"You've got a bad one at Marker 82," Control said. "A sideswipe in the
white."
"Couldn't be too bad in the white," Ben broke in, thinking of the
one-hundred mile-an-hour limit in the slow lane.
"That's not the problem," Control came back. "One of the sideswiped
vehicles was flipped around and bounded into the green, and that's
where the real mess is. Make it code three."
"Five Six acknowledge," Ben said. "On the way."
He slammed forward on the throttles. The bull horn blared and a second
later, with MSO Kelly Lightfoot snugged in her dispensary cocoon and
both troopers in body cushions, Car 56 lifted a foot from the roadway,
and leaped forward on a turbulent pad of air. It accelerated from one
hundred to two hundred fifty miles an hour.
The great red emergency lights on the bow and stern began to blink and
from the special transmitter in the hull a radio siren wail raced
ahead of the car to be picked up by the emergency receptor antennas
required on all vehicles.
The working part of the patrol had begun.
* * * * *
Conversation died in the speeding car, partly because of the
concentration required by the troopers, secondly because all
transmissions whether intercom or radio, on a code two or three run,
were taped and monitored by Control. In the center of the instrument
panel, an oversized radiodometer was clicking off the mileage marks as
the car passed each milestone. The milestone posts beamed a coded
signal across all five lanes and as each vehicle passed the marker,
the radiodometer clicked up another number.
Car 56 had been at MM 23 when the call came. Now, at better than four
miles a minute, Beulah whipped past MM 45 with ten minutes yet to go
to reach the scene of the accident. Light flurries of wet snow bounced
off the canopy, leaving thin, fast-drying trails of moisture. Although
it was still a few minutes short of 1700 hours, the last of the winter
afternoon light was being lost behind the heavy snow clouds overhead.
Ben turned on the patrol car's dazzling headlight and to the left and
right, Clay could see streaks of white lights from the traffic on the
green and blue lanes on either side of the quarter-mile wide emergency
lane.
The radio filled them in on the movement of other patrol emergency
vehicles being routed to the accident site. Car 82, also assigned to
NAT 26-West, was more than one hundred fifty miles ahead of Beulah.
Pittsburgh Control ordered Eight Two to hold fast to cover anything
else that might come up while Five Six was handling the current
crisis. Eastbound Car 119 was ordered to cut across to the scene to
assist Beulah's crew, and another eastbound patrol vehicle was held in
place to cover for One One Nine.
At mile marker 80, yellow caution lights were flashing on all
westbound lanes, triggered by Philadelphia Control the instant the
word of the crash had been received. Traffic was slowing down and
piling up despite the half-mile wide lanes.
"Philly Control this is Car 56."
"Go ahead Five Six."
"It's piling up in the green and white," Ben said. "Let's divert to
blue on slowdown and seal the yellow."
"Philly Control acknowledged," came the reply.
* * * * *
The flashing amber caution lights on all lanes switched to red. As Ben
began de-acceleration, diagonal red flashing barriers rose out of the
roadway on the green and white lanes at the 85 mile marker and lane
crossing. This channelled all traffic from both lanes to the left and
into the blue lane where the flashing reds now prohibited speeds in
excess of fifty miles an hour around the emergency situation. At the
same time, all crossovers on the ultra high yellow lane were sealed by
barriers to prevent changing of lanes into the over-congested area.
As Car 56's speed dropped back below the two hundred mile an hour mark
the cocoon automatically slid open. Freed from her safety restraints,
Kelly jumped for the rear entrance of the dispensary and cleared the
racking clamps from the six autolitters. That done, she opened another
locker and reached for the mobile first-aid kit. She slid it to the
door entrance on its retractable casters. She slipped on her work
helmet with the built-in transmitter and then sat down on the seat by
the rear door to wait until the car stopped.
Car 56 was now less than two miles from the scene of the crash and
traffic in the green lane to the left was at a standstill. A half mile
farther westward, lights were still moving slowly along the white
lane. Ahead, the troopers could see a faint wisp of smoke rising from
the heaviest congregation of headlights. Both officers had their work
helmets on and Clay had left his seat and descended to the side door,
ready to jump out the minute the car stopped.
