“Another one down, Cap.” A mechanic covered in grease interrupted Sheridan’s reply. “There’s a police spike strip tangled in the suspension of number four. The axel’s warped… the transmission housing is cracked… hell… I don’t even know how it made it back here. It’s done.”
“A police spike strip?” Captain Sheridan looked the mechanic straight in the eye before turning to address Carl.
“I don’t know, sir. It’s pretty rough out there. Any cops trapped outside the DDC’s aren’t above doing whatever they can to hitch a ride…they get pretty pissed when we don’t stop,” Carl answered.
“Specialist…” Sheridan looked at Pam, addressing her question: “you’re going to continue to make runs until your vehicle is broken down, out of gas, out of ammunition, or the Admiral says we’re pulling out--whichever comes first. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir.” Pam pretended to look over her new requisition orders.
“Get some chow and some rest. You’ve got two hours. Dismissed,” Captain Sheridan ordered. He softened. “There won’t be many more runs after this, and remember…you people are saving lives.”
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