Morgan leapt at the helicopter.
CHAPTER 24
Alex Morgan soared as if in slow motion as the chopper, inches from his grasp, was lifting off.
Inside the imperilled refuge of the cargo hold, the evacuees were all staring hopelessly out at him. As one, their faces willed him aboard, but could scarcely disguise their own desperation to survive. There was nothing anybody could do for him. Morgan saw tears glazing Arena's eyes. God, he could spot them anywhere.
Mortars peppered the tarmac and fuel farm, sending fists of shrapnel to punch through the helicopter's fuselage, striking at the passengers inside. A mighty ball of fire erupted from the first ruptured fuel storage tank, and columns of flame burst out dangerously close to the retreating helicopter. The force of the blast catapulted Morgan with an unexpected intensity mid-flight. Just short of the door, he crashed heavily on top of the metal cowling over the port-side rear wheel, as it scooped him from the air.
"Alex!" Ari felt her heart sink. It was all too much. The intensity and shock of it all, too immediate. "Oh God!"
Morgan's impact against the aircraft was sudden and severe, wrenching his torso viciously at the waist. The remaining AKM magazines in his ammunition vest rammed into his outstretched flank, cracking ribs. But somehow he had a grip. Morgan grappled desperately for a handhold on the anti-slip top of the wheel cowling as pain engulfed him. It was excruciating. It would get worse.
Avoiding the exploding fuel storage tanks at the very moment that Morgan made contact with the chopper, Steve Mason yanked the stick hard to starboard. The twin Turbomeca Makila IAl turbine engines of the Super Puma responded with a surge of power and height. The wounded Puma instantly leaned hard to starboard, bringing the port side, Morgan's side, around to face skyward for just a few precious seconds. It was what Morgan needed to stay on. He knew that this was his only hope to survive, and as he clung on tight, the G-force fought to peel him back off. Clawing at the smooth, polished metal with nothing but sunshine and the clear blue sky on his back, he found a foothold on the cargo-door step and kicked off, propelling himself upward, hard against the fuselage, but still curled across the wheel cowling.
The ground was sinking below, rushing by in an endless blur of rusty powder. Mason pulled the chopper from the centre of the firefight. Morgan dragged himself upright on the wheel cowling, knees bent, body braced, with only the white-knuckled fingers of his outstretched left hand curled tenuously inside the lip of the cargo door. His legs were spread wide and his chest pressed hard against the fuselage. All he could do was hang on. A few feet above him, the hu.ge rotor blades sliced relentlessly through the air, buffeting his body with every deafening, pulverising revolution. The force of the downwash battered and tore at his grip, determined to prise him free, while exhaust fumes from the engines denied him the precious few gasps of oxygen needed to fight back. His face began to ripple, his raw eyes and ears blasted by the onslaught. Morgan forced his face away from the engine exhaust port just enough to catch his breath and, with the helicopter hurtling along at breakneck speed, his head bounced against the red-hot steel of the fuselage. Through the menacing blades of the tail rotor set against the retreating sky, Morgan saw that they were finally free. He could also see the burning wreckage of Pallarup, and the swarming green and brown mass of rebel troops congregating to bring down the fleeing chopper.
Then the pain in his ribs attacked, agonizing in its intensity. Morgan could feel the viselike grip of dizziness and nausea slowly reaching for him, dragging him down towards unconsciousness.
Jesus! Morgan thought. There's got to be an easier way to earn a living. He shook his head to clear his thoughts, bracing himself against the aircraft with all that remained of his rapidly depleting strength. But as Mason was forced into wildly evasive manoeuvres to evade the rebel guns, Morgan knew it was only a matter of time before he would lose his purchase and be thrown to his death.
"Alex!" Stanley yelled from the door against the overpowering chaos of engine noise, rotor slap and gunfire. "Step across and get your leg inside the door, son. I'll pull you in." With that, Stanley reached out to Morgan from the door and with a hand the size of a baseball catcher's mitt he clamped down hard, gripping the ammunition vest on Morgan's left shoulder. ''I've got you," Stanley cried, "step across."
"Right!" Morgan yelled back, rousing his senses, "On three."
Stanley nodded. Morgan felt the big man's paw bite even more securely about the vest at the top of his arm as they both braced for the move. Inside, two other men held onto Stanley.
"One!" they yelled together.