Martin saw a clear area in the green lane and swung the car over the
dividing curbing. The big tracks floated the patrol car over the
two-foot high, rounded abutment that divided each speed lane. Snow was
falling faster as the headlight picked out a tangled mass of wreckage
smoldering a hundred feet inside the median separating the green and
white lanes. A crumpled body lay on the pavement twenty feet from the
biggest clump of smashed metal, and other fragments of vehicles were
strung out down the roadway for fifty feet. There was no movement.
NorCon thruway laws were strict and none were more rigidly enforced
than the regulation that no one other than a member of the patrol set
foot outside of their vehicle while on any thruway traffic lane. This
meant not giving any assistance whatsoever to accident victims. The
ruling had been called inhuman, monstrous, unthinkable, and lawmakers
in the three nations of the compact had forced NorCon to revoke the
rule in the early days of the thruways. After speeding cars and cargo
carriers had cut down twice as many do-gooders on foot at accident
scenes than the accidents themselves caused, the law was reinstated.
The lives of the many were more vital than the lives of a few.
Martin halted the patrol vehicle a few feet from the wreckage and
Beulah was still rocking gently on her tracks by the time both Patrol
Trooper Clay Ferguson and MSO Kelly Lightfoot hit the pavement on the
run.
In the cab, Martin called in on the radio. "Car 56 is on scene.
Release blue at Marker 95 and resume speeds all lanes at Marker 95
in--" he paused and looked back at the halted traffic piled up before
the lane had been closed "--seven minutes." He jumped for the steps
and sprinted out of the patrol car in the wake of Ferguson and Kelly.
The team's surgeon was kneeling beside the inert body on the road.
After an ear to the chest, Kelly opened her field kit bag and slapped
an electrode to the victim's temple. The needle on the encephalic
meter in the lid of the kit never flickered. Kelly shut the bag and
hurried with it over to the mass of wreckage. A thin column of black,
oily smoke rose from somewhere near the bottom of the heap. It was
almost impossible to identify at a glance whether the mangled metal
was the remains of one or more cars. Only the absence of track
equipment made it certain that they even had been passenger vehicles.
Clay was carefully climbing up the side of the piled up wrecks to a
window that gaped near the top.
"Work fast, kid," Martin called up. "Something's burning down there
and this whole thing may go up. I'll get this traffic moving."
He turned to face the halted mass of cars and cargo carriers east of
the wreck. He flipped a switch that cut his helmet transmitter into
the remote standard vehicular radio circuit aboard the patrol car.
"Attention, please, all cars in green lane. All cars in the left line
move out now, the next line fall in behind. You are directed to clear
the area immediately. Maintain fifty miles an hour for the next mile.
You may resume desired speeds and change lanes at mile Marker 95. I
repeat, all cars in green lane...." he went over the instructions once
more, relayed through Beulah's transmitter to the standard receivers
on all cars. He was still talking as the traffic began to move.
By the time he turned back to help his teammates, cars were moving in
a steady stream past the huge, red-flashing bulk of the patrol car.
Both Clay and Kelly were lying flat across the smashed, upturned side
of the uppermost car in the pile. Kelly had her field bag open on the
ground and she was reaching down through the smashed window.
"What is it Clay?" Martin called.
The younger officer looked down over his shoulder. "We've got a woman
alive down here but she's wedged in tight. She's hurt pretty badly and
Kelly's trying to slip a hypo into her now. Get the arm out, Ben."
Martin ran back to the patrol car and flipped up a panel on the hull.
He pulled back on one of the several levers recessed into the hull and
the big wrecking crane swung smoothly out of its cradle and over the
wreckage. The end of the crane arm was directly over Ferguson. "Lemme
have the spreaders," Clay called. The arm dipped and from either side
of the tip, a pair of flanges shot out like tusks on an elephant. "Put
'er in neutral," Clay directed. Martin pressed another lever and the
crane now could be moved in any direction by fingertip pulls at its
extremity. Ferguson carefully guided the crane with its projecting
tusks into the smashed orifice of the car window. "O.K., Ben, spread
it."
