Tolhurst and I continued dragging the escorts all the way back to the Block, where the remaining aerial drone flew in a tight patrol spiral. Tolhurst started back toward the tunnel, but I said in my Admiralty voice, “Take care of these men, I will get the others.” I had not lost the voice. Or maybe he was just looking for someone to take charge. He started removing the men’s suits.
I ran back up the tunnel, and I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw Nick crouching by Gale’s side. He was trying to lift Gale up, so I took Gale’s other arm. I could have carried the man myself, and Nick could have if he had been in better shape. But I saw spiderweb cracks in Nick’s helmet, and he hesitated any time he used his right arm or just bent the wrong way. Probably cracked ribs.
Nick said, “It’s a distraction . . . Someone’s trying . . . to escape . . .”
“Hush, Nico, save your breath,” I said. “Hogan figured that out already. He will get them. Let us get Gale to safety.”
“They’ll get away . . .”
“Hogan knows his job, Nick. Trust him.”
I hoped this was just Nick’s usual demanding personality. He always pushed. But the crack in the helmet, and the way he had hit the ceiling meant there could be a concussion.
But he did not argue further. We pulled Gale out and laid him on the floor next to the two Rapid Response troopers. Now that we had regrouped, the escort alarms went silent, one less irritant in our horrid situation. Tolhurst already had the men out of their armor and was applying mediskin to second-degree burns. Their armor had prevented much worse, but it looked like their air containment had been thoroughly breached. They had probably breathed hot gases.
I did not want to leave Nick, but the guards were in worse shape. Gale had said there was an infirmary here, so I ran into the tube network again. “Ms. Morais!” Tolhurst yelled, but I ignored him and that damnable chirping. My shoulder drone would be my lookout.
I found the infirmary/bio lab. It was not up to the standards of Maxwell City General, but it was a decent field hospital. I looked at intubation kits, but I shook my head. If there was enough damage to the lungs, intubation would only make it worse. Instead, I looked around for oxygen masks. I found them in a cupboard; and right behind them, I found even better: a portable oxygenator. This unit could be spliced directly into the bloodstream and directly oxygenate blood. It could keep the brain supplied, which was most critical for patient survival.
I did a quick search for other supplies. I found more mediskin, bandages, painkillers, and a few other things worth grabbing. I only wished I could find some scan nanos, which could be sent into the patient’s lungs or into the bloodstream to look for damage. But I took what I could get.
When I came back to the Block, Nick was kneeling beside Gale, checking for broken bones. He looked up at me. He said only one word: “Sabotage.”
I crouched down beside him. “I know, Nick.” He was obsessed about the cause. A little too much, even for Nick. Now I worried again about a possible concussion. “Please . . . sit down. Back against the wall. You are hurt.”
Nick shook his head, but he sat. “Gale,” he said.
I nodded. “I will take care of Horace. In fact . . .” I looked up, and I saw lights approaching from the far end of the Block. They were clearly running; and as they drew closer, I could make out shapes outlined against the emergency lights. “Here comes Marcus, Nick,” I added. “He will take care of Gale.”
Marcus ran up, followed by Donihue, Swanson, Taylor, and Priest. First Marcus gave his attention to the two Initiative troopers. I could not argue with that; they looked pretty bad. Marcus saw the supplies I had brought, and he grabbed the masks and the oxygenator and went to work.
While Marcus cared for the escorts, I turned to Gale. Even dazed, Nick had had the right instincts: we needed to know if Gale had any broken bones or internal injuries. But manually feeling through the suit was not the way to go. I called Donihue over. “Can you give me internal imagery?” I asked.
“Give me a second to adjust the sensitivity,” he said. “All right, sonics and radar should give a pretty good picture. Let’s take a look.”
Donihue pulled up the sensor data on his comm, and I looked at it. “That is not good,” I said. “Four cracked ribs.”
“Five,” Donihue said.
“And these . . . dark areas. Are they spreading?”
“They could be,” Donihue answered. “Internal bleeding? Dr. Costello, I think you need to look at this right away.”
