Author's note: Lyrics to 'Dead from the Waist Down' are copyrighted by the British band Catatonia. I don't own them.

As I staggered in through the doorway with an unconscious pregnant woman in my arms and Goren supporting me, I made a swift vow never, ever to take being warm and being able to walk freely for granted again. Mercifully, one of the two air hostesses who'd been on the liferaft happened to be standing by the door at the time. She rushed forwards and helped me to carefully put Mrs Desai down onto a makeshift bed that Davenport had obviously prepared in advance. He dashed across and the two of us knelt down beside the unconscious woman, Davenport guiding my hands as I examined her and put her in the recovery position as best I could, mindful that her religious beliefs prevented us from letting Davenport or Goren examine her directly unless things became extremely serious.

Happily, the bandages I'd wrapped round her injured leg had held, and a few minutes later she was stirring, reviving in the warmth, murmuring words in her own language and calling out "Khamal? Khamal!". Her son darted past me and hugged her tightly. Davenport sighed with relief, and moved away to start checking over everyone else. I was vaguely aware of Goren organising the passengers who weren't too badly hurt into setting up a refreshments table using some old emergency supplies we'd found in a cupboard in the building. Which seemed odd, then I realised that it was a good idea to give them something to do. Plus, warm drinks and food were definitely a good idea. I joined Goren & Davenport for a brief discussion of what we were going to do now. Goren was saying something about "I'm going to be "WABV" – ah, Sienna, I want you to go round with Davenport & translate if he needs you to. Get names if you can, and both of you remember, we're officially US Army, so don't get drawn into talking about yourselves."

"Where's Timkowski?" I asked.

"Over with Smith, trying to get hold of Whitefield by radio," Davenport replied. I suddenly noticed that his accent seemed to have moved five thousand miles west to the East Coast, rather than his native England. Interesting. I trotted after him, taking a pen and paper from Goren. As we did our rounds, smiling and nodding, taking names and trying not to talk too much as people thanked us, I reflected on our journey back up the path…

Goren and I had been only a few minutes away from the surveillance building and shelter when Mrs Desai passed out completely, and we'd been extremely lucky that she'd fallen against me instead of away from me and pulling the two of us over onto the rocks. We'd also been lucky that her son had insisted on hopping down from Goren's back and running ahead of us to the building. Goren had told me to put my arms around her shoulders and knees, as if trying to pick her up and carry her. As I'd been debating whether to mention that there was no way I was that strong, he suddenly moved behind me and wrapped his arms around mine, so that we were picking her up together, but without him actually touching her. Together, we staggered up to the building, managing to move in tandem and not fall over, despite the rather large difference in our heights.

I'd been relieved to be able to put her down once we were inside, and as the next hour or so passed in a blur of activity, I managed to stifle the thought that I rather missed having Goren's arms wrapped around me. We reassured nervous passengers, handed out drinks, tied on bandages, compiled a roll call of names, got the names of the missing passengers, muttered soothing comments to the injured ones and generally tried to be in three places at once, whilst Smith lurked in the corner and Timkowski sat by the radio waiting to hear from Whitefield. As Davenport said after we'd gone round everyone the second time, there was little we could really do until Whitefield and hopefully some nice, thoroughly well-equipped US Army medics arrived to give everyone proper treatment, but by getting them all out of the cold and wet we'd probably saved their lives.

I was trying to feel heroic about this, and reflecting that it would be easier to do if I wasn't also hungry and clad in damp fatigues. At least the building was warm. Goren seemed to be everywhere at once, talking, smiling, reassuring, being every inch the paternal, authoritative cop-in-charge-of-the-situation. I suddenly wondered what he'd meant earlier when I'd overheard him and Davenport talking. I caught hold of Davenport's sleeve. "Can I ask you a question?"

"By all means."

"What's 'WABV'?"

He frowned. "Well, if American cop slang is the same as British, it stands for 'Wandering Around Being Visible'. People feel reassured if they can see that someone's in charge, and that's often half the battle in keeping people calm and not panicky." We both looked across to where Goren was now standing in the line for hot drinks, chatting to people in the queue, the very definition of 'reassuring authority'. He was nearly a foot taller than the man he was talking to. I thought idly that he must go through life finding that the rest of the world was one size too small. "Of course," Davenport went on, "some of us are better equipped than others to be visible… heh. Y'know, when I was in the force we called it 'PABV'."

