Quiller Salamander

'Thirty seconds.'

I hit the button and swung the camera down a degree at a time as we moved into the target area, seeing gaps in the trees, a small lake, but nothing that looked like -

'Zero.'

Felt the slight vibration in the body of the Hartma

Khay jerked a look at my face. 'We go in again?'

'Yes.'

There wasn't any choice: with only a twenty-five degree angle on the camera there was no point in circling the target; all we'd get on film would be the camp's perimeter.

Medium turn this time at the end of the lift, then we dropped again and Khay brought the speed up and I tilted the Hartma

'We ca

'Sure, let's do that.'

The jungle was booming behind us as they brought their tank guns into the barrage and I saw tracers reflected in the Perspex panel, then the horizon swung again with the moon curving across the darkness as Khay made his turn and vibration came in under the g-load and I started the camera ru

'We go now,' Khay called, then there was something else I couldn't catch because a shell hit the tail of the Sikorsky with a lot of noise and he was nursing the controls as we went into a slow horizontal spin and the horizon began tilting and vibration came in very badly now, shaking the whole cabin as Khay shifted the controls and shouted something in Khmer and I hit the flap on the camera and started taking out the cassette, but the cabin was shuddering now and we were losing height, the Sikorsky spi

19: SMOKE

I looked at Khay's boots.

They didn't move. The feet in them didn't move.

We hadn't been here long: I could hear the gyro still winding down behind the instrument panel. They would look for us.

On this thought I moved, though carefully. It had been a head blow, knocked me out for a minute. Moonlight was in the cabin, but I couldn't see any blood blackening the bulkhead where I was lying. The Sikorsky was on its side, and I could smell fuel, but there was no flame-light anywhere that I could see.

I went on moving, because they would look for us, be here soon; we were within a mile, two miles of the camp.

'Khay?'

Bruise on my shoulder, felt it when I got up, just as far as a crouch, testing for anything broken that might be still blacked-out under the endorphins. Everything articulated well enough, hands, feet, hips, neck.

'Khay?'

The boots didn't move. The feet in the boots didn't move. There wasn't enough space between the two rear seats to let me through, because the Hartma

'Khay?'

The loading flap at the side of the camera was still hanging open, just as I'd left it. The cassette would have to be salvaged but that didn't have priority.

'Khay?'

I could see his shoulders now, and his head. He was face-down, and his head was at a bad angle from his shoulders, a very bad angle; there wasn't, for instance, any point in calling his name again. I felt for the pulse in his throat and found it still there, but weak, rapid but weak. Blood was caking his skull in the occipital area: that was where his head had smashed into the storage door and broken his neck.

A night bird called, disturbed by the noise the Sikorsky had made coming down through the leaves, its rotor threshing among them; I could hear monkeys, also awakened and alarmed. There were no more shots from the Khmer Rouge camp; they would have seen us going down, heard the impact, would have sent out a search party immediately. It was on its way here now.

There was a holstered gun at Khay's belt but I couldn't use that: they would hear the shot. I used my hands instead, talking to him in my mind, wishing him well, speeding him on his journey, asking Buddha to receive his spirit and be mindful of the honour this man had brought upon himself in giving his life for his people. Then, when there was no pulse any more, I went to pull the cassette out of the Hartma

I could take the whole thing with me, but it was cumbersome, would slow me down a great deal, critically: if I were going to get clear of this mess I would need to be light on my feet. They should be within gunshot range by now, the people in the search party; all they would need to do was catch sight of me through the trunks of the palm trees, when I left the Sikorsky and began trekking.

A thought came: they might have orders to take any survivors alive, and I didn't want to confront the barking man again, Colonel Choen. This time he would put me through interrogation to the point of attrition.

I went on tugging at the cassette and got it halfway out, but it was jammed worse now because of the angle and I hit it back and started again, listening for voices as the gyro wound down to silence at last. The people in the search party would also be listening, guided by the sharp chittering sounds of the monkeys in the trees above the crash site.

I had to get this bloody thing out and take it with me: there was no choice. Take a letter, Miss Fortescue, to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the Pentagon. Dear General, the Khmer Rouge base camp is in fact located at 12°3W x 10301 OE, as I have now established personally. A massive artillery barrage was fired as our helicopter twice made a run across the area. I trust this will leave you convinced.

Use the sheath knife on Khay's belt, prize the bloody thing out, come on, for Christ's sake, come on.