The Bourne Deception - By Robert Ludlum & Eric van Lustbader Page 0,164

his knees and threw Boris over his shoulder. Gritting his teeth, he began to pick his way past the dead and the dying, the still-smoldering remnants of human beings, toward the Russian helicopter.

Several times, he was forced to stop either by the hail of machine-gun fire or by the pain that gripped his heart like a vise cinched so tight he could scarcely breathe. Once, he went down on one knee, and the blackened hand of a soldier?of which side it was impossible to tell?grabbed at the fabric of his trousers. Bourne tried to brush it away, but the fingers stuck to him like glue. All around him half-shattered faces seemed to turn to him, shrieking in the silent agony of their death throes. They were all the same now, these victims of violence that was always, at heart, senseless. Their allegiances were rendered irrelevant by chaos, blood, and fire, erasing not only their humanity but also their beliefs?that one thing that drove them, whether it be politics, religion, or simply money. They were all jumbled together under a lowering sky filled with the ashes of their compatriots and their enemies.

Finally, he peeled the soldier?s grip off him and, rising unsteadily, continued on his agonizing journey over the blasted landscape. Visibility was now an issue, what with the oily smoke that choked the already filthy air. As if in a dream, the Russian helicopter seemed to fade in and out of focus, to be at first near at hand, then thousands of yards distant. He ran, stopped, crouched over, panting, then ran on again, feeling like Sisyphus rolling the boulder up the hill but never getting to the top. His goal still seemed a mile away, and so he kept on, one foot in front of the other, stumbling and loping with his ungainly burden, zigzagging through the zone of death this mini-war had produced. And at last, lungs bursting, eyes tearing, he saw Boris?s men pour out of the shelter of the helicopter to meet him and their fallen commander. They took him off Bourne?s numb shoulder, and he fell to his knees. Two of Boris?s men lifted him to his feet and fed him water.

But more bad news awaited him here. Boris?s crew had been forced to abandon the Havoc, which had been rendered inoperable by the missile strike. Bourne, looking around while he tried to regain his breath, directed them to the Air Afrika jet, sitting idle three hundred yards away.

They encountered no one around the jet or on the gangway. The door gaped open. Inside, they discovered why: The crew had been bound and gagged, presumably by Arkadin and his cadre. Bourne gave the order to free them.

They lay the colonel down on the floor of the Air Afrika jet and the medic crouched over him, beginning his examination.

After five anxious minutes, when he tested and probed, he looked up at Bourne and the men hovering around. ?The leg is a simple break and is no problem,? he said. ?As for his wound, it could have been worse. The bullet grazed the side of his head, but didn?t crack the skull. That?s the good news.? His hands continued to work on his fallen commander. ?The bad news is he?s got a serious concussion. Pressure is building in his brain; I?m going to have to relieve it by drilling a small hole??he pointed to a spot on Boris?s right temple??just here.? He took a closer look at Bourne and clucked his tongue. ?Still and all, I can only do triage. We need to get him to a hospital as quickly as possible.?

Bourne went up front and gave the Air Afrika pilot and navigator orders to take them back to Khartoum. At once, they began their preflight checklist. The engines came on one by one.

?Please strap yourself in,? the medic said when Bourne returned. ?I?ll see to you as soon as I?ve got Colonel Karpov?s condition stabilized.?

Bourne was in no condition to argue. He collapsed into a seat, stripped off his jacket and the spent packets of pig blood Arkadin?s bullets had ripped open. He said a silent prayer to the spirit of the pig who?d given its life to spare his own, and could not help seeing in his mind?s eye the great carved pig at the pool in Bali.

He unstrapped the Kevlar vest and buckled up, but his gaze never left Karpov?s prone form. He looked deathly pale, there was blood all over him, and for