I had to ask. "Which stands for…?"

"'Pissing Around Being Visible'," Davenport grinned, slipping back into his natural accent for a few seconds. "One of many, many reasons I stopped being a copper."

I grinned myself. "It's an impressive accent you have there."

"I do try. A US soldier with an English accent might raise a few eyebrows… anyway, if you'll excuse me, I need to do the rounds again and check on that broken leg. Take a break yourself, drink some tea or something."

Not bad advice. I was starving and anything to fill my stomach and take the edge off my hunger would be welcome. I walked across to join Goren by the makeshift refreshments table. He was collecting a drink from the woman behind the counter. I didn't hear what he said, but she smiled and did the dropping-the-head-and-looking-up-alluringly-through-one's-eyelashes look that women traditionally do when a guy says something flirtatious. He smiled broadly, and I was struck by a wave of quite irrational annoyance and a strong urge to shout "Hey! Hands off!"

It didn't help that she was clad in a smart white shirt and dark skirt combination – she'd probably frozen in the liferaft and on the way up to the building, and I shouldn't have been thinking 'Good' – whilst I was still stuck in the baggy, shapeless fatigues I'd been wearing all day. I hauled ass over there and snagged a drink from the table, the fatigues serving some useful purpose at least in allowing me to jump the queue. I padded across to join Goren, who was now leaning on the wall beside the table and looking tired, and somehow vulnerable and in need of comfort, and damn it, why couldn't I think like a rational human being around this man? I tried to think of something intelligent to say, and could only come up with "Are you hungry too?"

He nodded and finished his drink. "Yeah, but I think we're out of food – most of it's gone to the passengers."

I slumped moodily against the wall beside him and sipped lukewarm tea. "Great. Oh well, it's a good cause…" My stomach rumbled embarrassingly; I blushed as Goren smiled. Suddenly, he turned towards me and made eye contact, looking at me with a curious expression. My heart sped up as his hand reached out towards my cheek. I had no idea what he was about to do, but I was having to suddenly fight the urge to rub against it… he reached behind my ear, then produced a chocolate bar with a small flourish, repeating the trick he'd used to impress little Khamal Desai. I took the bar from his hand with sincere gratitude; I really needed sugar and comforting carbohydrates right now.

"Oh, I could kiss you," I said gratefully, and immediately felt as though I now had a huge red flashing sign over my head blaring "FREUDIAN SLIP, FREUDIAN SLIP". Goren looked at me for a second with the oddest expression, then a loud yell from Timkowski called him away. I stared after his retreating back view and wished I wasn't blushing quite so violently. I then had a short and intense conversation with myself inside my head, which I can best transcribe as follows:

Me: Why am I acting like this? He's a man. I work with them all the time.

My subconscious: Well, let's see. He's tall, dark, handsome and charming, incredibly intelligent, nice to kids, defended you without being patronising, obviously thought the whole German translation thing in the meeting was funny, not dumb, oh, and you've been concentrating on your career so hard these past few months that you haven't gotten laid since God knows when. Oh. Did I mention the 'tall, dark, handsome and charming' thing?

Me: Yes. Isn't he supposed to act like a complete fruitcake sometimes? He's got a reputation for being weird… I'm probably just reading the whole thing wrong.

That's probably just what lesser minds who don't understand what he's doing say about him, to make themselves feel better about the fact that he gets results when no-one else can. He can obviously act like a normal person when he needs to. And let's face it, you wouldn't care about the weird if you COULD actually kiss him.

Me: This isn't helping me stay professional.

Because you're in denial. Sing it with me: "Bobby Goren is hot, Bobby Goren is hot, I'd like to…"

Me: Okay, okay! No more denial. Now what?

Think of it as a chance to practise the professional skill of working with someone you have the hots for. Move beyond denial to acceptance. Just accept you're feeling this way, smile at him when he speaks to you, get on with it instead of worrying about being professional, and sneak the occasional lustful glance at him when he's not looking.

Me: Yeah, well, if it's anything like the professional skill of staying focussed in meetings, this is going to take a while to master. And how is that last bit supposed to help me do this?

