and pulled herself upright. Knees and palms branded with the chevron tread of the deck plate.
She looked up through the hatchway into the flight deck above.
‘Anyone there?’
Pause.
‘It’s me, Frost. Anyone up there?’
No reply.
She pulled herself up the ladder, executed an arduous hop-climb to spare her injured leg.
The upper cabin.
She rolled onto deck plate, gripped the EWO situational display for support and got to her feet.
The blast screens had been lowered. Each curtain fringed by a halo of daylight.
Banks of dead instrumentation.
Scintillating motes of dust.
She looked up. Open sky. Sunlight shafting through vacancies left by two jettisoned roof hatches.
The back-facing Electronic Warfare chair remained in position. The seat rockets must have failed. Lieutenant Noble, the EWO, would have followed a well-drilled back-up procedure. He would have unhitched, slid down the ladder, dropped out a vacant floor hatch and been snatched away by the airstream.
The co-pilot seat had fired. Hancock propelled clear before impact.
The pilot seat was still in place.
She could see the arm and shoulder of a flight suit.
‘Pinback? Can you hear me?’
She released her grip of the Warfare console and limped towards the pilot seat.
Captain Pinback. Crazy bastard rode the plane during its terminal descent. Fought ’til the end. Stayed aboard the smoke-filled, depressurised flight deck. Didn’t want to abandon the aircraft, the weapon.
‘Captain?’
A gloved hand twitched and clenched.
She circled the seat, kept her distance, held the bracket rails of the now-absent co-pilot chair for support.
‘Cap?’
She reached for her shoulder holster, realised she’d left the pistol below.
Pinback sat slumped in front of inert, fire-streaked avionics, his face veiled by his visor and oxygen mask.
Frost tentatively reached forwards.
Pinback took a shuddering breath.
She jumped back.
A gasping, heaving convulsion.
‘Cap? Hey. Daniel. Can you hear me?’
Tentative approach. She reached out a hand and slowly lifted his visor.
He raised his head, groggy like he was waking from deep sleep. Blue, unclouded eyes. Free from infection.
He stared at her face, struggled to focus.
‘Christ. Can you hear me? Can you talk? How bad are you hurt?’
Right arm folded across his belly. He lifted it aside. He was sitting crooked in his seat, lower body twisted like he’d been cut in half and jammed back together at a weird angle. Shattered spine.
‘Jesus. Hold on, Captain. Just hold on.’
9
Pinback pawed his shoulder, tried to reach his sleeve pocket. Wild eyes. Contorted face. Feverish pain.
‘Hey,’ said Frost. ‘Let me.’
She unzipped the pocket, uncapped a syringe and jabbed his shoulder.
She released his oxygen mask.
‘Breathe slow. Let the dope do its work.’
Convulsive breaths began to subside. His head drooped a little.
Soothing, like a mother:
‘Yeah. That’s right. That’s the good shit. Ride it all the way.’
Pinback. Fourteen-year veteran. His resolute, hard-ass demeanour replaced by pain and confusion.
She’d hoped to find him unhurt, hoped he would take charge, think on her behalf. Instead, here he was, helpless.
She lifted the blast screens to get more light.
She stood over the pilot seat, unbuckled his chin-strap and lifted his helmet clear.
She ran fingers through his hair.
‘Take it easy. Just got to sit tight until Trenchman decides to show up.’
His lips moved.
She leaned close.
‘Get me out of here,’ he whispered.
‘Help will come soon.’
‘Get me out of this fucking chair.’
‘Not such a great idea. You’ve suffered a significant thoracic injury.’
‘I don’t want to die strapped to this fucking thing.’
‘You’re not dying anywhere, sir.’
Pinback impatiently swiped his hand as if her bullshit, you’ll-be-fine platitudes were buzzing his head like mosquitoes.
‘Help me up, Lieutenant.’
‘You’ve hurt your back, sir. Probably broken.
She looked up through the hatchway into the flight deck above.
‘Anyone there?’
Pause.
‘It’s me, Frost. Anyone up there?’
No reply.
She pulled herself up the ladder, executed an arduous hop-climb to spare her injured leg.
The upper cabin.
She rolled onto deck plate, gripped the EWO situational display for support and got to her feet.
The blast screens had been lowered. Each curtain fringed by a halo of daylight.
Banks of dead instrumentation.
Scintillating motes of dust.
She looked up. Open sky. Sunlight shafting through vacancies left by two jettisoned roof hatches.
The back-facing Electronic Warfare chair remained in position. The seat rockets must have failed. Lieutenant Noble, the EWO, would have followed a well-drilled back-up procedure. He would have unhitched, slid down the ladder, dropped out a vacant floor hatch and been snatched away by the airstream.
The co-pilot seat had fired. Hancock propelled clear before impact.
The pilot seat was still in place.
She could see the arm and shoulder of a flight suit.
‘Pinback? Can you hear me?’
She released her grip of the Warfare console and limped towards the pilot seat.
Captain Pinback. Crazy bastard rode the plane during its terminal descent. Fought ’til the end. Stayed aboard the smoke-filled, depressurised flight deck. Didn’t want to abandon the aircraft, the weapon.
‘Captain?’
A gloved hand twitched and clenched.
She circled the seat, kept her distance, held the bracket rails of the now-absent co-pilot chair for support.
‘Cap?’
She reached for her shoulder holster, realised she’d left the pistol below.
Pinback sat slumped in front of inert, fire-streaked avionics, his face veiled by his visor and oxygen mask.
Frost tentatively reached forwards.
Pinback took a shuddering breath.
She jumped back.
A gasping, heaving convulsion.
‘Cap? Hey. Daniel. Can you hear me?’
Tentative approach. She reached out a hand and slowly lifted his visor.
He raised his head, groggy like he was waking from deep sleep. Blue, unclouded eyes. Free from infection.
He stared at her face, struggled to focus.
‘Christ. Can you hear me? Can you talk? How bad are you hurt?’
Right arm folded across his belly. He lifted it aside. He was sitting crooked in his seat, lower body twisted like he’d been cut in half and jammed back together at a weird angle. Shattered spine.
‘Jesus. Hold on, Captain. Just hold on.’
9
Pinback pawed his shoulder, tried to reach his sleeve pocket. Wild eyes. Contorted face. Feverish pain.
‘Hey,’ said Frost. ‘Let me.’
She unzipped the pocket, uncapped a syringe and jabbed his shoulder.
She released his oxygen mask.
‘Breathe slow. Let the dope do its work.’
Convulsive breaths began to subside. His head drooped a little.
Soothing, like a mother:
‘Yeah. That’s right. That’s the good shit. Ride it all the way.’
Pinback. Fourteen-year veteran. His resolute, hard-ass demeanour replaced by pain and confusion.
She’d hoped to find him unhurt, hoped he would take charge, think on her behalf. Instead, here he was, helpless.
She lifted the blast screens to get more light.
She stood over the pilot seat, unbuckled his chin-strap and lifted his helmet clear.
She ran fingers through his hair.
‘Take it easy. Just got to sit tight until Trenchman decides to show up.’
His lips moved.
She leaned close.
‘Get me out of here,’ he whispered.
‘Help will come soon.’
‘Get me out of this fucking chair.’
‘Not such a great idea. You’ve suffered a significant thoracic injury.’
‘I don’t want to die strapped to this fucking thing.’
‘You’re not dying anywhere, sir.’
Pinback impatiently swiped his hand as if her bullshit, you’ll-be-fine platitudes were buzzing his head like mosquitoes.
‘Help me up, Lieutenant.’
‘You’ve hurt your back, sir. Probably broken.
Similar Books
