The Ramona has been torn apart from the inside out.
The screens on the bridge are still displaying camera views, and each one shows nothing but fire and smoke and spitting sparks. The bridge itself is locked down tight–its doors barred, the men and women inside all armed with rifles. But that doesn’t stop worry from churning at Okwembu’s gut. It’s all slipping away from her, all of it.
The people on the Ramona should have planned for this. Their setup–spacing their people, never letting the workers get hold of weapons–was clever. But they didn’t think it through. They didn’t think about what would happen if things went wrong. They were stupid. Sloppy. She won’t let that happen again.
Prophet is still standing over the control panel, still in a mute trance. Okwembu looks across the screens, hunting for something she can use. She can’t even tell if there are any workers left on board, and there’s no way to see if the Phalanx gun is hitting its targets. She’s already thinking ahead–should they give chase? Round up any stragglers?
“How many boats do we have left?” she says, not looking away from the screens.
She hears the guards shifting behind her, and lowers her voice to a growl. “How many?”
“One or two,” says a voice. “There should still be some left on the C deck ramp.”
“Go and secure them.”
There’s no movement behind her, and she doesn’t have to turn around to picture the guards–to picture the lazy, slow expressions on their faces. She closes her eyes for a moment, then turns to Prophet. If she can just get him to—
But as she does so, she gets a look out of the window.
There’s a figure on the deck, sprinting across it, running between the line of disused planes. It’s heading right for the Phalanx gun. Okwembu stops, her eyes narrowing. In an instant, the figure is gone, covered by the wing of a plane. But Okwembu saw the dark hair, recognised the body shape.
“Hale,” she whispers.
And then raw terror floods through her.
She doesn’t waste another second. She walks over to Prophet, grabbing him by both shoulders and turning him towards her. “You have to talk to the gun operator.”
He stares at her as if he doesn’t know who she is. “Curtis?” he says, after a long moment.
Okwembu has to work very hard to keep her voice level. She desperately wants Hale alive, but she doesn’t have a choice now. “Yes. Curtis. We need to talk to him.”
Moving slowly, way too slowly, Prophet bends over a bank of screens. There’s a radio, attached to the edge of one of the screens on a coiled cable, and he unhooks it and pulls it towards him.
“Curtis, are you there?” he says.
Okwembu snatches it away from him, hammering the transmit button. “You’ve got a runner heading towards you on the deck. Take her out. Take her out now.”