An annoyed expression flitted across Lab Rat’s face, to be replaced by resignation. He sighed. “Fine, I’ll take it. Thank you.” Lab Rat lifted up the receiver then turned to look at the intelligence specialist. “Thanks.”
The technician got the hint. He turned and left, and heard Lab Rat shut the door behind him.
“Busby,” he said into the phone. A faint hiss of static and occasional burble of noise indicated that the connection was far from solid. “Miss Drake?”
“I can’t talk very loud. They’ll hear me. Write this down — Hill 802. There’s a Macedonian terrorist on top of it who just shot the down a couple of American Tomcats. A Marine went up after him — Murphy, the Marine they got the first round. Something’s wrong… I think Murphy screwed up. Is there anything you can do?”
Lab Rat’s blood ran cold. “Captain Murphy? Are you sure of that?”
“Of course I’m sure,” the voice on the phone snapped back. If he had had any doubts about the identity of the caller, that convinced him. “He’s been held as a POW by the Macedonians. Listen, you have to get somebody out here right away. That Macedonian is going to shoot him.”
“Hill 802? And what’s your cell number?” Lab Rat asked, scribbling the numbers down on the sheet of paper. “Okay, thanks. I’ll see what I can do.” He started to hang up, then thought better of it. “Stay on the line — we’ll keep this connection open. I may need you for a spotter.”
Silence, then she said, “I’m a reporter.” For the first time, he heard a note of uncertainty in her voice.
“You chose sides when you called in this report, Miss Drake,” he said coldly, tired of her equivocations over the years. “Now make up your mind — are you going to let Murphy die to preserve your precious neutrality? Or are you going to finish what you started?”
“Fuck you. Fuck you all.”
Busby waited for the click to indicate that she’d hung up. The line remained open. Finally, he said, “I’ll be right back.”
Hill 802
1105 local (GMT –2)
For a moment, Pamela was tempted to pitch the telephone down the hill. Only two things prevented her. First, the possibility that the noise might alert the two above her. And second, the very faint possibility that Lab Rat might be able to do something. At least he had taken her call — she hadn’t been sure he’d do that.
Angel 301
South of Hill 802
1106 local (GMT –2)
The pilot of the SAR helo listened to the transmission from USS Jefferson and then turned to his copilot. “Did we even bring it?”
“Yep. Seemed like a good idea, being over land and all.”
“And I suppose Chief Rodgers knows how to work that thing.”
The copilot smiled. “Oh, he knows. He’s always wanted to be a combat gunner instead of an air-sea rescue guy.”
Hill 802
1107 local (GMT –2)
Pamela heard a buzz behind her, and swiped at it with her hand. The damn mosquitoes — that’s all she needed on top of everything else. She turned around, intending to catch it and crush it. So maybe she couldn’t get her hands on the Macedonians, at least she could kill their insects.
There was nothing there. Puzzled, she checked around her, then realized what she was hearing. A smile broke out on her face. It was still a long way off, and her hearing was still dulled from the bombing, but she could recognize it now. The helicopter.
Murphy was quicker to recognize the sound than Pamela had been, trained as he was as an aviator to recognize the sound of help on the way. But he kept his eyes fixed on the Macedonian face, willing his own expression not to give anything away. He studied the man’s features for a moment, wondering why he had let him live this long.
The realization, when it came, struck him like a thunderbolt. Something about the man’s features, something a beard had covered earlier. Realization dawned. “I know you,” Murphy said wonderingly. “I’ve seen you before.”
The man shifted the gun slightly, dropping from Murphy’s face to his midsection. “I was waiting to see if you would realize that,” he said calmly. “When you didn’t recognize me immediately, I knew we were still safe.”
“Oh, I certainly do,” Murphy said, now completely convinced. “You’re not a Macedonian at all. I’ve seen you, but not at the POW camp. You’re on General Arkady’s staff.”
Fifteen feet below, Pamela heard Murphy’s voice, the anger hard and cold. The words were almost indistinguishable — almost. She lifted the phone to her mouth. “Are you still there?” she whispered.”
