Juggernaut

‘The bridge at Anah is out. That thing is going to drop into the fucking ravine.’

Sergeant Tate sat in the cargo compartment. He had a goatee, and a big tattoo on his forearm: the Pegasus insignia of the 160th SOAR. Night Stalkers Don’t Quit.

He tossed his rifle to Frost, the combat medic. He unbuckled his harness. He pulled on sand goggles and adjusted the earpiece of his radio.

‘Put me down on the roof.’

The Blackhawk banked and hovered over the five-hundred-ton juggernaut. Flores adjusted airspeed, lowered the collective and nudged the cyclic forward.

The starboard tyre of the chopper gently touched down on the locomotive roof. Tate stepped onto the blackened, wind-scoured metal and the chopper pulled back. He crouched, lashed by downwash.

Tate crawled on his hands and knees along the cambered cowling. He climbed over louvered intake grilles and belching exhaust stacks.

He reached the roof of the cab. He climbed down onto the nose, holding the smashed air horn for support. He spat sand, crouched and peered through the broken windshield.

‘Anything?’

‘Ghost train.’

He swung his legs through the windshield. He slid across the engineer console into the cab.

Suede desert boots crunched on broken glass. He crouched and inspected debris that littered the floor. He examined Glock pistol clips and US STANAG magazines. He scooped up a handful of brass cartridge cases and let them spill through gloved fingers.

‘Spent rounds. Plenty of them. AK. Nine mil. Muzzle burn round each window. Fucking war zone.’

‘Better cut the power. Few more miles you are going to run out of track.’

Tate pulled off his goggles. He examined the lashed controls. He reached for the combat knife strapped to his webbing. Then he noticed the door ajar at the back of the cab. An access hatch with a big voltage zag. The engine compartment. He drew the Sig from his quick-release chest holster. He flicked the safety and chambered the pistol.

He kicked open the metal hatch. Deafening machine-howl from the cramped engine bay. A huge turbo-charged twelve-cylinder generator. Massive alternators and rectifiers. Pounding motive power.

He let his eyes adjust to the gloom. Sunlight shafted through roof vents. Fan blades projected swirling cartwheel shadows.

‘Hold on. I’ve found something.’

A dusty boot protruding from behind the power plant. Tate edged along the wall of the tight engine compartment. A crouched shuffle.

Two figures in combat fatigues slumped in the corner, positioned beneath the down-draft of an overhead vent.

Ripped, ragged clothes. Blood spatters and sweat salt.

‘What can you see?’

‘Couple of bodies.’

Tate leant forward. He pulled aside the lapel of a prairie coat and examined dog tags.

S9346448

WHYTE

LUCY

NON AFF

O POS

MAR

He brushed black hair aside.

Lucy opened her eyes. Blue, like ice chips.

‘You all right?’ asked Tate. She snatched the knife from his chest rig. He caught her hand as she slammed the blade at his throat.

The locomotive at a standstill. Tate carried Lucy in his arms. He kicked open the slide door and jumped from the cab.

The Blackhawk performed a steep combat landing and set down among the dunes. Tyres settled in soft sand. Lucy and Tate were engulfed in a cyclone of rotor-wash.

Lucy turned her head. She wondered if the helicopter was a vivid hallucination. A vision of deliverance. Earlier that day, as temperatures peaked and she took shelter in the fan-blasted cool of the engine compartment, she succumbed to a lucid dream in which she explored the paths and arbours of a perfumed garden. She picked invisible flowers and wore them in her hair.

The main rotor slowed to a standstill. The sandstorm began to subside.

The side door of the chopper slid open. Three Delta jumped out, faces masked by sand goggles and scarves.

‘There’s another girl in the engine compartment,’ said Tate. ‘I think she’s alive.’

He laid Lucy on the ground. A medic crouched beside her. He checked her pupils, checked the pulse in her neck.

‘Severe dehydration. Bad heatstroke. Let’s get her on a drip.’

He unfolded a litter. They lifted Lucy onto the stretcher and laid her in the cramped cabin of the Blackhawk.

They brought a second girl from the locomotive. Blonde. Unconscious. They strapped her to a litter and laid her next to Lucy.

Tate checked dog tags.

‘Amanda Greenwald.’

The medic examined Amanda’s bandaged leg. He pulled away crusted dressings.

‘Shot in the thigh. Looks infected. Crack me some gauze and a suture kit.’

The Delta guys climbed aboard and sat looking down at the women.

Dust-off. Escalating engine whine. Rotor spinning up to full speed. A tornado of sand.