Adam Baker - Impact

Hancock lashed Frost’s wrists with wire. Gun to her back. He forced her to climb the ladder to the flight deck. They sat facing each other. Sullen silence.

Time passed slow.

‘What do you hope to achieve by all this shit?’ she asked.

‘Encourage a little cooperation.’

She curled and pretended to doze.

She waited until Hancock’s eyelid drooped closed and the pistol slackened in his hand. Finger light on the trigger, barrel angled at the floor.

She leaned forwards and reached for the gun. He shifted in his sleep. Brief hesitation. She abandoned her attempt to snatch the Beretta. She slid down the ladder and fled the plane once again.

She limped across the sand, hands still bound at the wrist.

She crawled up a dune and rolled down the shadow side. Her vague plan: travel in a wide arc. Put as much distance as she could between herself and the B-52. Create the illusion she had headed into the desert. A trail of footprints stretching to the horizon. She would then circle back to the wreck site in the early hours of the morning and plunder supplies. Creep into the lower cabin while Hancock lay beneath survival blankets in the cockpit. Stealthily remove food, meds, water. Then head east.

She tried to walk. Her legs gave out so she crawled on her knees.

Panting ascent of the next dune. Uncontrolled roll down the other side.

A splinter of her consciousness watched her progress with detached interest. How much pain could she endure? How much suffering could she shoulder while willing her limbs to keep moving forwards? When would her body finally fail, pitching her face-forwards in the sand, motionless, muscles finally no longer able to respond to her will?

She kept crawling. She threw a long shadow.

A second shadow by her side. A figure keeping pace.

‘I admire your determination,’ said Hancock. ‘Hotter than hell. Crack an egg on the ground and watch it fry. Yet here you are. Exhausted, thirsty, broken. But determined to fight. Admirable.’

She rolled and looked up.

‘It’s a shame,’ said Hancock. ‘You put me in a difficult position.’

Hancock laid the crutch across Frost’s shoulders like a yoke. He lashed her arms with wiring stripped from the flight-deck walls, forcing her cruciform.

He tied a length of data cable round her neck as a leash. He dragged her stumbling across the sand to the dead signal fire. A tyre half buried in sand. He tied the leash to the hub.

Shove to the back. She fell to her knees, head bowed, arms forced wide.

Hancock slowly circled.

‘Hate to do it,’ he said. ‘But I can’t have you running off again.’

He checked knotted wire, made sure she was bound tight.

‘This can end any time you want. We can start treating each other as adults. All you have to do is cooperate.’

Frost didn’t reply.

‘It’ll be a cold night. Any time you want to come back inside, holler. I got a blanket, if you’re willing to work for it. Back in a while. Think it over.’

Hancock retreated to the plane for a couple of hours. He got some sleep.

He woke and decided to check on Frost.

She was still knelt in the sand, head bowed, arms pinned wide. Her skin and hair were white with dust. Her lips were cracked and dry.

Hancock sat crossed legged beside her. He sipped water. He made it torture. He slurped and smacked his lips. He sloshed the canteen.

‘How are you feeling?’

She didn’t look up. She didn’t reply.

‘I’m sorry. Appalled it came to this. Hoped we could resolve our issues by reasoned discussion.’

Frost licked parched lips.

‘You pulled a gun.’

‘Had no choice.’

‘Cut me free.’

‘You know I can’t do that.’

‘You’ve gone crazy. Think. Just think. Step back a moment. You must be able to see. This stopped being about the mission a long time ago. This is some kind of death trip.’

‘I have to believe there’s still a government out there, trying to salvage what’s left of America.’

‘Come on. That old tune. We’re on our own. Anything else is a wish, a daydream. The best we can do for the world is survive.’

Hancock shook his head and turned away. He limped back to the plane.

‘What about Guthrie?’ shouted Frost. ‘His buddies. You’ll need me. When they come. You’ll need all the help you can get.’

He kept walking.

Hancock switched on the bomb bay light. Blood-red glow.

He sat on the sand floor of the payload compartment and powered up the satcom unit.

Internal battery at 18%. The power level dropped to 17% as he watched.

His only contact with the wider world: a thin-as-gossamer thread of data, likely to be cut within hours.

The unit winked an alert.

Incoming EAM:

He typed:

An almost instantaneous reply:

He typed:

No reply.

He typed:

No reply.

He typed:

No reply.

No reply.

He stared at the winking cursor a long while. He powered down the satcom and closed the lid. He pushed the unit away.

He turned his attention to the laptop jacked to the warhead. He wiped dust from the screen. A request for a ten-digit sequence.

The final arming sequence. Simple as withdrawing money from an ATM.

He caressed the Return key. The little square of plastic that would end his life once he delivered the warhead to its designated target. There would be no countdown, no chance to get clear. The moment he hit Enter to confirm the detonation command, the hotwired nuke would fire. He would wink out of existence. Delete himself with a single key-tap.

He sat with his head in his hands. Turmoil. The will to live overwhelmed by exhaustion and despair.

Flashback to Bagram.

The canteen hall. Mortar-proof hard shell. One of the chefs brought a fresh tray of fusilli to the pasta bar. He noticed a local translator in the queue. Guy had his shirt buttoned to his neck. He was sweating, despite a torrent of cool air from an overhead duct.

Two minutes later the canteen was clear. Upturned chairs and tables. Spilt food.

The translator sat in the middle of the hall, shirt unbuttoned, C4 patties taped to his belly and a command wire running down his arm to a push-button trigger in his hand.

Hancock cautiously entered the empty canteen, set a chair upright and sat down. He sat fifty feet away and tried to talk the man down.

‘The moment has passed,’ argued Hancock. ‘You came here to kill a bunch of Americans. So what now? Your death will amount to nothing. If you press that button, all you will do is wreck some furniture.’

The translator didn’t reply. He sat, finger on the button, panting with indecision.

Hancock tried a different approach.

‘What did he tell you? The man that strapped you into that vest? How did he persuade you to throw your life away? What would it achieve?’