Feldman inhaled deeply. “I wish you well, then, Commander.” He extended his good hand. “You have my word I'll air this information as quickly as possible.”
“Thank you, Mr. Feldman.” Lazzlo gripped the reporter's hand with both of his. “And you, too, Mr. Hunter,” he repeated the gesture with the videographer.
“Commander-” Feldman paused on his way to the door. “I have to take Cardinal Litti with me.”
“By all means, do,” Lazzlo urged them. “As you've no doubt noticed, we've almost completed the evacuation of the hospital, but the cardinal has refused to leave. Take him, but hurry. You
With that, Lazzlo left the reporters to resume his defense preparations. Feldman stashed the precious package of evidence inside his shirt and a guard escorted them to the room where they left Cardinal Litti. They found him on his knees, in prayer, a small snapshot of the Messiah on the chair in front of him.
“Alphonse,” Feldman called to him, “we're leaving.”
The cardinal placed a hand on the chair and rose slowly to his feet. “Will you return at dawn to join me for the Resurrection?” he asked, bestowing a smile of perfect tranquillity.
“No, Alphonse, you don't understand.” Feldman grabbed him by the shoulder,
Litti shook his head steadfastly. “No, Jon. It's you who don't understand. There is no safer place to be. I tried to tell Commander Lazzlo that he's wasting his efforts with his defense measures. Do you really think God would let anyone interfere with the culmination of His Great Purpose?”
As if to underscore Feldman's argument, they suddenly heard the alarming report of automatic weapon fire outside, and then the sound of a small explosion. “Alphonse,” Feldman pleaded, leaning close and looking hard into the clergyman's eyes, “I don't know what God's intentions are, but we can't wait any longer. You have to leave with us.
The cardinal's response was a look of absolute conviction.
“Gentlemen!” their guard yelled in the doorway. “We must go!”
Hunter grabbed Feldman's biceps. “Come on, man, you're wasting your time. If we don't get out of here now, that package will never see the light of day.”
Saddened and frustrated, Feldman encircled the portly cardinal with his one arm and hugged him tightly. “God protect you,” he said.
“And God protect you, my good friend,” the cardinal replied.
Feldman released him and exited the room, making his way cumbrously down the hall with Hunter's support. By the time they reached the roof, the two newsmen realized they'd missed their window of opportunity. The air was acrid with smoke. Bullets were zinging everywhere around them. Despite this, the helicopter remained at high throttle, its pilot faithfully awaiting his passengers, the unwavering Corporal Lyman crouching alone inside the doorway, fiercely waving them on.
Upon spotting the reporters, the pilot revved the engine to full speed, the two men hurled themselves through the open door, the helicopter tilted forward, swung ninety degrees around and soared out quickly over the rear of the hospital. The pilot purposefully held the craft low to avoid offering a silhouetted target against the bright blue morning sky, but it was of little help. The chopper quickly took several hits to the undercarriage, pitched sharply to the right, and then was immediately jarred by a heavy impact just above the right side of the cockpit. Black smoke began pouring into the cabin.
There was a flurry of Hebrew from the pilot and Lyman screamed repeatedly to Feldman and Hunter to fasten their seat belts, which they'd yet to locate. In the thick smoke and turbulence, it was a futile effort. The chopper was vibrating and lurching badly, yawing alarmingly to the right. Feldman slid against the bulkhead and felt the strong hand of Hunter seize him by the arm.
He knew they were going down.
110
A deserted field, northern Jerusalem 9:22 A.M., Saturday, April 22, 2000
Feldman didn't remember the crash. As he came to, sputtering and coughing, he felt a cold, thick wetness on his face, partially obstructing his breathing. When he was able enough to clear his head and eyes, he realized he was lying on his side in a duck gruel of mud. Looking back over his shoulder, he spied the crumpled, smoking ruins of the helicopter, its tail elevated in the air, its rear blades still spinning. The crackup could have been worse. There was no fire. The leaking fuel he smelled had not yet ignited.
Somehow Feldman had been thrown clear upon impact, landing about twenty-five feet from the wreckage in a deep bed of mud left over from the heavy rains. As his reasoning came back to him, he was gripped with a frantic concern for Hunter and the two crew members. Crawling in the muck, oblivious to his injuries, he slogged his way back to the helicopter, calling out for survivors.
A large foot and a small groan emerged from a cavity beneath the shattered fuselage. Sitting down in the quagmire, Feldman placed his feet against the frame, lodged the protruding foot under his left armpit, grasped the calf with his left hand and pushed hard with his legs. The body budged toward him, slightly. Feldman worked his grip up to the knee, and with a few more such efforts, the bloodied form and face of Hunter appeared.
Feldman sucked the mud from a finger and pulled open one of Hunter's closed eyelids. There was movement underneath.
“Breck!” he called out. “Can you hear me?”
The videographer growled in pain.
“Come on, Breck, wake up. I've got to get you away from this thing before it blows, and I need your help.” In the mud, and with his preexisting injuries-as well as any new, undiscovered ones he may have just incurred- Feldman was incapable of enough leverage to move the big man any further.
Hunter's eyes finally peeked open and he grimaced up at his friend. “Shit!” he said.
“Are you hurt bad? Can you move?”
“My right side is killing me, but if you can roll me over on my left, I think I can sidestroke on outta here,” he replied with a scrunched expression. “How about the others?”
Feldman pulled himself up the fuselage to a standing position and looked around. The aircraft had fallen in a sparsely populated residential part of the city, in an open area approximately one or two kilometers north of the hospital. The newsman could see in the distance several people on foot laboring to reach them through the soggy field. Apparently the pilot had been attempting a forced landing here, but was unable to maintain control. The front of the aircraft was completely crushed and buried in the mud. It was obvious to Feldman that the pilot could not have survived.
Working his slippery way hand-over-hand around the upright tail section, Feldman found an open door on the opposite side of the wreck. Peering inside, through the shadow and lingering smoke, he spied the back of a blue and gray flight helmet with dark hair spilling out from beneath. He climbed through the doorway and slid down the deck beside the still form of Corporal Lyman.
Carefully he attempted to work his good left arm underneath her when he felt the mass of warm blood. Leaning over to get a better look at her, he recoiled in horror to find the far side of her helmet crushed like an eggshell. He pulled back in shock, a creeping nausea pervading him, and let the limp body slip slowly from his grasp.
Outside, voices were audible. Feldman had no time to linger over his emotions, he had Hunter to consider. As he clambered in agony back up the side of the deck to spy out the door, a scraggly, bearded face confronted him with a pistol.
“What is this?” it said, in thickly accented German.
Feldman's heart sank. At least, he realized, the man was not an Israeli soldier. Remembering the important information he carried, he pressed his injured hand against his stomach. The package was still there, thank God, if
