Free Crashers by Dana Haynes Page B

glass-canopied bird.
    â€œI’m gonna help retrieve the first two bodies but then I’m leaving you on your own,” Tommy said. The paramedics didn’t look happy about that, but nobody spoke. “It’s the same rule as before. Touch as little as possible. Don’t move any of the artifacts unless you have to. If you move something, tie a yellow ribbon around it and try to put it back where it was. Are the moon suits here yet?”
    Someone sang out, “Suits are in the AMR incident commander’s van,over there. We only got five of ’em. They set up a bleach-and-water-decon station back there by the pumper truck.”
    Tommy nodded. He didn’t know what AMR stood for but didn’t ask. The bright white biohazard suits were designed for work in dangerous, uncontrolled field conditions. The gloves were thick and impervious to punctures from needles, broken glass, or nails. The shoes had rubber treads for traction in dirt and mud. They came in two varieties: biosafety levels three and four. For this kind of operation, level three would probably be fine, which meant that Tommy wouldn’t have to schlep an air tank around.
    Now that he’d been inside the front section of the jet, he had no intention of letting anyone else in there without a full suit. He debated making them dig out the level-four suits with the self-contained breathing apparatus, but decided against it. The fuselage was coated with blood and viscera on every surface, but that didn’t mean a high likelihood of aerosol-vectored agents. Getting blood on an open wound is one thing; breathing in a rare virus is a heck of a lot less likely.
    â€œPlease pick five people for the front section; people who’ve worked biohazard before. The rest take the tail section and the grounds. I need two volunteers to help me get the pilots out of the cockpit.”
    No hands went up. The female paramedic with the masculine haircut and multiple earrings said, “Um, have you seen the cockpit, sir?”
    â€œThe name’s Tommy. And yeah, I saw it.” He knew what they meant and they knew he knew. But he was going in anyway. The woman EMT raised her hand. Another hand went up, too.
    â€œThanks. All right. Get your second wind and plenty of liquids. Except you guys getting into the moon suits.”
    Everyone laughed, getting the joke. It was battlefield humor, the kind that keeps soldiers sane.
    Tommy stood, his body aching. “And, folks? Nicely done.”
STAGING AREA, FORTY YARDS AWAY
    Once the cockpit voice recorder was on its way to Portland, Kiki Duvall had little to do but wait. She stood in the field and jammed her hands into the back pockets of her faded, boot-cut jeans. The smell of the crash scene and the voyeuristic, almost hedonistic gawking of the passersby were making her queasy. She couldn’t imagine staring, slack-jawed, at such a sight. Ifit hadn’t been her job, she’d have averted her eyes from the slaughter in the field of grass.
    No,
Kiki quickly corrected herself.
Staring at a crash scene is human nature.
She’d have been as curious as any of the drivers inching past. If she hadn’t been a curious individual, she probably wouldn’t have joined the navy two days after high-school graduation.
    John Roby stepped out of the back of an oversized, multiincident ambulance, big enough for four gurneys stacked two-by-two. He waved her over.
    â€œGet your fancy tape recorder airborne, did we?”
    â€œI’ll get a digitized version for an MP3 player before noon,” Kiki said. “Let’s hope the insides of that baby are in as good condition as the outside.”
    â€œLet’s.” John nodded toward the ambulance. “Someone I’d like you to meet.”
    The back doors were open. A man sat on a stretcher, staring into a plastic coffee cup that he held in both hands, resting on both knees. He didn’t seem injured. For that matter, he didn’t