As he picked his way cautiously down the rocky path towards the beach below, several thoughts raced through Bobby Goren's head, not the least of which was How exactly did this happen, again? He tried to push that to one side; it was useless, he had to focus on the task in hand, and in particular on getting down to the beach without injuring himself. The path was just about passable if you were reasonably fit and agile, but anyone in shock or with serious injuries would need to be carried up… as he clambered down, he was busy cataloguing the path, watching out for particularly dangerous bits and flatter areas where they could let the survivors rest on the way up, assuming there were any. There was a large flat area, a clearing in the midst of a large semi-circle of rocks that was quite sheltered; it would do as a refuge for anyone who couldn't make it all the way up. The storm, mercifully, had died down for now. The rain had ceased, but a chilly wind was still blowing, it was much darker than it should be even for early evening, and he suspected that soon the storm would hit again, and at that point they'd want to be off the beach in case the path flooded. That could turn very nasty indeed.
At the same time as these thoughts ran through his head, part of him was enjoying the sheer freedom to move, not to have to rein himself in, keep himself under control all the time. The past ten hours had been a struggle, and a salutary reminder of how much he had come to depend on Alex Eames to interface with the rest of the world for him. It seemed as though they'd been together longer than a mere nine months, and now she was no longer there, he was suddenly having to watch the people around him again, take note of how they reacted to him all the time, instead of relying on Eames to pick up when he was weirding other people out unintentionally, to pull him up when he was going too far, to clarify his thoughts with her own insights… they'd been together less than a year, but that was a long time in their line of work, and at first, on this operation, he'd felt as though he was missing his right hand. He'd caught himself looking around, thinking Where's Eames? and then remembering…
That feeling had gone slightly, he'd gotten used to temporarily not being one half of Goren-and-Eames (Major Case), but it had been a valuable lesson to him, and later he'd have to think about whether he should do anything about that, whether it was worth the risk of one day having to readjust to life without her for the benefits of their partnership at this moment in time, of finally having someone with whom he could just be himself, all the time, without having to watch his every thought. Not for the first time, he sincerely wished Alex Eames was here by his side.
As he started down the final part of the rocky path, going down it in more of a controlled fall than a climb down, he could see two bright heads, one red, one blond, ahead of him, and if he looked carefully he could see Timkowski in between him and the two of them. They'd started out with Timkowski trying to guide them down the path, but Davenport and Tovitz were lighter and more agile than he or the CIA man, and they'd gone on ahead, jumping down the path in a way that would have probably gotten him a broken leg. He'd thought of yelling at them to come back, but realised that wouldn't be a good idea.
This was going to be a challenge. None of them had signed up for a rescue effort when they'd come on this surveillance operation. In theory, of course, as Tim Whitefield had put him in charge, they should do what he said. In practice, they didn't know him, he didn't know them, they were all from different organisations, different cultures, and he'd have to lead them, persuade them that he knew best, that they should follow him. He took a deep breath and wriggled his shoulders slightly, feeling the different way the fatigues fitted him, the weight of the boots, the absence of anything round his neck. He was glad, now, that they were all in fatigues, and not only because it meant that they were at least dressed appropriately for wading into chilly seawater and hauling people up a steep and rocky path. Right now, Detective Robert Goren, NYPD Major Case AKA 'That whackjob who gets results' (one of these days he WOULD track down the person he'd overheard saying that in the men's room at One Police Plaza and make their life hell as only a policeman knows how) could do nothing useful. Bobby Goren, NYPD and ex-soldier, could do a great deal, and he was glad not to be in his usual suit and tie, glad to be able to slip into another skin.
Ahead of him, he could see the beach opening out. As he'd been climbing down, he'd noted two rocks scattered near the tidemark, one nearer the sea than the other, and watched to see if they were covered by the sea. The sea was now up to the second rock, having covered the first one five minutes ago, so the tide was definitely coming in, and about ten minutes' swim out from the shore he could now see the liferaft. If he strained, he could just about hear yells and shouts. The people within had spotted Tovitz and Davenport on the beach, their pale fatigues standing out against the dark rock. Well, that answered the question of whether there were any survivors, and Bobby Goren stamped firmly on the rogue thought that that would show Daniel Smith who'd been right about whether they should go down and try to rescue anyone. He then tried to ignore the more worrying thought that they'd have to send someone up there with the survivors; his instincts were against leaving the senior CIA man alone with them, given his reluctance to allow the listening post to be used as a temporary shelter… one more problem to solve, in a long list of them.
