Dana Cartwright Mission 1: Stiletto Read Free

deeper into the dark crawlspace.

CHAPTER TWO

    The Ground Control Chief for the Observatory, Rocky Antonio, rushed up from the lower levels with his guys to survey the scene. He still had crumbs in his inch-long grizzled beard from his evening snack cake, and desperately needed another coffee. That was not to be.
    “What a nightmare! Already tainted by do-gooders tramping over and around the wreckage!” He shouted to his team of six to clear away the civilians and even took hold of one man by the scruff of his fancy tuxedo jacket and tugged him clear.
    “There’s a woman under there,” the bozo protested.
    “I don’t care if there’s an ambassador under there. This is a crime scene, jerk-o. You can’t be contaminating evidence.”
    Rocky’s men had gloves and tools and powerful strobes. They had training and procedures. Each wore a hardhat helmet with a camera that snapped stills and recorded videos. His guys dove in. Rocky ordered the robo-droids to clear all gawkers from the LZ.
    “The Ambassador’s alive,” the guy Rocky roughed up insisted. “At least, the woman that crawled under there said so.”
    Rocky slapped a tag on the man’s shoulder, saying, “Tell it to the investigators.” The emergency MAT tag activated. Bozo jerk-o was instantly enveloped in a bubble and vanished. He hadn’t even gotten the guy’s name. Oh, well, the investigators could handle that.  
    Just as Rocky dropped his seven-foot frame to the deck for a peek into the crawlspace, a boot slammed the left side of his head, knocking his hardhat askew. “What the?” He rolled aside.
    “Sorry,” Dana offered, snaking all the way out. “Hey, Rocky.”
    “Doctor Dana, you pulling nights now?” He wondered, rubbing his bruised cheek.
    “Just happened to be on the deck,” she responded. “Sorry about the kick, I thought it was the guy that pulled my hair.”
    “I MAT’d him!” Rocky said it with a chuckle. “What’s the sit?”
    “Not good, Rocky. The Ambassador’s right leg and left arm are pinned by heavy beams. His right hand is bleeding profusely. I need a torch…” She pulled one off Rocky’s utility belt, “…And gloves…are these new?” She nabbed a pair tucked into the pocket of his gray overalls. “And I need a med-evac shuttle on stand by with a C-FIIN.”
    “A coffin?” Rocky scowled. “Is it that bad?”
    “Worse,” Dana snapped, already preparing to dive back under with her acquisitions.  
    “You are one brave lady, Doctor Dana,” Rocky mumbled, peering after her into the tiny crawlspace and using his helmet cam to document the situation. “Nobody else would even dare crawl under there.”
    She called back to him, “I tried to MAT him out, but there’s too much shielding. Try to get the big beams off first, please.”
    The Chief scowled. No two wrecks were alike; and so, no two recoveries were identical. He started slapping shipping tags onto pieces, just as his guys were doing. Every piece, no matter how small, went to a small craft hangar at Capitol City Spaceport, where they would be inspected and logged by the investigators.
    Rocky quickly realized he’d need a heavy toxin team for the fuel rods and touched his voice-badge on his collar. “Ground Control, this is the Chief. Got us a real mess on the upper level. Need four keg lights and a robot-crane,” he told the Star Service Flight Investigation Dispatcher. “Plus a fuel rod disposal team. Oh, and Doctor Cartwright wants a med-evac and a coffin. We need ‘em ASAP - that means pronto, booby. Got a trapped VIP down under.” He always — always — had to clarify a time frame because those jokers at FIT often took their good old time about sending stuff — especially on the night shift.
    “Who’s the VIP?” The dispatcher demanded.
    “Beats me — check the chatter.” Rocky tapped the voice-badge and kept on tagging. He knew full well who was aboard the shuttle; at least, he knew who had clearance for arrival. “Pity the