struggling to focus, like he was fighting sleep.
He raised his hand and fumbled the zip-pull of his sleeve pocket. Frost leaned forward, gently pushed his hand aside and took out his two remaining morphine injectors.
‘What’s up? Need another shot?’
He shook his head.
‘For you.’
‘You’re messed up, sir. You’ll need them.’
‘No,’ he said. Sad smile. ‘No, I won’t.’
Frost unscrewed her canteen. She lifted his head, held capfuls of water to his lips and let him sip.
He lay back, nodding gratitude.
‘What about the others?’ he asked.
‘Guthrie’s dead. Infected. Must have been hiding it the whole time.’
‘Infected. Jesus. When?’
‘Vegas, at a guess. Someone in the camp wasn’t quite what he seemed.’
‘Anyone else make it?’
She shook her head.
‘Far as I can tell, just you and me.’
She gently wiped his face with towelettes.
‘So what happened up there?’ she asked. ‘Why did the engines fail?’
‘Wild guess: tainted fuel. Simple as that. Sediment in the tanks.’
‘Yeah?’
‘You saw the situation back at Vegas. Place was falling apart. Barely enough guys to man the wire. Some poor, half-trained bastard filled the tanks with sour JP8. Fuel must have been sitting in that truck a long while.’
‘And that was the flame-out?’
‘Sure. Pod two choked and blew, peppered the wing with debris. Took out the firewall isolator valves. Ruptured the lines. We were fucked from that point on. Losing fuel, losing oil pressure. Pod one starts to burn, and suddenly we had electrical fires all over. Pods two and three die in a matter of minutes. Pointless to apportion blame. We caught a dose of bad luck. Leave it at that.’
‘Yeah,’ said Frost, thinking it over. ‘I buy it.’
‘Cascading system failures. It’s like you said. This bird belongs in a museum. She shouldn’t have been in the air.’
He winced.
‘Sure you don’t want a shot?’
He shook his head.
‘You should have punched out,’ said Frost.
‘Thought I could bring her level. Thought I could bring her home.’
Frost gave him more water.
‘So what was the objective? Why were we out here, in the middle of nowhere, prepped to bomb dirt?’
‘Classified.’
‘Come on, Cap.’
‘Classified. Seriously. They gave me coordinates. A map with a cross. That’s all. It was Hancock’s deal. He was running the show. S2 intelligence. That’s why they put him aboard the flight.’
‘Where’s the target data?’
Pinback gestured to a soft vinyl document wallet propped beside the co-pilot position.
‘There are the particulars. Be my guest.’
Frost retrieved the wallet.
Cover stamp: RESTRICTED ACCESS. CO-PILOT ONLY.
Zipper.
She thumbed pages.
Latitude/longitude.
A grease-pencil flight path plotted on a map.
A sheaf of National Recon Office aerial photographs: dunes and a limestone escarpment.
‘Doesn’t make sense. A ten kiloton strike on absolutely nothing. Sand. Rocks.’
‘Think of the effort that went into this operation. Trying to marshal the resources for a nuclear drop while the word falls apart. Didn’t happen on a whim. The continuity government, bunch of generals and politicians, wanted to hit this site real bad. Sealed in their bunker, shouting orders down the phone. Expended their remaining assets to see the mission carried out. Must have been a big deal.’
‘Crazy.’
‘Rich man’s war and a poor man’s fight. Same as it ever was. Above our pay grade, Frost. Don’t sweat it.’
Pinback suddenly gripped the side-poles of the litter and screamed through clenched teeth. Frost punched another morphine shot into his neck. He slowly relaxed.
They sat a while and watched sunset turn the cabin interior gold.
Pinback started to shiver.
‘Damn,’ he murmured. ‘Freezing in here.’
She checked him out. His face was white. His lips were blue. She put a hand on his forehead. Running hot.