It's not. I'm just being realistic.

My musings were interrupted by the man himself, calling the five of us together. I scurried over to join the others by Timkowski's chair. Goren was holding the radio.

"That was Whitefield. He's on his way here; got halfway down the road and managed to get a radio signal, and got through to the base. They were sending people up here anyway – the Coast Guard got through to them. All the available planes and choppers are being used on rescues elsewhere, so they're sending medical personnel and supplies in Humvees. The storm caused a huge amount of flooding and damage elsewhere in the area, plus I suspect they didn't think they stood much of a chance of saving anyone here. Whitefield says they're making good time – driving even faster than Ms Tovitz here." I blushed. "They can see the building already; should be here in about twenty minutes to half an hour." He paused and looked round at us. "That means that now is the best time to go back down to the beach and check for any more survivors."

Our faces fell. I glanced at the window, not relishing the thought of venturing out into the dark and cold again. I could see his point, though. The storm was definitely dying down now, and whilst night was beginning to fall, we'd still have maybe an hour's light left, although we'd need to take flashlights to be on the safe side. I shivered at the thought of the treacherous path down the cliff. Then I reminded myself what it would feel like to be washed ashore onto the rocky beach, soaking wet and having survived a plane crash, probably having spent hours wondering if I was about to die, and told myself to stop being a wuss.

Davenport spoke up. "One of us with medical training needs to stay here until Whitefield gets here – I'd suggest it should be me." Goren nodded, then paused, thinking out loud. "I'd prefer if we could go down as a four – search in pairs, avoid the risk of one of us getting split up from the others."

Smith surprised us all. "I'll come – Timkowski and I can search together." He attempted a conciliatory expression which didn't quite come off, but I supposed at least he was making an effort. Davenport looked sceptical at this, but replied calmly, "Okay, in that case, why don't you guys take the spare radio and call me if you find anyone who needs treatment? I can come down and help out once Whitefield gets here, they won't need me if they've got real medics… Tell you what, as soon as they get here I'll bring a medic down here, I can guide them down the path in case you find any living ones."

Goren nodded decisively. "Okay, let's do this before it gets darker."

Once more we kitted ourselves out with the First Aid supplies. Timkowski tucked the radio handset into his jacket, and the four of us headed out and down the darkening path. The storm had abated somewhat, but there were still occasional howls of wind and twigs and branches strewn everywhere. I surprised myself by wishing firmly that Davenport were with us instead of Smith; he, I and Goren made an oddly effective team. Still, at least Smith had shut up about keeping the listening post a secret. He had a calculating expression on his face, but that seemed to be his default setting.

I jogged down beside Timkowski, who was singing to himself in a surprisingly pleasant deep voice. I caught a snatch of the words: "We should be making hay… but we're dead from the waist down, like Califor-na-yay… we're dead from the waist down, we are sleeping on our feet…" He caught my eye and smiled ruefully.

"Not so long before we can go home," I ventured, ever the peacemaker.

"Yeah, well, I said I'd pick my wife up at the airport tomorrow midday, she's coming back from visiting family in England. No way I'll make that now. It's her birthday tomorrow, and she is not gonna be happy."

I grinned and risked a joke. "Is that why you're singing that song?"

He snickered. "Hah! Nah, she's a good shot, I married an ex-cop. I'm gonna be dead from the neck up." He raised his voice. "Goren, you really think we'll find anyone? Is it even worth us going down there?"

Goren paused, and turned round to face us. "I really think we'll always wonder if we could have saved anyone if we don't." He turned round and jogged away, following Smith down the path. Timkowski grimaced, and we kept moving. He was now humming a different tune, and I smiled as I recognised it: "I Fought The Law, And The Law Won".

As I reached the bottom, I found Goren waiting for me. Smith had gone on ahead, and Timkowski scurried off to join him. Goren and I set off walking in the opposite direction. Before long my eye was caught by a bobbing, bright shape in the water. I pointed. "Goren, over there?"

He followed my line of sight, and stilled suddenly. I felt a lurch in the pit of my stomach.

"Stay there." He jogged away from me and splashed into the water

In retrospect, I really should have taken his advice.

I followed him into the water, intending to help out, and one minute later I was wishing I hadn't, as my legs gave way and I nearly fell full length into the sea, Goren just managing to catch me in time.

