by Rick Raphael
"Kelly," Ben called on helmet radio, "open up and send out the litters."
A second later, the dispensary ramp flipped open and the three auto-litters came rolling out, homing on the beacon signal in the patrolman's helmet. Kelly waved and turned back to the still form on the surgery table.
h
"Might as well start close and work our way out,"
Ben said, indicating the nearest of the smashed and smoldering vehicles.
The two troopers plodded through the muck with litters trailing behind like trained elephants. The closest vehicle was turned on its side. Clay clambered up and peered into the smoking interior. The charred bodies of two men lay huddled against the far side. Clay eased back to the ground. "Two dead," he said, "none alive."
They threaded their way around a pile of smashed pieces, kicking some out of the way to make room for the litters. Next was a tangled heap of what appeared to be two or possibly three cars. It was virtually impossible to distinguish the parts of one from the others. The topmost vehicle held the smashed and burned bodies of three more men. Ben squeezed between chunks of crumpled paneling to peer into the second car. The mangled body of a man was slumped over in the seat and there was another form beneath him. Ben squirmed farther into the window and reached down to tug at the body of the man. The body slid sideways to reveal a woman lying twisted and bleeding on the seat. Ben stretched and found her arm and let it trail through his fingers until he had her wrist. There was the faint but distinct feeling of a pulse.
He worked his way back out and surveyed the wreckage. "There's a woman alive in there, kid," he said. "Now the trick is to get her out."
Clay turned and started back for the carrier. "I'll get Beulah and we'll lift that top car."
"Never make it through this mess," Ben said. "Hold on.."
Overhead, the police choppers were hovering over the scene, directing the stream of emergency vehicles arriving on the scene.
"Patrol Sergeant Martin to any chopper," Ben called. "Need an airlift immediately. We have an injured party under a pile of junk."
"This is Chopper 97," came the answer, "where are you, Martin?"
Ben pulled his flashlight from a pocket, flipped the red color shield down and aimed it in the general direction of the several hovering aircraft. One of them cut away and headed towards the two patrolmen.
"We have you in sight, Martin."
The craft came to halt above them and in the same instant, a magnaclamp descended on a cable. Clay scrambled to the top of the pile and grabbed the dangling clamp and guided it to one end of the smashed vehicle.
"Nine Seven to Four Four, get over here, Charlie, I need another lift on this one," the chopper pilot radioed. Another 'copter swung towards them and a second cable and clamp came down. Clay slapped it against the opposite end of the car and then slid down off the pile.
"Haul away," Ben called.
Both 'copters took up the slack in their cables and then with a slow increase of power, began to rise. There was the sound of tortured and torn metal being ripped apart and then the smashed car was swinging free, dangling beneath the two choppers.
"Set it down in the first clear spot you've got," Ben ordered, "and then stand by, please. We may need you again."
Clay had jumped up onto the side of the overturned bottom vehicle and was tugging desperately at the smashed door. The two 'copters backed away to a nearby open spot on the roadway and then lowered the wrecked car to the ground. They cut their cable power and the clamps swung free as the choppers moved back over the troopers.
"I can't get this door open," Clay yelled. He looked up at the clamp dangling over his head. "Give me another clamp, Chopper," he called, "then see if you can give this door a couple of jerks to swing it open. But, don't pull too hard or you may drop the car on the woman."
He secured the clamp to the smashed door panel and then backed off and grabbed a jutting piece of metal for a handhold. "O.K.," he called, "try it."
The winch operator on the hovering aircraft gave a tentative fast lift. The car shivered but the door remained stuck. "Put a little slack in the cable," Ben directed, "and then take it up with a snap."
The cable drooped, then suddenly snapped upwards and the door ripped open and off. Clay made a dive for the opening before the cable had stopped swinging. The broken door made a slow arc and slammed the trooper in the back of the head as he started to kneel by the open door. Clay hurtled headfirst into the smashed vehicle. The broken door swung once more across the metallic surface of the vehicle, raising a sheet of sparks. The next instant, the vehicle was enveloped in flames.
