Defender(36)

'I'm shot, Sir! My leg. Help me!"

Sewa was in a heap on the red sand, clutching at his leg, the agony contorting his usually cheerful face. His hands were covered in blood, his dark eyes wide with fear and pain.

"I've got you, mate," Morgan bellowed. He dropped to his knees in a slide, reaching for the young African, slinging him across his back. Sewa screamed. With one awkward heave, Morgan hoisted him up. Sewa sank heavily onto Morgan's shoulders, a dead weight.

Morgan chanced a look back towards the rebels. They were everywhere, their rounds biting into the dirt at his feet. The distinctive crack of high velocity ammunition pierced the air, inches from his face. Morgan expected that at any second he would feel the unmistakable thump and burn of the bullet that would find him. It was inevitable. A quick death was preferred, but unlikely, especially if he was still alive when the rebels reached him.

In the midst of the firefight, Morgan looked across and caught Mason's gaze from the cockpit of the chopper, hovering above the tarmac. He knew Steve had to lift off, but Morgan's gaze implored the pilot for just a few more seconds. Mason's recognition was a mere flicker. A few seconds, that's all he could give. Morgan's eyes somehow found Arena, her stoic silence willing him to jump on board, but knowing that he could not leave Sewa behind.

Morgan shook himself free of the cloak of dread fast enveloping him and ran for the chopper. As Mason bounced the Super Puma down just inches from him, Morgan made the few vital remaining steps, then threw the AKM into the cargo hold. Inside, Stanley caught the weapon and immediately returned fire as best he could to cover Morgan and Sewa. Sewa was in a bad way. One booted foot flopped uselessly beneath him and Morgan could see a thick trail of blood that the man was leaving in their wake. His shin was bent at a repulsive angle, shattered by the gunshot.

"Ari!" Morgan bellowed from beyond the unstable platform of the cargo hold floor. "He's yours. Get ready."

Sewa howled in agony with every movement. Morgan would need all of his strength to get him on-board. But Mason was attempting to lift off and the aircraft was ascending.

There would only be one chance.

With a backbreaking heave, Morgan launched Sewa into the Puma, just managing to wedge the young guard's chest and arms over the lip of the rising floor. Arena, Stanley, and two other men grabbed Sewa, dragging him inside. Even above the howl of the engines, his screams were deafening. Blood gushed from his shredded leg and spilled over Arena, the floor, and the other evacuees.

The Puma was rising; its floor already level with Morgan's head. He turned to see the rebels advancing rapidly. They'd be on him in seconds. He reached out, grabbing at the hands of the other men. Arena's eyes were filled with anguish. Morgan's face, only a few feet from her, was etched with pain and exhaustion. Arena found herself grappling for him, trying to reach his hands; but it was hopeless.

"Alex!"

Another deluge of machine-gun fire blazed across the concrete tarmac surrounding the water tanks, ricochets biting hungrily into the exposed flanks of the helicopter, narrowly missing Morgan and the passengers. In the cargo hold they all screamed as bullets sliced the air about their heads, the added horror of Sewa's mangled leg forcing home the reality of their plight. Now they were yelling at the pilot to take off.

Mason had no choice.

He dropped the nose, powering forward, away from the danger, away from Morgan, yet still low enough on the move to give Morgan every possible chance to grapple his way to safety, before Mason would be forced to arc skywards and abandon him. Morgan ran, sprinting for all he was worth, chasing his last hope across the tarmac whilst the rebels continued their wild shooting spree.

"He's not going to make it," Turner snapped, screaming. "For God's sake, leave him. Get us out of here!"

John Stanley lunged forward unexpectedly. Without a word, he tore the laptop from Turner's grasp and hurled it out of the open cargo hold door - narrowly missing Morgan - then crashed one huge calloused fist hard onto Turner's jaw. Turner passed out. Then Stanley struggled over the others, grasping for any available handholds as he moved until he was literally hanging out of the door, reaching for Morgan.

"Come on, son," Stanley roared, his big voice easily finding its way to Morgan through the noise: "Jump! Jump!"

"Jump, Alex!" Arena cried.

The chopper was moving fast across the open ground. Mason was a heartbeat from lift off.

Sprinting at his absolute limit, weighed down by ammunition, radio gear and utter fatigue, Morgan knew there were few options left. In that split second, if he failed he would be left behind to be butchered by the marauding soldiers of Le Conseil de la Liberation des Peuples Africains, the CLPA. Rebel gunfire and explosions rained around him, this rime close enough for Morgan to feel the shocking heat from successive blasts sear across his back. Whether he lived or died now was completely out of his control.