He could use the exoskeleton to help him open the door. He crouched back down by the vehicle, trying to find a grip.
“What’s going on?” asked Zen, who was hovering above.
“Trying to get her out,” grunted Danny.
His first try failed: The mechanical hand gripped the metal of the crushed door so hard that it gave way as he pulled it off.
“Need help?” asked Zen.
“If I can figure out how to open the car without breaking it into pieces, I’ll be fine.”
“Maybe I can hold one side,” suggested Zen.
“I’m afraid that we’ll end up jostling it too much,” said Danny. “Hang on.”
He pushed his left arm against the crushed top of the car, and then positioned his right against the door. The smell of gasoline was strong now. The car radio was on—he worried that the slightest spark would set off a fire or explosion.
“One, two, three, push,” he told himself aloud, flexing his arms. The sensors in the exoskeleton felt the resistance and ramped up the power to help. It was designed to supply a slow, gradual push—moving too fast under certain circumstances could pull his body apart.
The crushed car parts moved about eight inches apart before the carbon skeleton began to pull through the metal.
“I think I’m almost there,” Danny said, repositioning himself.
* * *
70
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
WHAT ZEN THOUGHT WAS A BODY TURNED OUT TO BE A TIRE, which had left the SUV as it careened off the road. He turned to the north and did a slow circuit around the wreck, making sure he hadn’t missed anything. The bumper and part of the fender had fallen off, and there was glass back near the road.
A man’s jacket had tumbled out as well.
Hearing Danny talking to himself, Zen came back over the SUV.
“Danny, you need help down there?”
“Think I got it,” grunted the captain.
Zen saw the security team’s black SUV driving up the road in the distance, dust spewing behind it. A moment later he heard the heavy beat of an Osprey approaching. He backed off, watching cautiously as the aircraft landed on the other side of the road and disgorged its team of pararescuers. He’d never felt quite so intimidated by the aircraft’s huge rotors before.
BY THE TIME THE PJS REACHED THE TRUCK, DANNY FREAH
had pried the vehicle open enough to lean in and examine the driver. She was breathing, with an irregular though strong pulse.
While the PJs went to work stabilizing her body and removing her from the wreck, Danny walked to the back, trying to find the source of the gas leak. The roof of the car, now the closest part to the ground, was soaked with fuel.
He bent down, then heard a groan from inside.
He thought at first that it was the driver. But a second groan sounded more male than female. He stepped back, took out his small LED flashlight, then went back and peered inside.
He saw a leg on the back floor.
His stomach turned.
Then the leg moved and Danny jumped back. It took a second before he realized the leg hadn’t been amputated by the crash and that he was seeing someone trapped under the car, his leg sticking out through a rear sunroof.
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“We got another back there!” shouted one of the PJs.
“Yeah, I see him!” yelled Danny. “He’s trapped underneath. His leg is moving.”
Trying to clear his head from the gas fumes, Danny walked a few feet from the wreck. Watching the PJs set the driver out on a stretcher, he recognized her as one of the women who worked in the all-ranks cafeteria. He knew she had at least one kid at home.
“She’s pretty bad, Captain,” said the sergeant in charge of the rescue team, Gabe McManus. “We need to get her over to the med center stat.”
“Go,” said Danny.
“What about the other guy?”
“We’re going to have to lift the truck to get him. That’ll take a while,” said Danny. “We’ll need to hook the Osprey up. Let’s save her first.”
McManus nodded. The others had already immobilized the driver and lifted her gently onto a stretcher.
It would take at least ten minutes for another Osprey to arrive, and a good ten if not more after that to secure a chain and lift the truck safely. Twenty minutes wasn’t a lifetime—but it might be to the trapped man.
“Maybe we can jack the truck up with the gear in the Jimmy,” McManus said.
“Ground’s kind of loose,” said Danny. “I’d worry about it slipping.”
“Yeah,” agreed the sergeant. “But it might do that when we hook up the Osprey, too. Car looks like it’s kind of perched on some of the rocks there—slip a bit too much and he’s in even worse trouble.”
McManus dropped flat and peered underneath. “All we really need is about two feet,” he said. “We might be able to get a couple of guys on the side, lift gently—”
“I have a better idea,” said Danny.
* * *
72
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
ZEN SAW DANNY STANDING NEXT TO THE TRUCK. HE LOOKED
like he was trying to gauge whether he could push it over.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“We have another guy underneath. I think I can use the arm to lift it.”
“You want help?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
Zen came over slowly, his power at seven percent. “We can lift it straight up,” he said.
“We’re going to have to pull up together,” Danny told him.
“Just tell me what to do.”
Danny explained how to use the skeleton’s fingers as clamps, then coached him on slowly revving the power.
They’d have to work as a team, each clamped on one side of the vehicle.
The ease Zen had felt just a few moments before had evaporated. He jerked to the side, unable to get into the right position. His legs dangled uselessly below him. He forced his arms closer together, slipping back on the power. Sweat poured out of his body. It wasn’t the heat, though it was plenty hot. His nerves were melting.
It’s easy, he told himself. We’re going to save this guy, save his legs. Don’t let him end up like me.
His own feet were touching the ground. He edged closer to the SUV, trying to find a good place to grip.
“Got it, Zen?” asked Danny.
“Hold on. I’m still new at this.”
Zen hooked his arm under the chassis and found a solid hold for the body. The finger extensions on his arm seemed too weak to hold, and left part of his hand bare—he could feel the grease and grime from the chassis.
I hope I don’t crush my hand, he thought.
“Ready,” he told Danny.
“Ramp up slow, real slow. On three. One, two … ”
Zen twisted his wrist as gently as he could, as saw the REVOLUTION
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power move up to 15, then 20. The exoskeleton was straining, but the SUV didn’t budge. He twisted his hand on the throttle, fighting the urge to rev it as high as it could go.
“That’s it, keep steady!” said Danny. “Steady! Just hold it there. You OK, Zen?”
“Yeah, I got it.”
The PJs scrambled to brace the man and get him out. Zen could hear them talking through their radios. They were near the victim—he was conscious, answering them, complaining about his legs.
At least he felt pain. That was a good sign.
A tone sounded in Zen’s helmet. He was into his fuel reserves.
“Danny—”
“Yeah, I heard it. Let’s move it, you guys. McManus—you have two minutes.”
It took nearly three. Zen and Danny held the truck up together for another minute and a half; by then it was too late for Zen to fly back. Instead, he fluttered down to the ground, exhausted, landing ignobly in a heap. Before he could say anything, two of the PJs grabbed him and hustled him into the back of the security Jimmy.
“Way to go, Major,” said the man on his left as they slid him into the back.
“Yeah,” said Zen. “Thanks.”
The truck started to move. The passenger they’d pulled out was laying on a flat board across the folded-down seat, his ride cushioned by four large balloonlike buffers. The truck moved slowly down the road, avoiding the worst of the potholes.