CHAPTER ONE

      HE COULD smell the danger.

      Mountain rescues could be dangerous enough but they never smelt like this. Of thick dust and heat. Of unwashed and exhausted people. He could smell the sudden fear that kicked in when their hazardous environment reminded them of precisely where they were. Sometimes he could smell the incongruous aroma of foodstuffs or perfume. And sometimes he could smell blood and the dreadful stench of death.

      Dr Ross Turnball would have picked a mountain rescue in preference any time. Clean, cold air or the relatively safe smell of wood smoke. The scent of the carpet of decomposing vegetation that might be released by the tread of heavy boots or the far less pleasant aroma of a long-dead possum. He would be hearing the moan of a southerly storm brewing or the rattle of scree dislodged by a careless step to go cascading down a barren slope. Or perhaps he would be listening to the welcome chop of helicopter rotors as back-up arrived.

      He wouldn’t be listening to the alien sound of people trying to communicate through dust masks against an almost constant background of crackling radio transmissions, the staccato intrusion of pneumatic tools or the dull roar of heavy machinery shifting rubble. He wouldn’t see the kind of bewildered fear and pain on the faces of the victims they found either. These people hadn’t chosen to enter an environment with inherent risks. They had had no protective clothing and absolutely no warning of imminent disaster.

      Yes, he would have picked a mountain rescue in preference but there was no way he would choose to be anywhere else at this point in time. These people needed him and Ross knew he was precisely where he was supposed to be.

      Not that any of them had anticipated being in a situation like this so soon. Or of ever being in a situation of this magnitude. At 15.38 hours yesterday, on a sunny Friday afternoon, a massive explosion had occurred in Westgate, a popular suburban shopping mall in Christchurch. Its unprecedented level of destruction made it the largest multi-casualty incident ever seen in the small country of New Zealand, and had resulted in the first full-scale deployment of personnel trained in urban search and rescue.

      Including the most recent graduates of the USAR training course held in Christchurch, Dr Turnball among them. Given his medical qualifications, his presence on the course had been welcomed. His years of experience as part of a mountain search and rescue team had put him right at the top of the class but Ross had been eager to add to his knowledge base. He’d wanted to add skills that would enable him to respond to any kind of emergency situation. To reinforce the quiet confidence he already possessed that he could assist or, if need be, lead the kind of people who were willing to risk their own safety to save the lives of others.

      That risk was starting to feel familiar enough to make the fear of personal danger seem almost irrelevant. Ross turned to speak to a man standing to one side and well below his own position.

      ‘If you hold a rope I can tie it round my waist and lean over far enough to reach her.’

      ‘I could climb