McGriffin waited as Vikki tromped past. She swept twenty feet from him. As her legs brushed through the grass, McGriffin crouched and followed her. He kept near enough so that his rustling would not stir the other terrorist’s suspicions, yet kept far enough away so that she couldn’t hear him.
As he followed, his back started to hurt. He tried to keep low in the foliage, but even the two-foot height of the grass couldn’t hide him entirely.
Vikki reached the helicopter. Placing her rifle in a bare spot, she glanced over her shoulder to the C-130. When she turned toward him, McGriffin hit the dirt and let out a muffled “ooof.” Sweat formed on his brow.
Vikki stepped to the burning chopper. She reached up and touched a metal piece that hung at a crazy angle to the ground. Stepping lightly up, she pulled herself onto the HH-53. Smoke rose around the craft’s periphery. An acrid odor of JP-4 and burnt plastic permeated the air. Manny’s moans had died to whimpers.
As Vikki poked around, McGriffin sat sweating, debating how to approach her.
She was his only ally, his only possible way to stop them. Without the helicopter to vector the fighters in, it was hopeless. But yet … if she was one of them, could he convince her to help him?
And if pigs had wings, they could fly.
Reality hit him smack in the face: he was kidding himself, molding her into what he wanted her to be. Vikki might be showing some soft side of her personality, but if she was really in on this raid — and if she’d really killed a man, as Harding had just said — he wouldn’t be able to change her mind. At least not in the next five minutes.
He inched away from the helicopter. His plan dissolved before his eyes.
Quickly turning, he started to make his way to the C-l30, back to where he might be able to do something to the plane — the fuel tanks, anything. If he had to, he could always pump a few rounds in the instruments and wing tanks in a suicide stand.
A trigger clicked behind his head. “Make another move and you’re dead.” McGriffin froze in his tracks. “Drop it.” His shotgun fell to the ground. He stood, raising his hands over his head, not offering any resistance. “Turn around.” As he slowly turned, Vikki came into view.
Her eyes widened. Her rifle dropped momentarily, then straightened as she tightened her grip. Her eyes drew together and flashed as if she were betrayed.
They stared at each other. Behind her the helicopter belched smoke, setting her body in a surrealistic frame. She whispered, “Well?”
McGriffin drew in deep breaths. His trembling abated. He kept silent.
Her rifle wavered. “Bill, what … do you know what you’re doing? How did you get here?”
McGriffin blinked and jerked his head toward the downed helicopter. “Vikki …”
She seemed to notice his uniform for the first time. She raised her voice and tightened her grip on the barrel. “How dare you. You didn’t tell me you were one of them.” She spat out the word.
“Vikki …” He shook his head. “You don’t know what you’re doing—”
McGriffin stopped at a rustling behind him. Harding’s voice broke through the night.
“Well, well. It looks like old home week here. Who is this, Vikki? Another one of your GI Joes you’ve been screwing on the side? Dragged him out of the helicopter for a little action, huh?”
Vikki held her rifle steady on McGriffin. “Don’t be an ass, Anthony. I didn’t drag him from anywhere. He was trying to get to the plane. Lucky I caught him, too.”
As Harding walked into view, McGriffin’s heart sank. Looks like I’ve tied one up big time. Anything else from here on out would only be a plus. An instance at the Academy roared through his mind. It was unarmed combat, and the instructor was telling them about impossible situations: never give up; never allow yourself to be shot between the eyes. Better to go down swinging and have half a chance than placidly have your hands tied behind your back and be executed.
Harding broke his chain of thought. “So where do you know this teddy from?”
Vikki hesitated. “He’s one of the fascists I met.”
“An officer?” Harding dropped his jaw in mock amazement. He brought his pistol up and brushed off McGriffin’s shoulder boards. “Too bad you couldn’t have nailed one of the really big ones. I hear that intelligence is inversely proportional to rank: the higher they come, the dumber they are. And compared to your friend Britnell, this bozo must really be an idiot.”
He jerked his head back to Vikki. “We’re loaded. Kill him. We’re ready to go.” He started toward the C-130.
Vikki stared at McGriffin.
After ten steps Harding stopped and said irritably, “I said, kill him. If he’s just a fascist, what’s the problem?” He narrowed his eyes and studied Vikki.
Harding was just at the edge of McGriffin’s peripheral vision. Vikki watched McGriffin. Her eyes grew round.
McGriffin whispered, “Vikki!” and took a step forward.
Harding whipped up his pistol.
McGriffin primed himself. I’m not going to stand here and be shot! He drew in a deep breath. Adrenaline raced through his veins. Vikki’s rifle wavered. He flexed his legs and started to jump—
“Shoot him now, dammit!”
Vikki trembled.
Harding swung his pistol to Vikki and pulled off a shot. Vikki collapsed as McGriffin dove into the brush.
McGriffin rolled, keeping his head tucked to his chest. Burrs and twigs tore into his skin. Pollen, shaken loose from his rolling, drove into his nostrils. He sneezed.
He opened his eyes, still rolling. Shots peppered the ground. Two, three, four—a red-hot needle tore into his arm. It felt as if his shoulder would fall off. He grabbed at the wound and crouched lower.
Scrambling, he ran a crooked path away from the shots. Harding crashed after him, emptying the pistol. A volley of shots rang out, but they zinged by, missing him. Reaching the edge of the meadow, McGriffin dove into the thick brush. Crawling on his hands and knees, he fell to the ground. He tried to catch his breath, then slowed his breathing so it wouldn’t give him away.
Pressing his wound with his hand, he gritted his teeth at the pain. He balled his body up and tried to make himself invisible by pushing his head to the ground.
Feet thrashed in the brush. The search continued briefly, a mixture of bullets and cursing filling the air. Finally, Harding yelled out in disgust, “Let’s go, dammit. He can’t stop us now.”
Waiting until the footsteps receded, McGriffin raised his head and peered toward the meadow. Harding stood over Vikki and toed her lightly on the shoulder. When she moaned, he bent and picked up her rifle. Rummaging for McGriffin’s rifle, he cradled both weapons and looked down at her. “You’d be better off with your boyfriend, bitch.” He swung a rifle down and pointed it at her.
Hesitating, he dropped the weapon. “Dying’s the easy way out. So much for your idealism. You didn’t have a clue about Do’brai, or why I really wanted to do this, did you? Just be sure to let them know if they find you what this was really about.” He turned for the plane.
McGriffin closed his eyes. Opening them, he watched Harding disappear into the night.
He could get the rifle from Vikki, try and stop the airplane. He waited and made sure no one was watching him. He was about to move when a loud whining broke through the stillness: an APU! The auxiliary power unit ran up through the decibels. One of the C-130’s engines coughed, then sputtered as it revved up. A second engine caught, and the meadow vibrated with the roar from the propellers.
McGriffin crouched and took an unsteady step forward. He tried to ignore the pain in his arm, but couldn’t concentrate. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket with his left hand and tried to wrap it around the wound. Fumbling with the cloth, he grew frustrated when he couldn’t tie it, so he threw the handkerchief away.