Adam Baker - Impact

‘But you were briefed, right? They told you the nature of the target?’

Hancock crossed the flight deck and took the sheaf of notes from her hand. He stuffed the wad of documents into his backpack.

‘Like I said. Classified.’

The limo swerved between dunes.

Osborne had the wheel. Trenchman sat beside him.

‘I know you want to be a hero,’ said Osborne. ‘I know you want to ride to the rescue. But let’s face it, we can’t travel much further. We were okay back on the salt flats. Smooth driving. Here? We’re going to bog down and stall any minute.’

‘She’s a big V8. Good tread, plenty of clearance. She can cope.’

‘We don’t even know where we are headed.’

‘We know the plane’s target and flight path. That gives us a pretty tight search field. Soon or later, we’ll find wreckage.’

Trenchman pointed to a level stretch of sand up ahead.

‘Stop there, would you?’

‘Best if we kept rolling.’

‘Stop for a moment. I got to check something out.’

They pulled up.

Osborne jumped from the Humvee. Cool air con replaced by desert heat.

He beckoned to Trenchman.

‘Thought I could feel her pulling to the left. Looks like we’ve got a flat.’

Trenchman crouched and examined the flaccid tyre. Something white embedded in rubber. He worked the shard lose and held it in his palm.

‘What is it?’ asked Osborne.

‘I believe it’s a chunk of human bone.’

‘Hope to God we have a spare wheel.’

‘We do. It’s in the trunk.’

Morgan climbed a dune and looked out over the sandscape. Akingbola joined him.

‘Can you feel it?’ asked Morgan. ‘A rising wind.’

‘Air getting colder by the minute. How often do you reckon it rains in a place like this?’

‘Once a decade at a guess. You can bet it’s a big fucking deluge.’

They looked around.

‘You’d think there would be smoke. A fuelled-up B-52 nosedives into the desert. You’d think there would be a big-ass crater.’

‘Check it out,’ said Akingbola. He pointed east. ‘Something on the horizon. See? A red blur.’

Morgan shielded his eyes and peered at the distant haze.

‘Christ. Sandstorm. Heading this way.’

Trenchman climbed onto the limo roof. He cracked a cream soda, took a swig, and set the can down by his feet.

He powered up his radio, extended the antenna and did a three-sixty sweep.

‘Anything?’ asked Osborne, standing beneath him.

‘Think I got some weak transponder hits. Hear that? The tone? Very weak. Can’t get a lock.’

‘Atmospherics?’

Trenchman gestured to distant crags.

‘All kinds of metal in those hills. Copper. Nickel. Uranium. Playing merry hell with the signal. They could be sitting in the sand a hundred yards away, broadcasting Mayday after Mayday. We wouldn’t know a damned thing about it.’

Osborne opened the trunk. He pulled back carpet and lifted the heavy wheel free. He rolled it to the front of the vehicle and propped it against the wing.

He returned to the trunk to fetch the jack.

‘How’s it going?’ asked Akingbola.

‘Five minute job. No big deal.’

‘Looks like there’s a sandstorm heading this way.’

‘How close?’

‘Miles out. Looks big.’

‘We’ll be all right. Just climb in the limo and sit it out. Might have to do a little digging once the storm has passed.’

Akingbola gestured to Trenchman standing on top of the limo. He spoke low so he couldn’t be overheard:

‘I guess you and the colonel are pretty tight.’

‘Give or take.’

‘He wants to save the aircrew. That’s great. That’s admirable. But we’re putting our necks at serious risk out here. Totally reliant on the limo. If anything happens to the vehicle, we’re fucked. We lost one wheel. What happens if we lose a second? Long fucking walk.’

‘He saved your ass back at the airfield. Remember that.’

‘Yeah, I get it. Believe me, I’m grateful. But it won’t help a soul if we die out here on some kamikaze rescue mission. Talk to him. Make him see sense. We need to find a highway, start making long-term plans.’

Osborne grabbed the jack from the trunk. He threw it down beside the flat wheel. He ducked inside the passenger compartment and ripped the door from the snack cabinet.

He shoved the laminate door beneath the front axle, used it as a base to stop the jack sinking into sand.

He took off his field jacket, stretched his arms, then began to work the crank. The wheel slowly lifted out of the sand.

He crouched and prised the chrome hub. He threw it aside, skimmed it like a Frisbee.

He unscrewed retaining nuts with a four-way cross wrench and lifted the heavy radial clear.

He turned to Akingbola:

‘Check the ignition is shut off, okay? Don’t want to kill the battery.’

He examined the burst tyre. It was a run-flat, military spec, should have retained pressure even when punctured. But a chunk of femur had punched a hole big enough for his finger. Put the tyre beyond repair.

Faint cry behind him.

He turned around.

Morgan, gesticulating from the crest of a high dune.

He waved back.

‘Yeah. I know. Sandstorm.’

‘Help,’ screamed Morgan. ‘Jesus Christ, help.’

Osborne sprinted up the steep gradient.

Morgan was waist deep in sand and sinking fast.

Osborne gripped his arms and pulled. Trenchman and Akingbola joined him.

‘Something’s got me,’ said Morgan. ‘Something’s got my legs.’

‘Quicksand?’

‘There’s something in the sand. Something alive. It’s gripped my leg.’

The three gripped Morgan’s arms and pulled hard as they could. Hard to get a firm footing on sand. Morgan screamed and grimaced, shoulders at the point of dislocation.

‘A snake?’ asked Trenchman, desperately trying to make sense of the situation. ‘Some kind of sand snake?’

Morgan was now wrenched neck deep.

‘Oh Jesus, help me.’

Osborne and Akingbola gripped his wrists and pulled. Trenchman crouched behind Morgan and dug with both hands, feverishly scooped sand aside like a dog burying a bone.

Morgan’s head hauled below the sand. He screamed and coughed dust. Osborne and Akingbola fell to their knees and dug to expose his mouth and nose, restore his airway.

‘Mother of God.’

Trenchman stood back, drew his side arm and expended a full clip into the sand behind Morgan.

A final, whimpering scream, then Morgan was jerked below ground. Osborne gripped the stricken man’s hand.

Final wrench.

Morgan was gone.

They stood back and contemplated the depression in the sand.

‘What the fuck just happened?’ said Akingbola.

The sand in front of Trenchman’s feet shifted and bulged.

‘Shit.’

He jumped backwards, slotted a fresh mag into his Beretta.

They began to edge back towards the limo. Osborne and Akingbola drew their pistols and trained them at the ground.

The ground in front of Osborne swirled and seethed. Something beneath the sand was moving towards them with a purpose.

‘Run.’

They turned and sprinted back to the limousine. They vaulted onto the hood, scrabbled for purchase, then jumped onto the roof, boots skidding on slick metal.

They stood, looking down at the sand surrounding the vehicle.

‘This is fucking insane,’ murmured Osborne.

‘Isn’t happening,’ murmured Akingbola. ‘Can’t be happening.’

Trenchman adjusted grip on his Beretta.