Elena lunged across the stainless-steel counter.
She grabbed the heavy black Bakelite handset wired to Register 2’s auxiliary intercom and jammed the thumb-switch down.
CLICK-HISS.
A sharp burst of 4,200 Hz carrier static crackled through the rotunda’s ceiling speakers, slicing through the low, electric hum of the legionnaires’ batons.
“Sammy!” Elena shouted into the mouthpiece. Her voice was pure trauma-ward authority, the voice that froze panicking orderlies in their tracks.
“Sammy Chen, pick up! This is Charge Nurse Rostova on Floor 88!”
Two seconds of cold wire hiss followed.
Inside the glass cylinder at the center of the hall, Clara leaned against the pane, her breath fogging the leaded surface. She tapped her knuckles against the glass: one-four-four. Ten minutes of air remained in the chamber. The needle of the vacuum gauge was creeping into the red.