“Damn,” Marcus said, standing up from the man he had been treating. “Hogan, are those medics here yet?”
“They’re entering now, Doctor,” Hogan answered.
“Tell them not to waste any time. In the meantime, keep an eye on that oxygenator. If it gets into the red, call me over.” Then he came back and looked at the scanner image. “That’s . . .” He tried to wipe his brow, but his helmet blocked him. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” he said. “That’s swelling, not bleeding. It’s still a problem, you’re right to call me over.” He removed a hypodermic from his bag, measured a dose, and injected Gale. “Keep on scanning,” he said. “If that swelling grows, let me know immediately.” Then he went back to the troopers.
I turned to look at Nick, and he was up on one knee, trying to stand again. “Nick,” I said, “wait for Dr. Costello.”
“They’re getting away,” Nick said.
“We do not know that,” I answered.
“It’s obvious,” Nick said. “Slow us down. Distract us. They know the exits.”
“They’re not getting out, Aames,” Hogan said. “We’ve got troops all over the surface out there, and we’ve got hoppers coming for aerial scanning. Phobos will be overhead soon, so we’ll have orbital imagery as well. They hid from us, but they’re not getting away.”
“They know the area,” Nick said; but despite his will, he sank back to the ground.
“We’ll take care of them, Aames,” Hogan said. “They tried to kill two of my men. They’re not getting away.”
Behind him, Marcus and his crew were loading one of the injured troopers up onto a stretcher. Swanson and Priest took the handles. “Ma’am,” Marcus said, “lead me to this clinic.”
I led them to the field clinic, and they set the man down on one of the two beds. The other bed was covered with gear. Marcus turned to me. “Get that clear, ma’am,” he said. “We need to bring in the other trooper.” While his crew ran back for the other man, Marcus searched the room, coming up with many more options than I had found.
I cleared the bed, as instructed. I was just in time for the next stretcher to arrive, and Marcus and his crew gently shifted Matthews to the table. The man uttered a feeble yelp of pain, and my eyes grew wide; but Marcus actually smiled. “He still has some strength,” he said. “There’s a chance. Rosalia, I need you on this monitor.”
“I am not a doctor,” I said.
“We don’t have time for a doctor. I need you to watch this oximeter reading. It’s going to beep incessantly, which isn’t going to tell me a thing. I already know his O2 is low. I need to worry about critical levels. You tell me if it drops below seventy-five. And if it does, get the hell out of my way because I’m going to have to switch this oxygenator over quickly.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
Marcus set about slicing the oxygenator into the first man’s carotid. He slid the two needle lines in, and pale red fluid started flowing out one line. Darker-red fluid came in through the other. Soon the man’s oximeter stopped beeping, halving the noise level in the room.
“All right,” Marcus said, “let’s take a look at these burns.” He turned back to Matthews, shaking his head. “Those troopers . . .”
“They did their best, in a hurry,” I said. “That is all they are trained for.”
“I know,” Marcus said. “It’s just . . . Mediskin is the wrong treatment for these burns. They need to breathe. And if I pull it off now, they’ll tear.” He opened his bag. “Rosalia, hold
him down. I’m going to dissolve them, and it’s going to hurt.” I looked at Matthews. The burns were mostly on his torso and neck. His arms were unscathed, so I grabbed his shoulders.
Marcus started rubbing a solvent from his bag onto the man’s burned flesh; and Matthews started to rise. “Hold him down,” Marcus said. I leaned into his shoulders. Matthews was strong, typical for Rapid Response, but weakened by his injuries. Donihue grabbed the man’s ankles, and between us we managed to hold him down.
Then I glanced at the oximeter monitor. “Seventy-three, Marcus,” I said.
“Turn up his oxygen feed, I’ll get right on it.”
The oxygen tank was running at two liters. I turned it to 2.5, and I watched. His meter started to climb back up; so I bumped the flow up to three, and his O2 settled in at seventy-seven.
