A WARM WIND IS BLOWING IN OFF THE OCEAN. A FIRE CRACKLES. Waves lap the shore.
I look up at the stars and see a million of them. Hope’s hand is on my shoulder. There’s no anger in her voice. All is good.
I’m drowsy. The numbness envelops me again, except for a sensation that’s hard to describe, but it is boundless and timeless – like the moment I first laid my eyes on her, the day we went to the Mall – and I don’t want it to end.
‘Wake up, Josh.’
Wake up.
Now.
I open my eyes.
Above me, the branches of a tree are in flames. Thirty meters away, one of the props of the V-22, its blades shattered, is still chewing into the frozen ground, spitting clods of earth into the air.
A torn-off section of the tail-plane lies beyond it.
One of the fins, bent and twisted.
An arm, ripped free by the force of the blast, hanging from the shredded stump of a tree.
I sit up. My vision swims.
A second later, a thought. Jesus, I can move.
I drag myself away. The moment I’m clear, one of the flaming branches detaches itself from the trunk and crashes to the ground where I’ve just been lying, showering me in sparks and embers.
I get away from the tree altogether and prop myself against a rock, where I carry out a body check. Move my left foot, then the right. Lift the left leg, then the right. The left gives me a moment of pain. I run my hand along it. No broken bones.
I touch my face. There’s blood on my fingers.
My head hurts. My left leg hurts.
But that’s all.
Slowly, I get to my feet, holding onto the rock for support. The engine has been through its death-throes and is now still. The heat is intense. The V-22 crashed on the hillside. There’s fire and wreckage everywhere.
I shout to Hetta, almost blacking out with the effort. I hear nothing over the sound of the wreckage cooking off.
I start to walk, dragging my leg.
There’s nothing left of the Osprey’s nose-section; it’s buried itself in the mountain.
I scrabble down the slope. The body minus the arm is Schweizer’s. He’s lying on his back, eyes wide. They tell the story of every second of the horror he experienced as the V-22 augured in.
A few meters away, Offutt’s twisted body, face down, clothes torn off. I manage to put two fingers against his neck. No trace of a pulse. I turn around. No trace of the crew either. As I get to my feet, I feel the panic I felt when I could do nothing for the woman in the abaya.
Then I spot Hetta fifty meters down the slope. I stagger, trip and slide to a stop alongside her. As our bodies touch, she gasps, sucks down a lungful of air and opens her eyes.
Her hand goes up to her head. I tell her not to move.
‘What happened?’
‘You’re OK. Lie back.’
‘Anyone else get out?’
‘No. All dead. Lie back, Hetta. And stay still.’
I reach into my pocket. My cell’s still there.
I remove my jacket, place it over her. Check the signal.
One bar.
I dial 911. The call doesn’t go through.
I stay online. If there isn’t enough signal for a voice call, after thirty seconds the nearest mast will interrogate my phone. Request my GPS coordinates. Transmit them to the nearest first responder unit. Where might that be? Not relevant. The presidential fleet is equipped with the most powerful emergency locator transmitters on the planet.
‘Josh?’
‘Don’t talk. Help’s coming.’
‘I’m cold.’
‘Hang on.’
‘There’s a lot of blood on your face, Josh.’
‘I know, Hetta. It’s OK. Lie still.’
I hear a noise and see a familiar silhouette – a Black Hawk – through the trees, circling beyond the smoke.
I struggle to my feet, raise my right arm and wave.
As the helicopter banks toward us, my world goes into a spin and everything fades to black.