The scene outside was a disaster. At least 20 other people had met the same end as Jonah and Michael. A phalanx of charcoaled remains littered the intersection in a horrific pattern, emanating outward from the twisted and blackened skeleton of the Super Puma. The few who had not been killed outright were screaming horribly in sickening unison.
There was little Fredericks could do. Looking on, transfixed, and shielding his face from the flames, he watched the survivors. There they were: rebels, Government soldiers and civilians, all suffering the same indescribable agony in those few remaining seconds, before finally surrendering to their deaths. It was impossible for him to penetrate the flames to help any of them; it would be pointless anyway. They were no more than flaming effigies, arms outstretched, searching for a rapid end. The stench was overwhelming, the trauma of it unforgettable. Swallowing down hard, Mike Fredericks knew exactly what he had to do - the only thing he could do. Taking careful aim, he began firing into the inferno.
With each ominous crack from the A.KM, his rounds found their grateful targets, mercifully hastening the release of dying men and women, barely distinguishable now as human beings. In a matter of seconds, seconds that seemed like hours, his piercing gaze moved from one to the other, squeezing the trigger and following each death from the impact of the round to the collapse of the carcass.
When he had accounted for them all, Fredericks fell to his hands and knees and retched violently.
CHAPTER 30
Morgan was running for his life. The burning tail of the helicopter was slicing across the rooftop towards him, closer and closer, pulverising anything in its path, gaining on him despite every tortured step he took in his attempt to outrun it. His heart was pounding, his chest heaving and his ribs sending flashes of searing pain throughout his body. The tightness in his chest was excruciating. Breathing was almost impossible, but he had to keep going, his mind was alive with the hunger for self-preservation. His surroundings were a blur, he needed something, and he needed it now. Morgan's eyes were scanning, processing every frame from the ocean of images that swam past him at breakneck speed. There had to be options, an avenue of escape.
There it was! A whisper of opportunity. Morgan was thinking fast, calculating the distances, the angles, the timing. There was only the most microscopic possibility that he could do it. But it was all he had. Running as fast as he could, Alex Morgan leapt fearlessly from the rooftop of the Francis Hotel, catapulting himself out into thin air five storeys above the street.
Directly beneath him a dilapidated Army truck, spewing dirty grey black exhaust fumes like the smokestack of an old steam train, came careening around the corner of the rubble-strewn streets with a full load of ammunition crates on board, bound for the besieged Government troops further ahead. A large, standard issue, green canvas tarpaulin was stretched tightly across its aging frame. Morgan had seen the truck's noxious plume approaching as he ran across the rooftop. It was his only chance. A safety net! Falling fast, he was lined up perfectly to land on the tarpaulin. He prayed the faded canvas would hold long enough to break his fall. Then, with just a few feet to go, he realised, somewhat disconsolately, that the almost prehistoric canvass was a chessboard of disrepair, resembling something more like a child's patchwork quilt than a reliable, life-saving device. Too late he decided that the jump had been a bad idea.
The truck was hurtling down the road at full throttle. The driver focused only upon negotiating his way through the blazing fire ahead, terrified of the battle that he was driving into, oblivious of the unscheduled passenger descending upon him.
Suddenly, as Morgan fell, the vehicle appeared to gain speed and began to sway recklessly from side to side. With a combination of adrenaline overload and ground rush familiar to paratroopers, he was strangled by a fear that he would miss the truck completely, ploughing instead into the asphalt as the vehicle passed by.
With arms outstretched and legs locked together, bent at the knees, he braced for impact, Morgan knew he was about to die.
Mike Fredericks looked up and saw Morgan falling from the sky. "What the hell's he doing?" he said, mesmerised by the surreal scene.
Fredericks couldn't believe his eyes and almost forgot to hurl himself out of the path of the truck. He dived back into the ruins of the hotel foyer and, taking shelter behind a pile of concrete and bricks, turned just in time to see Morgan crash heavily onto the rotting green tarpaulin. It gave way immediately, crumbling beneath the force of his impact. He hit the rusted tubular framework under the canvas like a ton of bricks, the entire left side of the frame buckled, causing the canvas to sag and tear. He bounced, then slid straight off the back of the speeding truck, whirling in a tight bundle along the road. By the time he finally slowed and came to a stop, Fredericks was at his side.