The crane locked into position and the entire arm split open in a "V"
from its base. Martin pressed steadily on the two levers controlling
each side of the divided arm and the tusks dug into the sides of the
smashed window. There was a steady screeching of tearing and ripping
metal as the crane tore window and frame apart. "Hold it," Ferguson
yelled and then eased himself into the widened hole.
"Ben," Kelly called from her perch atop the wreckage, "litter."
* * * * *
Martin raced to the rear of the patrol car where the sloping ramp
stood open to the lighted dispensary. He snatched at one of the
autolitters and triggered its tiny drive motor. A homing beacon in his
helmet guided the litter as it rolled down the ramp, turned by itself
and rolled across the pavement a foot behind him. It stopped when he
stopped and Ben touched another switch, cutting the homing beacon.
Clay's head appeared out of the hole. "Get it up here, Ben. I can get
her out. And I think there's another one alive still further down."
Martin raised the crane and its ripper bars retracted. The split arms
spewed a pair of cables terminating in magnalocks. The cables dangled
over the ends of the autolitter, caught the lift plates on the litter
and a second later, the cart was swinging beside the smashed window as
Clay and Kelly eased the torn body of a woman out of the wreckage and
onto the litter. As Ben brought the litter back to the pavement, the
column of smoke had thickened. He disconnected the cables and homed
the stretcher back to the patrol car. The hospital cart with its
unconscious victim, rolled smoothly back to the car, up the ramp and
into the dispensary to the surgical table.
Martin climbed up the wreckage beside Kelly. Inside the twisted
interior of the car, the thick smoke all but obscured the bent back of
the younger trooper and his powerful handlight barely penetrated the
gloom. Blood was smeared over almost every surface and the stink of
leaking jet fuel was virtually overpowering. From the depths of the
nightmarish scene came a tortured scream. Kelly reached into a
coverall pocket and produced another sedation hypo. She squirmed
around and started to slip down into the wreckage with Ferguson.
Martin grabbed her arm. "No, Kelly, this thing's ready to blow. Come
on, Clay, get out of there. Now!"
Ferguson continued to pry at the twisted plates below him.
"I said 'get out of there' Ferguson," the senior officer roared. "And
that's an order."
Clay straightened up and put his hands on the edge of the window to
boost himself out. "Ben, there's a guy alive down there. We just can't
leave him."
"Get down from there, Kelly," Martin ordered. "I know that man's down
there just as well as you do, Clay. But we won't be helping him one
damn bit if we get blown to hell and gone right along with him. Now
get outta there and maybe we can pull this thing apart and get to him
before it does blow."
The lanky Canadian eased out of the window and the two troopers moved
back to the patrol car. Kelly was already in her dispensary, working
on the injured woman.
Martin slid into his control seat. "Shut your ramp, Kelly," he called
over the intercom, "I'm going to move around to the other side."
The radio broke in. "Car 119 to Car 56, we're just turning into the
divider. Be there in a minute."
"Snap it up," Ben replied. "We need you in a hurry."
As he maneuvered Beulah around the wreckage he snapped orders to
Ferguson.
"Get the foam nozzles up, just in case, and then stand by on the
crane."
A mile away, they saw the flashing emergency lights of Car 119 as it
raced diagonally across the yellow and blue lanes, whipping with
ponderous ease through the moving traffic.
"Take the south side, 119," Martin called out. "We'll try and pull
this mess apart."
"Affirmative," came the reply. Even before the other patrol vehicle
came to a halt, its crane was swinging out from the side, and the
ganged magnalocks were dangling from their cables.
"O.K., kid," Ben ordered, "hook it."
At the interior crane controls, Clay swung Beulah's crane and cable
mags towards the wreckage. The magnalocks slammed into the metallic
mess with a bang almost at the same instant the locks hit the other
side from Car 119.
Clay eased up the cable slack. "Good," Ben called to both Clay and the
operating trooper in the other car, "now let's pull it ... LOOK OUT!
FOAM ... FOAM ... FOAM," he yelled.
