coke of flight jargon, which was the bull's-eye of the target.
David brought the deadly machine in fast and low, his mach meter
recording a speed that was barely subsonic. He was running off the
direct line of track, judging his moment with frowning concentration.
When it came he pulled the Mirage's nose in to the pitch up and went
over on to the target with his gloved right finer curled about the
trigger lever.
The shrieking silver machine achieved her correct slightly nose-down
attitude for rocket launch at the precise instant of time that the white
blob of coke was centred in the diamond patterns of the reflector sight.
It was an evolution executed with subtle mastery of man diverse skills,
and David pressed against the y spring-loaded resistance of the trigger.
There was no change in the feel of the aircraft, and the hiss of the
rocket launch was almost lost beneath the howl of the great jet, but
from beneath his wings the brief smoke lines reached out ahead towards
the target, and in certainty of a fair strike David pushed his throttle
to the gate and waited for the rumbling ignition of his afterburners,
giving him power for the climb out of range of enemy flak.
What a way to go, he grinned to himself as he lay on his back with the
Mirage's nose pointed into the bright blue, and gravity pressing him
into the padding of his seat.
Hello, Striker One. This is Range Control. That was right on the nose.
Give the man a coke. Nice shooting.
Sorry to lose you, Davey. The break in hallowed range discipline
touched David. He was going to miss them all of them. He pressed the
transmit button on the maulded head of his joystick, and spoke into the
microphone of his helmet, From Striker One, thanks and farewell, David
said. Over and out. His ground crew were waiting for him also.
He shook hands with each of them, the awkward handshakes and rough jokes
masking the genuine affection that the years had built between them.
Then he left them and went down the vast metal-skinned cavern, redolent
with the smell of grease and oil along which the gleaming rows of
needle-nosed interceptors stood, even in repose their forward lines
giving them speed and thrust.
David paused to pat the cold metal of one of them, and the orderly found
him there peering up at the emblem of the Flying Cobra upon the towering
tail plane.
C. O. 's compliments, sir, and will you report to him right away.
Colonel Rastus Naude was a dried-out stick of a man, with a wizened
monkey face, who wore his uniform and medal ribbons with a casually
distracted air.
He had flown Hurricanes in the Battle of Britain, Mustangs in Italy,
Spitfires and Messerschmitt log's in Palestine and Sabres in Korea, and
he was too old for his present command, but nobody could muster the
courage to tell him that, especially as he could out-fly and out-gun
most of the young bucks on the squadron.
So we are getting rid of you at last, Morgan, he greeted David. Not
until after the mess party, sir. Ja, Rastus nodded. You've given me
enough hardship these last five years. You owe me a bucket of whisky.