"FOAM IT," Ben screamed to the chopper as he leaped for the burning vehicle. A torrent of foam descended from the two choppers and in the split second before the chemical blanket dropped on him, Ben caught a glimpse of a leaping figure, jumping up into the foam and towards the burning car.
The fire was out almost as quickly as it had started. Ben fought his way to the top of the car, pawing the blinding foam from his face. As he reached down to grope for Clay's form, the body of the patrolman was shoved up through the gaping door. Ben caught his partner under the arms and dragged him down from the vehicle. He laid him on one of the auto-litters and turned back to the car. The torn body of the woman was rising to meet him. A foam-covered face appeared at the opening.
"Any more?" asked Kevin Shellwood.
Ambulance crews continued to probe among the shattered pieces of vehicles spread for hundreds of yards across and up and down the blue lane and parts of the yellow. Overhead, police 'copters lifted wreckage from the roadway and deposited it in tragic heaps along the service strips bordering the police lanes. Other choppers lifted litters and swung them over to the huge hospital carriers where surgical teams worked to save the pitiful handful of survivors.
In the dispensary of Car 56, Trooper Clay Ferguson was stretched out on one of the bunks, nursing a nasty lump on his head and a queasy gut. Kelly bad flushed his stomach to clear the residue of foam that he had taken into his system before Shellwood pulled him out of the wreck.
The woman victim was pulled out after Clay had been transferred to a hospital carrier. The first victim, he of the flaming clothing, was dead. His body lay in the morgue cabinet of the same hospital carrier that had taken the woman.
Most of the debris had been cleared from the roadway behind Car 56 and Ben slid into his control seat and kicked Beulah to life. The big cruiser slowly pivoted and then rolled back towards the police lane. Ben eased the car over the rounded curbing and parked. The galley door slid open and Kevin Shellwood, dressed in a set of Clay's spare uniform coveralls, stepped into the cab.
"Feel much better after a shower and change of clothes," he said. He sat down on the jump seat and eyed Ben innocently. "Got a cigarette, sarge?"
Ben fished out a pack and the two lit up silently. The trooper studied the man for a few moments. "That was a fool thing to do," Ben said. "I thought I ordered you to stay in this cab under any circumstances."
"Oh, you did indeed," Shellwood agreed amiably. "Never did take well to orders, though. As you well know." He paused and took a deep drag on the cigarette.
"As a matter of fact," he continued seriously, "I was sick unto death at what I saw. I just couldn't sit here and not do something. Not built that way. So I followed you. Good thing I did, eh?"
Ben sighed and snubbed out the cigarette. "I can't deny that. But I'm afraid that it isn't going to do you a bit of good on your other charges."
Shellwood smiled.
"Didn't expect it would with you, sergeant. Once a cop, always a cop, I've heard it said. Might put in a good word for me, though. Could mean an extra candy bar on visiting days, hm-m-m?"
"I just can't seem to get it through your head that you're in serious trouble, young fellow," Ben emphasized. "I'll put your actions on my report, and I'll see that it's noted by the proper authorities. But I warn you that it probably won't have one bit of effect on the court's action on your ot
her charges. Apart from that, let me say that I'm personally grateful for your assistance and I'm sure that trooper Ferguson is equally grateful. But as for the rest of it, I dunno." Ben shook his head sadly.
Shellwood smiled good-naturedly. "And I can't seem to get it through your head, sergeant, that Kevin Shell-wood just doesn't get into serious trouble. Hate to disillusion you and all that, but it just doesn't happen. And when we get to your bastille or wherever you're taking me, I don't want you to feel badly about what will happen then. Don't you worry about me. There are things that can be accomplished that are beyond the wildest imaginations of a simple policeman."
"Let me ask you one question," Ben parried. "Have you ever tangled seriously with the Thruway Authority before?"
Shellwood shook his head. "Not seriously, sergeant, just that little thing about improper lane crossing. Got that minor on my tag simply because it wasn't worth quibbling about."
Ben nodded. "Then let me give you some of your own advice. Don't feel too badly about what does happen when we get to Los Angeles Barracks. And no hard feelings, either."
