing her limbs to keep moving forwards? When would her body finally fail, pitching her face-forwards in the sand, motionless, muscles finally no longer able to respond to her will?
She kept crawling. She threw a long shadow.
A second shadow by her side. A figure keeping pace.
‘I admire your determination,’ said Hancock. ‘Hotter than hell. Crack an egg on the ground and watch it fry. Yet here you are. Exhausted, thirsty, broken. But determined to fight. Admirable.’
She rolled and looked up.
‘It’s a shame,’ said Hancock. ‘You put me in a difficult position.’
Hancock laid the crutch across Frost’s shoulders like a yoke. He lashed her arms with wiring stripped from the flight-deck walls, forcing her cruciform.
He tied a length of data cable round her neck as a leash. He dragged her stumbling across the sand to the dead signal fire. A tyre half buried in sand. He tied the leash to the hub.
Shove to the back. She fell to her knees, head bowed, arms forced wide.
Hancock slowly circled.
‘Hate to do it,’ he said. ‘But I can’t have you running off again.’
He checked knotted wire, made sure she was bound tight.
‘This can end any time you want. We can start treating each other as adults. All you have to do is cooperate.’
Frost didn’t reply.
‘It’ll be a cold night. Any time you want to come back inside, holler. I got a blanket, if you’re willing to work for it. Back in a while. Think it over.’
Hancock retreated to the plane for a couple of hours. He got some sleep.
He woke and decided to check on Frost.
She was still knelt in the sand, head bowed, arms pinned wide. Her skin and hair were white with dust. Her lips were cracked and dry.
Hancock sat crossed legged beside her. He sipped water. He made it torture. He slurped and smacked his lips. He sloshed the canteen.
‘How are you feeling?’
She didn’t look up. She didn’t reply.
‘I’m sorry. Appalled it came to this. Hoped we could resolve our issues by reasoned discussion.’
Frost licked parched lips.
‘You pulled a gun.’
‘Had no choice.’
‘Cut me free.’
‘You know I can’t do that.’
‘You’ve gone crazy. Think. Just think. Step back a moment. You must be able to see. This stopped being about the mission a long time ago. This is some kind of death trip.’
‘I have to believe there’s still a government out there, trying to salvage what’s left of America.’
‘Come on. That old tune. We’re on our own. Anything else is a wish, a daydream. The best we can do for the world is survive.’
Hancock shook his head and turned away. He limped back to the plane.
‘What about Guthrie?’ shouted Frost. ‘His buddies. You’ll need me. When they come. You’ll need all the help you can get.’
He kept walking.
Hancock switched on the bomb bay light. Blood-red glow.
He sat on the sand floor of the payload compartment and powered up the satcom unit.
Internal battery at 18%. The power level dropped to 17% as he watched.
His only contact with the wider world: a thin-as-gossamer thread of data, likely to be cut within hours.
The unit winked an alert.
Incoming EAM:
URGENT
PROVIDE STATUS UPDATE
He typed:
RADAR NAV
UNCOOPERATIVE.
REQUEST SECOND TRIGGER CODE.
An almost instantaneous reply:
TRIGGER CODE UNAVAILABLE
LIEUTENANT FROST MUST
SUPPLY ARMING SEQUENCE
USE ANY MEANS NECESSARY
TO FORCE COOPERATION
He typed:
CLARIFICATION.
WHY CAN USSTRATCOM NOT SUPPLY TRIGGER CODE?
No reply.
He typed:
REQUEST STATUS OF USSTRATCOM.
No reply.
He typed:
REQUEST STATUS OF SECOND BOMB WING, VEGAS.
REQUEST INFO
RE: POSSIBLE SAR EXTRACTION.
No reply.
WHO AM I TALKING TO?
REQUEST COMSEC IDENT AND LOCATION.
No reply.
WHO ARE YOU?
He stared at the winking cursor a long while. He powered down the satcom and closed the lid. He pushed the unit away.
He turned his attention to the laptop jacked to the warhead. He wiped dust from the screen. A request for a ten-digit sequence.
The final arming sequence. Simple as withdrawing money from an ATM.
He caressed the Return key. The little square of plastic that would end his life once he delivered the warhead to its designated target. There would be no countdown, no chance to get clear. The moment he hit Enter to confirm the detonation command, the hotwired nuke would fire. He would wink out of existence. Delete himself with a single key-tap.
He sat with his head in his hands. Turmoil. The will to live overwhelmed by exhaustion and despair.
Flashback to Bagram.
The canteen hall. Mortar-proof hard shell. One of the chefs brought a fresh tray of fusilli to the pasta bar. He noticed a local translator in the queue. Guy had his shirt buttoned to his neck. He was sweating, despite a torrent of cool air from an overhead duct.
Two minutes later the canteen was clear. Upturned chairs and tables. Spilt food.
The translator sat in the middle of the hall, shirt unbuttoned, C4 patties taped to his belly and a command wire running down his arm to a push-button trigger in his hand.
