(2/6) MOCKINGJAY PART I 'THE ASHES': READ IT ONLINE - LEELO EN INGLÉS ONLINE

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6

The shock of hearing Haymitch"s voice yesterday, of learning that he was not only functional but had some

measure of control over my life again, enraged me. I left the studio directly and refused to acknowledge his

comments from the booth today. Even so, I knew immediately he was right about my performance.

It took the whole of this morning for him to convince the others of my limitations. That I can"t pull it off. I can"t

stand in a television studio wearing a costume and makeup in a cloud of fake smoke and rally the districts to

victory. It"s amazing, really, how long I have survived the cameras. The credit for that, of course, goes to Peeta.

Alone, I can"t be the Mockingjay.

We gather around the huge table in Command. Coin and her people. Plutarch, Fulvia, and my prep team. A

group from 12 that includes Haymitch and Gale, but also a few others I can"t explain, like Leevy and Greasy Sae.

At the last minute, Finnick wheels Beetee in, accompanied by Dalton, the cattle expert from 10. I suppose that

Coin has assembled this strange assortment of people as witnesses to my failure.

However, it"s Haymitch who welcomes everyone, and by his words I understand that they have come at his

personal invitation. This is the first time we"ve been in a room together since I clawed him. I avoid looking at him

directly, but I catch a glimpse of his reflection in one of the shiny control consoles along the wall. He looks slightly

yellow and has lost a lot of weight, giving him a shrunken appearance. For a second, I"m afraid he"s dying. I have

to remind myself that I don"t care.

The first thing Haymitch does is to show the footage we"ve just shot. I seem to have reached some new low

under Plutarch and Fulvia"s guidance. Both my voice and body have a jerky, disjointed quality, like a puppet

being manipulated by unseen forces.

"All right," Haymitch says when it"s over. "Would anyone like to argue that this is of use to us in winning the

war?" No one does. "That saves time. So, let"s all be quiet for a minute. I want everyone to think of one incident

where Katniss Everdeen genuinely moved you. Not where you were jealous of her hairstyle, or her dress went up

in flames or she made a halfway decent shot with an arrow. Not where Peeta was making you like her. I want to

hear one moment where she made you feel something real."

Quiet stretches out and I"m beginning to think it will never end, when Leevy speaks up. "When she

volunteered to take Prim"s place at the reaping. Because I"m sure she thought she was going to die."

"Good. Excellent example," says Haymitch. He takes a purple marker and writes on a notepad.

"Volunteered for sister at reaping." Haymitch looks around the table. "Somebody else."

I"m surprised that the next speaker is Boggs, who I think of as a muscular robot that does Coin"s bidding.

"When she sang the song. While the little girl died." Somewhere in my head an image surfaces of Boggs with a

young boy perched up on his hip. In the dining hall, I think. Maybe he"s not a robot after all.

"Who didn"t get choked up at that, right?" says Haymitch, writing it down.

"I cried when she drugged Peeta so she could go get him medicine and when she kissed him good-bye!"

blurts out Octavia. Then she covers her mouth, like she"s sure this was a bad mistake.

But Haymitch only nods. "Oh, yeah. Drugs Peeta to save his life. Very nice."

The moments begin to come thick and fast and in no particular order. When I took Rue on as an ally.

Extended my hand to Chaff on interview night. Tried to carry Mags. And again and again when I held out those

berries that meant different things to different people. Love for Peeta. Refusal to give in under impossible odds.

Defiance of the Capitol"s inhumanity.

Haymitch holds up the notepad. "So, the question is, what do all of these have in common?"

"They were Katniss"s," says Gale quietly. "No one told her what to do or say."

"Unscripted, yes!" says Beetee. He reaches over and pats my hand. "So we should just leave you alone,

right?"P eople laugh. I even smile a little.

"Well, that"s all very nice but not very helpful," says Fulvia peevishly. "Unfortunately, her opportunities for

being wonderful are rather limited here in Thirteen. So unless you"re suggesting we toss her into the middle of

combat--"

"That"s exactly what I"m suggesting," says Haymitch. "Put her out in the field and just keep the cameras

rolling."

"But people think she"s pregnant," Gale points out.

"We"ll spread the word that she lost the baby from the electrical shock in the arena," Plutarch replies. "Very

sad. Very unfortunate."

