Berg examined the map again. He was pretty sure they were by “Lag Pile.” It was a massive mound that sort of looked like a skyscraper after twenty million years of wear. On the back side of it from their position was a circle and some dotted lines that stopped without being cut off. An unmapped tunnel.
“That way,” Berg said, pointing up the mound to the left. “Watch your step. We’re looking for a tunnel opening.”
“I don’t see a tunnel opening,” Himes said, sliding down the hill on his butt and elbow wheels. “Just another damned canyon.”
“This is relatively close to the main base,” Berg pointed out. In fact it was in someone else’s search sector. “And there ought to be a tunnel by where the slope increases.”
“Great,” Himes said, using the slope and the powerful arms of the suit to get himself upright. “What do we do now?”
“Sweep left and right,” Berg said, looking up and down the lip of the canyon. “Look for anything out of the ordinary.”
Smith headed to the left, then paused.
“I’ve got what might be a path,” he said, swiveling his sensor pods, then activating the targeting laser. “Look at those rocks.”
“Balanced,” Berg said, walking over to the rock pile. Three large boulders had been stacked, but one of them clearly could be moved back and forth easily. He swiveled it up and to the side and found a narrow opening to a tunnel that was partially choked by rubble. “Hello? Anyone home?” he boomed through the external speakers.
“We can’t get down that,” Himes said, looking at the opening.
“We can get down,” Berg pointed out. “We just roll in on the belly wheels. Getting out would be the interesting part. Open up my back pack. I’ve got some rope in there.”
“You carry rope?” Himes asked, surprised.
“Think Boy Scout,” Berg replied.
Himes opened up the cargo box of the sergeant’s suit and pulled out a long spool of what looked like twine. There was more than the spool of twine in there. There was a CamelBak of water, a small spare air bottle, three MRE packages, a first aid kit, a small repair kit and a thermal blanket. Then there was the pair of pistols — .577 magnums with worn grips — and a low-slung combat holster.
“Uh, Berg, that’s not going to hold much,” Himes said with a snort, pulling out the spool of twine.
“You’d be surprised,” Berg replied, taking the spool. There was a clip on the end and he pulled out a length and handed it to Himes. “It’s nanotube mono. You could lift the Blade with it. Clip that to the butt shackle. Smith, take the spool.”
By running the line around their suits and claws, the two could belay the team leader down into the hole. Getting him out would be a matter of pulling really hard.
“You sure about this?” Himes asked.
“Nope,” Berg admitted, getting down on his elbow and knee wheels, then flattening onto his belly wheels. “But it’s the best idea I’ve got.”
He shimmied into the opening, half using his elbow wheels but mostly his belly, then started to slide down the rubble.
The tunnel opened out beyond the initial rubble wall, but not enough for a nine-foot-tall suit to stand up or turn around. He could, however, continue to slide.
“How’s it going?” Himes asked.
“So far, so good,” Berg replied. “I’m coming up to a bend. I’ll lose commo there. If I need to be pulled out I’ll give three tugs. If I need to be pulled out fast, they’ll be fast.”
“Got it,” Himes replied.
As soon as he turned the corner he could see the survivor. Maybe survivor. A small nest had been created at the point where the tunnel was choked by a fall. Plastic had been set up to seal in a small area and there was a pile of ruined sleeping bags, a couple of ration cases, some water bottles and, yes, two large air canisters. Fortunately, the latter were on the far wall.
Berg used his wheels to slide to a stop before he hit the plastic and peered through it. He wasn’t sure how to determine if the survivor was alive. All he could see was a face mask and he couldn’t tell if he or she was breathing. But then he nearly kicked himself and switched to thermal. As soon as he did he could see that the person was still warm. He also could now tell sex: Female.
He slid forward a bit farther and got a look at the readouts on the air tanks. Both of the main tanks were expended. He couldn’t see what hers looked like; it was covered by the ripped sleeping bags. Mostly ripped. He could see where some stitching had been done. Actually, he realized that he could probably just pull her out in the bag.
He breached the plastic, got a grip on the repaired sleeping bag, and pulled. The woman slid out of her cocoon without anything coming apart. He could tell, now, that she was still breathing but he still couldn’t see the canister attached to her breath mask.
He pulled three times on the mono molecular rope and felt himself starting to slide back up the tunnel. The woman in the bag wriggled and moaned but otherwise didn’t react.
“Himes,” he said as soon as he passed the bend. “Get on the horn. I need a corpsman, right damned now. I got a survivor but she’s unconscious and just about out of air. And I think she’s hypothermic.”
“Get her up here,” Dr. Chet said, pulling out a pair of bandage scissors and gesturing to the surgery table. “Status?”
He was in a full quarantine suit. The secure surgery was in the isolation wing of the “research and survival pack” attached to the top of the ship. SOP was that anyone exposed to a potentially dangerous environment remained in the isolation wing for at least thirty days. The survivor was still stuffed in a quarantine stretcher, a closed system with waldoes and glove holes for any aid that needed to be given. Most of the systems, including IV inserters and defibrillator, were handled by a robotic autodoc.
“BP eighty over twenty,” the corpsman replied, sliding the survivor out of the stretcher and onto the table expertly. “Respiration twenty. Temperature ninety-two. Heartbeat one forty and thready. Pupils have light response.”
“Hypothermic,” the massive doctor said musingly. “Not too low. Get me a warming bag. I don’t understand the unconsciousness.”
He used the scissors to remove the woman’s filthy clothing and paused as her arm was exposed. It was covered by injection tracks.
“Smart lady,” he muttered. “But getting you off that is not going to be pleasant.”
“Sir?” the corpsman asked, pulling out a large paper-cloth bag. The survivor would be popped into the bag and then the bag filled with hot air from a simple blower. It was a quick and safe way to raise body temperature.
“She was injecting herself with morphine at a guess,” Dr. Chet replied. “It kept her resource use minimal and if her air gave out while she was drugged, well, she would never know. But she’s going to be severely addicted. With the minimal facilities I have here, it’s going to be unpleasant coming off of it. Get her in the bag and warmed up…”
“How long will she be out?” the CO asked.
Dr. Chet didn’t fit any better in the wardroom than he did in his surgery. But he didn’t fit any worse.
“Unknown,” he replied, trying to get his legs into a reasonable position under the low table. “I don’t know what dosage she used on herself last. No more than an hour, though. Her temperature is coming up nicely. Malnourished, dehydrated, filthy, but she’s going to survive.”
“The best guess is that she’s Ms. Debra Cutler,” the XO added. “A doctoral candidate. She was mentioned in the logs. No ID on her but she matches the picture we have from the personnel list.”