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.
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.
But you told him to close his eyes, one part of her mind insisted.
Yeah, stupid move, that. Better to have him looking straight at the camera, capture the entire expression on his face. Now that would’ve been worthwhile.
You told him to close his eyes.
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.