38. a meteorologist. dutiful. an old pro.
what in the hell were they doing? flying that low.  shooting at a dog.  at us.
winds are going to let up a tad, next couple of hours.
can't condone it myself. but it is a short haul. hour there, hour back.
sixteen.
how much more of this crap is there?
we can't learn anything from this.
what do you want from us?
clark, will you put this mutt with the others where he belong?!
that's what he said. now! move!
pretty nasty out, mac. thirty-five knots.
well, isn't it?
travel-wise, tomorrow may be okay. but after that some pretty nasty northeasterly shit's coming in.
he's in the radio room. got a gun. beat on sanchez something fierce.
holy shit. whatever he's going to do, he ain't fucking around.
all right.  box of dynamite.  box of thermite.  three shotguns.  box of flares.  two flare guns.  thirty cans gasoline.  and a case of alcohol.
dogs don't eat each other.
nowhere.  just straight to the ocean.
gonna get dark soon, too. supposed to be fifty below tonight.
howling in pain. the ice underneath him thrashes violently. childs and macready stand by helplessly, unable to see what has him or what action to take. childs moves closer to help.