the fuel gauge plummeted. Eddie leaned out of the open hatch, the slipstream tearing at the back of his head as he searched for the Mirage. The dark dot was directly astern. He readied the flare gun—
Another flash of fire from the jet, this time beneath a wing. A line of smoke trailed behind a white-painted speck. A heat-seeking missile, either an American Sidewinder or a French Magic, but it made no difference – neither would have any trouble locking on.
The missile closed in a sweeping arc. Travelling at over Mach 2, it would take just seconds to reach its target.
Fuel was still gushing from the dump valve. Eddie held his breath, feeling droplets soaking his skin. If he fired too soon, Macy’s fear would be realised – the igniting fuel vapour would consume the plane and its passengers.
And if he fired too late, they would be dead anyway . . .
The deluge stopped, the tank empty but for the last dribbling dregs.
He pulled the trigger.
The pistol bucked, the flare spiralling into the dissipating red cloud. For a moment nothing happened . . .
Then the sky caught fire.
Flames spread like an exploding star, greedily swallowing up the drifting fuel. Searing tongues lashed after the Cessna, trying to reach the last morsels in its ruptured wing. Eddie threw himself back into the cabin as a wave of heat hit the plane.
The missile was an R550 Magic, carrying a fragmentation warhead of twelve and a half kilograms of high explosive wrapped in frangible steel. Its infrared seeker was overwhelmed by the fireball, the heat source of its target’s engine lost amidst a much bigger, hotter signal. It ran through its programmed options in a millisecond. Target lost at close range: only one response.
Detonate.
The missile was less than a hundred metres from the Cessna when the warhead exploded, sending red-hot shrapnel out in all directions. Most of the chunks of metal hit nothing . . . but only a fraction had to strike their target to score a kill.
The Caravan’s tail shredded as if hit by a shotgun blast. Other sizzling shards ripped through the wings and fuselage.
One hit Valero above his ear, tearing away a chunk of flesh and hair. Blood splattered the windscreen.
He slumped, unconscious. The Cessna’s descent steepened, beginning to roll.
Eddie slid across the rear of the cabin as the plane tilted. ‘Eddie!’ Macy screamed. ‘Oscar’s hit!’ He hauled himself up and half ran, half fell down the aisle to clamber into the copilot’s seat. Rows of dials and gauges gazed meaninglessly at him. ‘One of these days,’ he gasped as he took hold of the control yoke, ‘I’m going to learn how to fly a fucking plane!’
He turned it like a steering wheel in the hope that it would counter the roll. Smoke trailing from its tail, the aircraft staggered back to a wings-level attitude – but still with its nose pointing down at the rainforest. The altimeter he understood, at least: two thousand feet.
Falling fast.
He pulled back the yoke, trying to level out. Nothing happened, the control refusing to move. ‘Oh, bollocks,’ he muttered as he tried again, harder. It gave slightly, then locked again. The damage to the Cessna’s rear had jammed the tailplanes. ‘Oh, bollocks!’
Fifteen hundred feet. He jerked the yoke in an attempt to free it. The plane responded slightly, producing a faintly nauseating roller coaster sensation, but the controls remained stuck.
But to have worked at all, they still had to be connected to the tailplanes. The problem was a physical obstruction, something preventing them from moving. Maybe they could be forced free . . .
One thousand feet—
Eddie planted his feet firmly against the instrument panel. Macy watched in frightened bewilderment as he gripped the yoke with both hands. ‘Everyone hold tight!’ he warned as he pulled at the control, simultaneously pushing with all the strength in his legs – trying to force the tailplanes to move through sheer brute force.
The yoke creaked. It seemed to give, but only a little. He pulled harder, aware that if he tore the handgrips clean off their mount, they were all doomed.
Five hundred—
‘Come on!’ he rasped, face twisted with effort. The jungle was rapidly approaching. Three hundred feet. Every muscle trembled as he strained. The glass of a dial cracked beneath his foot.
Two hundred—
Something snapped. The yoke suddenly broke free, the tailplanes slamming upwards to their full extent. The aircraft pulled out of its dive . . .
Not quickly enough.
The jungle’s tallest trees stretched up well over a