Hancock cautiously entered the empty canteen, set a chair upright and sat down. He sat fifty feet away and tried to talk the man down.
‘The moment has passed,’ argued Hancock. ‘You came here to kill a bunch of Americans. So what now? Your death will amount to nothing. If you press that button, all you will do is wreck some furniture.’
The translator didn’t reply. He sat, finger on the button, panting with indecision.
Hancock tried a different approach.
‘What did he tell you? The man that strapped you into that vest? How did he persuade you to throw your life away? What would it achieve?’
The translator’s fear and indecision was replaced by a beatific smile.
‘They said it will be like stepping through a doorway into a perfumed garden.’
Hancock threw himself from the chair and hit the floor. They pulled him from the wrecked canteen fifteen minutes later suffering from tinnitus and smoke inhalation.
Frost knelt in the sand, head bowed, dripping sweat.
Flashback to Thompson Falls, Montana.
Escape and evasion. Forty-eight hours fleeing through woodland, Frost finally brought to her knees by a German Shepherd dispatched by a Delta pursuit team.
The next phase of the SERE exercise: interrogation.
Hooded and zip-tied, curled on the floor of a flatbed truck as it jolted down a forest track.
Dragged from the vehicle and nudged down concrete steps to an unhe
ated basement, gun at her back. Stink of mildew and rot.
They called it The Red Room.
Buckets of cold water. High-decibel Slipknot.
Endless hours.
The desolate, Arctic terrain of sleep deprivation.
Periodically propped in a chair, unhooded, dazzled by strobes.
‘Just give up your key word, and it will all be over.’
Stripped, beaten, compelled to remain in a stress position for hours. Sticking to name, rank and number until she finally heard herself blurt ‘flintlock’ and the suffering stopped.
‘How long did I last?’ she asked, as they draped a blanket round her shoulders and gave her water.
‘Thirty-eight hours, forty-nine minutes.’
‘How does that compare to the others?’
‘Irrelevant. You battle yourself. Always.’
Frost talked it through with other members of the class as they rode the bus back to base.
Plenty of bravado:
‘Blow my fucking brains out rather than be taken alive. No way I’m letting myself get beheaded for some sick-ass jihadi video. Wouldn’t give those ragheads the satisfaction.’
Each of them secretly wondering if, when their moment came, they could tough-out adversity, or would break and beg for mommy.
Sunset.
Stars in a darkening sky.
Frost tethered to a tyre. Hancock crossed the sand and stood over her.
‘Feeling a little more circumspect?’
‘You have to let me go,’ said Frost. She stretched as best she could. ‘You won’t kill me. And I sure as shit won’t give you the code. So what then? You can’t keep me tied up like this.’
Hancock shook his head.
‘You think you know me. But you don’t. Can’t say I want to leave you out here all night. But I sure as hell will, if that’s what it takes.’
‘Whacking an unarmed colleague? How does that fit with your honour code?’
‘I’d leave it to those bastards out there in the dunes.’
‘Murder by inaction. It would still be on you.’
‘You know how it is with an assignment of this gravity. The standing orders. Anyone or anything that interferes with the execution of the mission can be considered hostile and can be engaged. You became an enemy combatant the moment you turned your hand to sabotage.’
Frost stared past his shoulder.
‘Well, then I guess this is the moment we test your resolve,’ she said quietly. ‘Look. They’re here.’
Hancock turned.
Two figures standing on a high dune, silhouetted against starlight.
He drew his side arm.
‘Cut me free,’ hissed Frost. ‘They want your ass, as well as mine. Cut me loose. Give me a weapon.’
Hancock got to his feet and slowly walked towards the figures, pistol raised.
Silhouettes against starlight.
The first figure had half a head. The left side of his body slouched limp and unresponsive.
The second figure stood bent to one side, body kinked by a shattered spine.
Hancock crept towards them, Beretta gripped in both hands.
‘What the fuck are you?’ demanded Hancock.
One of the creatures turned away and shambled back into the desert.
Hancock took aim at the remaining silhouette. He fired. Pinback lit by muzzle flash. Slack face. Black eyes.
Bullets punched tufted holes in his flight suit.
Hancock lowered the smoking pistol. He fumbled a reload as he backed away from the impassive figure. He raised the pistol like he intended to loose a second volley of shots. He changed his mind. He turned and ran.
39
More Conex containers, ringed by a double perimeter of concertina wire.
Noble shone his flashlight inside one of the containers.
Foul stench. Cuff-chains and a latrine bucket. Crude air holes burned in the walls by an oxy-acetylene flame. He couldn’t imagine what it would have been like to be imprisoned inside one of the shipping units. Must have been hell during the day. A stifling steel coffin. A fucking oven.
Noble stepped inside one of the containers. Bare footprints on the sand-dusted floor. Bloody scratches on the wall like someone tried to claw through steel.
