so tight that the missile slid past him in an overshoot, and it lost the
scent, unable to follow the MIG around. As David hauled the Mirage
round after the Russian, he saw the missile destroy itself in a burst of
greenish smoke, far out across the valley of clouds.
The Russian was in a hard right-hand turn, and David followed him.
Staring across the imaginary circle that separated them, he could see
every detail of the enemy machine; the scarlet helmet of the pilot, the
gaudy colours of its rounders, the squiggle of Arabic script that was
its identification markings, even the individual rivets that stitched
the polished metal skin of the MIG.
David pulled back with all his strength against his joystick, for
gravity was tightening the loading of his controls, opposing his efforts
to place additional stress on the Mirage lest he tear its wings off the
fuselage Gravity had hold of David also, its insidious force sucked the
blood away from his brain so that his vision dimmed, the colour of the
enemy pilot's helmet faded to dull brown, and David felt himself crushed
down into his seat.
About his waist and legs his G-suit tightened its coils, squeezing
brutally like a hungry python, attempting to prevent the drainage of
blood from his upper torso.
David tensed every muscle in his body, straining to resist the loss of
blood, and he took the Mirage up in a slidin& soaring yo-yo, up the side
of an imaginary barrel.
Like a motor-cyclist on a wall of death he whirled aloft, trying once
more for the advantage of height.
His vision narrowed, greyed out, until his field was reduced to the
limits of his cockpit, and he was pinned heavily to his seat, his mouth
sagging open, his eyelids dragging downwards; the effort of holding his
right hand on the control column was Herculean.
In the corner of his vision the stall indicator blinked its little eye
at him, changing from amber to red, warning him that he was on the verge
of catastrophe, courting the disaster of supersonic stall.
David filled his lungs and screamed with all his strength, his own voice
echoing through the grey mist.
The effort forced a little blood back to his brain and his vision
cleared briefly, enough to let him see that the MIG had anticipated his
yo-yo and had come up under him, sliding up the wall of death towards
his unprotected flank and belly.
David had no alternative but to break out of the turn before the MIG's
cannons could bear. He rolled the Mirage out, and went instantly into a
tight climbing lefthander, his afterburners still thundering at full
power, consuming fuel at a prodigious rate, and placing a limit upon
these desperate manoeuvres.
Neatly and gracefully as a ballet dancer, the Russian followed him out
of the turn and locked into his next manoeuvre. David saw him coming up
into an attack position in his rear-view mirror and he rolled out again
and went up and right, blacking out with the rate of turn.
Roll and turn, turn for life, David had judged the Russian fairly. He
was a deadly opponent, quick and hard, anticipating each of David's
