“You all right?”
“Been better.”
“Get the lock opened. Some of the others need help.”
“Boy, heavy landing, Jim.”
“Tell you later.”
Farther back he saw McGill supporting Jed Herne. Beyond them he saw Mike Man, unmistakably dead, his neck broken by the impact of the crash.
Pete Turner was moaning softly on the floor of the cabin, doubled over in the fetal position, hands clasped between his thighs.
Carrie was still in her seat, unconscious, a large bruise across her forehead, blood trickling from nose and mouth and ears.
Oddly there didn’t seem to be any sign of either Kyle Lynch or Jeff Thomas. Jim looked around the shambles, seeing piles of equipment in one corner. A foot was sticking out from under it.
“I need some help,” he called, blinking at a sudden wave of dizziness.
“Door’s open,” shouted Steve Romero. “Big lake of fuel all around us, Jim.”
“Stay out and get clear. See if there’s any help on the way.”
He knew there wouldn’t be.
It was an extraordinary circumstance, a space shuttle coming in to land on its own at Stevenson. Ordinarily, with any threat of a crash landing, there would be a huge carpet of foam and fire trucks and blood wagons, sirens and the anthill look of organized panic.
But the base was still and silent.
“Jed’s knee’s not good,” said Mac, framed in the aft hatch. “Best he gets out of the way.”
“Let’s get at it, then.”
The pile of chairs and desks and computer gear, in the corner suddenly began to move.
“Get this shit off of me. I’ll sue for fuckin’ billions for this. Oh, my face!” The voice was rising hysterically. “I’m cut! For Christ’s sake, I’ve been fucking cut!”
“Jeff’s alive,” said Jim Hilton flatly.
“So’s Carrie. Knocked out clean. I’ll get her out in the open. The others can take her then.”
McGill unstrapped the young woman and lifted her with effortless ease, carrying her like a baby toward the open lock.
“Where the fuck is everyone?” Jeff Thomas’s voice was, not surprisingly, on the ragged edge of panic. “I’m bleeding here.”
“Keep still, Jeff! We’ll get you out in a couple of seconds.”
Jim was trying to keep a count in his head, but the names and faces kept slipping treacherously away from him.
Marcey was dead. Decapitated in the crash. Mike Man was gone. Bob Rogers had died in…no, he’d been dead for a long time.
Jed and Steve were outside safe. So was Carrie. Jeff was alive.
“Me and Mac are here,” Jim said to himself.
“Sure we’re here, good buddy,” said Mac, returning from the door.
Three dead in the ship. Maybe more. Three safe outside. Him and Mac. That made eight. Pete Turner breathing, but on the floor looking a lot less than well. Nine. Jeff Thomas made ten.
“Kyle and Ryan unaccounted for,” he said to Mac.
“Ryan’s gone. Right at the back, behind Mike’s seat. Thrown about and got a leg caught. Ripped him open at the groin. Artery popped and he bled to death.”
“Oh, shit.” Jim pressed the tips of his fingers to his forehead, fighting for control. “There was a mass of wires and rope and stuff across the runway. Couldn’t see it until…”
Mac patted him on the shoulder. “Later’ll do for that, Captain,” he said quietly.
“Let’s get the others away before something shorts out and we all get microwaved.”
“Get Pete out. I’ll clear all this stuff away from Jeff.”
Mac pointed at the foot that was sticking out from the wreckage. The pants leg above the ankle was torn, showing black skin. “Kyle’s under there, as well. I’ll take Pete out and come back.”
“Yeah.”
Now the sum added up. Four outside. Four inside, definitely chilled meat. Him and Mac. Now Kyle and Jeff Thomas.
The journalist was keeping up a frightened tirade. “For Christ’s… I can smell fuel. Burning. Fuckin’ move it, will you?”
A durasteel table had been ripped away from the massive impact of the crash landing and was now wedged across the corner of the cabin, pinning down everything underneath it.
Jim braced himself against the wall and kicked at one of the buckled legs, jarring it free.