He kicked at a tattered red jumpsuit.
Something scratched on the back wall of the container. He used the balled jumpsuit to brush dust.
He stepped outside to escape shit-stink and claustrophobia.
A water trailer next to the containers. It had been punctured by bullet strikes. He hit it with his fist. Dull reverberation. Near empty.
He crouched, put his lips to the tap and let the last few drops of water drain into his mouth.
He stood and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. He looked around.
A couple of watchtowers overlooked the detention area. A clear sector of fire. Anyone attempting to bust out of the Conex cells would get dazzled by searchlights, torn by twin streams of 5.56mm, before they had a chance to climb the wire.
He did the math. Seven units. Twenty guys in each. And what about that message scratched at the back of one of the containers?
FIGHT.
Some sorry soul left a warning for future inmates. Implied the cells had been filled and emptied a few times.
Hell of a body count.
A thin avenue of barbed wire. A tight rat-run that led from the freight containers to a couple of Airstream trailers.
A bunch of R20 batteries scattered in the dust. The guards must have used cattle prods as a compliance tool. Stood outside the wire and goosed recalcitrant prisoners with a livestock wand, propelled them towards the Airstreams.
‘California Girls’ segued to ‘Sloop John B’.
He approached one of the trailers.
A couple of the corner jacks had buckled. The trailer listed to the left.
Noble drew his pistol and pulled open the door. He climbed inside, Beretta in one hand, flashlight in the other.
The Airstream had been stripped of all furnishings. The interior was dominated by a padded table. Restraint cuffs for ankles, chest and wrists. Extensions welded either side of the table to extend the subject’s arms cruciform. Looked like the kind of prison gurney used for lethal injections.
He circled the table. The trailer rocked as he moved around.
Stained canvas pads. The carpet beneath the gurney was worn threadbare. Place had seen plenty of use.
The walls and windows were crudely lagged with foam. Soundproofing. Same purpose, Noble supposed, as the music blaring outside: an attempt to muffle screams.
‘Help Me Rhonda’ abruptly stammered and stopped.
Noble ducked outside. He took shelter from the arclights, hid in the shadow of the trailer. He waited a long while, scanning the desolate compound, the trashed buildings and wrecked vehicles. Maybe he wasn’t alone. Maybe someone cut the music. Or maybe the CD player, wherever it was, glitched and shut off.
No movement. No signs of life.
A large, geodesic tent. He stepped through the arched doorway. He looked up. He could see stars through tears in the vinyl dome.
Three dissection tables. Zinc slabs with drain holes.
A metal chair equipped with leather arm and leg restraints. A tripod video camera and a couple of mikes positioned in front of the chair ready for some kind of interrogation.
Bloody surgical instruments scattered on the polythene floor. He bent and picked up a pair of rongeurs. He scissored the blades. Crusted blood and tufts of hair.
A voice behind him.
‘Hands. Hands where I can see them.’
Noble froze. He held out his pistol and let it drop to the floor. He tossed the bone cutters aside.
He raised his hands and slowly turned around.
Trenchman. Dust-matted clothes. Couple of days of stubble. The guy looked sunburned and exhausted.
He lowered his side arm.
‘Shit. Noble. Noble, right? Liberty Bell.’
‘What the hell are you doing out here?’
‘Looking for you guys,’ said Trenchman. ‘Anyone else make it?’
‘Two survivors, back at the plane.’
Noble bent and scooped up his Beretta. They both holstered their weapons.
‘We should get out of here,’ said Trenchman. ‘The lights, the music. Might as well ring the dinner bell.’
They scrambled up the mountain slope.
Trenchman led Noble to a high ledge. A sleeping bag, bottled water, canned food.
‘This where you’ve been camping out?’
‘Managed to elude the fuckers so far.’
Trenchman pointed to the floodlit compound beneath them.
‘There. See that? Next to the truck.’
‘Can’t see a damned thing. No, wait. Yeah. I got him. Deep shadow.’
‘They come out at night. Might be dumb, but they got enough sense to stay out of the noonday sun.’
‘How many?’
‘I don’t know. A bunch.’
‘Reckon we’ll be okay up here?’
‘They’ve left me alone the past couple of nights. They don’t climb so well. A couple of them try to make it up that scree slope down there. Guess they wanted to take a bite out of my ass. They got a little ways, then brought a bunch of rocks down on themselves.’
Twisted bodies at the bottom of the gradient. Red jumpsuits, snapped limbs, part-buried beneath stones. One of the revenants was pinned under a boulder. Skeletal hands feebly slapped the massive stone, tried to roll it aside.
Noble sat a while and contemplated the compound.
He gestured to the wrecked buildings.
‘So what is this place? Evidently some pretty dark shit going down, some army docs getting in touch with their inner Mengele, but is it truly worth a nuclear weapon?’
‘Wait till sunrise,’ said Trenchman. ‘I’ll give you the full tour.’