The idea of sending me into combat is controversial. But Haymitch has a pretty tight case. If I perform well

only in real-life circumstances, then into them I should go. "Every time we coach her or give her lines, the best we

can hope for is okay. It has to come from her. That"s what people are responding to."

"Even if we"re careful, we can"t guarantee her safety," says Boggs. "She"ll be a target for every--"

"I want to go," I break in. "I"m no help to the rebels here."

"And if you"re killed?" asks Coin.

"Make sure you get some footage. You can use that, anyway," I answer.

"Fine," says Coin. "But let"s take it one step at a time. Find the least dangerous situation that can evoke

some spontaneity in you." She walks around Command, studying the illuminated district maps that show the

ongoing troop positions in the war. "Take her into Eight this afternoon. There was heavy bombing this morning,

but the raid seems to have run its course. I want her armed with a squad of bodyguards. Camera crew on the

ground. Haymitch, you"ll be airborne and in contact with her. Let"s see what happens there. Does anyone have

any other comments?"

"Wash her face," says Dalton. Everyone turns to him. "She"s still a girl and you made her look thirty-five.

Feels wrong. Like something the Capitol would do."

As Coin adjourns the meeting, Haymitch asks her if he can speak to me privately. The others leave except

for Gale, who lingers uncertainly by my side. "What are you worried about?" Haymitch asks him. "I"m the one who

needs the bodyguard."

"It"s okay," I tell Gale, and he goes. Then there"s just the hum of the instruments, the purr of the ventilation

system.

Haymitch takes the seat across from me. "We"re going to have to work together again. So, go ahead. Just

say it."

I think of the snarling, cruel exchange back on the hovercraft. The bitterness that followed. But all I say is "I

can"t believe you didn"t rescue Peeta."

"I know," he replies.

There"s a sense of incompleteness. And not because he hasn"t apologized. But because we were a team.

We had a deal to keep Peeta safe. A drunken, unrealistic deal made in the dark of night, but a deal just the

same. And in my heart of hearts, I know we both failed.

"Now you say it," I tell him.

"I can"t believe you let him out of your sight that night," says Haymitch.

I nod. That"s it. "I play it over and over in my head. What I could have done to keep him by my side without

breaking the alliance. But nothing comes to me."

"You didn"t have a choice. And even if I could"ve made Plutarch stay and rescue him that night, the whole

hovercraft would"ve gone down. We barely got out as it was." I finally meet Haymitch"s eyes. Seam eyes. Gray

and deep and ringed with the circles of sleepless nights. "He"s not dead yet, Katniss."

"We"re still in the game." I try to say this with optimism, but my voice cracks.

"Still in. And I"m still your mentor." Haymitch points his marker at me. "When you"re on the ground,

remember I"m airborne. I"ll have the better view, so do what I tell you."

"We"ll see," I answer.

I return to the Remake Room and watch the streaks of makeup disappear down the drain as I scrub my

face clean. The person in the mirror looks ragged, with her uneven skin and tired eyes, but she looks like me. I

rip the armband off, revealing the ugly scar from the tracker. There. That looks like me, too.

Since I"ll be in a combat zone, Beetee helps me with armor Cinna designed. A helmet of some interwoven

metal that fits close to my head. The material"s supple, like fabric, and can be drawn back like a hood in case I

don"t want it up full-time. A vest to reinforce the protection over my vital organs. A small white earpiece that

attaches to my collar by a wire. Beetee secures a mask to my belt that I don"t have to wear unless there"s a gas

attack. "If you see anyone dropping for reasons you can"t explain, put it on immediately," he says. Finally, he

straps a sheath divided into three cylinders of arrows to my back. "Just remember: Right side, fire. Left side,

explosive. Center, regular. You shouldn"t need them, but better safe than sorry."

explosive. Center, regular. You shouldn"t need them, but better safe than sorry."

Boggs shows up to escort me down to the Airborne Division. Just as the elevator arrives, Finnick appears

in a state of agitation. "Katniss, they won"t let me go! I told them I"m fine, but they won"t even let me ride in the

hovercraft!"

I take in Finnick--his bare legs showing between his hospital gown and slippers, his tangle of hair, the halfknotted

rope twisted around his fingers, the wild look in his eyes--and know any plea on my part will be useless.

Even I don"t think it"s a good idea to bring him. So I smack my hand on my forehead and say, "Oh, I forgot. It"s this

stupid concussion. I was supposed to tell you to report to Beetee in Special Weaponry. He"s designed a new

trident for you."