The trooper swung around into his control seat. He glanced at Shellwood on the jump seat. "I still have your word on remaining in custody?"
The young man just nodded, not saying a word. "Kelly," Ben called on intercom, "how's our patient?" "A miracle has occurred, Ben," she replied.
"You mean that door knocked some sense into him," Ben quipped.
"There's even a limit to miracles," Kelly said. "Nothing could knock any sense into this dumb Canuck. No, what I
meant is that for the first time in his life, his stomach
is doing handsprings at the thought of food. Otherwise, he's the same wet-eared juvenile he was an hour ago."
Ben could hear some mumbling in the background that suddenly was shut off. "Lie down lunkhead," he heard Kelly order, "or I'll give you an enema."
Ben chortled and shoved Beulah into gear. The car moved slowly into the police lane, threading its way through the parked wreckers and ambulances and hospital vehicles.
"L.A. Control this is Car 56," Ben reported, "en route your headquarters."
"Affirmative Car 56," L.A. Control came back "and thanks for the fast assist."
"Glad we were handy," Ben replied. "How bad is the tally?"
"Not good," the L.A. controller replied. "Right now it stands at thirty-two dead, fifteen injured. We still haven't finished digging everything out. But you're clear to head home."
Ben signed off and took a final look at the scene of the mass pileup. Television news camped in 'copters,
hovering around the outskirts of the area, shooting with
long lenses. All traffic was shut down in both the blue and yellow lanes and the green and white were jammed
hull to hull and moving at a snail's pace past the scene of the disaster. It was now past seven in the morning and the real business rush was on. But there were going to be thousands of Angelenos late for work this morning.
As it did in San Francisco, NAT 99 soared high above and around the outskirts of Los Angeles—or at least, what purported to be the outskirts of the metropolis that spread from the ocean eastwards for one hundred twenty-five miles in one direction and was eighty-five miles across from north to south. Near the heart of the city. a ramp angled down to the right. Above it was a sign reading "Los Angeles Barracks,"
Ben turned onto the ramp and Beulah glided down in a steady spiral, passing levels of other Thruways and then dropping lower to the levels of the state freeways. The ramp straightened out and then arrowed into a tunnel. Car 56 plunged into the brilliantly lighted tunnel and down into the bowels of the city. The tunnel leveled off for another mile, and then climbed back up.
As suddenly as they had entered the tunnel, they emerged into a huge cavern. Other portals dotted the wall they had just come out from and police cruisers and service vehicles were moving in both directions from the portals. Above each smaller tunnel was a lighted panel designating which thruway it led to. Ben slowed Beulah to thirty-five miles an hour and joined the stream of police vehicles moving towards the Los Angeles Barracks parking area. Another mile and they emerged into daylight and the vast terminal of the Western Division of NorCom. Ben eased Beulah into the parking area, following the hand signals of a techmech waving him into position. The tech made a chopping motion and Ben stopped the cruiser. With a sigh, he reached over and thumbed the master switch. For the first time since leaving Fairbanks, Alaska, ten days earlier, Beulah's complete power plant went silent.
"How's the patient, now," Ben called out to Kelly on intercom.
"A better man than you'll ever be," Clay answered in person as he walked into the cab. A neat surgical patch covered a small shaved spot on the back of his head.
Ben surveyed his grinning partner. "You look O.K. How do you feel?"
"Let's just say that Kelly's touch when she's ministering to your wounds is considerably lighter than when she's looking after me," Clay replied. "I don't see how that woman ever got to be a doctor. A vet maybe; a doctor, never."
"In that case," Ben said, "I'll let you turn Beulah over to the tender care of the grease monkeys and I'll take Mr. Shellwood to headquarters. See you at the BQO in about an hour."
Shellwood arose and Clay stuck out his hand. "I'm sorry you're in a jam, Mr. Shellwood," Clay said, "and I really mean that. I want you to know I'm real happy you decided to take a walk when you did." The two men shook hands.
