Free Trinity's Child by William Prochnau Page B

underwear and flight jacket lay in a discordant heap. O'Toole stood woodenly over the box, his hands clasped between his legs, as if to warm them. Halupalai struck him again, his open hand whipsawing back and forth across O'Toole's face.
    “Mama,” O'Toole mouthed through the noise, his hands pulling up quickly, then dropping helplessly at his sides.
    The noise from the B-52's eight jet engines rose in a whining crescendo. Halupalai's mind cartwheeled in a jumble of thoughts. What was the matter with O'Toole? In the dim light he could barely see him. But this was such a routine function—a simple, simultaneous key turn with separate keys, then an elementary working of separate, but simple, combination locks. They had done it scores of times together, quickly and efficiently providing the data that enabled Kazaklis to say no-go and shut down the engines. Now Kazaklis was cursing at them on the radio. But O'Toole wasn't even wearing his helmet and couldn't hear the curses.
    Halupalai hit him again, a high blow above the cheekbone, and the Hawaiian felt a sharp splinter nick at his hand. His vision sharpening, he saw that O'Toole's eyebrows were frozen white in ragged shards of ice. Halupalai winced for the poor bastard. He'd been in the damned shower again. He had to get out of here fast. But no one was getting out of the B-52, which was as cold as the freezing outside air, until the code box was open.
    “Gunner!” Kazaklis rasped into Halupalai's earphones. “Maybe you'd like a Russian heat-seeker up your rosy-red patooie? Get the codes! Now!”
    Briefly Halupalai bristled. “I'm dealing with a block of ice back here, commander,” Halupalai snapped. “O'Toole's soaking wet, frozen like a damned side of beef. I can't get him to move.”
    “Kick him in the balls. Do something. O'Toole, you son of a bitch, if Halupalai doesn't kick you in the balls, I'll come back there and you'll never use those precious jewels of yours again.”
    “He can't hear you, sir. His helmet's off.”
    “Jesus. Hook him up.”
    Halupalai jammed the white helmet over O'Toole's unmoving head and attached the radio joint.
    “O'Toole? Can you hear me, you icon-worshiping Irish potatohead?”
    “Mama,” O'Toole replied.
    “Oh, Jesus wept,” Kazaklis groaned.
    “As well He might,” Moreau added.
    “Shut up, Moreau.”
    “You're the aircraft commander, commander.”
    “And what would you do, copilot?”
    “Go back there and warm him up, one way or the other.”
    “That'll be the day.”
    Moreau unsnapped her shoulder harness, pulled off her helmet, reached in a pocket for the standard red-filtered penlight, and wheeled out of her seat. The tiny beam of light wobbled toward the two dark figures a dozen feet away. Approaching Halupalai, she motioned for his helmet. Then she turned on the immobile pillar of O'Toole.
    “Lieutenant O'Toole,” Moreau snarled, her voice grinding like a penny in a vacuum cleaner. “We are in combat conditions. Give me the key.”
    O'Toole stood mesmerized by the steel-blue eyes glinting out of the soft red halo of Moreau's helmet. His lips began to move wordlessly.
    “The key.” The penny rattled up the vacuum tube.
    “Suh . . . cur . . . uty,” O'Toole mumbled. “Security vi . . . lay . . . shun.”
    “Then do it yourself, lieutenant. Do your duty. Now. Right now.”
    “Mama,” O'Toole reverted.
    “Jesus,” Kazaklis interrupted. “Kick him in the gonads. I'm not kidding, Moreau. Kick him in the balls.”
    Moreau edged closer to O'Toole, slid the helmet visor down so her head was almost fully encased, and placed the penlight on her chin, shining the red rays up inside the visor. Halupalai took a step back at the vision.
    “Give me the key,” Moreau repeated, her voice turned softly singsong.
    O'Toole stared, his eyes widening in fear.
    “Give me the key,” the haunting rhythm of her voice insisted.
    “Angelus mortuorum,” O'Toole murmured.
    “The key, lieutenant,” the words danced.
    He