Adam Baker - Impact

He booted the satcom, unfolded the antenna and set it on the sand floor of the bomb bay facing east.

He waited.

The reply:

He typed:

Reply:

He typed:

Reply:

He sat back and massaged chin stubble.

Frost, the radar navigator, held the final code. It was printed on a small strip of laminated paper sealed in a plastic tag hung round her neck.

Without her ten-digit authenticator, he couldn’t detonate the warhead.

Frost held a scrap of thermal print in her hand.

Message time-stamped one hour earlier.

She handed the note to Noble. He studied it.

She turned to Hancock.

‘Did the sender identify themselves?’

‘USSTRATCOM.’

‘For sure? Did they actually authenticate as Roundhouse?’

‘They had full knowledge of our mission and payload. Couldn’t be anyone else.’

‘To be clear: they did not use their designated comsec call sign, is that right? They didn’t identify themselves as Roundhouse?’

‘Disrupted chain of command. Can’t expect rigid protocol.’ He pointed to the paper in her hand. ‘The order is clear.’

‘I can’t assent to the deployment of a nuke based on an anonymous message,’ said Frost.

‘We received clear confirmation of our orders back at Vegas, direct and unequivocal: launch the missile. We have to abide by the doctrine of Commander’s Intent. We have received no further communication from STRATCOM, nothing that countermands our original instructions. The mission still stands.’

‘I respectfully disagree. Fluid circumstances. We have significant circumstantial reasons to believe the mission parameters have changed. We need to confer with STRATCOM, establish their current intent. Until they are back on air, I cannot assent to deploy. Anyway, why are we even having this discussion? Whole thing is academic. We lost the plane. We have no means of launching the missile.’

‘We could carry it.’

‘The sled? You want to drag the missile on the sled? It weighs over three thousand pounds. We’d need a dozen able-bodied men to make it budge an inch. A friggin’ team of oxen.’

‘The warhead could be removed. We could transport the core, the physics package, to the target.’

‘I refuse to throw away my life.’

‘You took an oath.’

‘To a nation that no longer exists.’

Hancock fetched satcom gear from the bomb bay. He hefted it up the ladder to the flight deck.

He angled the antenna and booted the transceiver.

A blank screen. A winking cursor.

He turned to Frost and swept his arm in a be-my-guest gesture, inviting her to sit and type.

She lowered herself to the deck in front of the transceiver, laid her bad leg straight.

She keyed:

She hit Send.

Immediate response:

‘Atmospherics,’ said Hancock. ‘The signal comes and goes.’

Frost leant back against the flight-deck wall.

‘I don’t mean to pry into your private life, sir. We’re all hurting. We’ve all lost family. But you must have someone, somewhere, who needs you to live.’

He waved a dismissive hand.

‘I could talk about duty and honour, but I doubt the words mean a whole lot to you. You’re clearly the type who joined for the benefits.’

‘Surely it’s time to be pragmatic. Why die here, in this miserable corner of desert? What’s the use? What good will it serve? No one will know. No one will care. If we get out of this damn place we might be able to find some folks who actually need our help.’

‘I have tactical command, Lieutenant. This isn’t some kind of town hall debate. I’m still AC. And I say we complete the mission.’

She pressed Resend.

Frost climbed into the crawlway. She sucked pipe hanging from the water tank, drew liquid and refilled her canteen.

Someone tapped her leg. She craned around. Noble. She squirmed from the crawlspace.

‘What?’

He mimed hush and beckoned her outside.

Noble took a folded photograph from his pocket. He handed it to Frost. She rubbed her eyes, let them adjust to sudden sunlight.

She studied the picture.

‘What am I looking at?’

‘The target site. Bunch of pictures in Hancock’s dossier. This is the only photograph that shows any activity on the ground.’

Criss-cross tyre tracks. Black SUVs.

‘What are those? Couple of house trailers?’

‘Looks like,’ said Noble.

‘Hardly seems worth a bomb.’

‘I suspect they are a preliminary outpost. The start of something bigger. Look at the vehicles. Four-by-fours. What do you reckon? Suburbans?’

‘Hard to say.’

‘What if they are still there? Could be our ticket out of this mess.’

‘Shit, yeah.’

‘Let’s face facts. You got a bust leg, and Hancock’s got a split skull. Neither of you in much shape to travel. But I could make the journey. I can move real fast on my own.’

‘Got to admit, it makes sense.’

‘Hancock won’t like it.’

‘Fuck Hancock. Get your shit together. Leave at sundown. I’ll explain the situation after you’ve gone.’

Hancock hit Break and cleared the screen. He leant forward, used the black glass as a mirror.

He tried to lift the bandage wrapped round his head. Gummed by fresh blood. He peeled it loose. He glimpsed inflamed flesh. Rot stink. He pulled the bandage back in place.

Hand to his forehead. Running a fever.

He lectured his reflection:

‘We’re all in fucked-up shape. No use whining about it.’

He dragged the trauma kit closer, unzipped internal pockets and popped tablets from a strip of Tylenol into his palm.

He looked around. His canteen rested on the flight controls.

He got to his feet, eased himself into the pilot seat and swigged back the pills.

He had, in his previous life been stationed at Bagram and charged with providing preliminary intel assessments of captured insurgents. Despite the belligerence broadcast by the morale patches on his sleeve, ‘DON’T TREAD ON ME’ and ‘PORK EATING INFIDEL’, he had thumbed through a Qur’an while drowsing in his bunk late at night and developed a furtive admiration for the Taliban and their Spartan ideology. He was particularly struck by the injunction to avoid intoxicants. Couldn’t help feeling nostalgic for the sun-blasted purity of the Hindu Kush once he found himself back in the Birmingham suburbs surrounded by purposeless folk smothering ennui with Prozac, Adderall and bourbon.