"Glad to be of service, trooper," Shellwood replied. "Come see me on visiting days." He glanced at Ben. "Shall we go, sergeant?"
Ben climbed from the bucket seat and reached into a compartment beside the instrument panel. He pulled out the plastic bag containing Shellwood's possessions. Then leading the man by the arm, he climbed out of Car 56 and headed for Patrol headquarters.
As Ben opened the door to the headquarters building, a battery of cameras began clicking. In the far corner of the big Patrol dispatch room, teevee crews aimed their portable transmitters at the door to catch the patrol sergeant and Shellwood as they entered. Ben stood aside and motioned to the younger man to enter the room. As Shellwood entered, three men in business suits stepped forward. The older of the trio was unmistakably Shell-wood's father. He grasped the young man's hand.
"Kevin," Quentin Shellwood inquired, "are you all right? What the devil is this all about?"
"Hi, dad," Kevin smiled, "I'm fine." He turned to the other two men and nodded. "Mr. Quinn, Mr. Hackmore, good to see the legal eagles on the job."
"I'm really fine, dad," Shellwood turned back to his father, "just a little misunderstanding. Nothing to get excited about."
The newsmen were crowding in, recorders and mikes thrust forward. "Do you have a statement, Mr. Shell-wood?" one asked. Quinn, the older of the two attorneys, held up his hand to the newsmen.
"Mr. Shellwood has no statement to make at this time," he said. "We'll have a prepared statement for the press in a little while."
Ben indicated to Kevin to go to the dispatch desk where the officer on .duty was making hand signals. The dispatcher leaned across the counter.
"Captain Fisher is waiting for you in his office, Ben. He wants you and your prisoner in there immediately."
Ben nodded and led Kevin Shellwood through the counter door towards the inner offices. The elder Shell-wood and the two attorneys followed. Ben knocked on the Patrol captain's door and then entered. As the five men entered the office, Fisher, wearing the street dress blue uniform of the Patrol, arose from behind his desk. He leaned over and shook hands with Ben.
"Glad to see you, sergeant, and my personal commendation for your work in the pileup. I just got the report a few minutes ago." The captain straightened up and his face went stony as he eyed the younger Shellwood. "Is this your prisoner, sergeant?" he asked coldly, surveying the blue Patrol coveralls Kevin was wearing.
"Yes, sir," Ben replied. "Mr. Shellwood rendered some valuable assistance during the disaster and in the course o
f it, ruined his personal clothing. We loaned him the coveralls until he could obtain proper clothing."
"I see," Fisher said. "I assume you have a full report in writing?"
Ben laid his citation book and report sheets on the captain's desk. Fisher picked up the citation and read it carefully, then read the narrative report.
"I have called you all into my office," Fisher said when he finished reading, "to confirm for myself the charges brought against the prisoner and to make it clear that despite any so-called social status the prisoner may have . . ."
"Just a moment, captain," the elder Shellwood broke in, "my son is no common criminal and he is no prisoner, as you so grossly put it."
Fisher glared at the father. "Mr. Shellwood, you are in my office only at my invitation and not through any legal requirement. But for your information, your son is charged with a series of crimes—and I repeat, crimes—that, according to the international statutes of the Thruway Authority, are most serious in nature.
"Your son is, and will remain, a prisoner in custody of this agency until such time as he appears before a court of proper Thruway jurisdiction and is either admitted to bond, acquitted or sentenced. I hope this is quite clear."
"How dare you speak . . . " Shellwood spluttered, his face darkening in anger.
Quinn laid a hand on the father's arm. "Calm down, Quentin. You're only making things tougher for the boy. Now just be quiet and let us handle this affair." He smiled at Fisher. "We apologize for the interruption, captain, please continue."
"As I was saying," Fisher went on, "despite any protestations to the contrary, the prisoner will be processed in the same manner as any other person in custody of this Authority and charged with the same crimes by an officer of this agency. Now, if there are no further questions, Sergeant Martin will you please take your prisoner to the detention facilities and book him?"
Quinn asked, "May I have a moment to speak with Mr. Shellwood please, captain?"