In Jerry's earphones it sounded like a strong wind was blowing. It could be the roar of a fleet of rocket planes. Was this the follow-up attack? Why wasn't the order given to man the gun? He groped forward and sprawled over a pile of debris. Where was everybody? Where was Blake? He called out.
"Take it easy, Conlon," a voice said beside him.
"Who—who is it?" Jerry asked, trying to determine the source of the voice.
"It's me—Adam Peterman. You'll be all right after awhile. What'd you do—look into the flash?"
"I saw the flash. Good God! Am I going blind?"
"I once looked at a test blast with a radiation suit on. They still haven't perfected these lenses to shut out all the glare. You'll be like that for a couple of hours."
"How many of the boys did the blast get?"
Here he was, Jerry thought, asking about the six men in the gun crew when there must have been thousands—maybe millions—dead in the city, or what must be left of it.
"There's just three of us alive so far," Peterman said. "The Lieutenant found Kroger, but he'd been crushed. The rest are either buried or blown away."
"How about you? I still can't see where you are," Jerry said. "Are you hurt?"