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couldn’t see anything. Couldn’t open his eyes. Something was digging painfully into his face and it took a moment to realise that the pain was caused by broken pieces of his flight helmet visor. He wrenched them clear and pulled his helmet off, ignoring the warm, sticky sensation of bleeding.
    Now he could see surprisingly well. Red light, like a fiery dawn, surrounded them. The Perspex of the helicopter was cracked and a horribly bent rotor blade was directly in front, framed by a large hole. A spray of water suddenly came through the hole and soaked him, cold enough to wake him up completely. Were they in the sea? No. He could feel something solid beneath themand the crumpled chassis of the chopper was rocking. Grinding on something hard.
    The rocks. They must be caught on rocks, probably close to dry land. A wave could lift the wreckage and put it at the mercy of the ocean at any moment and that wouldn’t be a good thing. The spray had barely stopped but Jet had released his harness and his attention was focussed on the crumpled body of his pilot.
    ‘Becca.
Can you hear me?’
    The groan that came in response was the best sound Jet had ever heard.
    She was alive.
    Stripping off the gloves he’d been wearing, Jet moved to wedge himself between what was left of the Perspex bubble and a flight control panel that was bent and broken. A couple of faint, flickering lights caught his attention as he moved. Hopefully, one of them might be the emergency locator beacon activating. The other one was on the radio and, on the off chance it was still operational, Jet pulled on the curly microphone cord to wrench it clear of the central controls it had fallen into.
    ‘Mayday, mayday,’ he sent. ‘Flight zero zero three down.’
    Even if they got the message, they wouldn’t be sending another rescue chopper. Flying into volcanic ash was impossible. The only hope of assistance would come from the ship already diverted towards Tokolamu and, what had they said about its ETA?
    Thirty-six hours. A day and a half.
    They were on their own.
    Apart from another group of survivors on this islandwho still needed help, of course. Jet depressed the button on the side of the microphone again.
    ‘Abandoning aircraft,’ he said decisively. If this transmission was getting through, at least nobody would waste time trying to search the crash site later. ‘We’ll head for the settlement.’
    A faint crackle emanated from the radio then another spray of salt water came through the windscreen and the electronic equipment fizzed and died. He had wasted no more than about thirty seconds on what was probably a useless attempt to communicate with the outside world but it still felt like way too long.
    Becca needed him.
    Dropping the microphone, Jet used his hands and eyes to try and examine her. These weren’t the worst conditions under which he’d done a primary survey on an injured person but they were nudging the top spot. He could feel the wash of the waves around the helicopter chassis and getting sucked out to sea and then smashed onto rocks again would be pretty much as dangerous as being under enemy fire.
    Airway. Breathing. Circulation.
    Becca groaned more loudly and mumbled some incomprehensible words but the attempt to speak was a good indication that her airway was clear. Breathing? Jet put his hands around her ribs, oblivious of the fact that he was cupping her breasts as he concentrated on what was happening below her ribs. Were her lungs filling well? The same amount on each side? Was her breathing too fast or too slow? God, she was so small.
    Fragile.
    Her breathing seemed OK. Jet ran his hands over the rest of her body. Feeling her abdomen to see if itelicited a pained response. Checking her legs for the deformity of a broken bone or the wetness of major bleeding. Amazingly, he found nothing. Until he checked her arms, anyway. When he felt her left arm below the elbow, Becca cried out and opened her eyes.
    ‘It’s OK,’ he told