“Avert your eyes from the front gate!” Julian Vance roared.
His voice cut through the shriek of grinding steel like an alarm klaxon.
Elena Rostova didn’t hesitate. She threw her back against the side wall of Clara’s wheelchair bay, pressing her temple flat against the cold aluminum paneling.
Her left hand held her Littmann stethoscope firmly against Clara’s chest.
“How are her lungs handling the drop?” Julian called from the cab partition.
“Her respiration is shallow, eighteen breaths a minute!” Elena shouted back. “Her pulse is jumping between seventy and eighty!”
“Can she handle the vertical g-forces?” Mac asked without turning his head.
“Her neck is supported by the trauma brace!” Elena replied. “As long as we don’t hit bottom at terminal velocity, her cervical spine will hold!”