Outside I heard boots rushing by. Then we all looked up at the echoes of shots fired. “Hogan!” I said into the comm.
“Not now, ma’am.” The comm line cut off. There were more shots in the background, but Marcus seemed not to notice, concentrating only on his patients. I tried to do the same, but it was not easy. I flinched at the sound of every gunshot. It had been a lot of years since I was under fire, but my reflexes were still there. When shots rang out, you found cover first. We were under cover, sheltered in the clinic, but my nerves did not get that.
Behind Marcus, I saw Swanson imitating his work with the solvent. The other trooper’s burns were more extensive, from knees to chin. And they were darker. Marcus finished attaching the oxygenator from the other patient, and then he looked around the room, slamming through drawers. “Rosalia, did you see any antiseptic?”
“Yes,” I said. “The cabinet under the sink.”
“Under the sink? Idiots.” He looked under the sink. “All right,” he said. “And saline. Donihue, hold this hose over the sink. I have to flush the system with antiseptic, and then with saline, so we don’t contaminate the other patient.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
After the tubing was flushed, Marcus began hooking up Matthews. Soon the machine was humming again, and Marcus said to me, “You can turn the oxygen back down.”
With oxygen masks and judicious use of the oxygenator, Marcus coaxed Matthews’s O2 back up into the eighty to eighty-five range, high enough that the alarms grew quiet. After they held there for a few minutes, he smiled. “I think the lung damage is manageable. If their oxygen stays up, I can give them a little painkiller.” He frowned at the readings. “Very little, but better than none.”
Just then, Hogan’s voice came on the comm circuit. “Tunnels are clear, repeat, tunnels are clear.” A few seconds after that, Initiative medics appeared in the door. “Doctor,” one said, “could you use some help?”
“Thank God,” Marcus said. “Yes, help and all the supplies you can bring.” He smiled at me, then turned to smile at the others. “Not that I don’t appreciate all your help. You did what I needed. Maybe you can transfer to the medics someday.”
I shook my head. “Policing is easier, thanks. Let me get out of the way.” Marcus’s crew and I filed out of the clinic to make room for the medics. The immediate adrenaline rush was fading, so we ambled through the tube network and back to the Block.
When I got there, I yelled in surprise, “Nick!” Nick and Gale were gone.
Tolhurst was still there. He said to me, “The medics looked over Aames and Gale while waiting for the tubes to clear. They determined that the men were healthy enough for transport.”
“Nick has a concussion, space it!”
“Yes, ma’am, they said that. They said he’d be better getting seen at Maxwell City General, so they evac’d both of them on a hopper.” He checked his comm. “They should be on an approach path now. Probably be seeing the doctors as soon as they land.” Awkwardly, the man clapped my shoulder. “He’s in good hands, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Tolhurst.” I gave him a smile, but it was weak.
32. THE HOLDOUT
I stood motionless. Part of me wanted to run, move, do something. Run after Nick. Explore the tubes. Collapse on the floor. Hit something. For the first time in weeks—and it felt like forever—I had nothing to do. Nothing I could do. I was forced into inactivity. A small part of me wanted to just collapse on the floor, take advantage of this lull to sleep. Or maybe have a small breakdown. Too much was happening, too fast.
But old habits kept me going. I was on duty, and soon I would have to take action when the situation changed. I had to stay ready for that.
And so I paced, and I thought. Who could have still been hiding in Boomtown? And what were they hiding? Hogan had some of the answers by now. The firefight had ended, and his troops and drones patrolled everywhere, setting up more emergency lighting. The Block looked less closed in with lights everywhere.
While I paced, Hogan emerged from the tunnels. “It’s over, ma’am,” he said. “This wing is secure.” He tapped his comm. “You’re untethered now.”
“Are you sure, Chief?”
“Yes, I’m sure, damn it!” Then he shook his head. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m angry.”
“You are just pumped up from the fight.”
He looked back toward the two tunnels. “No, I’m angry! At myself, for letting you civilians get attacked.”
“We knew what we were doing,” I said.
