"Get the team moving," Sanjay said. "They go as far as the road allows and then on foot if necessary. Tell them what we have. School bus, approximately kilometer fourteen, children on board, adult teacher." He paused. "Tell them the teacher called it in on a hand radio. Tell them the teacher is managing. We need to support that management. Tell them to get there."
He picked up the base station handset again and pressed transmit on the emergency channel. "School bus on Kedarpur gorge road. This is Rudraprayag Disaster Management. We have received your message. We are sending a ground team to your position. Please continue to monitor this frequency. If you can transmit, please tell us your exact position and condition. We are coming to you."
He released transmit and listened. Static. And then — broken, faint, but unmistakably a human voice: "—received — thirty-two children — water rising — please—"
She was still transmitting. Whoever she was, she was still there, still communicating, still working the problem. He held onto that — a woman's voice, clear even through the static, doing the work of keeping thirty-two children alive on a rock shelf in a flood.
"We hear you," he said into the handset. "We are coming. Hold position. We are coming."
Whether she heard him, he could not tell.
