Mitch put his fists on his hips and looked around. From the looks and the glances being exchanged, Keene could see he was carrying them. Even Furle was looking less militant. “What do you say, guys?’ Mitch invited, looking at the Rustler’s two crew.
“Sure—one, maybe two hours extra should do it,” Dan agreed, nodding.
Cliff seconded by nodding. He was curly haired and boyish, said little but was widely liked. He seemed to have touched a mothering reflex in Alicia.
It was enough. The majority responded with nods and assenting murmurs. Furle accepted the verdict without further protest.
The bowser returned, and while the Rustler’s tanks were being filled, Keene went with Cavan, Penalski, Mitch, and a squad of Mitch’s troopers to the larger hangar to present compliments to General Ullman and mount rearguard while the final boarding of the Samson was completed. The Cessna, already loaded, taxied up to collect Penalski and then took off first, banking into a turn out to sea and disappearing southward at low altitude, following the coast. The huge Samson went next, rolling almost the length of the runway before lifting, fading quickly, and then vanishing into the overcast—a slightly higher ceiling than before after the previous day’s winds, but still agitated and muddy. Lightning flashed distantly among the heaps of cloud, which were beginning to disgorge spots of rain. The raindrops were black and oily with soot.
Keene stood for a minute, looking at the derelict control tower and the savaged buildings around it, and across to the wrecked launch complex with its fallen gantries while the sound of the Samson’s engines grew muffled and more distant. Only days before, it had all been vibrant and thrusting, a symbol of endeavor and industriousness; now . . . a preview of what was to come everywhere. Silence took over as the engine noise faded, broken only by the cawing of gulls wheeling in from over the point. A feeling of stillness and desolation overwhelmed him suddenly. He turned away to catch up with the others.
A small procession of vehicles, presumably drawn by the sounds of the planes taking off, approached from the direction of the base as a trooper driving a tow tractor pulled the Rustler out onto the tarmac. There were several cars and trucks, a Dodge van with boxes and baggage piled under netting on the roof, and a four-wheel-drive pulling a U-Haul trailer. They were way overloaded, all their occupants disheveled, many of them bandaged, most seeming dazed. Several badly injured cases were laid on makeshift beds or blankets in the trucks and the trailer. Three men got out from the front of the car leading. Three more people were crammed in the back, along with some small children. The man in front had a gray mustache and face disfigured by angry-looking, open sores. He half raised an arm feebly.
“We don’t know what to do with ’em. . . . They’ll never make the trip, but we can’t stay here.” There was nothing demanding or even expecting in his voice. Just a plea for help.
“This is a military mission,” Mitch replied. “We’re not going anywhere you’d want to be—probably as bad as this. Worse.” An ashen-faced woman stared from the window of the car following, mechanically rocking a baby that was crying.
Alicia looked at them, then Mitch. “We can’t just leave them. The plane wasn’t full on our way over. We can take the worst, yes? What did you say yourself—a few hours to Atlanta? I’ll look after them. That way the others will have a chance.”
Keene could see the resistance in Mitch’s face, the beginnings of the double standard that demands loyalty to one’s own group but hostility to outsiders when survival becomes the issue. But it hadn’t asserted itself strongly enough yet to prevail. Mitch turned his head toward Dan in an unvoiced question.
“How many stretcher cases?” the pilot queried.
The men looked at each other and muttered between themselves. “Eight that are bad,” one said finally.
Dan did a quick mental estimate. Besides its passengers, the Rustler was carrying a generous reserve of supplies, fresh water, weapons and ammunition, various types of tools and equipment. “Those, then, plus four more,” he announced. “But let’s be sensible about this. If somebody’s obviously not going to make it, don’t waste the space.” Mitch looked at the man with the mustache and nodded curtly. Keene and Cavan caught each other’s eye, then looked away. Although there was nothing more to be said for the moment, each had read the same in the other’s look: They were going to have to learn to harden themselves to leaving a lot of people to their fate before this was over.