“It was my responsibility! I should’ve never brought you in here. Not until we knew every inch was secure. I was . . . I screwed up.”
I shook my head. “Chief, you acted on the best information you had, and in compliance with instructions from above.”
“But . . . two of my men are in there. They may not come out alive.”
“I know that,” I answered. “But they have Marcus and the medical team. That is the best chance they could have.”
“I should’ve sent in a sweep team.”
“And then you would have your sweep team in there,” I answered. I put my hand on his shoulder. “Chief, I know how you are feeling. You are talking to an admiral, remember? I have sent people into hot zones. Sometimes I sent people in, and they did not come back. But they were doing their job, and you were doing yours. Were these your first casualties under your command?”
“No . . .” He looked down at the ground. “But . . . does it ever get easier?”
“No,” I said. “Not if you deserve that command. But for now . . .”
“For now, set it aside,” he said. “I know the drill. I’ll get drunk about it later.”
“Later,” I agreed. “Maybe I will join you.” I took a deep breath, and then changed the subject. “So what did you find?”
“Not as much as we’d like,” he said. “There were a dozen holdouts in there, I think maybe Gale’s VIPs. The ones we got alive—”
“Alive? So the shooting . . .”
He nodded. “Firefight in the tubes. It’s never easy, but we trained for it. They had sabotage and ambush points, but strictly amateur stuff. I don’t think there were any veterans in the group. So the ones we got alive are talking. Well, they gave their names and cited the Compact, different jurisdictions on Earth. So we’re pulling up the records now. Industrialists, financiers, and one scientist. More of a bureaucrat than a researcher. Then there were five dead. We’re still waiting to identify them.”
“And you are sure that is everyone? No one escaped?”
“After last time, I’m not going to say I’m sure,” Hogan said. “But we found four hidden access tunnels. We’re reviewing surveillance for where the exit points are. So far, no sign that anyone got out. At least, not once we tightened the perimeter.”
“I see,” I answered. “Now what?”
“Now . . .” He looked around at me and the forensics team. “Now, I think we still need to gather evidence. And we have our experts right here. I hate to ask, after what you’ve been through.”
Donihue said, “If you’re sure it’s secure, we’ve got a job to do.”
“Thank you,” H
ogan said. “It’s secure. Follow me.”
This time we searched in a group. Hogan may have secured the facility, but he was still taking no chances. Our escort was twice as large, surrounding us front and back. They might trample on some evidence, but we would be safe.
Hogan led us back to the ruins of the storage room. “The blast suggests that someone rigged a power cell to overload by remote. It was set to trigger an explosion, some solvent combined with oxygen tanks. We saw no sign of this rig when we secured the facility, so it was probably assembled later. Our monitors missed it. Aames was right: somehow somebody spoofed them. The monitors showed us a believable sim of an empty room. We did a frame comparison.” He pushed an image from his comm. A tank with a bulge had been circled. There was no bulge in the other frame.
I had to concede the skills. Hogan was right, there were not many who could crack Initiative Security protocols. That itself might be a clue. I sent a message to Moore down in Digital Investigations: Gather a list of the top computer people in Maxwell City. Maybe we could find some hidden connections to Boomtown.
Hogan continued to a door that had been concealed behind an air-scrubbing unit. The blast had mostly blown away the cover, and Hogan’s team had done the rest. Beyond was a similar tube network, but larger, with larger compartments. These looked mostly like living quarters, storage rooms, a dining facility, a trio of conference rooms, and some offices.
I looked around at the walls. There were bullet holes and laser rifle burns. The angles indicated that the shots came from deeper inside the network. “They fought back,” I observed.
“Five of them did,” Hogan answered. “They were probably a rear guard, trying to give the rest cover to escape.”
“Probably?”
Hogan shook his head. “Such a waste. They refused to be taken alive. They had to know they were outnumbered by superior troops. They were fanatics, or threatened, or . . . It didn’t matter. We captured all the others.”
I frowned. “You’re sure?”
The Last Campaign (The Near-Earth Mysteries) Page 27