He joined the three of them, deliberately pulling himself up to his full height of six foot five, using every trick he could think of to make himself look bigger, to dominate the group. He did a quick survey of them, and was somewhat reassured. They looked worried, but none of them looked panicky or, worse, rebellious. He'd been half afraid Sienna Tovitz would resent Whitefield's not putting her in charge – it had been her idea, after all – but she was obviously smart enough to realise that he had better training and experience for this kind of thing, and quite possibly also smart enough to realise that if this all went belly-up, his career was considerably more likely to survive any fallout than hers would be. She was looking at him expectantly, waiting to be told what to do, her eyes straying out at the liferaft. He guessed from her air of concentration that she was straining to hear the survivors' cries, trying to work out if they were in English… smart girl. Woman, he corrected himself.
He glanced over the two men. Timkowski, a natural born follower, had the same air of expectation, but mixed with more worry and a large helping of 'I didn't sign up for this'. He could ignore that as long as Timkowski did what he was told. Davenport's expression, unsurprisingly, said very clearly, Well, you talked yourself into this, and now what? He guessed that Davenport was one of those people who could never be ordered to do things, but who would do what you asked as long they agreed that it was the smart thing to do. Something of a kindred spirit, perhaps…
"Right, this is how we'll do this," he started, deliberately dropping his voice as deep as it would go without sounding obviously fake and slowing down to avoid stammering and hesitating. "We don't know what condition they're in or how many there are, and that path's going to be difficult to get them up, so we'll need to run some sort of triage when we get them out to see if we'll need to take them up in two trips. I'll do that; Davenport, you and Timkowski need to go in and pull the raft to us; we've probably not got long before the tide comes in completely and we don't know when the storm's going to blow up again…" He sensed that Davenport wanted to speak; considered briefly whether that was a good idea, then decided that pulling rank would be the wrong way to handle this. He paused. Davenport raised a hand, looked him in the eyes and said, very calmly, "I would suggest that I should be the one to run triage. I'm not as strong as you, and I do have the training; I kept up my first aid qualifications after I left the force, plus my job title is intelligence analyst – I can make those kinds of decisions."
Goren paused, weighing up the decision, and watched carefully. He was gratified to see that they were all watching him, waiting on his decision… yes, he could do this. He nodded, twice. "Okay, I agree; I'll go in with Timkowski."
"What about me?" Sienna asked – he kept thinking of her as Sienna, remembering her anecdote from the Jeep about how she got her name, and now was not the time to be remembering that…
"We'll need you to translate if any of them don't speak English, assuming they speak any of your languages… plus I want you to count heads, get names if you can, and help Davenport." She nodded resolutely. He turned to face the chilly sea, and the wind hit him slap in the face. The liferaft was much nearer now, and he could see the dark shapes of rocks under the water, they'd need to watch those. He handed the First Aid supplies he was carrying to Davenport, who was rooting through them, probably looking for latex gloves, then shrugged out of his fatigues jacket, willing himself not to wince as the cold air hit him through the thin black T-shirt he was wearing underneath. He handed it to Sienna, who looked at it with puzzlement.
"Put it on. You're the smallest of all of us; can't risk you getting hypothermia… plus, I'll need something dry to put on when we try making it back up the path."
She pulled it on over her own fatigues with no further argument; it was big enough that it fitted over her own jacket with little difficulty. He turned back towards the sea, and noticed with some amusement that she was actually checking him out, her eyes flitting from his shoulders to his chest and waist… well, human instincts tend to be strong in survival situations, and you don't get much more instinctive than that. What was it Eames had said to him a while ago? "Women perve, too, you know…" Heh, well, she was probably not even aware she was doing it.
He turned to look at Timkowski, whose expression said only too clearly: I am not taking off my jacket under any circumstances known to mankind, thank you. Well, it was his choice… Goren took a deep breath, flexed his shoulders and lunged forwards into a run, throwing himself into the water. It was cold and hit him like a blow to the groin and with much the same effect. His momentum carried him forwards; behind him he could hear Timkowski cursing and gasping. They ploughed forwards together towards the raft, guided by the cries of the people on it as much as the bright orange shape against the louring sky.
Suddenly, something wet and cold hit him in the face. A rope. He looked up to see someone half-standing inside the raft checking it was secured. He yelled for Timkowski, kicking out frantically to keep his balance and hanging on to the rope for grim life. Together they pulled at the raft, ploughing forwards through the chilly water. It was a long time since he'd confronted a problem that required only brute strength and determination to solve it, but he would not stop, even as the water dragged at both of them. The shore was nearly in sight now, waves breaking over the rocks in front of them. He regained his balance and thanked God for the heavy Army-issue boots that were protecting his feet as he and Timkowski heaved on the rope, fighting the lash of the waves that tugged at the raft.
