He was feeling better by the minute, now that he’d had a little rest. Took more than a banged-up leg to slow down a Marine, a hell of a lot more. He flexed his muscles, trying to keep from tightening up, and edged around the boulder to start his last move up the hill. This last bit was tricky, steep and mostly rock. He tucked the pistol back in his pocket for easy access and to free up both hands. No sounds of anyone moving, no indication that his approach had been detected. He slipped around the ancient rock, moving quietly on bare feet.
The muzzle of an AK-47 stared directly at him.
Pamela rolled over on the ground and vomited. Her head throbbed as though she’d punched it through a wall of rock. Her hand went up to the side of her head, touched swollen pulsating flesh, and pain seared through her. She groaned, rolled over on her side, and willed her vision to clear.
What the hell had happened? She remembered the bombing, getting clear of the building, then… Murphy. Situational awareness came flooding back. He had her gun and he’d gone up to take out the Stinger jockey.
Her head was starting to clear, although it still hurt fiercely. Her vision was a bit blurry — concussion, she decided, and swore that Murphy would pay for that when she caught up with him. She rolled over on her stomach, fighting down another wave of nausea, and shoved herself with her good arm up to her knees. The world spun around her for a moment, then settled down.
Where the hell was he? How long had she been out? She stared up the hill and squinted, trying to make out moving figures among the shadows and rocks there, but it was no use. Her vision was still too blurred.
She struggled up into a standing position and stretched experimentally. Nothing else seemed to be broken, and apart from the pounding in her head, there were no new injuries to catalogue. She reached for her camera and slung the strap around her neck. She’d need her good hand to steady herself on the way up.
Murphy’s mind was calling up every synonym he’d ever heard for stupid. Most of them were obscene, and not a few involved his mother. Still, none of the phrases really seemed sufficient to cover this particular situation.
“You are noisy,” the man said finally in clear English. “Like a goat.”
“And you’re lucky,” Murphy said.
Pamela paused just below the summit. A sheer rock wall made it almost a vertical climb to the relatively flat summit. She couldn’t make it. Murphy would have managed it with no problem, even injured. On most days, she could have kept up.
But today was not most days. “You’ll never get away with this,” she heard Murphy say.
It figured. Whenever he had planned had gone badly wrong. Had they been working together, he might have had a chance. But now… she swore silently at the stupid bullheadedness of the man.
She gazed up at the rock wall above her and ruled out trying to climb it. Even if she could find the strength to pull herself up, she would make so much noise that all she would accomplish would be getting them both shot. For now, for whatever reason, at least they were both alive.
And why hadn’t the Macedonian already killed Murphy? He had had no compunctions about shooting down American aircraft, had he? So why keep the Marine alive for one second longer than necessary?
More importantly, what could she do about it?
She squatted down next to the rock and leaned up against it. The heat-soaked rock felt good against her sore muscles. She opened her camera bag and dug through it just on the off chance that there would be something in it she could use as a weapon.
Normally the truth is my weapon. Or at least the truth as she saw it, she silently admitted. More and more it was becoming clear to her that there was more than one way to look at the truth.
Her fingers brushed against a cold plastic shape that her mind recognized immediately. She closed her hand around it then pulled it out of the pack, careful to avoid making any noise. At this angle from the other two, it was unlikely they would be able to hear her, but there was no use taking the chance.
Finally, she had it out of the bag. It laid bare in her palm like a small, black lifeline. She punched the power button and waited for a dial tone. Ever since the Black Sea conflict, she’d known the private number to CVIC on-board Jefferson. Known it, and had been saving it for some very special occasion. This looked like it qualified.
Five bars appeared on the LED screen, indicating that she had a good signal. She wedged herself in between two rocks, hoping that she was right about the other two not being able to hear her, and punched out the numbers.
The intelligence specialist who answered the phone had been in the Navy for ten years. During his time working CVIC, he’d come to know and appreciate the arcane pathways through which information traveled. Aircraft carriers now had instant access to the Internet, email, and a highly classified Web on which sensitive intelligence data was distributed. He himself was the designated Webmaster for USS Jefferson.
So when the voice on the other end of the telephone line announced itself in a breathless, hurried tone as “Pamela Drake — ACN News. I have to speak to Commander Busby immediately,” he was only mildly surprised. He debated for an instant hanging up on her, and even reached out to the cradle to cut the connection when caution stopped him. He doubted Commander Busby wanted to talk to this woman, not after what she had put this ship through so many times. Still, it was not a decision he wanted to make for his boss. Besides, Commander Busby had been looking glum recently. Maybe yelling at a reporter and filing some sort of complaint against her network would cheer him up.
So, instead of hanging up on her, he said, “Wait one minute.” Then he put her on hold.
He ambled back to Commander Busby’s office himself, which took another ten seconds. Maybe the commander would let him listen in as he blasted the reporter they’d all come to despise.
The technician had heard that Admiral Magruder used to be involved with Drake, and he shook his head over that. How a squared-away pilot like Tombstone could see anything in a woman like that was beyond him. But then, a lot of what admirals and pilots did didn’t make sense.
“Commander?” he asked from the doorway to Lab Rat’s office. “Pamela Drake on line one for you, sir.” He smirked.
An annoyed expression flitted across Lab Rat’s face, to be replaced by resignation. He sighed. “Fine, I’ll take it. Thank you.” Lab Rat lifted up the receiver then turned to look at the intelligence specialist. “Thanks.”
The technician got the hint. He turned and left, and heard Lab Rat shut the door behind him.
“Busby,” he said into the phone. A faint hiss of static and occasional burble of noise indicated that the connection was far from solid. “Miss Drake?”
“I can’t talk very loud. They’ll hear me. Write this down — Hill 802. There’s a Macedonian terrorist on top of it who just shot the down a couple of American Tomcats. A Marine went up after him — Murphy, the Marine they got the first round. Something’s wrong… I think Murphy screwed up. Is there anything you can do?”
Lab Rat’s blood ran cold. “Captain Murphy? Are you sure of that?”
“Of course I’m sure,” the voice on the phone snapped back. If he had had any doubts about the identity of the caller, that convinced him. “He’s been held as a POW by the Macedonians. Listen, you have to get somebody out here right away. That Macedonian is going to shoot him.”
“Hill 802? And what’s your cell number?” Lab Rat asked, scribbling the numbers down on the sheet of paper. “Okay, thanks. I’ll see what I can do.” He started to hang up, then thought better of it. “Stay on the line — we’ll keep this connection open. I may need you for a spotter.”