again, sunlight flaring off its cockpit canopy. It was approaching head-on. The Caravan would be fixed in its gunsight, the slow-moving aircraft an easy target—
Twin flashes of fire beneath the fighter’s fuselage. Glowing orange dots seemed to drift towards him, but he knew all too well that the cannon fire’s apparent laziness was just an illusion. ‘He’s firing!’ he yelled.
Valero responded, flinging the Cessna into a hard rolling turn. Loose items bounced around the cabin. A loud crack came from the roof as an aluminium panel split under the stress. Eddie lost sight of the Mirage, but knew the shells were still incoming—
Bright streaks flashed past the windows like meteors. ‘He missed!’ cried Osterhagen.
‘Let’s hope he keeps missing!’ Eddie strained to hold himself upright as the Cessna wheeled round. The Mirage came back into view. Closer. The guns flared again. ‘Oscar!’
Valero changed course again, climbing . . .
Too late. Some shells seared past – but others hit home. Two fist-sized holes exploded through the starboard wing. Macy screamed as a piece of shrapnel scarred the window beside her.
Valero struggled with the controls. ‘Can you keep it in the air?’ asked Eddie, trying to see the damage. Something was coming from the wing. Smoke?
No. A red liquid, sparkling in the light of the falling sun.
Fuel.
The Venezuelan saw it too. He cursed in Spanish, eyes flicking over the instruments. ‘I can’t stop the leak.’ The wing tank had been punctured top and bottom by the cannon shells; no way to shut off the flow.
‘The plane!’ Macy cried, instinctively ducking. Eddie saw a flash of camouflage green and brown rushing at them—
The Mirage blasted overhead with an earsplitting scream, the Cessna crashing violently through its wake. The jet had come in too fast, unable to slow enough to match the weaving transport’s speed. Instead, it ignited its afterburner with another sky-shaking roar and powered into the distance.
Eyes wide, Osterhagen watched it thunder away. ‘He’s leaving,’ he gasped.
‘No, he’s not,’ Eddie replied grimly. The Mirage was making a long, sweeping turn, the pilot about to swing back round . . . and fire a missile. ‘Can we get to Caracas without that fuel tank?’ Valero shook his head. ‘Shit! How much fuel’s still in it?’
Valero checked a gauge, the needle of which was slowly but steadily dropping. ‘Four hundred litres, and falling.’
Eddie thought for a moment, tracking the distant Mirage as it turned. ‘Head away from him, and take us up,’ he ordered.
Valero stared at him, confused. ‘What?’
‘Up, take us up – we need all the height we can get!’ He unfastened his seatbelt as Valero put the Cessna into a climb, heading northwest.
‘What are you doing?’ Macy demanded as he stood.
‘The emergency kit – where is it?’ The yellow plastic case had contained the first aid supplies used to patch up Becker, and more besides. He spotted it at the back of the cabin and slid down the sloping floor to retrieve it.
The glowing dot of the Mirage’s afterburner cut out. ‘Eddie, the jet’s turning,’ warned Valero.
‘Just keep climbing!’ Eddie opened the case. Inside were a Very pistol and several distress flares. He loaded one and snapped the breech closed, then looked through the window. The fighter was coming back towards the Cessna. ‘Okay, Oscar. Can you dump the fuel from the knackered tank?’
‘Yes – but why?’
‘Get ready to do it! Level out, and turn so he’s directly behind us.’
‘But that’ll make us a really easy targ— Oh,’ said Macy, regarding him with sudden hope. ‘You’re going to use the flare gun to decoy the missile!’
‘Nope,’ said Eddie, shaking his head. ‘That only works in movies. We need something a lot hotter!’ There was a small hatch opposite the main door; he unlocked it and swung the top section upwards. Wind shrieked into the cabin – along with the stench of fuel, the leaking avgas swirling in the vortex created by the plane’s wing.
Macy’s hope was replaced by appalled disbelief. ‘You’re going to blow up the fuel? What happened to the whole us-not-blowing-up thing? We’ll go too!’
‘Not if I time it right.’ The Mirage was moving in behind them, now some miles distant – the ideal range for a heat-seeking missile. ‘Oscar! Dump the fuel when I say, then head for the ground.’ The jet disappeared behind the tail. ‘Now!’
Valero, with considerable trepidation, pulled the fuel-dump lever.
The plumes of red-dyed avgas streaming from the holes in the wing were joined by a much denser spray as the main valve opened. The needle on