At the word trident, it"s as if the old Finnick surfaces. "Really? What"s it do?"

"I don"t know. But if it"s anything like my bow and arrows, you"re going to love it," I say. "You"ll need to train

with it, though."

"Right. Of course. I guess I better get down there," he says.

"Finnick?" I say. "Maybe some pants?"

He looks down at his legs as if noticing his outfit for the first time. Then he whips off his hospital gown,

leaving him in just his underwear. "Why? Do you find this"--he strikes a ridiculously provocative pose--

"distracting?"

I can"t help laughing because it"s funny, and it"s extra funny because it makes Boggs look so uncomfortable,

and I"m happy because Finnick actually sounds like the guy I met at the Quarter Quell.

"I"m only human, Odair." I get in before the elevator doors close. "Sorry," I say to Boggs.

"Don"t be. I thought you...handled that well," he says. "Better than my having to arrest him, anyway."

"Yeah," I say. I sneak a sidelong glance at him. He"s probably in his mid-forties, with close-cropped gray

hair and blue eyes. Incredible posture. He"s spoken out twice today in ways that make me think he would rather

be friends than enemies. Maybe I should give him a chance. But he just seems so in step with Coin....

There"s a series of loud clicks. The elevator comes to a slight pause and then begins to move laterally to

the left. "It goes sideways?" I ask.

"Yes. There"s a whole network of elevator paths under Thirteen," he answers. "This one lies just above the

transport spoke to the fifth airlift platform. It"s taking us to the Hangar."

The Hangar. The dungeons. Special Defense. Somewhere food is grown. Power generated. Air and water

purified. "Thirteen is even larger than I thought."

"Can"t take credit for much of it," says Boggs. "We basically inherited the place. It"s been all we can do to

keep it running."

The clicks resume. We drop down again briefly--just a couple of levels--and the doors open on the Hangar.

"Oh," I let out involuntarily at the sight of the fleet. Row after row of different kinds of hovercraft. "Did you

inherit these, too?"

"Some we manufactured. Some were part of the Capitol"s air force. They"ve been updated, of course,"

says Boggs.

I feel that twinge of hatred against 13 again. "So, you had all this, and you left the rest of the districts

defenseless against the Capitol."

"It"s not that simple," he shoots back. "We were in no position to launch a counterattack until recently. We

could barely stay alive. After we"d overthrown and executed the Capitol"s people, only a handful of us even knew

how to pilot. We could"ve nuked them with missiles, yes. But there"s always the larger question: If we engage in

that type of war with the Capitol, would there be any human life left?"

"That sounds like what Peeta said. And you all called him a traitor," I counter.

"Because he called for a cease-fire," says Boggs. "You"ll notice neither side has launched nuclear

weapons. We"re working it out the old-fashioned way. Over here, Soldier Everdeen." He indicates one of the

smaller hovercraft.

I mount the stairs and find it packed with the television crew and equipment. Everyone else is dressed in

13"s dark gray military jumpsuits, even Haymitch, although he seems unhappy about the snugness of his collar.

Fulvia Cardew hustles over and makes a sound of frustration when she sees my clean face. "All that work,

down the drain. I"m not blaming you, Katniss. It"s just that very few people are born with camera-ready faces. Like

him." She snags Gale, who"s in a conversation with Plutarch, and spins him toward us. "Isn"t he handsome?"

Gale does look striking in the uniform, I guess. But the question just embarrasses us both, given our history.

I"m trying to think of a witty comeback, when Boggs says brusquely, "Well, don"t expect us to be too impressed.

We just saw Finnick Odair in his underwear." I decide to go ahead and like Boggs.

There"s a warning of the upcoming takeoff and I strap myself into a seat next to Gale, facing off with

Haymitch and Plutarch. We glide through a maze of tunnels that opens out onto a platform. Some sort of elevator

device lifts the craft slowly up through the levels. All at once we"re outside in a large field surrounded by woods,

then we rise off the platform and become wrapped in clouds.

Now that the flurry of activity leading up to this mission is over, I realize I have no idea what I"m facing on this

trip to District 8. In fact, I know very little about the actual state of the war. Or what it would take to win it. Or what

would happen if we did.

Plutarch tries to lay it out in simple terms for me. First of all, every district is currently at war with the Capitol

except 2, which has always had a favored relationship with our enemies despite its participation in the Hunger

Games. They get more food and better living conditions. After the Dark Days and the supposed destruction of

13, District 2 became the Capitol"s new center of defense, although it"s publicly presented as the home of the

nation"s stone quarries, in the same way that 13 was known for graphite mining. District 2 not only manufactures

weaponry, it trains and even supplies Peacekeepers.