Suddenly, there was a loud splash as someone else ran into the water and began to help out the people within it. He looked up to see Sienna Tovitz standing up to her knees in the water, fluently switching between English, German, French, Russian and a few other languages he couldn't quite make out, variations on the same message: "Hello, we are US Army, we're here to help you, go over to my friend, is anyone injured, are any of the flight crew with you, how many on board?" She repeated it over and over, not fazed by the frantic cries within or the yells for help, murmuring placatory messages to anyone who addressed her in their own language if she knew it. Behind him, he heard Davenport beginning to check over the passengers, asking them much the same questions but including "Where does it hurt?" in the list. Most seemed able to walk… well, he thought grimly, any who had been badly injured in the crash had most probably not made it out of the aircraft. He tried to keep count, but it was too difficult to do so and hold on to the rope at the same time. Sienna was switching between English and French now, leaving out the other languages - a flight to or from Canada, perhaps, maybe Quebec? Nearly all the passengers were out of the raft now; two had had to be carried out by Sienna and Timkowski, but they had both been conscious, albeit moaning with pain, probably from injured arms or legs.
Suddenly, a frightened wail rose out of the raft. He looked up to see Sienna trying frantically to reason with a terrified-looking Asian woman in long robes who looked to be at least seven months pregnant. She had a small boy of about seven or eight hanging on to her with wide-eyed terror. Apparently the woman didn't speak English, and Sienna did not speak any Arabic. He splashed over to them, ignoring Timkowski's yell of "Hey, I don't think I can hold this much longer!" Davenport had joined them in the water; to Goren's urgent look, he replied: "Two of the flight crew were on that raft and they've both got First Aid training, I've left them in charge. No serious injuries; one broken arm, one broken leg, a lot of cuts and bruises, and they're all in various stages of shock and probably incipient hypothermia; we need to go NOW." They waded over to where Sienna was still trying to calm the woman down; her child was mute, obviously petrified.
"What's the problem?" he asked Sienna, urgently.
"She's pregnant and I think she might be bleeding," Sienna replied, looking stressed. "I can't tell without looking where from." She indicated a large stain on the woman's skirt; he could not tell whether it was from another injury or whether it was related to her pregnancy. He tried carefully reaching in to offer to carry her out of the raft, but had to withdraw as she shrank back from him, pointing at the insignia on Sienna's fatigues and wailing.
"Doesn't like the US Army much, does she?" he heard Davenport muttering softly. Goren turned and yelled for Timkowski. Together they dragged the raft onto the shore. The woman, still inside, was still crying, and he recognised the sounds of fear.
"Half the world runs when it sees what we're wearing…" Davenport murmured. Goren thought of several possible responses, and settled for "Well, the other half is grateful."
"Can we please save the comparative foreign policy debate for another time?" Sienna snapped at both of them. She had a point. The child was staring up at him. Suddenly, he had an idea, and slipped his hand into his pants pocket, finding a couple of small plastic-wrapped chocolate candy bars he'd swiped from the Jeep. They seemed to have survived the soaking intact, and he tucked one into the palm of his hand. He crouched down besides the raft, deliberately turning his body at an angle and relaxing his shoulders to try and look smaller. Wearing his friendliest smile, he reached out both hands, very slowly, towards the child, palms up so that one of the bars was showing. As the boy reached out for it, he moved one hand across the other, juggling the bar between them, then closing his hands into fists and holding them out. The woman was watching him intently now, he could hear her ragged breathing.
The boy seemed to recognise the game, and reached out to confidently tap one fist. Goren turned it over and opened his hand, which was empty. The boy then swiftly tapped the other hand. He pulled a face, then turned over the hand to show that it was empty too. The boy stared in confusion and disgruntlement at him. Very, very slowly, he reached his hand out to the boy's ear, then, with an expression of surprise, drew back his hand to reveal the candy, apparently from thin air. Beside him, he caught a glimpse of Sienna smiling and Davenport raising an amused eyebrow. The boy snatched the bar and unwrapped it. The woman was regarding them cautiously, but without the same amount of fear.
The boy finished devouring the chocolate, then looked up and said "Thank you very much," in perfect English. Goren gave a snort of surprise. "You're welcome… what's your name? I'm Bobby and this is Sienna and Andrew."
"My name is Khamal," the boy informed him with dignity, "and this is my mommy."
"What's her name?"
"Mrs Desai to you I think," the boy said, gravely.
"I see. Can you ask her if her leg hurts?"
The boy regarded him thoughtfully, then turned and spoke to his mother. They conversed for a short while, then Khamal turned back to Goren. "She says her leg hurts because she was eating dinner when the plane went down and the knife slipped. She says it hurts a lot but I'm not to worry." The boy looked as though he doubted this last bit.
"Will she let my friend examine it?"
Another conversation, then: "She says she'll let the lady look at it."
Okay. He looked across to see Sienna already crouching down beside Mrs Desai. Davenport was kneeling behind her, obviously prepared to guide her through it. He hated to interrupt, but he could see storm clouds building up on the horizon again and it was getting ominously dark and cold.
"Sienna, did you get a headcount?" he asked softly.
