damn impressive on tomorrow's news, rollin’ around in the camel dung there!”
The instant his gag was removed, Goene lurched himself into a sitting position and appealed desperately to his former Israeli subordinates. “They have the microchips! This is all a conspiracy. Set us loose, it's not too late to recover the chips! The technology belongs to Israel!”
Hunter drew himself upright, shaking his head and glancing over his shoulder to Feldman. “Stupid to the bitter end,” he observed. As he turned back to the defiant general, Hunter's rage boiled to the surface. “When you gonna get it through that dense shit inside your skull that there
Tamin, his face as white as the full desert moon high in the clear sky above them, had nothing to say. The two prisoners were untied, immediately handcuffed, and then carted off to the waiting helicopter.
Feldman turned his weary, relieved eyes to his partner. “Feeling a little better now?” he asked, enjoying a smile of self-satisfaction himself.
Hunter did not return the smile. “Give me just a few minutes of personal ‘sensitivity training’ with those sons of bitches, then I'd feel better.”
Feldman and Hunter were allowed to ride back on the helicopter with the prisoners, who were manacled to the bulkhead. Two Israeli militia accompanied them, along with their pilot and co-pilot.
The Bedouins shouted and raised their rifles over their heads in victory as, one by one, the helicopters lifted straight up into the starry skies of the desert night. Feldman watched the celebrants recede quickly below him, and had just begun to settle comfortably into his seat when he was startled by a cry from the guard next to him. As he turned, a firearm discharged and the soldier slumped to the deck, a red splotch spreading next to the pouch of his empty shoulder holster.
Just as quickly, the second guard across from Feldman was hurtled backward against the bulkhead by a gunshot to the chest and fed lifeless next to his comrade. Goene- smoking revolver in one hand, uncoupled handcuff dangling from the other-confronted the two unarmed newsmen.
“Standard Israeli issue,” Goene smirked, dropping the cuffs. As the frantic co-pilot groped futilely for his sidearm, Goene coldly squeezed off another shot. The unfortunate victim bucked forward and crumpled against the cockpit. The pilot immediately brought the helicopter around, screaming a distress call into his headset.
“Hold it steady or I shoot you where you sit!” Goene shouted up to the pilot, who quickly complied. Tamin, still manacled to the metal frame, could only watch with wide eyes and rising spirits.
In smug vengeance, Goene turned on Feldman. “Now you!” he growled, motioning the reporter to his feet with the gun.
Hunter started from his seat, but Goene negated the move by grabbing Feldman and sticking the gun to his neck. The tough war veteran was powerful, maintaining a vise grip on the reporter's injured arm. Never removing the gun, and carefully monitoring the frantic Hunter, Goene pulled Feldman roughly to the door in the back of the cabin, releasing him only long enough to unfasten the lock and turn the handle.
“For God's sake, Goene,” Hunter pleaded, “he just saved your life back there. Those nomads were gonna slice you to pieces.”
Goene's response was to cock his revolver. Stepping back from Feldman, the general placed the muzzle between the reporter's eyes with a triumphant look. “You've crossed me once too often, my arrogant young upstart,” he hissed. “But now I shut your big mouth for good. No last prayers for you, I have the last word!”
With burning vindictiveness, the general kicked open the door, and Feldman, staggered by the violent rupture of atmosphere, grasped on to a rib of the fuselage with his good hand, bracing himself against the outrushing torrent. The wind howled around him and he stared down at the desert floor a thousand feet below.
“Now,” Goene declared with victorious finality, “I send you to join your false Messiah-
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Somewhere over the southern Negev Desert 9:44 P.M., Sunday, April 23, 2000
Shrieking in savage rage at the loss of his friend, Hunter unleashed the full fury of his hatred, driving the general's thick body violently into the bulkhead, jarring loose the revolver.
But the war-hardened soldier proved as resilient as ever. Recovering quickly, he began attacking Hunter with a punishing barrage of martial arts. As they pounded and heaved each other across the cabin, Hunter's most pressing concern, beyond flying out the open door, was to deny Goene his pistol. The gun remained at large, skidding and bouncing unpredictably about the deck, narrowly eluding Hunter's grasp several times as the pilot desperately plunged the helicopter toward the ground.
An anxious Shaul Tamin, one arm still manacled to the bulkhead, attempted to snare the gun with an outstretched foot each time it rattled by. Missing it, he'd turn his attention to Hunter, connecting on occasion with a vicious kick.
Yet slowly, the former linebacker's superior strength and endurance were gaining the upper hand. He at last caught Goene with a stunning uppercut. As the general toppled to the deck, Hunter leaped for the revolver. His fingers were just closing on the handle when the aircraft suddenly set down with a jarring thud and the gun hop- scotched away once more, sliding neatly into the waiting hand of the snarling Goene.
Hunter winced as the report of successive gunshots thundered inside the cabin. It took him several moments to realize he'd somehow emerged unscathed. Opening his puzzled eyes, he spied the limp form of Goene lying face up on the floor, mortally wounded, blood spurting out of three holes in his chest. From the front of the helicopter, the pilot, his face ghastly pale and sweating, clutched a smoking pistol. A despairing Tamin let out with a groan.
Cautiously, Hunter approached the motionless body. He placed a boot on the general's slack forearm, bent down and tore away the gun. Goene, stubborn till the last, was clinging to life, but barely. His mouth gaped open in shock, his breath came in shallow gasps as he focused on the big cameraman looming above him.
Hunter, panting from exertion, glowered down at his despised adversary. He narrowed his eyes, searching for signs of remorse in the bitter, weathered face. There were none. Instead, Goene's lips began a slow curl into that vile, contemptuous, detestable sneer.
All the raw emotions of pain and loss Hunter bad endured at the hands of this ruthless man came seething up inside him. He raised the gun and his finger encircled the trigger. But as he glared with primal hatred into the leering eyes of his enemy, Hunter suddenly halted, staggered by an utterly extraordinary vision. There, appearing in the face of tins despicable creature, was the unmistakable image of a lonely, frightened, abused little boy.
Hunter gasped and the gun slipped from his fingers. While the pilot and Tamin stared in astonished disbelief, the big man dropped slowly to his knees. He paused, his hands trembling, and then carefully, tenderly, Hunter gathered Goene up into his arms, gently cradling his head, stroking his temple, comforting and consoling the dying soldier through his last battle.
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Somewhere over the southern Negev Desert 9:44 P.M., Sunday, April 23, 2000
Feldman was falling. Floating in the air on his back, drifting down through the desert's cool night sky. His eyes were closed and there was no sound but the rhythmic whoosh of air and a distant chorus of angels.
With great effort, he opened his eyes to the purple sky overhead. Staring back at him, the moon lorded full and enormously pale. From its shimmering face, there arose the growing shadow of a celestial form, falling even
