motions and flat plane of high-speed spin. David was thrown against his
straps, his ribs bruised and his skin smeared from his shoulders and the
broken arm flailing agonizingly.
He tried to hold himself upright in his seat as he reached up over his
head, caught hold of the handle of the ejector mechanism and hauled the
blind down over his face. He expected to have the charge explode
beneath his seat and hurl him free of the doomed Mirage, but nothing
happened.
Desperately he released the handle and strained forward to reach the
secondary firing mechanism under his seat between his feet. He wrenched
it and felt despair as there was no response. The seat was not working,
the blast had damaged some vital part of it. He had to fly the Mirage
out of it, with one arm and very little altitude left to him. He
fastened his right fist on to the moulded grip of the stick, and in the
crazy fall and flutter and whirl, David began to fight for control,
flying now by instinct alone, for he was badly hurt, and sky and
horizon, earth and cloud spun giddily across his vision.
He was aware that he was losing height rapidly, for every time the earth
swayed through his line of vision it was c ser an more menacing, t
doggedly he continued his attempts to roll against the direction of
spin.
The earth was very close before he felt the first hint of response, and
the ferocity of her gyrations abated slightly. Stick and rudder
together, he tried again and the Mirage showed herself willing at last.
Gently, with the touch of a lover, he wooed her and suddenly she came
out and he was flying straight and level, but she was hard hit. The
blast of the missile had done mortal damage, and she was heavy and sick
in his hands. He could feel the rough vibration of the engine shaking
her, and he guessed that the compressor had thrown a blade and was now
out of balance. Within minutes or seconds she would begin to tear
herself to pieces. He could not try for climbing power on her.
David looked quickly about him and realized with a shock how far he had
fallen in that terrible tumble down the sky. He was only two or three
hundred feet above the earth. He was not sure of his direction, but
when he glanced at his doppler compass, he found with mild surprise that
he was still heading in the general direction of home.
The engine vibration increased, and he could hear the shrill screech of
rending metal. He wasn't going to make it home, that was certain, and
there was insufficient height to jettison the canopy, release his straps
and attempt to scramble out of the cockpit. There was only one course
still remaining, he must fly the Mirage in.
Even as he made the decision his one good hand was busy implementing it.
Holding the stick between his knees, he let down his landing gear; the
nose wheel might hold him up long enough to take some of the speed off
her and prevent her cartwheeling.
He looked ahead, and saw a low ridge of rocky ground and sparse green
vegetation. Disaster lurked for him there, but beyond it were open
fields, ploughed land, orderly blocks of orchards, neatly laid-out
buildings.
That in itself was cheering. Such order and industry could only mean
