Hell, it hurt too damn much when she thought about Dya Simonov and Mark Talbot. It had been her decision to fly out to Tyson Station without armored marines. And they’d walked right into the Unreconciled’s trap.

You have to trust your instincts, she told herself. Get to second-guessing every decision, and you’ll be paralyzed.

She watched as Makarov eased them around, approaching along the Pod’s long axis so the thrusters blasted down on either side of the tube-shaped structure. Below them, water churned out in circular waves as the downdraft intensified.

“I’m headed aft,” she told Makarov. “I’ll be off as fast as I can.”

“Please don’t do this.”

“See you in a day or two.”

“Roger that.”

She grabbed her bag and passed through the hatch into the cargo bay. In the rear, she took a position at the head of the ramp. Felt the faintest of shudders as the A-7 slowed, stopped, and hovered. The ramp whined, the back of it dropping down. As it fell, a sliver of daylight widened around the edges and the deafening roar made her wince. Kalico started down the ramp, felt the blast tugging at her pantlegs. She descended into a thunderous gale, bent low, and staggered into the vortex. The step down from the ramp wasn’t more than ten centimeters, and she was on the Pod’s landing pad.

A blast of hot air sent her staggering, almost blown off her feet. She caught her footing an instant before being blasted sideways off the pad to tumble down the Pod’s curved side. If the fall didn’t kill her, hitting the water from three stories would. Another gust blew her a couple of feet to the left. Crouched as she was, only dropping and bracing herself with her hand saved her from being tossed off her feet. Panic froze her. Another buffet left her weaving, even bent double as she was. At any instant, the combination of blasting air was going to blow her, tumbling, over the edge.

God, fucking damn! This is a mistake.

Through squinted eyes, she made out the roof hatch, grabbed at her blast-savaged hair, and struggled forward at a low crouch. It was like trying to run while big old Step Allenovich was punching her with roundhouse blows from each side. All of her concentration went into keeping her feet while the oscillating blasts of hot air beat her back and forth. Then came a blow from the rear, sent her tumbling.

Somehow, she kept hold of her bag, scrambled on hands and knees.

All right, Kalico. Not your brightest choice ever.

But she made it. Grabbed the hatch, swung it open. Leaped inside . . . and it took all of her strength and weight to shove the thing closed. Heart hammering, breath coming in gasps, she let the adrenaline drain from her quivering muscles. She’d be damned if she’d ever do that again.