“I will,” Devonte said. “How are the missions going?”
“Nothing to report,” the general said tersely. “I’ll update you when we know anything.” She watched their faces for any sign of suspicion and then said, “I should report back to command.” As she turned to go, she paused and without facing them said, “Good work, you two,” and left.
#
The roar had finally ended, and Greenwood no longer heard screaming. She pushed herself up onto her elbows and looked around the hallway in which she lay. Portions of the ceiling had collapsed. She recognized Tungsten, most of his body buried beneath a pile of rubble, his glassy eyes staring out at nothing. A pang of guilt and sorrow stabbed through her heart. She climbed to her feet and surveyed her surroundings. Several soldiers were also coming to, helping each other up and assessing the situation.
“American soldiers, sound off,” she said.
Eleven voices confirmed their presence. She had counted fifteen when they boarded.
“Civvies?” she called.
Four. There had been six.
“Lieutenant Greenwood,” Caine’s electronic voice crackled through the settling dust. She noticed that his black uniform was dark and drenched on the left side. He was bleeding. “There were nine of us aboard the craft.” He paused and made a noise that sounded mournful. “Only two remain.”
“You’re hurt,” Greenwood said.
“It is fine. Only the flesh is damaged.”
“Lift up your vest and let me check it out,” she said.
The man hesitated, an electronic buzz coming from his mask speaker. “Okay,” he said.
A bright red gash arced along the man’s umber skin, carving its way from the middle of his abs down around to his lower hip. He was wrong; the cut was deep and angry enough to be an immediate concern, but the amount of blood pouring from the wound was even more concerning to her.
“Wait here,” Greenwood said. She retraced her path to try and find the remains of the helicopter. It was where they had left it, perched on the ledge, halfway in the building, halfway out. She climbed into the passenger seat, holding her breath to not gag on the smell of the fried flesh of the pilot. The first aid kit lay cracked open on the cockpit floor. Greenwood grabbed the gauze, medical tape, and rubbing alcohol. She leapt down from the cockpit and heard a crack as the portion of the building supporting the helicopter broke away and plummeted down to the street below. The floor beneath her feet cracked and splintered; she dived away from the ledge just in time to avoid dropping to the ground below as well.
“That was way too close for comfort,” she said.
When she got back to Caine, he had sat down against a nearby wall and taken his mask off as well as his upper body armor. He was younger than she thought, closer to Devonte’s age than her own. His face was drenched in sweat and he looked up at her with sunken eyes. “It hurts a bit more than I expected.”
“The adrenaline’s worn off,” she said. “Stay still, this will hurt more.” She poured the alcohol along the gash. Caine’s muscles seized and he hissed in pain as the liquid seeped into the bloody wound. Greenwood pressed the gauze onto the wound and stuck it down with the medical tape. “No painkillers in the helicopter, sorry. But on the bright side, you won’t bleed to death.”
“Thank you,” he said, then, “Do you think it’s dead?”
“Inkanyamba?”
Caine nodded.
“I don’t know,” she said, “but I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough. For now, we need to focus on getting out of the city. You can practically smell the radiation in the air and I’m already feeling nauseous. On your feet, soldier.”
“Give me a minute,” he said, replacing his mask. “I need to give you something.” He limped off and disappeared around a corner.
While Caine was gone, Greenwood went around checking on the survivors and organizing them into a group that was ready to travel. They would have to walk out of the city at least as far as it took to get their communication capabilities back. It was a few more minutes before Caine returned. He held seven masks by the straps and carried a sack on his back.
He handed her a mask, set the pack on the ground and pulled out one of the Tempest soldiers’ uniforms. Greenwood had a distinct image of seven naked soldiers lying dead somewhere in the building. She shook the thought from her mind.
“Put it on,” he said, “it’s lined with lead. It will keep the radiation out. There aren’t enough for everybody though.”
“I don’t—”
“Don’t argue. I will give the civilians four and,” his red lenses gleamed at her, “there are no more after that.”
Greenwood found herself shocked by the ruthless efficiency of the soldier. Of course they both knew there were two left over, but they also both knew that giving two safety suits to eleven scared and injured soldiers would only lead to trouble. She took the suit and mask from him, stripped out of her military fatigues, and slid into the oversized black regalia. It was heavier than it looked, but still surprisingly mobile. The mask covered her face, and she couldn’t see anything.
“Wait,” Caine said. She felt his hand by her throat and tensed. He pressed a button and the lenses flickered to light and she could see clearer than she could with her naked eye. A minimal heads-up display indicated her heart rate, the current radiation level, and her current heading.
When she spoke, her voice sounded in that same metallic monotone as Caine’s. “It’s hot in here.”
“You won’t get used to it,” Caine said. “But it will keep you safe.”
#
The city was devastated. It was already a wreck after Inkanyamba’s attack and the first nuclear strike, but now, Greenwood could count the buildings still standing on her fingers. And