The shape was actually three shapes. Three people. Three people whose faces were contorted in agony, eyes bulging, limbs askew. Three people who'd escaped the plane, only to miss the liferaft and drown in the sea, in the churning waves that must have swamped them, breaking over their faces again and again until they lost consciousness…. I could feel my vision tunnelling, my hearing going, my legs turning weak… I hung on to Goren's arm for dear life. Suddenly, something bumped against my leg and I screamed raggedly. It was another dead body wearing a lifejacket, floating face-up, the way lifejackets are supposed to do, to keep your nose and mouth above water…

Suddenly, Goren tipped my head up to face his and stared me straight in the eyes. He pointed at the beach. "Go and sit on that rock. Put your head in between your knees and breath slowly and deeply."

I nodded weakly.

"This man's lucky, he's still alive. Unconscious, but alive. His lifejacket saved him. I can help him, but I need you to go and sit down."

I staggered off and sat on the rock as I'd been told, rocking backwards and forwards and trying not to think about what it must have been like for them. I took some deep breaths and tried to be calm, to remind myself that I translated horrible things every so often, conversations between the worst criminals in Europe, and that death was going to be part of my world if I was really serious about getting away from the translation game and into the decision-making side of intelligence work. I repeated over and over in my head: "We saved people. We couldn't have saved them. They weren't in the raft. We did what we could. We saved people."

From somewhere nearby, Goren yelled. "TIMKOWSKI!" After five minutes, Timkowski appeared from behind some nearby rocks and trudged across to us. I was vaguely aware of Goren telling him about the injured man, and the CIA man dragging him across the beach over to the flat rock near the start of the cliff path, putting him in the recovery position whilst Goren stayed with me. Fifteen minutes later, he'd returned and I could vaguely hear him trying to put a call up to the building. I overheard Timkowksi saying "Huh. That's odd, they're not answering."

"Maybe they're away from the radio for a few minutes… keep trying, they'll hear it eventually." I glanced up to see Goren checking his watch. "They must have arrived by now."

"He said he'd set off as soon as Whitefield got here…"

There was a sudden crackle from the radio. It was Davenport's voice. "Goren, are you guys alright? Why aren't you answering? Anyway, Whitefield's here and I'm coming down there with two medics to look for you guys. See you. Over."

Goren & Timkowski tried several times to get through to him, but with no success. Something was obviously wrong with the radio… Still, Davenport was definitely on his way with help. That should have made me feel better. It didn't. I was vaguely aware of Timkowski saying he'd go find Smith, and trudging off into the gloom, yelling for his colleague. Goren and I stayed sat on the rock for quite some time, his hand still stroking my back. Eventually, I took some deep breaths and felt more steady.

"I'm sorry," I forced myself to say. "You probably think I'm an idiot, some sort of useless female…"

"No. No, I don't think that. Rookie cops throw up and pass out at crime scenes all the time. Nothing prepares you for the sight of a dead body. You're doing well so far."

"You don't seem too bothered."

He snorted. "I see this kind of thing every week." He fell silent and turned away from me. "Where are the other two… we need to be getting back."

I stood up, somewhat unsteadily, and forced myself to stare out across the water. Goren was surveying the beach, looking for Smith and Timkowski, who seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth. Where the hell were they? We began to walk along the beach towards the start of the path, looking around and occasionally yelling. Goren was looking faintly worried, murmuring under his breath that we needed to go back up to the building soon. Suddenly, something caught my eye and I paused. In the sea in front of us I could see a dark shape, bobbing in the surf. I was determined to prove that I could handle this, if only to myself.

"Hold on, I'll just check this one," I called to Goren, darting past him and splashing into the water, suppressing a scream at the cold. I waded towards the shape, which became clearer as I got nearer and turned out to be a man, floating face down, wearing oddly familiar pale clothing. I grabbed his shoulder and tried to heave him over onto his front, hoping desperately that I'd caught him in time, that he'd just been stunned recently and that if I got his face out of the water he might revive…

…and then I screamed so loudly that Goren covered the distance between us in a few seconds, moving astonishingly quickly for someone his size wading through chilly water.

It was Timkowski, and his throat had been cut.