“Is somebody leaving?” A woman’s voice from the other side of the galley.
“This is Carla Bjorkholm. Anne Klimt and I are going to our berths to get our cold weather gear now,” Carla called out. “I’m sure Deb is working hard to get the heat and electricity back on, but I don’t see any reason not to hope for the best and prepare for the worst. If no one panics and we keep things orderly, we can all feel our way to our rooms and be ready for anything.”
The suggestion prompted a swell of talk as the idea was debated at twenty tables. Anne tugged Carla close and said into her ear, “Come on. Let’s keep moving or there’ll be a big crush to get out.”
So much for keeping things orderly . But Anne was probably right. She could already hear the scrape of chairs being pushed away from tables. They scampered for the door, their free hands reaching out to find a wall or the counter near the entrance that would guide them to the door and then to the hall.
She hissed as she bruised her hand against something cold and metallic on the wall—the fire extinguisher case. Just as she brought her scraped knuckles to her mouth, however, a thick body blundered into her, cross-checking her to the ground. He grunted at the impact, but she hit the ground hard, barely managing to break her fall with her injured hand. Anne’s hand was yanked away.
“Carla?” she heard her friend call, but then the bumbling man who’d run into her also kicked her in the shin. Crying out with pain, she reached down to grab her throbbing leg.
No doubt the accident had been just that, accidental, but the sudden, unexpected pain—perhaps because it was heaped onto her worry about the loss of heat—enraged her, causing her to lash out angrily with her other foot. The man bellowed and fell beside her with a crash that shook the floor. Shouts filled the air. Someone brought out a small flashlight, but the tiny beam only added to the chaos as more people, confused and acting as a single organism, began piling toward the exit.
Ignoring the pain in her hand, Carla pushed against the floor, trying to gain her feet. But the position left her head down and vulnerable. A rising knee caught her in the side of the face and her world exploded with a parade of brilliant colors before turning as dark as the South Pole winter.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“Dismal. Disastrous. A complete failure.” Keene turned away from the panoramic view. “Does that summarize it succinctly?”
“I think we get the picture.” Hanratty had his hands folded across his stomach, rocking his office chair from side to side in small swings. “Have a seat and we’ll take this one step at a time.”
“I’ll stand, thanks.”
Hanratty masked his irritation and turned to the rest of the room. Gathered with him in his inner chamber were Deb, Taylor, Keene, and Ayres. It was the day after the heat and electricity failures that had paralyzed Shackleton’s crew and Hanratty had summoned his top team members to do a postmortem. Normally, the station’s doctor wouldn’t have been part of that group, but Ayres had pushed his way in when he saw the others gathering.
Of everyone in the room, Hanratty was the only one who seemed comfortable sitting. Taylor stood broom-straight in the corner, his wiry forearms crossed and a blank expression on his face. Keene slouched by the window with his hands in his pockets, remaining irritatingly in Hanratty’s peripheral vision. Which is no accident , Hanratty thought. Deb leaned against a bookcase, looking unsure whether she should adopt her boss’s easy confidence, Taylor’s readiness, or Keene’s world-weary posture. Her eyes flicked over the others, assessing. Ayres had his hands on the back of one of the chairs for support, watching Hanratty.
“So the psychological makeup of the crew is hovering somewhere between severely damaged and irretrievably spooked. We’ll work on solutions to that in a second.” Hanratty swung his chair. “Ron, would you give us a rundown on the medical situation?”
Ayres’s expression was sour. “It could’ve been worse, which isn’t saying much. One sprained wrist, a black eye, and about three dozen contusions, goose eggs, and cuts. One anxiety-induced asthma attack and several people reporting GI problems probably brought on by stress and latent T3. Carla Bjorkholm was our worst injury.”
“What happened to her?”
“She sustained a concussion that put her out for about fifteen minutes, based on what Anne and Colin said when they found her. She was just coming to when the lights finally came back on.”
“We did the best we could, Ron.”
“What good are backup systems if they don’t work, Jack?”
“We’re looking into it. The reason for the failures isn’t clear yet,” Hanratty said. He scratched something on a sheet of paper.
“Well, I’d love to know how you’re going to find out without our electrician.”