“Commander Busby is arranging for some assistance, ma’am,” a new voice said. “I am Petty Officer Barker.
“Find Busby right now,” Pamela said. “Tell him the terrorist that shot those Tomcats was Greek, not Macedonian. You got that?”
“But the Greeks are—” he began.
“Don’t waste my time,” she snapped. “Just go tell him. And do it now.”
Angel 301
Location
1118 local (GMT -2)
The pilot pointed to the hill looming before them. “Hell of a spot, but that’s got to be it.” Beside him, the copilot studied the chart. “Yeah, that’s it. They’re on the east side.”
“Fine. We’ll come up behind them from the west. It doesn’t look like they’ll be able to get a line of sight on us until we’re right in front of them.”
Line of sight — that was the issue. Stingers wouldn’t go chasing them around the terrain.
The pilot put the bird into a gentle bank around the hill, staying low and keeping the massive rock formation between the helo and the people he was looking for. When they were fifty feet from the formation, hovering unsteadily, he glanced back at the crewman. “You ready?”
Hill 802
1119 local (GMT –2)
Pamela stared at the helicopter hovering so close, joy leaping in her heart. Never had she been so delighted to see an aircraft with the American flag painted on its fuselage. She pointed up, then made a broad sweeping motion, indicating that they should go around the rock. By now, there was no chance that the two men at the summit did not know the helicopter was here. But she hadn’t heard any shots yet, so Murphy might still be alive. The helicopter pivoted smoothly in midair, wobbled for a moment, then moved slowly around hill. As it turned, Pamela saw the open hatch on the right side of the helicopter. Safety-strapped to one side of the hatch, a young man in a flight suit was holding a weapon. He raised his hand in greeting, then dropped it down to the stock and pulled the weapon tight against his shoulder.
A machine gun. Pamela felt the sick dread invade her chest. Just how were they going to distinguish between Murphy and the Greek with a weapon like that?
Maybe they didn’t intend to. And if anyone could understand, it would be a Marine. Sometimes the life of one had to be sacrificed for the lives of many.
She had always known the military had to make those sorts of choices, had agreed in a way. But that had been when it was an abstraction, just a principle.
Not when it was someone she knew. She wasn’t even sure she liked Murphy all that much, but she did know him. And that made all the difference in the world.
The noise decreased slightly as the helicopter disappeared from view around the ancient hill. Well, maybe she couldn’t go straight up, but she certainly could go sideways. As it was, if Murphy were going to die, she bore partial responsibility for making the call to Lab Rat. The least she could do would be to be there to witness it and take pictures.
As the helicopter swung into view, the Greek soldier lunged for Murphy. He grabbed him, tried to hook his arm around Murphy’s neck while still holding on to his weapon. “This is why I kept alive,” he said. “They can’t hit me without hitting you. And I do not think they are willing to take that chance.”
As the Greek moved around his left side and his arm settled around the Marine’s neck, Murphy saw his chance. He stepped back with his left leg, way back around behi
nd the Greek. He bent over slightly, transferred his weight to his back knee, and straightened up abruptly. At the same time, he slammed his left elbow into the Greek’s gut, then followed up with a hammer smash to the groin.
The elbow found its target. The Greek grunted loudly and folded over. The groin shot missed, and Murphy felt his hand hammer into the man’s upper thigh. While not incapacitating, the blow was enough to further distract the Greek. Murphy followed up by pivoting to his left, grabbing the man’s long hair with both hands, and smashing his face down into Murphy’s knee. He felt the nose give way, then teeth scrabbled to take a bite out of his leg.
The weapon — where is the weapon? Murphy nailed the Greek with two more solid shots to the gut, then a hook into the jaw. The man stumbled back, not yet unconscious, but clearly not able to follow all that had happened in a few short moments. He held the weapon loosely in his right hand, the barrel pointing well away from Murphy.