"You mean...some of the Peacekeepers are born in Two?" I ask. "I thought they all came from the Capitol."

Plutarch nods. "That"s what you"re supposed to think. And some do come from the Capitol. But its

population could never sustain a force that size. Then there"s the problem of recruiting Capitol-raised citizens for

a dull life of deprivation in the districts. A twenty-year commitment to the Peacekeepers, no marriage, no children

allowed. Some buy into it for the honor of the thing, others take it on as an alternative to punishment. For

instance, join the Peacekeepers and your debts are forgiven. Many people are swamped in debt in the Capitol,

but not all of them are fit for military duty. So District Two is where we turn for additional troops. It"s a way for their

people to escape poverty and a life in the quarries. They"re raised with a warrior mind-set. You"ve seen how

eager their children are to volunteer to be tributes."

Cato and Clove. Brutus and Enobaria. I"ve seen their eagerness and their bloodlust, too. "But all the other

districts are on our side?" I ask.

"Yes. Our goal is to take over the districts one by one, ending with District Two, thus cutting off the Capitol"s

supply chain. Then, once it"s weakened, we invade the Capitol itself," says Plutarch. "That will be a whole other

type of challenge. But we"ll cross that bridge when we come to it."

"If we win, who would be in charge of the government?" Gale asks.

"Everyone," Plutarch tells him. "We"re going to form a republic where the people of each district and the

Capitol can elect their own representatives to be their voice in a centralized government. Don"t look so

suspicious; it"s worked before."

"In books," Haymitch mutters.

"In history books," says Plutarch. "And if our ancestors could do it, then we can, too."

Frankly, our ancestors don"t seem much to brag about. I mean, look at the state they left us in, with the wars

and the broken planet. Clearly, they didn"t care about what would happen to the people who came after them. But

this republic idea sounds like an improvement over our current government.

"And if we lose?" I ask.

"If we lose?" Plutarch looks out at the clouds, and an ironic smile twists his lips. "Then I would expect next

year"s Hunger Games to be quite unforgettable. That reminds me." He takes a vial from his vest, shakes a few

deep violet pills into his hand, and holds them out to us. "We named them nightlock in your honor, Katniss. The

rebels can"t afford for any of us to be captured now. But I promise, it will be completely painless."

I take hold of a capsule, unsure of where to put it. Plutarch taps a spot on my shoulder at the front of my left

sleeve. I examine it and find a tiny pocket that both secures and conceals the pill. Even if my hands were tied, I

could lean my head forward and bite it free.

Cinna, it seems, has thought of everything.

7

The hovercraft makes a quick, spiral descent onto a wide road on the outskirts of 8. Almost immediately,

the door opens, the stairs slide into place, and we"re spit out onto the asphalt. The moment the last person

disembarks, the equipment retracts. Then the craft lifts off and vanishes. I"m left with a bodyguard made up of

Gale, Boggs, and two other soldiers. The TV crew consists of a pair of burly Capitol cameramen with heavy

mobile cameras encasing their bodies like insect shells, a woman director named Cressida who has a shaved

head tattooed with green vines, and her assistant, Messalla, a slim young man with several sets of earrings. On

careful observation, I see his tongue has been pierced, too, and he wears a stud with a silver ball the size of a

marble.

Boggs hustles us off the road toward a row of warehouses as a second hovercraft comes in for a landing.

This one brings crates of medical supplies and a crew of six medics--I can tell by their distinctive white outfits.

We all follow Boggs down an alley that runs between two dull gray warehouses. Only the occasional access

ladder to the roof interrupts the scarred metal walls. When we emerge onto the street, it"s like we"ve entered

another world.

The wounded from this morning"s bombing are being brought in. On homemade stretchers, in

wheelbarrows, on carts, slung across shoulders, and clenched tight in arms. Bleeding, limbless, unconscious.

Propelled by desperate people to a warehouse with a sloppily painted H above the doorway. It"s a scene from

my old kitchen, where my mother treated the dying, multiplied by ten, by fifty, by a hundred. I had expected

bombed-out buildings and instead find myself confronted with broken human bodies.

This is where they plan on filming me? I turn to Boggs. "This won"t work," I say. "I won"t be good here."

