We're stopping the attack, thought Francine. But she knew the change of tactics did not mean a rejection of violence by Speidel and the others. It was only a move to keep the Russians from taking the lead. She clenched her fists, ignored the fact that she stood exposed—a lone figure in the middle of the concourse. Her senses registered an eerie feeling of unreality.
Machineguns renewed their chatter and then—abrupt silence. But now the last of the Russians had fallen. Pursuing MP's staggered. Several stopped, wrenched at their guns.
Francine's shock gave way to cold rage. She moved forward, slowly at first and then striding. Off to the left someone shouted: "Hey! Lady! Get down!" She ignored the voice.
There on the sand ahead was Zakheim's pitiful crumpled figure. A gritty redness spread around his chest.
Someone ran from between the buildings on her left, waved at her to go back. Hiko! But she continued her purposeful stride, compelled beyond any conscious willing to stop. She saw the red-headed figure on the sand as though she peered down a tunnel.
Part of her mind registered the fact that Hiko stumbled, slowing his running charge to intercept her. He looked like a man clawing his way through water.
Dear Hiko, she thought. I have to get to Zak. Poor foolish Zak. That's what was wrong with him the other day at the conference. He knew about this attack and was afraid.
Something congealed around her feet, spread upward over her ankles, quickly surged over her knees. She could see nothing unusual, but it was as though she had plowed into a pool of molasses. Every step took terrible effort. The molasses pool moved above her hips, her waist.
So that's why Hiko and the MP's are moving so slowly, she thought. It's a defensive weapon from the ship. Must be.
Zakheim's sprawled figure was only three steps away from her now. She wrenched her way through the congealed air, panting with the exertion. Her muscles ached from the effort. She knelt beside Zakheim. Ignoring the blood that stained her skirt she took up one of his outstretched hands, felt for a pulse. Nothing. Now, she recognized the marks on his jacket. They were bullet holes. A machinegun burst had caught him across the chest. He was dead. She thought of the big garrulous red-head, so full of blooming life only minutes before. Poor foolish Zak. She put his hand down gently, shook the tears from her eyes. A terrible rage swelled in her.