With a roar, Murphy leaped for him, letting his weight do the work to carry the man to the ground. The Greek rolled, still surprisingly agile. Murphy’s pounce hit the Greek’s midsection and all at once they were rolling across the rocky summit. Stones slashed at Murphy’s back as he rolled, and sudden pain slashed through his shoulder.
Murphy kept his grip on the Greek, trying to clamp one arm down around his neck as his free hand fumbled for the weapon. He felt the Greek’s knee rise up between his legs, and turned at the last moment to avoid the blow.
“Both of you cease immediately,” a voice boomed out from the helicopter. “Stop now, or I’ll shoot.”
Murphy was on his back now, with the Greek over him. “You’ll pay for this. Pay, and pay again,” the Greek shouted, aiming a punch at his face. Murphy shoved and turned, barely avoiding the blow, and countered with his own assault.
Gunfire stitched the ground just three feet from them, spraying loose rock shards and dirt all over both of them. Something hard and sharp dug into Murphy’s thigh, but he could barely feel the pain. They were close to the edge now, too close. Murphy backpedaled, trying to get away from the edge of the cliff, but the Greek still had hold of his shoulder. Murphy brought his forearm down in a smashing blow across the other’s arm, and just succeeded in pulling the Greek closer. The iron grip remained unshaken.
“Shut your eyes,” a higher voice ordered them imperiously. “Murphy, shut your eyes now!”
The Greek turn slightly to snarl at the intruder. Murphy, on the other hand, did what any good Marine would do. He shut his eyes.
Even behind his closed eyelids he could see the brilliant flash that lit up the area. The Greek howled, and Murphy felt the iron grip on his shirt loosen. He kicked hard at the Greek’s kneecap, grabbing for the weapon with both hands. For a moment, they played tug-of-war, and Murphy kicked again. Finally, his strength and training made the difference. The weapon came free.
He snugged it up to his shoulder in one motion, a reflex borne of years of training. His hand slid automatically over the well-worn stock, down the trigger guard, and applied exactly the right amount of squeeze to the trigger. Squeeze, don’t pull — they’d taught him that for years.
The gunfire, when it came, seemed almost anticlimactic. It spattered the rocks, filling the air with a mass of flying fragments. Pamela hunkered down in a crevice to avoid the deadly hail of bullets, ricochets and stone shards. She heard tiny metal pings as the helo slid sideways into its own field of fire.
Between the noise of the helicopter, the howling from the Greek whose dark-adapted eyes were in pain from the brilliant flash of Pamela’s camera, and the beating he’d taken from Murphy, he didn’t have a chance. He cried out one last time more, clasped his hands to his chest, and fell back.
Murphy stood for moment, frozen in firing position. Another round? He waited to see if there were any signs of life.
“You want to help me up?” Pamela demanded from down below. Still Murphy did not move.
“Come on, Murphy. Get me up there. Haven’t I earned it?” Still Murphy watched the Greek’s body, waiting for any signs of life.
Gradually, it began to seep into his mind that it was all over. He was alone with the dead Greek terrorist and a SAR helo hovering nearby. Still holding the weapon pointed at the body, he walked slowly up to the body and kicked it. Blood was pouring out of three holes, soaking into the deteriorated rock and pooling in nooks and crannies. The man’s eyes were open, lifeless, and slightly rolled back.
Angel 301
Hill 802
1125 local (GMT –2)
Even with earphones and a headset on, the noise inside the helicopter was deafening. The aircrew was plugged into the interior communications set, but there were no spare jacks for their passengers. Pamela could see the flight engineer’s lips moving and knew he was talking to the pilots up front. From the expression on his face, the news wasn’t pleasant. She saw him mouth something about hydraulics but couldn’t make out the rest of the sentence.
His injuries and the final battle had finally taken their toll on Murphy. He was slumped down across two seats, his eyes shut. Whether he was unconscious or had simply fallen asleep, Pamela couldn’t tell. But she saw the air crewman check him several times, and she knew that they were trained in first aid. Evidently whatever he found satisfied the air crewman, because he let Murphy sleep undisturbed.
