hundred feet above the ground. Even as the Cessna levelled out, it was still heading inexorably into the thick canopy—
Branches and leaves disintegrated as the propeller carved through a treetop like a chainsaw. Eddie wrestled with the controls, still trying to pull up, but the plane hit another tree, branches clawing open the Cessna’s skin.
The towering trunk of an emergent redwood rose above the canopy ahead. Eddie shoved down a rudder pedal, but even had the controls been fully responsive there wasn’t time to turn away—
The tree scythed past less than a foot from the fuselage’s left side, slicing off the port wing at its root. Fuel erupted from the tank inside it as it crumpled. The Cessna’s tail, still smouldering, hurtled through the spray – and ignited it. The wing blew apart, an oily mushroom cloud roiling up through the foliage.
What was left of the plane dropped towards the ground, the mangled tail now aflame. ‘Brace!’ yelled Eddie, grabbing his seatbelt straps and bending into a crash position—
The Caravan hit on its belly, the impact tearing away the wheels and buckling the hull. The propeller blades bent as they churned through the earth. The starboard wing clipped another tree and was ripped in half, the fuselage skidding onwards in a huge spray of soil and rotting vegetation. The windscreen shattered, dirt filling the cockpit. Jutting roots tore at the aircraft’s belly as it crashed over them with a terrible screeching sound.
Which suddenly lessened.
Eddie clung to the straps, eyes shut tight. The plane was still moving – but the ground beneath it was somehow cushioning its passage. The bumps continued, but muffled, fading as the plane slowed . . .
And stopped.
The bent hull tipped back with a thump. Eddie wiped away mud and cautiously opened his eyes. They were indeed stationary. His arms ached where the straps had cut into them, and there was a horrible bruise across his stomach from the steering yoke. He flexed his hands, then his feet. Nothing broken.
Valero had fared much worse. Unconscious, he had been unable to protect himself, flailing as the plane ploughed through the trees. Two of his fingers were bent back at unnatural angles, and blood streaked his face where he had hit the controls. Becker, equally helpless, had come off better; secured in his seat, he was now slumped over the armrest, moaning softly.
‘Ow, God . . .’ a female voice whispered. Eddie staggered to his feet. Osterhagen sat bolt upright, eyes squeezed shut and breathing loudly and rapidly. Macy, meanwhile, had her head against the window, grimacing.
Eddie staggered to her. ‘Macy! Are you okay?’
‘I dunno . . . ’ She tried to stand. ‘Ow, that hurts – wait, if it hurts . . . ’ She rolled her head to clear the dazed fog from her mind. ‘I’m not dead?’
Eddie half laughed. ‘No, we’re alive. That means I’ve survived two plane crashes in less than a year. Fuck me! Don’t know if that means I’m really lucky or really unlucky.’ A feeble smile briefly turned up her lips, which he returned. ‘We need to get out of the plane, though. Something’s burning.’ He faced Osterhagen. ‘Doc. Doc! Can you hear me?’
Osterhagen’s eyes snapped open, darting about wildly before settling on Eddie. ‘Where are we?’
‘On the ground, and that’s good enough for me. Are you hurt?’
‘Only bruised, I think. But my neck is very painful.’
‘Whiplash, but I doubt you’ll get the chance to sue anyone for it. Okay, you and Macy get Ralf out of the plane. I’ll get Oscar.’
They released the injured men from their seats and hauled them through the main hatch. The reason for the plane’s relatively soft landing became clear; they were in a marsh, boots sinking inches deep into the soft muck. Eddie looked at the plane, seeing smoke curling from the tail, then searched for more solid ground. There was a broad hump of earth not far away. ‘Lie them down on that,’ he said. ‘Then I’ll—’
A deep rumble shook the rainforest. The Mirage. It was still out there.
Hunting for them.
Osterhagen searched the patches of sky visible through the canopy. ‘Where is it?’
Eddie turned, listening. The jet growl was loudest back along the channel gouged out of the jungle by the careering plane.
And still getting louder . . .
He glimpsed movement above the trees to the southeast. The Mirage was circling. But not overhead. He realised why; the exploded port wing had sent up a column of thick black smoke.