He must see the panic in my eyes, because he stops a moment and places his hands on my shoulders.

"You will. Just let them see you. That will do more for them than any doctor in the world could."

A woman directing the incoming patients catches sight of us, does a sort of double take, and then strides

over. Her dark brown eyes are puffy with fatigue and she smells of metal and sweat. A bandage around her

throat needed changing about three days ago. The strap of the automatic weapon slung across her back digs

into her neck and she shifts her shoulder to reposition it. With a jerk of her thumb, she orders the medics into the

warehouse. They comply without question.

"This is Commander Paylor of Eight," says Boggs. "Commander, Soldier Katniss Everdeen."

She looks young to be a commander. Early thirties. But there"s an authoritative tone to her voice that

makes you feel her appointment wasn"t arbitrary. Beside her, in my spanking-new outfit, scrubbed and shiny, I

feel like a recently hatched chick, untested and only just learning how to navigate the world.

"Yeah, I know who she is," says Paylor. "You"re alive, then. We weren"t sure." Am I wrong or is there a note

of accusation in her voice?

"I"m still not sure myself," I answer.

"Been in recovery." Boggs taps his head. "Bad concussion." He lowers his voice a moment. "Miscarriage.

But she insisted on coming by to see your wounded."

"Well, we"ve got plenty of those," says Paylor.

"You think this is a good idea?" says Gale, frowning at the hospital. "Assembling your wounded like this?"

I don"t. Any sort of contagious disease would spread through this place like wildfire.

"I think it"s slightly better than leaving them to die," says Paylor.

"That"s not what I meant," Gale tells her.

"Well, currently that"s my other option. But if you come up with a third and get Coin to back it, I"m all ears."

Paylor waves me toward the door. "Come on in, Mockingjay. And by all means, bring your friends."

I glance back at the freak show that is my crew, steel myself, and follow her into the hospital. Some sort of

heavy, industrial curtain hangs the length of the building, forming a sizable corridor. Corpses lie side by side,

curtain brushing their heads, white cloths concealing their faces. "We"ve got a mass grave started a few blocks

west of here, but I can"t spare the manpower to move them yet," says Paylor. She finds a slit in the curtain and

opens it wide.

My fingers wrap around Gale"s wrist. "Do not leave my side," I say under my breath.

"I"m right here," he answers quietly.

I step through the curtain and my senses are assaulted. My first impulse is to cover my nose to block out

the stench of soiled linen, putrefying flesh, and vomit, all ripening in the heat of the warehouse. They"ve propped

open skylights that crisscross the high metal roof, but any air that"s managing to get in can"t make a dent in the

fog below. The thin shafts of sunlight provide the only illumination, and as my eyes adjust, I can make out row

upon row of wounded, in cots, on pallets, on the floor because there are so many to claim the space. The drone

of black flies, the moaning of people in pain, and the sobs of their attending loved ones have combined into a

wrenching chorus.

We have no real hospitals in the districts. We die at home, which at the moment seems a far desirable

alternative to what lies in front of me. Then I remember that many of these people probably lost their homes in the

bombings.

Sweat begins to run down my back, fill my palms. I breathe through my mouth in an attempt to diminish the

smell. Black spots swim across my field of vision, and I think there"s a really good chance I could faint. But then I

catch sight of Paylor, who"s watching me so closely, waiting to see what I am made of, and if any of them have

been right to think they can count on me. So I let go of Gale and force myself to move deeper into the warehouse,

to walk into the narrow strip between two rows of beds.

"Katniss?" a voice croaks out from my left, breaking apart from the general din. "Katniss?" A hand reaches

for me out of the haze. I cling to it for support. Attached to the hand is a young woman with an injured leg. Blood

has seeped through the heavy bandages, which are crawling with flies. Her face reflects her pain, but something

else, too, something that seems completely incongruous with her situation. "Is it really you?"

"Yeah, it"s me," I get out.

Joy. That"s the expression on her face. At the sound of my voice, it brightens, erases the suffering

momentarily.

"You"re alive! We didn"t know. People said you were, but we didn"t know!" she says excitedly.

"I got pretty banged up. But I got better," I say. "Just like you will."

"I"ve got to tell my brother!" The woman struggles to sit up and calls to someone a few beds down. "Eddy!

Eddy! She"s here! It"s Katniss Everdeen!"