Her own injuries and exhaustion were starting to make themselves known. It was getting harder and harder to concentrate, and she could feel her own eyes drifting closed. After a cursory exam, the crewman had patted her on the shoulder — the good one — and gently assured her she’d be fine. “Nothing that the docs back on the carrier can’t fix,” he shouted, just before they had taken off.
The extraction — the most remarkable display of airmanship she’d ever seen, the pilot edging the helicopter over to the rocks, gently hovering right at the edge of the cliff and holding the aircraft steady. Unbelievable. They’d used safety lines, of course, but it had been almost as easy as stepping onto the helicopter from solid ground. Any closer, and rotors would have scraped the rock outcroppings that loomed over them.
She glanced at the body of the Greek soldier, now secured in the aft of the helicopter with nylon straps to the deck. He lay sprawled lifeless on the steel deck, his head thumping occasionally as the helicopter maneuvered.
“We have to take him,” Murphy had insisted. “He’s our only proof.”
“Won’t they take your word for it?” she had asked.
Murphy shook his head. “They might. But there’s a lot on the line here. We’re talking about an act of war by an ally. That’s going to upset more apple carts than I even want to think about. No, I want hard proof. Something I can show them.”
Even though she understood the necessity for it, there was something unsettling about having the dead body in the helicopter with them. The way the head lolled, the arms loose and floppy, even the stink as his bodily functions had let loose at the moment of death. Yes, she’d seen men dead before, but it had usually been in the heat of battle when she’d been hot on the trail of her story.
Then, her priority had been to stay alive. There had not been time to watch the dead and wounded. It was only later, during those moments when the medical and treatment units had already taken charge, that she actually saw them.
And not like this. Not freshly killed. She shuddered, unable to take her eyes off the dead body.
Murphy’s eyes popped open. He fumbled with his blouse pocket for a moment, then withdrew a green wheel book and a stub of pencil. He scribbled, tore the sheet out of the booklet and passed it across the aisle to her.
She looked down at it and read, “That could have been me. Thank you.”
She shook her head, unable to comprehend. Murphy had been the one who saved himself.
She shivered, knowing that if the picture turned out the way she thought it would, the two men silhouetted against the dark sky with the light from the helicopter playing over them, that there would be a
n award in it for her.
But you told him to close his eyes, one part of her mind insisted.
Yeah, stupid move, that. Better to have him looking straight at the camera, capture the entire expression on his face. Now that would’ve been worthwhile.
You told him to close his eyes.
And just why had she done that? It had been instinctive, with everything happening so fast she couldn’t really break the time apart into discrete moments. The helicopter, the climb around the edge of the cliff, the mad, driving passion to get the photo, to finish the story. That had been what was on her mind. Not Murphy.
You told him to close his eyes.
Murphy passed her the pencil. She thought for a moment, and scribbled “You’re welcome.”
Somewhere over the horizon was safety, safety in the middle of the ocean where none existed on land. USS Jefferson, the world’s most powerful nuclear aircraft carrier, lay waiting. As many times as she had schemed to get on board, done everything in her power to force the Navy to admit her to their innermost sanctums, had sworn and cursed at the massive ship, had damned the Navy for taking Tombstone Magruder away from her, it was to the Jefferson she was forced to turn for safety.
Pamela Drake leaned forward in the helicopter and strained her neck to see out the scratched and blurred window. Was that it out there, on the horizon? She squinted, trying to make the shape out, but what she had thought was Jefferson remained simply a ragged patch on the horizon. She turned to the air crewman. “How far out is she?”
He smiled and laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Forty miles, maybe a little further. We’ll be on board in about twenty minutes. Don’t worry, you’re safe now.”
Pamela started to shoot back a harsh reply, angered that he could think she was concerned about her own safety. She bit off the words before they formed in her mouth, suddenly uncertain. If truth be known, she was afraid — more so than she had ever been in her life before.
“Peacock, get everyone strapped in.” The pilot’s voice over the ICS carried that hard, laconic note that Pamela had learned to associate with a pilot under pressure. She’d heard it too often in Tombstone’s voice to be mistaken.
Enemies c-15 Page 20