Wright’s company. A daydream sputtered through Gabriel’s head of himself going to visit Wright when they both reached home again. He imagined a house surrounded by palm trees and cypresses draped in Spanish moss. Strange to be thinking this, Gabriel thought, while I’m drifting through space like sad old Major Tom.
The ground climbed up to meet him. The snakes of wind-rippled dunes. He smelled the earth now, the heaviness of it. The chill of the Arabian night against his face.
He wondered if he was going to die. He felt strangely calm about it, as if the outcome had been decided long before and he was only going through the motions.
The earth seemed to rise, gaping like shark jaws.
The jolt of landing slammed Gabriel facedown. He felt grit in his eyes and his mouth and up his nose and then he felt nothing. He did not even have the time to wonder if he were dead.
Dawn woke him. The first thing he saw was grains of sand a few inches from his face. The top of the jet seat had prevented him from being plunged into the dune, where he would have suffocated. He crunched sand between his teeth when he bit down. Some of the grains were in his eyes and he wiped them away with his aching fingers. They ached as if he had arthritis. He was aching all over. Each joint seemed to have been prised apart and popped back together. He could feel bruises where the straps had held him in place, down around his shoulders and across his waist. They would be the kinds of purple ones that take months to go away. When Gabriel twisted his head to one side, nerves in his spine cracked in sparks of pain across his shoulders and down into his arms.
He released his straps and crawled slowly out from under the chair.The hugeness of the desert sky hung over him. He had never seen anything like it. Stars reached from one end of the horizon to the other. All his life until now there had been a jagged line of trees to mark the distance of his sight. He knew that soon the sun would rear up from the dunes and scorch this place. Gabriel took a deep breath and coughed at the dead-fireworks stench that came from the underside of his seat. The bailout rockets had blackened his boots and melted the rubber soles. From where he stood, he could not see the oil fires, but their smoke massed in the sky like the iron-gray clouds of an approaching hurricane. Through breaks in the darkness, Gabriel could see the silhouetted outlines of skyscrapers—the blacked-out towers of Kuwait City.
The sun came up angry from the desert. He walked up to the highest point in the dunes and squinted off toward the horizon, turning himself slowly around in the sand, hunting for signs of life. Before him lay what he imagined hell must look like: vicious bolts of flame shot from spigots where the oil wellheads had been. Already the pale sand was a slick creosote black. There was no sky. There was only the smoke. He could smell it, vaguely sweet and sickly. It felt as if drops of the oil were condensing in his lungs.
Gabriel wondered how long he had been unconscious. He worried that the rescue helicopters might have been out looking for him but had given up when they found no distress-beacon signal. As quickly as he could, he set up the distress beacon, the TACBE, which would connect him with any AWAC planes flying over the area. It was a small metal box with a long aerial and a stand to keep the unit upright. There were two settings for the TACBE, one which would make the unit function as a long-range beacon, and another which would put him in touch with any aircraft in the immediate vicinity. He had been told that once he turned it on, he would be in touch with an AWAC within fifteen seconds. He pulled the long-range tab and heard the swishing sound as the unit engaged.
“Hello, AWAC,” he called into the microphone. I am F-15 down, over.” Then he said it again. “I am F-15 down, over. Can you hear me? Over.” He talked into the machine for fifteen minutes and then switched
The ground climbed up to meet him. The snakes of wind-rippled dunes. He smelled the earth now, the heaviness of it. The chill of the Arabian night against his face.
He wondered if he was going to die. He felt strangely calm about it, as if the outcome had been decided long before and he was only going through the motions.
The earth seemed to rise, gaping like shark jaws.
The jolt of landing slammed Gabriel facedown. He felt grit in his eyes and his mouth and up his nose and then he felt nothing. He did not even have the time to wonder if he were dead.
Dawn woke him. The first thing he saw was grains of sand a few inches from his face. The top of the jet seat had prevented him from being plunged into the dune, where he would have suffocated. He crunched sand between his teeth when he bit down. Some of the grains were in his eyes and he wiped them away with his aching fingers. They ached as if he had arthritis. He was aching all over. Each joint seemed to have been prised apart and popped back together. He could feel bruises where the straps had held him in place, down around his shoulders and across his waist. They would be the kinds of purple ones that take months to go away. When Gabriel twisted his head to one side, nerves in his spine cracked in sparks of pain across his shoulders and down into his arms.
He released his straps and crawled slowly out from under the chair.The hugeness of the desert sky hung over him. He had never seen anything like it. Stars reached from one end of the horizon to the other. All his life until now there had been a jagged line of trees to mark the distance of his sight. He knew that soon the sun would rear up from the dunes and scorch this place. Gabriel took a deep breath and coughed at the dead-fireworks stench that came from the underside of his seat. The bailout rockets had blackened his boots and melted the rubber soles. From where he stood, he could not see the oil fires, but their smoke massed in the sky like the iron-gray clouds of an approaching hurricane. Through breaks in the darkness, Gabriel could see the silhouetted outlines of skyscrapers—the blacked-out towers of Kuwait City.
The sun came up angry from the desert. He walked up to the highest point in the dunes and squinted off toward the horizon, turning himself slowly around in the sand, hunting for signs of life. Before him lay what he imagined hell must look like: vicious bolts of flame shot from spigots where the oil wellheads had been. Already the pale sand was a slick creosote black. There was no sky. There was only the smoke. He could smell it, vaguely sweet and sickly. It felt as if drops of the oil were condensing in his lungs.
Gabriel wondered how long he had been unconscious. He worried that the rescue helicopters might have been out looking for him but had given up when they found no distress-beacon signal. As quickly as he could, he set up the distress beacon, the TACBE, which would connect him with any AWAC planes flying over the area. It was a small metal box with a long aerial and a stand to keep the unit upright. There were two settings for the TACBE, one which would make the unit function as a long-range beacon, and another which would put him in touch with any aircraft in the immediate vicinity. He had been told that once he turned it on, he would be in touch with an AWAC within fifteen seconds. He pulled the long-range tab and heard the swishing sound as the unit engaged.
“Hello, AWAC,” he called into the microphone. I am F-15 down, over.” Then he said it again. “I am F-15 down, over. Can you hear me? Over.” He talked into the machine for fifteen minutes and then switched
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