Eagle in the Sky - Smith Wilbur - Страница 20

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17 of the Syrian airforce.

The high tail plane was unmistakable.  The dappled brown desert

camouflage was brightened by the red, white and black rounders with

their starred green centres on the fuselage and the stubby swept wings.

The MIG completed its turn, settling swiftly down and levelling off for

its next strafing run upon the parked vehicles.  The pilot's attention

was concentrated on the helpless men cowering amongst the rocks and he

was unaware of the terrible vengeance bearing down upon him on high.

The Brig lined up for his pass, turning slightly to bring himself down

on the Syrian's tail, attacking in classic style from behind and above,

while David dropped back to weave across his rear, covering him and

backing up to press in a supporting attack if the first failed.

The Syrian opened fire again and the cannon bursts twinkled like fairy

lights amongst the men and trucks.

Another truck exploded in a dragon's breath of smoke and flame.

You bastard, David whispered as he levelled out behind the Brig and saw

the havoc that was being wrought amongst his people.  It was the first

time he had thought of them as that, his people, and he felt the cold

anger of the shepherd whose flock is under attack.

A line of poetry popped up in his mind The Assyrian came down like a

wolf on the fold, and his hands went purposefully to the chore of

locking in his cannon sselectors and flicking the trigger forward out of

its recess in the moulded grip of the joystick.  The soft green glow lit

his gunsight as it came alive and he squinted through it.

The Brig was pressing his attack in to close range, rapidly overhauling

the slower clumsy-looking MIG, and at that moment he knew he would open

fire David saw the Syrian's wing-shape alter.  At the fatal instant he

had become aware of his predicament, and he had done what was best in

the circumstances.  He had pulled on full flap and while his speed fell

sharply he dropped one wing in a slide towards the earth a hundred feet

below.

The Brig was committed and he loosed his salvo of cannon fire at the

instant that the Syrian dropped, ducking under it like a boxer avoiding

a heavy punch.  David saw the blaze of shot pass high, rending the air

above the sand-coloured air-craft.  Then the Brig was through, missing

with every shell, spiralling up and around in a great flashing circle,

raging internally at his failure.

At the instant that David recognized the MIG's manoeuvre he reacted with

a rapidity that was purely reflexive.  He closed down his power, and hit

his air brakes to punch a little to the speed off the Mirage.

The MIG turned steeply away to port, standing on one wing-tip that

seemed to be pegged into the bleak desert earth.  David released his air

brakes, to give his wings lift for the next evolution, and then he

dropped his own wing-tip and went sweeping round to follow the Syrian's

desperate twists with the Mirage hovering on the edge of the stall.

The Syrian was turning inside him, slower and more manoeuverable; David

could not bring his sights to bear, his right forefinger was curled

around the trigger but always the dark shape of the MIG was out of

centre in the illuminated circle of the sight as the aiming pipper

dipped and rose to the pull of gravity.

Ahead of the two circling aircraft rose a steep and forbidding line of

cliffs, .  rent by deep defiles and gullies.

The 1VUG made no attempt to climb above them, but selected a narrow pass

through the hills and went into it like a ferret into its run, a

desperate attempt to shake off the pursuit.

The Mirage was not designed for this type of flying, and David felt the

urge to hit his afterburners and ride up over the jagged fangs of rock,

but to do so was to let the MIG escape, and his anger was still strong

upon him.

He followed the Syrian into the rock pass, and the walls of stone on

either hand seemed to brush his wingtips, the gully turned sharply to

starboard and David dropped his wing and followed its course.  Back upon

itself the rock turned, and David swung the needle nose from maximum

rate turn starboard to port, and the stall warning device winked amber

and red at him as he abused the Mirage's delicate flying capabilities.

Ahead of him the MIG clawed its way through the tunnel of rock.  The

pilot looked back over his shoulder and he saw the IIirage following

him, creeping slowly up on him, and he turned back to his controls and

forced his machine lower still, hugging the rugged walls of stone.

The air in the hills was hot and turbulent, and the Mirage bucked and

fought against restraint wanting to be free and high, while ahead of it

the Syrian drifted tantalizingly off-centre in David's gunsight.

Now the valley turned again and narrowed, before climbing and ending

abruptly against a solid dark purple wall of smooth rock.

The Syrian was trapped, he levelled out and climbed steeply upwards, his

flight path dictated by the rocks on each side and ahead.

David pushed his throttle to the gate and lit his afterburners, and the

mighty engine rumbled, thrusting him powerfully forward, up under the

Syrian's stern.

The eternal micro-seconds of mortal combat dragged by, as the Syrian

floated lazily into the circle of the gunsight, expanding to fill it as

the Mirage's nose seemed to touch the other's tail plane and David felt

the buffeting of the Syrian's slip-stream.

He pressed the cannon trigger and the Mirage lurched as she hurled her

deadly load into the other machine in a clattering double stream of

cannon fire and an eruption of incendiary shells.

The Syrian disintegrated, evaporating in a gush of silvery smoke,

rent through with bright white lightning, and the ejecting pilot's body

was blown clear of the fuselage.  For an instant it was outlined ahead

of David's screen, cruciform in shape with arms and legs thrown wide,

the helmet still on the head, and the clothing ballooning in the rush of

air.  Then it flickered past the Mirage's canopy as David climbed

swiftly up out of the valley and into the open sky.

The soldiers were moving about amongst their vehicles, tending their

wounded and covering their dead, but they all looked up as David flew

back low along the road.  He passed so close that he could see their

faces clearly.  They were sunbrowned, some with beards or moustaches,

strong young faces, their mouths open as they cheered him, waving their

thanks.

My people, he thought.  He was still high on the adrenalin that had

poured into his blood, and he felt a fierce elation.  He grinned

wolfishly at the men below him and lifted one gloved hand in salute

before climbing up to where the Brig was circling, waiting for him.

The artificial lights of the bunker were dim after the brilliance of the

sun.  An engineer helped David from the cockpit as his mates swarmed

over the Mirage to refuel and rearm it.  This was one of the vital

skills of this tiny airforce, the ability to ready a warplane for combat

in a fraction of the time usually required for the task.  Thus in

emergency the machine could return to the battle long before its

adversary.

Moving stiffly from the confines of the cockpit, David crossed to where

the Brig was already in conversation with the flight controller.

He stood with the gaudy helmet tucked under one arm as he stripped off

his gloves, but as David came up he turned to him and his wintry smile

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