The ugly, deep red fireball from the exploding wreckage was still
growing as Clay slammed down on the fire-control panel. A curtain of
thick chemical foam burst from the poised nozzles atop Beulah's hull
and a split-second later, another stream of foam erupted from the
other patrol car. The dense, oxygen-absorbing retardant blanket
snuffed the fire out in three seconds. The cranes were still secured
to the foam-covered heap of metal. "Never mind the caution," Ben
called out, "get it apart. Fast."
Both crane operators slammed their controls into reverse and with an
ear-splitting screech, the twisted frames of the two vehicles ripped
apart into tumbled heaps of broken metal and plastics. Martin and
Ferguson jumped down the hatch steps and into ankle-deep foam and oil.
They waded and slipped around the front of the car to join the
troopers from the other car.
Ferguson was pawing at the scum-covered foam near the mangled section
of one of the cars. "He should be right about," Clay paused and bent
over, "here." He straightened up as the others gathered around the
scorched and ripped body of a man, half-submerged in the thick foam.
"Kelly," he called over the helmet transmitter, "open your door. We'll
need a couple of sacks."
He trudged to the rear of the patrol car and met the girl standing in
the door with a pair of folded plastic morgue bags in her hands.
Behind her, Clay could see the body of the woman on the surgical
table, an array of tubes and probes leading to plasma drip bottles and
other equipment racked out over the table.
"How is she?"
"Not good," Kelly replied. "Skull fracture, ruptured spleen, broken
ribs and double leg fractures. I've already called for an ambulance."
Ferguson nodded, took the bags from her and waded back through the
foam.
The four troopers worked in the silence of the deserted traffic lane.
A hundred yards away, traffic was moving steadily in the slow white
lane. Three-quarters of a mile to the south, fast and ultra high
traffic sped at its normal pace in the blue and yellow lanes.
Westbound green was still being rerouted into the slower white lane,
around the scene of the accident. It was now twenty-six minutes since
Car 56 had received the accident call. The light snow flurries had
turned to a steady fall of thick wet flakes, melting as they hit on
the warm pavement but beginning to coat the pitiful flotsam of the
accident.
The troopers finished the gruesome task of getting the bodies into the
morgue sacks and laid beside the dispensary ramp for the ambulance to
pick up with the surviving victim. Car 119's MSO had joined Kelly in
Beulah's dispensary to give what help she might. The four patrol
troopers began the grim task of probing the scattered wreckage for
other possible victims, personal possessions and identification. They
were stacking a small pile of hand luggage when the long, low bulk of
the ambulance swung out of the police lane and rolled to a stop.
Longer than the patrol cars but without the non-medical emergency
facilities, the ambulance was in reality a mobile hospital. A full,
scrubbed-up surgical team was waiting in the main operating room even
as the ramps opened and the techs headed for Car 56. The team had been
briefed by radio on the condition of the patient; had read the full
recordings of the diagnostician; and were watching transmitted pulse
and respiration graphs on their own screens while the transfer was
being made.
The two women MSOs had unlocked the surgical table in Beulah's
dispensary and a plastic tent covered not only the table and the
patient, but also the plasma and Regen racks overhead. The entire
table and rig slid down the ramp onto a motor-driven dolly from the
ambulance. Without delay, it wheeled across the open few feet of
pavement into the ambulance and to the surgery room. The techs locked
the table into place in the other vehicle and left the surgery. From a
storage compartment, they wheeled out a fresh patrol dispensary table
and rack and placed it in Kelly's miniature surgery. The dead went
into the morgue aboard the ambulance, the ramp closed and the
ambulance swung around and headed across the traffic lanes to
eastbound NAT-26 and Philadelphia.
Outside, the four troopers had completed the task of collecting what
little information they could from the smashed vehicles.
They returned to their cars and One One Nine's medical-surgical
officer headed back to her own cubby-hole.
[Illustration]
The other patrol car swung into position almost touching Beulah's left
flank. With Ben at the control seat, on command, both cars extended
broad bulldozer blades from their bows. "Let's go," Ben ordered. The
two patrol vehicles moved slowly down the roadway, pushing all of the
scattered scraps and parts onto a single great heap. They backed off,
shifted direction towards the center police lane and began shoving the
debris, foam and snow out of the green lane. At the edge of the police
lane, both cars unshipped cranes and magnalifted the junk over the
divider barrier onto the one-hundred-foot-wide service strip bordering
the police lane. A slow cargo wrecker was already on the way from
Pittsburgh barracks to pick up the wreckage and haul it away. When the
last of the metallic debris had been deposited off the traffic lane,
Martin called Control.
