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.
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 an award in it for her.
Yeah, stupid move, that. Better to have him looking straight at the camera, capture the entire expression on his face. Now
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.
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
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
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.
“What’s going on?” she asked, even as the air crewman pressed her back in her chair and double-checked and tightened the seat harness. “What’s happening?”
“Seems we got a little company out here,” the pilot’s voice came back, calm and casual. “Nothing to worry about yet. Listen to Peacock — he’s going to review ditching procedures with few. You’ve been on a helicopter before, haven’t you, Miss Drake?”
“Ditching procedures?” She repeated his words in a stunned tone of voice. “Who is this company you’re talking about?”
There was a long pause, then the pilot said, “There are three groups of fighters inbound on our location. From the IFF and link picture, they’re Greek, Macedonian, and American. Right now, I suspect they’re more interested in each other than they are in us. But when elephants dance, helicopters get out of the way.”
Peacock knelt down before her and began reviewing ditching procedures. “Find a handhold, know where it is in relationship to the nearest exit.” He pointed to the hatch at the side. “That will be yours. Stay in your seat until all motion ceases. We may sink quickly, but just because there’s water in the cabin, don’t try to leave it. You have to stay until the water slows the rotor blades down or they’ll cut you to pieces as you leave. Got that?” Pamela nodded, remembering previous helicopter safety briefs.
“Once all motion ceases,” Peacock continued, “unstrap yourself and pull yourself toward the exit. We may turtle — flip upside down. We usually do. Don’t let that disorient you. Keep one hand holding on to something at all times.” He held up the small air canister with a face mask attached. “I will be right here in case you get in trouble. Don’t worry, I’ll get you out.” He flashed her a cocky grin. “Haven’t lost a passenger yet.”