A boy, probably about twelve years old, turns to us. Bandages obscure half of his face. The side of his

mouth I can see opens as if to utter an exclamation. I go to him, push his damp brown curls back from his

forehead. Murmur a greeting. He can"t speak, but his one good eye fixes on me with such intensity, as if he"s

trying to memorize every detail of my face.

I hear my name rippling through the hot air, spreading out into the hospital. "Katniss! Katniss Everdeen!"

The sounds of pain and grief begin to recede, to be replaced by words of anticipation. From all sides, voices

beckon me. I begin to move, clasping the hands extended to me, touching the sound parts of those unable to

move their limbs, saying hello, how are you, good to meet you. Nothing of importance, no amazing words of

inspiration. But it doesn"t matter. Boggs is right. It"s the sight of me, alive, that is the inspiration.

Hungry fingers devour me, wanting to feel my flesh. As a stricken man clutches my face between his hands,

I send a silent thank-you to Dalton for suggesting I wash off the makeup. How ridiculous, how perverse I would

feel presenting that painted Capitol mask to these people. The damage, the fatigue, the imperfections. That"s

how they recognize me, why I belong to them.

Despite his controversial interview with Caesar, many ask about Peeta, assure me that they know he was

speaking under duress. I do my best to sound positive about our future, but people are truly devastated when

they learn I"ve lost the baby. I want to come clean and tell one weeping woman that it was all a hoax, a move in

the game, but to present Peeta as a liar now would not help his image. Or mine. Or the cause.

I begin to fully understand the lengths to which people have gone to protect me. What I mean to the rebels.

My ongoing struggle against the Capitol, which has so often felt like a solitary journey, has not been undertaken

alone. I have had thousands upon thousands of people from the districts at my side. I was their Mockingjay long

before I accepted the role.

A new sensation begins to germinate inside me. But it takes until I am standing on a table, waving my final

goodbyes to the hoarse chanting of my name, to define it. Power. I have a kind of power I never knew I

possessed. Snow knew it, as soon as I held out those berries. Plutarch knew when he rescued me from the

arena. And Coin knows now. So much so that she must publicly remind her people that I am not in control.

When we"re outside again, I lean against the warehouse, catching my breath, accepting the canteen of

water from Boggs. "You did great," he says.

Well, I didn"t faint or throw up or run out screaming. Mostly, I just rode the wave of emotion rolling through the

place.

"We got some nice stuff in there," says Cressida. I look at the insect cameramen, perspiration pouring

from under their equipment. Messalla scribbling notes. I had forgotten they were even filming me.

"I didn"t do much, really," I say.

"You have to give yourself some credit for what you"ve done in the past," says Boggs.

What I"ve done in the past? I think of the trail of destruction in my wake--my knees weaken and I slide down

to a sitting position. "That"s a mixed bag."

"Well, you"re not perfect by a long shot. But times being what they are, you"ll have to do," says Boggs.

Gale squats down beside me, shaking his head. "I can"t believe you let all those people touch you. I kept

expecting you to make a break for the door."

"Shut up," I say with a laugh.

"Your mother"s going to be very proud when she sees the footage," he says.

"My mother won"t even notice me. She"ll be too appalled by the conditions in there." I turn to Boggs and

ask, "Is it like this in every district?"

"Yes. Most are under attack. We"re trying to get in aid wherever we can, but it"s not enough." He stops a

minute, distracted by something in his earpiece. I realize I haven"t heard Haymitch"s voice once, and fiddle with

mine, wondering if it"s broken. "We"re to get to the airstrip. Immediately," Boggs says, lifting me to my feet with

one hand. "There"s a problem."

"What kind of problem?" asks Gale.

"Incoming bombers," says Boggs. He reaches behind my neck and yanks Cinna"s helmet up onto my head.

"Let"s move!"

Unsure of what"s going on, I take off running along the front of the warehouse, heading for the alley that

leads to the airstrip. But I don"t sense any immediate threat. The sky"s an empty, cloudless blue. The street"s

clear except for the people hauling the wounded to the hospital. There"s no enemy, no alarm. Then the sirens

begin to wail. Within seconds, a low-flying V-shaped formation of Capitol hoverplanes appears above us, and

the bombs begin to fall. I"m blown off my feet, into the front wall of the warehouse. There"s a searing pain just

above the back of my right knee. Something has struck my back as well, but doesn"t seem to have penetrated

my vest. I try to get up, but Boggs pushes me back down, shielding my body with his own. The ground ripples

under me as bomb after bomb drops fr