"Alex! Alex!" Fredericks yelled at him, slapping Morgan's face to revive him. "Alex!"
"Jesus!" Morgan gasped, opening his eyes. "Is anything broken?" The two men laughed, causing Morgan to recoil as the pain returned.
"Just the truck, bud," Fredericks said, relieved that Morgan was somehow still alive.
Fredericks hooked his arms under Morgan and hoisted him up. Morgan was dizzy, in pain and barely able to stand, let alone walk. It took him moments to recover, moments Fredericks knew they didn't have. They watched as the truck disappeared around the corner, skirting the edges of the fire, bur as they started to make their way back across the street, something told Fredericks to look up. The burning remains of the Super Puma's tail section had finally reached the edge of the rooftop and was teetering precariously over the brink. The rotors had started to slow now and were spinning in a lazy sweep high above the street.
"Come on!" Fredericks ordered. "Let's get the hell out of here before that drops on us."
The noise of battle was everywhere. Fredericks could clearly hear the distinctive crack-thump of high-velocity ammunition slicing through the air overhead. If it's that close, we're too close, he thought. Morgan, dazed and confused, seemed unaware.
"Alex, snap out of it! We've still got people left to get to the evacuation point. They're relying on us. Now, get your head together and let's get moving."
"Ari! What about Ari?" Morgan mumbled, half to himself.
"It's OK. She went out to the Kearsarge with Sewa, and Adam radioed in that she made it. She's safely aboard."
Morgan finally appeared to be coming around. His eyes were set with purpose, remembering why he was there and, on top of that, that there were a lot of people relying on him.
"Steve?" Morgan, oriented now, looked back up the street to the burning mass of bodies and wreckage. "Christ!"
"He's dead, bud. Nothing we can do for him now. Nothing we could do for any of them."
They both stood silently for a second or two, then Morgan leaned down awkwardly, retrieved his weapon from where it had landed nearby, and said, "OK, mate. Let's go, while I've still got some puff in me."
CHAPTER 31
"Shit! Shit! Shit! Where are they?" Martinez hissed through gritted teeth.
Sweat soaked his face and stung at his eyes. His wet hands were shaking, slipping along the wooden stock of his rifle, his breathing was shallow and rapid. He grew more agitated by the second. The top guys were all out in the thick of it, caught up God-knows-where. Adam Garrett was down at the beach coordinating the evacuation with the Marines. Mike Fredericks was off investigating the explosion that had ripped off the front half of the hotel, and as far as he knew, Alex Morgan was still up on the roof somewhere. In short: when Martinez needed them most, they were nowhere to be found.
Ezequiel 'Zeke' Martinez and the last ten evacuees were now well and truly pinned down, with it seemed, no hope of escape. The rebels were close, their cordon around the hotel was tightening like a noose on the Government troops, countering attempts at movement onto the street with heavy machinegun fire, making it nigh impossible for Martinez to get the evacuees to the Land Rovers parked on the far side of the road.
For the first time in his life, Martinez doubted himself. He was happy doing what they'd brought him out to Africa to do; set up Comms, plain and simple. That was his area of expertise, and he was good at it. He'd learnt the ropes with the International Security Assistance Force Signals Detachment in Afghanistan, the reason Chiltonford had poached him. And Afghanistan was no picnic, he reminded himself. But all this was way, way out of his league.
Martinez reluctantly peeled his eyes away from the road where he'd been maintaining a visual on the Land Rovers 20 feet away, and looked back into the scarred remains of the hotel. The few remaining evacuees were staring at him expectantly. They were scared too, really scared. He hadn't heard a peep from them in the last few minutes, and Martinez thought he saw one of the men crying quietly into his sleeve. Martinez had no idea what he should do. What could he do? Run out into the street and get shot! He was the Comms guy. Remember? Had everybody forgotten that?
But to the evacuees huddled together in the ruins of the hotel, tired, scared and engulfed by carnage, Martinez wasn't the Comms guy at all. He wasn't the tech-geek who looked after the radios and IT. He wasn't the youngest, least experienced member of the crew. Right here, in the dead centre of hell, he was one of the security team, and they were supposed to have all the answers. That's why Chiltonford had come out in the first place. To train the local Army, protect the British expats, and get them all home safely. And they wanted to get home, more than that, they were expecting to. Martinez had to do something.