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.”
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?”
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 behind 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.
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.