[Illustration]
"Car 56 is clear. NAT 26-west green is clear."
Philly Control acknowledged. Seven miles to the east, the amber
warning lights went dark and the detour barrier at Crossover 85 sank
back into the roadway. Three minutes later, traffic was again flashing
by on green lane past the two halted patrol cars.
"Pitt Control, this is Car 119 clear of accident," the other car
reported.
"Car 119 resume eastbound patrol," came the reply.
The other patrol car pulled away. The two troopers waved at Martin and
Ferguson in Beulah. "See you later and thanks," Ben called out. He
switched to intercom. "Kelly. Any ID on that woman?"
"Not a thing, Ben," she replied. "About forty years old, and she had a
wedding band. She never was conscious, so I can't help you."
Ben nodded and looked over at his partner. "Go get into some dry
clothes, kid," he said, "while I finish the report. Then you can take
it for a while."
Clay nodded and headed back to the crew quarters.
* * * * *
Ben racked his helmet beside his seat and fished out a cigarette. He
reached for an accident report form from the work rack behind his seat
and began writing, glancing up from time to time to gaze thoughtfully
at the scene of the accident. When he had finished, he thumbed the
radio transmitter and called Philly Control. Somewhere in the bloody,
oil and foam covered pile of wreckage were the registration plates for
the two vehicles involved. When the wrecker collected the debris, it
would be machine sifted in Pittsburgh and the plates fed to records
and then relayed to Philadelphia where the identifications could be
added to Ben's report. When he had finished reading his report he
asked, "How's the woman?"
"Still alive, but just barely," Philly Control answered. "Ben, did you
say there were just two vehicles involved?"
"That's all we found," Martin replied.
"And were they both in the green?"
"Yes, why?"
"That's funny," Philly controller replied, "we got the calls as a
sideswipe in white that put one of the cars over into the green. There
should have been a third vehicle."
"That's right," Ben exclaimed. "We were so busy trying to get that gal
out and then making the try for the other man I never even thought to
look for another car. You suppose that guy took off?"
"It's possible," the controller said. "I'm calling a gate filter until
we know for sure. I've got the car number on the driver that reported
the accident. I'll get hold of him and see if he can give us a lead on
the third car. You go ahead with your patrol and I'll let you know
what I find out."
"Affirmative," Ben replied. He eased the patrol car onto the police
lane and turned west once again. Clay reappeared in the cab, dressed
in fresh coveralls. "I'll take it, Ben. You go and clean up now.
Kelly's got a pot of fresh coffee in the galley." Ferguson slid into
his control seat.
A light skiff of snow covered the service strip and the dividers as
Car 56 swung back westward in the red lane. Snow was falling steadily
but melting as it touched the warm ferrophalt pavement in all lanes.
The wet roadways glistened with the lights of hundreds of vehicles.
The chronometer read 1840 hours. Clay pushed the car up to a steady
75, just about apace with the slowest traffic in the white lane. To
the south, densities were much lighter in the blue and yellow lanes
and even the green had thinned out. It would stay moderately light now
for another hour until the dinner stops were over and the night
travelers again rolled onto the thruways.
Kelly was putting frozen steaks into the infra-oven as Ben walked
through to crew quarters. Her coverall sleeves were rolled to the
elbows as she worked and a vagrant strand of copper hair curled over
her forehead. As Martin passed by, he caught a faint whisper of
perfume and he smiled appreciatively.
In the tiny crew quarters, he shut the door to the galley and stripped
out of his wet coveralls and boots. He eyed the shower stall across
the passageway.
"Hey, mother," he yelled to Kelly, "have I got time for a shower
before dinner?"
"Yes, but make it a quickie," she called back.
Five minutes later he stepped into the galley, his dark, crew-cut hair
still damp. Kelly was setting plastic, disposable dishes on the little
swing-down table that doubled as a food bar and work desk. Ben peered
into a simmering pot and sniffed. "Smells good. What's for dinner,
Hiawatha?"