"I think maybe fifteen or so? Sorry, I lost track" she replied, intent on tying bandages around the white plastic spike protruding an inch from Mrs Desai's upper leg. He looked away. Davenport contributed: "The stewardess says there were twenty people on that flight."
"There were. I counted them," piped up Khamal, who was licking chocolate off his fingers. "I counted them twice, them Mommy told me to sit down and stop bothering everyone."
An idea occurred. "Did you count people on the liferaft as well?"
"Yes I did. I counted fourteen people."
"Are you sure about that? Did you include yourself and your mommy?" he asked as nicely as possible.
Khamal gave him the adults-are-so-stupid look that all children perfect at a young age. "Yes I am sure. There were fourteen. Of course I included me and Mommy. I counted three times."
Goren left them for a while and went over to count the shivering group of passengers, ignoring Timkowski's plaintive look of can we PLEASE get back into the warmth? Twelve heads, so, including Khamal and his mother, that left six people who might be at the bottom of the sea, or who just might be floating towards them wearing lifejackets…. He looked out at the sea, and cursed urgently. It was already getting dark, too dark to see clearly, and as he strained his eyes looking for floating shapes in the sea, he heard a faint, ominous rumble. He reached a decision.
"Timkowski, take everyone who can walk back up to the building. If anyone feels tired, wait for a while but don't let them go to sleep; get them up there as fast as you can." He looked for the woman with a broken leg, and found two male passengers to carry her up; Davenport had splinted it as best he could using driftwood and bandages. Several of the passengers were sporting bandages from cuts on the rocks, and they were all shivering and moaning. "Timkowski, get going now!" He could hear the shake in his own voice; he was freezing cold and it occurred to him to worry about getting hypothermia himself. If I pass out here they'll never get me up that path… He hurried back to Davenport and Sienna, who was supporting Mrs Desai out of the raft. Sienna was obviously stronger than she looked as she wrapped an arm around the woman's waist, supporting her weight and helping her to walk.
"Uh, Sienna? Can you give me my jacket?" Davenport reached out and very carefully supported the two women as Sienna wriggled awkwardly out of Goren's jacket. He swiftly shed his soaked T-shirt, shivering as the wind hit his bare skin, and grabbed rather than took the jacket from Sienna's outstretched hands. It was blissfully warm and smelled pleasantly female, rather than of salt water and grit. He was vaguely aware of several eyes on him, but now was not the time to be shy… he dived back into the jacket, relishing the warmth and fastening it up swiftly.
"Davenport, go with the passengers. Sienna and I will bring up the rear."
"What are we going to do about anyone else?" Davenport asked quietly. They all looked at the sky, as the first big drops of rain fell across their faces and a distant crack of lightening illuminated the scene. Timkowski's group was already halfway up to the clearing, making good progress… he could faintly hear the CIA man yelling "Hot drinks, step this way, ladies and gentlemen! Hot drinks and warmth, now please keep going…" They rounded the first set of rocks and were hidden from view.
Goren shook his head. He hated what he was about to say, but there was no other choice. "We come back later if we can, but if we don't go now it could be us needing rescuing." Sienna's face became stricken, but she didn't argue. Davenport turned, picked up his First Aid kit and sprinted over the beach to begin scrambling up the path. Goren turned to see Khamal staring up at him. The kid was small for his age, and obviously on the verge of tears… it would make more sense for Goren to carry Khamal's mother, but given her obvious religious beliefs she was unlikely to accept that. Luckily Sienna didn't seem at all tired, and he could help her if he had to. He dropped to his haunches besides Khamal, who got the idea and jumped on, piggyback. Goren stood up; he'd never have risked doing this back in the city, but this wasn't even remotely like a normal situation. The kid hung on with both legs and both arms. Luckily, he barely weighed anything; Goren's biggest challenge would be making it up the path without slipping or knocking them both against a rock on the more narrow sections. He looked at Sienna and Mrs Desai, who was still conscious, and gave them both his most reassuring smile. Sienna grinned back; the other woman tried a nervous smile through her obvious pain. Together they set off, staggering back up the rocks and away from the beach, towards warmth and safety.
Author's Note:
To answer a question by email: The 'smuggling horses' story Goren told earlier isn't original. It exists in several forms. I first encountered it in Lois McMaster Bujold's 'Miles Vorkosigan' sci-fi series (can't remember which book), and thought it fitted here. I actually suspect Bobby might be something of a fan of Bujold's work himself if he ever reads for pleasure, so I justify including it that way. He and Miles Vorkosigan have a lot in common, both being hyperactive misunderstood knight-errant geniuses, with a tendency to leap on their white horses and ride to the rescue of damsels in distress. (If you haven't discovered Miles yet, get down the local library now. Seriously.)
Anyway, I should also add, this is not the end. Let's just say that a certain reviewer, whose name is X-Pig, got it right in her review of chapter 4…