She’d felt alone as she waited for Daniel to strike. That wasn’t a problem; she’d felt alone for most of her life.
A thug keened in a high-pitched voice that cut through the moans and sick-hearted curses of the others. The one she’d shot, perhaps; or the one who’d incinerated herself by pulling the submachine gun’s trigger.
Adele had a good view of the camp from here, but it hadn’t been good enough. If the submachine gun had worked, Daniel Leary would be dead. She didn’t see any way the group could survive if they lost Daniel.
In rational moments she didn’t see how they would survive under Daniel’s command either, but it was surprisingly easy in the young lieutenant’s presence to suspend disbelief.
Adele looked at the water, then tucked the pistol into the purse she wore on her waistbelt. “I’m coming across,” she said. She walked into the inlet.
At midpoint the channel was deep enough that Adele had to splash in an awkward parody of swimming. There was no current; the bottom muck, though unpleasant, slid off her skin like thick oil instead of gripping her. A week ago—a day ago—she’d never have considered plunging into water foul with jungle decay, but her standards of acceptability had slipped.
Daniel gave her a hand out. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he said. “We can’t afford to take unnecessary risks.”
“Nor can we afford to waste time,” Adele said tartly. That wasn’t the real reason she’d walked across, though. She was punishing herself for missing the second gunner until it would have been too late.
Woetjans and Barnes were tying the prisoners with the same cord by which Adele and the two sailors had crossed the strait. The campfire had been trampled in the fighting, but it perversely burned brighter than it had under the Kostromans’ leisured direction.
Adele took her pistol out of the purse. Daniel looked down at the prisoners. Several were conscious but they waited stolidly to be tied again. Blood still pulsed from where the club had laid open three inches of Ganser’s scalp.
“I suppose I need to put a pressure bandage on that,” Daniel muttered; but he didn’t seem ready to do so quite yet.
Daniel was still breathing hard. A spatter of flaming plastic had blistered his right forearm; he hadn’t dressed it yet.
He reached again into the first aid kit Woetjans had brought over. The horribly burned shooter lapsed into slobbering silence. Daniel put the injector back in its clamp in the kit.
“I already gave her three ampules,” he said softly to Adele. “It’s a waste of drugs, but it was that or knock her head in. I didn’t want to do that, but if she hadn’t shut up . . .”
“What about the one I shot?” Adele asked. She didn’t know which Kostroman it had been. She’d seen the gun and fired, picking her target by instinct rather than design.
“On the end,” Daniel said, nodding to the edge of the firelight. “I gave him a shot too, so he wouldn’t go into shock. He’ll be all right. He’ll live, anyway.”
“That’s the lot, sir,” Woetjans said as she straightened.
“Right,” said Daniel. “Woetjans, you take the lifeboat back and gather up the others. It’ll take two trips, I think, to bring them and the gear we’ll need.”
He smiled at his surroundings with what Adele thought was anticipation. “The rest of us’ll get to work here, readying things for our friends from the Alliance.”
The emergency radio was a flat box that hummed softly. Every ten seconds the output display beside the speaker spiked, indicating that the unit continued to send a homing signal.
“I hear ’em coming,” whispered Woetjans. “Hear it? Like thunder a hundred miles off, that’s the lift fans.”
Daniel spread his hand for silence. The radio’s integral microphone wasn’t very sensitive, but they didn’t need to take chances.
Eleven Cinnabars sat around the fire, wearing Kostroman civilian clothing with an addition of Zojira black and yellow. Woetjans was trying to use the excess in her trousers’ waistband to make up what was lacking in inseam length; to say Ganser’s clothes were a bad fit for her would be putting it mildly. Other ratings weren’t much better off.