"Nothing fancy. Steak, potatoes, green beans, apple pie and coffee."
Ben's mouth watered. "You know, sometimes I wonder whether one of your
ancestors didn't come out of New England. Your menus always seem to
coincide with my ideas of a perfect meal." He noted the two places set
at the table. Ben glanced out the galley port into the headlight-striped
darkness. Traffic was still light. In the distance, the night sky glowed
with the lights of Chambersburg, north of the thruway.
"We might as well pull up for dinner," he said. "It's pretty slow out
there."
Kelly shoved dishes over and began laying out a third setting. About
half the time on patrol, the crew ate in shifts on the go, with one of
the patrol troopers in the cab at all times. When traffic permitted,
they pulled off to the service strip and ate together. With the
communications system always in service, control stations could reach
them anywhere in the big vehicle.
The sergeant stepped into the cab and tapped Ferguson on the shoulder.
"Dinnertime, Clay. Pull her over and we'll try some of your gracious
living."
"Light the candles and pour the wine," Clay quipped, "I'll be with you
in a second."
Car 56 swung out to the edge of the police lane and slowed down. Clay
eased the car onto the strip and stopped. He checked the radiodometer
and called in. "Pitt Control, this is Car 56 at Marker 158. Dinner is
being served in the dining car to the rear. Please do not disturb."
"Affirmative, Car 56," Pittsburgh Control responded. "Eat heartily, it
may be going out of style." Clay grinned and flipped the radio to
remote and headed for the galley.
* * * * *
Seated around the little table, the trio cut into their steaks. Parked
at the north edge of the police lane, the patrol car was just a few
feet from the green lane divider strip and cars and cargo carriers
flashed by as they ate.
Clay chewed on a sliver of steak and looked at Kelly. "I'd marry you,
Pocahontas, if you'd ever learn to cook steaks like beef instead of
curing them like your ancestral buffalo robes. When are you going to
learn that good beef has to be bloody to be edible?"
The girl glared at him. "If that's what it takes to make it edible,
you're going to be an epicurean delight in just about one second if I
hear another word about my cooking. And that's also the second crack
about my noble ancestors in the past five minutes. I've always
wondered about the surgical techniques my great-great-great grandpop
used when he lifted a paleface's hair. One more word, Clay Ferguson,
and I'll have your scalp flying from Beulah's antenna like a coontail
on a kid's scooter."
Ben bellowed and nearly choked. "Hey, kid," he spluttered at Clay,
"ever notice how the wrong one of her ancestors keeps coming to the
surface? That was the Irish."
Clay polished off the last of his steak and reached for the individual
frozen pies Kelly had put in the oven with the steaks. "Now that's
another point," he said, waving his fork at Kelly. "The Irish lived so
long on potatoes and prayers that when they get a piece of meat on
their menu, they don't know how to do anything but boil it."
"That tears it," the girl exploded. She pushed back from the table and
stood up. "I've cooked the last meal this big, dumb Canuck will ever
get from me. I hope you get chronic indigestion and then come crawling
to me for help. I've got something back there I've been wanting to
dose you with for a long time."
She stormed out of the galley and slammed the door behind her. Ben
grinned at the stunned look on Clay's face. "Now what got her on the
warpath?" Clay asked. Before Ben could answer the radio speaker in the
ceiling came to life.
"Car 56 this is Pitt Control."
Martin reached for the transmit switch beside the galley table. "This
is Five Six, go ahead."
"Relay from Philly Control," the speaker blared. "Reference the
accident at Marker 92 at 1648 hours this date; Philly Control reports
a third vehicle definitely involved."
Ben pulled out a pencil and Clay shoved a message pad across the
table.
"James J. Newhall, address 3409 Glen Cove Drive, New York City,
license number BHT 4591 dash 747 dash 1609, was witness to the initial
impact. He reports that a white over green, late model Travelaire,
with two men in it, sideswiped one of the two vehicles involved in the
fatal accident. The Travelaire did not stop but accelerated after the
impact. Newhall was unable to get the full license number but the
first six units were QABR dash 46 ... rest of numerals unknown."