Impact (12 page)

‘There aren’t enough coats for us all.’

‘Then I guess we just sit and look at it.’

Hancock flipped latches and opened the trunk.

Frost craned to see inside. Comms gear. A folded tripod antenna.

‘What the hell is this?’

‘Uplink to STRATCOM. Back-channel authentication for the bomb.’

‘Why the fuck didn’t you mention it earlier?’

‘The digital equipment in the aircraft, the CSELs, the onboard, rely on the same satellite network as this thing. If the plane couldn’t get a lock on the command net, I doubt the spectrum analyser on this kit will pick up a signal. Truth be told, I’m booting it up because we’ve got hours to kill and nothing to do.’

He unfolded the dish antenna and planted it in the sand facing east. He ran cable to the uplink.

Boot sequence. Flickering loading bars. A brief function menu, then the screen hung at ACQUISITION.

They watched the screen a while. A clock glyph cycled as the terminal tried to raise a response from a low orbit milsat.

‘There’s got to be someone out there,’ murmured Hancock as he studied the screen. ‘The entire US military. Got to be someone left alive.’

Frost turned away. She sat on the sand and massaged her leg.

Rubber bubbled and popped like gum. A column of filthy smoke rose into the night sky.

‘Can you navigate off the stars?’ asked Hancock. ‘Appreciate it’s been a long time since Basic. If we had to walk out of here, could you orient yourself?’

Frost shrugged.

‘I can find Polaris easy enough. Truth is, doesn’t matter much which direction we go. Desert and mountains on all sides. Same quotient of suffering, all points of the compass.’

She looked at the surrounding dunes, a dark ridgeline against the stars. She thought about the bleak, pre-human wasteland surrounding the plane, the journey that might lie ahead. Dunes seared by merciless sun, scoured by freezing night wind.

She stared into flames and heard herself say:

‘We’re all going to die out here.’

McCarran International Airport, Las Vegas.

The hangar office.

The radio operator sat at his console and scanned wavebands. Trenchman stood at his shoulder.

‘
Liberty Bell
, do you copy over? MT66, we are listening on SAR two-four-one, please activate your transponders.’

Nothing but static.

‘Sure it was them?’ asked Trenchman.

The radioman sat back, removed his headphones and consulted his notes.

‘It was weak. Real weak. Faded in and out. But I got “LaNitra Frost” and I got “Mayday”.’

‘You’re sure? Couldn’t be mistaken?’

‘Yeah, I’m sure.’

‘What about the plane? Is the nuke intact?’

‘Like I said. A couple of words. Nothing coherent.’

Distant gunfire.

Osborne kicked open the office door, breathless and panicked.

‘They breached the wire, sir. End of the runway.’

‘Can they be repelled?’

Osborne shook his head.

‘Way too many.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘We’ve lost the base. We have to get going right now.’

‘All right. Hit the floods. Give us as much light as you can.’

Trenchman turned to the radio operator. ‘Pack your shit. We’re out of here.’

A floodlit slipway.

Trenchman ran up the Chinook cargo ramp.

Troops loaded crates and weapons.

A soldier climbed aboard with an arm full of bedding. Trenchman grabbed it and threw it out the rear onto the runway.

‘Food and ammo. Much as you can carry. Nothing else. Wheels up in two minutes. Don’t get left behind.’

He ran through the cluttered cargo compartment. He opened the flight-deck door. Both pilots suited and strapped, ready to haul ass.

‘We really ought to go, sir.’

They looked out the cockpit windows at the runway ahead. Receding edge lights.

Movement in the overrun.

Distant figures.

Infected had breached the wire. Troops falling back in cover/fire formation, expending clip after clip, efficient headshots left the asphalt littered with bodies. They could hear the distant crackle of gunfire. They could see flickering muzzle flame.

The pilot adjusted his grip on the joystick like he was itching to bolt: raise the ramp, spin up and take to the sky.

‘Hold your nerve, airman. Orderly evacuation. If fear takes over, we’re all fucked.’

Osborne climbed aboard the fuel truck and floored the accelerator. He drove up the runway. Full headbeams. He switched on cab beacons and hit the horn, a signal to troops to get the fuck out the way.

He swerved left, smashed edge lights and skidded to a halt. He jumped from the cab. He unhooked the fuel hose, hauled it to the centre line and threw it down on the asphalt.

The side box. PUMP START. Green light, motor hum. The hose twitched and unkinked. Fuel spluttered from the lock-cuff and washed across the runway.

A spreading lake of kerosene.

The troops fell back.

Infected shambling towards them. Fifty at least. Lurching, misshapen things, flesh torn by metallic carcinomas. Foul stink-rot. An oncoming tide of putrefaction.

‘Fire in the hole.’

Osborne struck a flare. Spit and fizz. He tossed it towards the spilt fuel.

Ignition. Blossoming flames. He backed away, shielded his face from sudden heat.

A fireball mushroomed in the night sky.

‘Get to the chopper.’

They turned and ran.

Osborne glanced back. Movement behind the wall of fire. Infected revenants walked straight into the inferno. Most of them fell amidst the flame. Major muscle groups, biceps, triceps, quads and glutes, quickly cooked and contracted, pulling them down, curling them foetal. A couple of figures made it through the fire. They walked clear, columns of flame, clothes and flesh ablaze. They stumbled blind, fell to their knees and died kneeling upright. Carbonised skin lacquered black. Bodyfat burned blue.

Trenchman stood on the Chinook loading ramp and supervised the evacuation.

‘Move your fucking asses.’

Troops grabbed what they could from tents and freight containers. Rifles. Ammo. Boxes of bean cans.

