The Power of Five Oblivion

surroundings, with the ground, completely flat, stretching out in front of her and a mile of glass and steel blinking in the sun behind. The pilot of the Airbus – if that was what he was – saw them coming and dropped his cigarette. He reached into his pocket and even before he had drawn his hand out, Scarlett knew that it would be holding a gun and wished that they hadn’t been quite so quick to make themselves visible. They could be anyone. So, for that matter, could he. He could shoot them both down before they even had time to tell him their names.
    But it was too late to stop now. Richard had raised his hands, showing that he was unarmed. And with a fifteen-year-old girl beside him, he couldn’t have looked like too much of a threat. The pilot lowered his gun but remained wary.
    He was young, fair-haired with a thin face and crumpled cheeks. As they approached, he had taken off his sunglasses to reveal watchful blue eyes. He was athletic-looking, quite wiry. Scarlett thought he had the body of a surfer and could easily imagine him on the beach in brightly coloured shorts. But he kept himself out of the sun. His skin was pale and he had placed himself in the shadow of the plane. Despite the heat, he hadn’t rolled up his sleeves.
    “Who the hell are you?” he demanded, when Richard and Scarlett reached him. He gestured with the gun. “Don’t come any closer – all right?”
    “It’s OK.” Once again, Richard lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender. “We’re friends.”
    “Everyone’s friends,” the pilot responded. He spoke with an Australian accent. “The question is – who are you friends of?”
    “We’ve only just got here,” Scarlett said. “We don’t know what’s going on.”
    “Got here? From where?”
    “We were in Cairo.”
    The pilot whistled. “You came all that way? How did you get here?”
    “We drove.” Richard gestured back at the terminal. “We have a Land Cruiser. It’s parked out there.” He lowered his hands. “You’re Australian,” he said.
    “That’s right.” The pilot hadn’t lowered his gun. “And you sound English. What were you doing in Cairo? Are they still fighting?”
    “Yes. They’re still fighting. What we were doing there is a very long story. My name is Richard Cole. This is Scarlett Adams. You wouldn’t have any water, would you? We’ve been driving all day and it took us a while to find our way out here.”
    The pilot examined them both carefully. He was clearly weighing them both up. Then he came to a decision and put the gun away. “OK. You can come on board if you like. But I’m warning you, if you try anything fancy, I’ll shoot you right between the eyes without giving it a thought. The name’s Martins, by the way. I’m from Sydney – or I would be if Sydney were still there.”
    “Are you the pilot?”
    “No. The co-pilot.”
    They followed him up the steps and into the plane, and saw at once that the Airbus had been adapted. All the seats had been taken out apart from a few at the front, leaving a long, cigar-shaped space that was filled, floor to ceiling, with crates. Martins reached into one of them and took out two plastic bottles of water, which he passed to Richard and Scarlett. “Let’s go upstairs,” he said.
    There was a spiral staircase leading up to what must have once been the business-class cabin. The upper area had also been adapted. It had been turned into a bedroom and a living room with two single beds, a couple of armchairs, and an area with a PlayStation and about a hundred games, scattered across the floor. There were also dozens of old food cartons, empty plastic bottles and overflowing ashtrays … the last thing Scarlett would have expected to see on a plane. The air smelled of cigarette smoke. A half-empty bottle of whisky and a glass stood beside the bed and there was a pile of paperback books with cracked spines and dog-eared pages. The cockpit door was open and, looking through, Scarlett could see the two seats with the joysticks and the banks of controls. Richard nudged her and she knew that he was thinking exactly the same as her. There was every chance that this plane could fly.
    Martins had thrown himself down on one of the beds, but had arranged himself so that the pocket with the gun faced up and could be reached easily. His eyes were still wary. Richard and Scarlett took the chairs, opened their bottles and drank. The water was warm and tasted stale.
    “So where have you come