Captain Pinback prior to his death. It was his supposition that the explosion of engine two triggered a sequence of systems failures which, in turn, caused the plane to lose airspeed and stall. There will be no investigation, no forensic examination of debris, so I guess we’ll never know for sure.
‘Pinback sent a bunch of distress calls before the crash. There are multiple locator beacons broadcasting from this site. The plane, the missile, the ejector seats are all transmitting a homing signal. Hopefully the guys at Vegas will scramble their chopper and pick me up.’
She wiped her brow.
‘It’s hot. Too damned hot. Truth be told, it’s been a long fucking day. Guess there’s nothing I can do but sit tight and wait for rescue.’
She pressed OFF.
She turned in the pilot seat and looked over her shoulder.
Pinback lying dead on the flight-deck floor. An Arctic parka draped over his face. Frost could see the outline of his head.
The mystery of death. Hard to believe there was no longer a person under the coat. Speaking to the guy a moment ago. Injured but animated. Strong voice. An entire universe behind those eyes. Now her friend and Captain was a cooling slab of meat. Mind and memory dissipated the moment his heart stopped beating.
Better move the body. She didn’t want to share the cabin with a putrefying corpse. It wouldn’t be long before he started to stink.
She grabbed his feet and dragged him to the ladder way. She gripped his wrists and lowered him through the hatch. He hung for a moment, feet brushing the deck of the lower cabin, standing upright one last time. Then Frost released her grip and he fell dead-weight to the floor.
She slid down the ladder and stood next to the grotesquely sprawled corpse. Ought to feel bad about throwing the dead man around, think of it as brutal desecration, but that kind of sentiment died months back with the rest of the human race.
She dragged him outside, hauled him through the rip in the cabin wall, flight suit shredded on torn metal.
Pinback laid out on the sand. Lips parted, eyes closed, face already mortuary white.
She placed his hands across his chest, wrapped a parka round his legs. She fetched the flag from the locker, a cheap Walmart stars and stripes evidently used as a dust cover for the avionics. She tucked it round his upper body like she was saying goodnight. His head shrouded in stars.
Sunset. Pale azure. Delicious evening cool. Day heat already evaporating into a cloudless sky as the earth turned and put her on the dark side.
Frost climbed a high dune in front of the plane.
She sat awhile and massaged her leg, glad to be away from the stink of aviation fuel and burned cable insulation.
She powered up her CSEL and extended the antenna.
‘Mayday, Mayday, this is Lieutenant LaNitra Frost, United States Air Force, requesting urgent assistance, over.’
Nothing.
‘Can anyone hear me, over? Air Force personnel hailing all channels, please respond. Does anyone copy this transmission?’
Nothing.
‘If anyone, anywhere, can hear my voice, please answer.’
The backlit screen: NO COMMS.
She shut off the radio.
A rippling ocean of silica. Pale dune crests, deep wells of shadow.
She could see tracks in the sand, the trail left as she crossed the desert and approached the plane. The footprints had begun to soften and blur. In a couple of days, all trace of her passage would be erased.
Skin-crawling unease. She pictured herself dead of thirst. A desiccated corpse consumed by the desert. Nothing left but bleached bone next to a corroded fuselage. A few tattered scraps of flight suit. A couple of wind-scoured dog tags. A sand-filled skull.
She had never felt so small, so utterly alone.
She pressed REC.
‘Night is falling. Couldn’t raise anyone on the CSEL. Hoped a change in atmospherics might extend the range, but I guess not. Half remembered something they taught us during Basic: high frequency analogue signals are less likely to be
‘Pinback sent a bunch of distress calls before the crash. There are multiple locator beacons broadcasting from this site. The plane, the missile, the ejector seats are all transmitting a homing signal. Hopefully the guys at Vegas will scramble their chopper and pick me up.’
She wiped her brow.
‘It’s hot. Too damned hot. Truth be told, it’s been a long fucking day. Guess there’s nothing I can do but sit tight and wait for rescue.’
She pressed OFF.
She turned in the pilot seat and looked over her shoulder.
Pinback lying dead on the flight-deck floor. An Arctic parka draped over his face. Frost could see the outline of his head.
The mystery of death. Hard to believe there was no longer a person under the coat. Speaking to the guy a moment ago. Injured but animated. Strong voice. An entire universe behind those eyes. Now her friend and Captain was a cooling slab of meat. Mind and memory dissipated the moment his heart stopped beating.
Better move the body. She didn’t want to share the cabin with a putrefying corpse. It wouldn’t be long before he started to stink.
She grabbed his feet and dragged him to the ladder way. She gripped his wrists and lowered him through the hatch. He hung for a moment, feet brushing the deck of the lower cabin, standing upright one last time. Then Frost released her grip and he fell dead-weight to the floor.
She slid down the ladder and stood next to the grotesquely sprawled corpse. Ought to feel bad about throwing the dead man around, think of it as brutal desecration, but that kind of sentiment died months back with the rest of the human race.
She dragged him outside, hauled him through the rip in the cabin wall, flight suit shredded on torn metal.
Pinback laid out on the sand. Lips parted, eyes closed, face already mortuary white.
She placed his hands across his chest, wrapped a parka round his legs. She fetched the flag from the locker, a cheap Walmart stars and stripes evidently used as a dust cover for the avionics. She tucked it round his upper body like she was saying goodnight. His head shrouded in stars.
Sunset. Pale azure. Delicious evening cool. Day heat already evaporating into a cloudless sky as the earth turned and put her on the dark side.
Frost climbed a high dune in front of the plane.
She sat awhile and massaged her leg, glad to be away from the stink of aviation fuel and burned cable insulation.
She powered up her CSEL and extended the antenna.
‘Mayday, Mayday, this is Lieutenant LaNitra Frost, United States Air Force, requesting urgent assistance, over.’
Nothing.
‘Can anyone hear me, over? Air Force personnel hailing all channels, please respond. Does anyone copy this transmission?’
Nothing.
‘If anyone, anywhere, can hear my voice, please answer.’
The backlit screen: NO COMMS.
She shut off the radio.
A rippling ocean of silica. Pale dune crests, deep wells of shadow.
She could see tracks in the sand, the trail left as she crossed the desert and approached the plane. The footprints had begun to soften and blur. In a couple of days, all trace of her passage would be erased.
Skin-crawling unease. She pictured herself dead of thirst. A desiccated corpse consumed by the desert. Nothing left but bleached bone next to a corroded fuselage. A few tattered scraps of flight suit. A couple of wind-scoured dog tags. A sand-filled skull.
She had never felt so small, so utterly alone.
She pressed REC.
‘Night is falling. Couldn’t raise anyone on the CSEL. Hoped a change in atmospherics might extend the range, but I guess not. Half remembered something they taught us during Basic: high frequency analogue signals are less likely to be
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