One of the soldiers ran to the chopper carrying a bag of children’s toys. He had a large, blood-stained teddy bear under his arm. He glanced at Trenchman as he ran up the loading ramp, caught the glance of disapproval.

‘Fuck you, sir. I’m bringing it.’

Trenchman stepped from the helicopter and glanced up the runway. Osborne and his men sprinted towards him. The fuel fire was already starting to die back.

‘That’s it,’ he bellowed. ‘We’re out of here. Everybody in the chopper. Get inside and strap in.’ He pointed to the jumble of ration boxes and ammo crates. ‘Throw a cargo net over that shit. Get it secure.’ He grabbed a guy wearing sergeant stripes as he sprinted up the ramp. Name strip: DAWSON.

‘Make one last sweep. Check the tents. Check the freight containers.’

The sergeant looked like he wanted to argue. He didn’t want to turn away from the cargo compartment, the light and promise of safety. Trenchman put a hand on Dawson’s chest and pushed him towards the tents.

‘Go. Make sure no one is left behind.’

Trenchman ran to the Humvee limo. Flame light from the runway fire turned white bodywork pink.

He checked for keys.

He opened the passenger door, threw a couple of AR-15s and a case of ammo into the passenger compartment.

He ran to a jumbled stack of supplies. He grabbed bottled water and a jerry can full of fuel. He threw them inside the car.

He ran back to the Chinook.

He stood at the lip of the loading ramp. Quick survey of the cargo compartment. Twenty-six guys strapped into side-seats. Sweating, fearful, desperate to be gone.

Dawson ran past, anxious to get aboard the chopper. Trenchman grabbed his arm, held him back.

‘Nobody left behind?’

‘We’re clear.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘I’m fucking sure.’

Dawson tried to pull his arm free. Trenchman maintained his grip.

‘You’re in charge now, sergeant. Get the boys somewhere remote, somewhere safe.’

‘What about you, sir?’

‘I got business elsewhere.’

Trenchman stepped from the loading ramp onto asphalt.

He took out his radio and buzzed the pilot:

‘That’s it. Get the fuck out of here.’

Escalating motor whine. The Chinook’s massive twin blades began to revolve.

Osborne unlatched his cargo seat harness and ran down the ramp to Trenchman. He shouted over escalating rotor roar.

‘What the hell are you doing?’

‘I’m going after
Liberty Bell
.’

‘The crew? They’re dead.’

‘What if they’re not?’

‘Then it’s a crying shame. But you don’t owe them a damned thing, Phil.’

Trenchman pointed to the flag on his sleeve. Engine scream so loud Osborne had to read his lips:

‘Got to do what I can.’

Osborne stayed by Trenchman’s side. Warning klaxon. They watched the loading ramp rise and seal shut. Last glimpse of the ribbed interior of the hold, troops strapped in opposing rows.

They crouched and covered their ears as engine noise reached a crescendo. Typhoon rotor-wash tore at their clothes, enveloped them in dust.

The Chinook ascended into the night sky.

Engine noise quickly diminished. Running strobes headed north.

Osborne lit a cigar and tossed the match. He watched infected shuffle through the dying flames of the fuel fire and head towards them, clothes ablaze.

‘Guess it’s time to go.’

They strode towards the limo.

Voices behind them:

‘Hey. Wait the fuck up.’

Two soldiers running across the slipway, screaming, trying to flag down the long-gone chopper.

They skidded to a halt, bellowing at distant strobes.

‘Get in the damned car,’ shouted Trenchman. He ran, grabbed them both by the shoulder and propelled them towards the limo.

They tumbled into the rear passenger compartment.

Quick glance:

MORGAN.

AKINGBOLA.

Sweating, terrified kids.

‘What happened to you guys?’ asked Trenchman. ‘How the hell did you miss the chopper?’

‘Manning a tower. Didn’t realise what was going down until it was too late.’

‘Don’t shit your pants. I’m not kidding. Combat stress. Clench, for God’s sake. We could be in here a while.’

Osborne took the wheel.

The limo pulled away, swung a wide arc and headed down the runway towards the burning figures. Cadaverous creatures reached for the automobile, got flipped across the hood, slammed aside by the fender. A cop went under a wheel, got balled up and jammed in the well. Bone-snapping disintegration, thick-tread tyre spraying fabric and flesh chunks like slurry.

Osborne ran screen-wash and wipers.

They drove through the fuel fire. Brief flurry of smoke and flame beyond the windows.

They accelerated down the runway, headed for the collapsed section of perimeter fence.

Jolt across the kerbs of Vegas Boulevard. Trenchman and the two grunts thrown around.

The vehicle lurched across the grounds of the Bali Hai Golf Club. Headbeams lit ghost figures stumbling aimlessly across the fairway.

They joined the two-one-five and headed out of town.

Trenchman relaxed on the bench seat. He turned to Osborne.

‘Either put out that damned cigar or raise the partition.’

Osborne cracked the side window for air. He opened the glove box, scattered CDs on the passenger seat. He found Cypress Hill and fed it into the dash.

Trenchman tapped a booted foot to ‘Ain’t Goin’Out Like That’
.

Osborne shouted over his shoulder:

‘Looks like The Luxor is burning pretty good.’

Trenchman glanced out the window. The great bronzed glass pyramid. Infernal glow from deep within the structure. Flames licked from the broken apex. It looked like a volcano.

‘Sin City,’ he murmured. ‘Abandon all hope.’

They headed down the interstate.

Salt flats gave way to dunes. The limo lurched across sand. Heavy tyres cut deep chevron tracks.

Osborne, Morgan and Akingbola sat in the rear, rocking on a bench seat, sipping Diet Cokes.