‘Guess it’s the evening chill,’ she lied. ‘Night falls fast in the
He raised his hand and fumbled the zip-pull of his sleeve pocket. Frost leaned forward, gently pushed his hand aside and took out his two remaining morphine injectors.
‘What’s up? Need another shot?’
He shook his head.
‘For you.’
‘You’re messed up, sir. You’ll need them.’
‘No,’ he said. Sad smile. ‘No, I won’t.’
Frost unscrewed her canteen. She lifted his head, held capfuls of water to his lips and let him sip.
He lay back, nodding gratitude.
‘What about the others?’ he asked.
‘Guthrie’s dead. Infected. Must have been hiding it the whole time.’
‘Infected. Jesus. When?’
‘Vegas, at a guess. Someone in the camp wasn’t quite what he seemed.’
‘Anyone else make it?’
She shook her head.
‘Far as I can tell, just you and me.’
She gently wiped his face with towelettes.
‘So what happened up there?’ she asked. ‘Why did the engines fail?’
‘Wild guess: tainted fuel. Simple as that. Sediment in the tanks.’
‘Yeah?’
‘You saw the situation back at Vegas. Place was falling apart. Barely enough guys to man the wire. Some poor, half-trained bastard filled the tanks with sour JP8. Fuel must have been sitting in that truck a long while.’
‘And that was the flame-out?’
‘Sure. Pod two choked and blew, peppered the wing with debris. Took out the firewall isolator valves. Ruptured the lines. We were fucked from that point on. Losing fuel, losing oil pressure. Pod one starts to burn, and suddenly we had electrical fires all over. Pods two and three die in a matter of minutes. Pointless to apportion blame. We caught a dose of bad luck. Leave it at that.’
‘Yeah,’ said Frost, thinking it over. ‘I buy it.’
‘Cascading system failures. It’s like you said. This bird belongs in a museum. She shouldn’t have been in the air.’
He winced.
‘Sure you don’t want a shot?’
He shook his head.
‘You should have punched out,’ said Frost.
‘Thought I could bring her level. Thought I could bring her home.’
Frost gave him more water.
‘So what was the objective? Why were we out here, in the middle of nowhere, prepped to bomb dirt?’
‘Classified.’
‘Come on, Cap.’
‘Classified. Seriously. They gave me coordinates. A map with a cross. That’s all. It was Hancock’s deal. He was running the show. S2 intelligence. That’s why they put him aboard the flight.’
‘Where’s the target data?’
Pinback gestured to a soft vinyl document wallet propped beside the co-pilot position.
‘There are the particulars. Be my guest.’
Frost retrieved the wallet.
Cover stamp: RESTRICTED ACCESS. CO-PILOT ONLY.
Zipper.
She thumbed pages.
Latitude/longitude.
A grease-pencil flight path plotted on a map.
A sheaf of National Recon Office aerial photographs: dunes and a limestone escarpment.
‘Doesn’t make sense. A ten kiloton strike on absolutely nothing. Sand. Rocks.’
‘Think of the effort that went into this operation. Trying to marshal the resources for a nuclear drop while the word falls apart. Didn’t happen on a whim. The continuity government, bunch of generals and politicians, wanted to hit this site real bad. Sealed in their bunker, shouting orders down the phone. Expended their remaining assets to see the mission carried out. Must have been a big deal.’
‘Crazy.’
‘Rich man’s war and a poor man’s fight. Same as it ever was. Above our pay grade, Frost. Don’t sweat it.’
Pinback suddenly gripped the side-poles of the litter and screamed through clenched teeth. Frost punched another morphine shot into his neck. He slowly relaxed.
They sat a while and watched sunset turn the cabin interior gold.
Pinback started to shiver.
‘Damn,’ he murmured. ‘Freezing in here.’
She checked him out. His face was white. His lips were blue. She put a hand on his forehead. Running hot.
‘Guess it’s the evening chill,’ she lied. ‘Night falls fast in the
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