sprang into comprehension.
Along a dusty border track three patrol vehicles of the border police
were halted. They were camouflaged half tracks, tiny as children's toys
in the vastness of the desert.
One of the half tracks was burning. The smoke was greasy black and rose
straight into the air, the beacon that had drawn them. Lying
spreadeagled in the road was a human body, flung down carelessly in
death, and the sight of it stirred in David a deeply bitter feeling of
resentment such as he had last felt in the bullring at Madrid.
The other vehicles were pulled off the track at abandoned angles, and
David could see their crews crouching amongst the scrub and rock. Some
of them were firing with small arms at their attacker who was circling
for his next run down upon them.
David had never seen the type before, but knew it instantly from the
recognition charts that he had studied so often. It was a Russian MIG
17 of the Syrian airforce.
The high tail plane was unmistakable. The dappled brown desert
camouflage was brightened by the red, white and black rounders with
their starred green centres on the fuselage and the stubby swept wings.
The MIG completed its turn, settling swiftly down and levelling off for
its next strafing run upon the parked vehicles. The pilot's attention
was concentrated on the helpless men cowering amongst the rocks and he
was unaware of the terrible vengeance bearing down upon him on high.
The Brig lined up for his pass, turning slightly to bring himself down
on the Syrian's tail, attacking in classic style from behind and above,
while David dropped back to weave across his rear, covering him and
backing up to press in a supporting attack if the first failed.
The Syrian opened fire again and the cannon bursts twinkled like fairy
lights amongst the men and trucks.
Another truck exploded in a dragon's breath of smoke and flame.
You bastard, David whispered as he levelled out behind the Brig and saw
the havoc that was being wrought amongst his people. It was the first
time he had thought of them as that, his people, and he felt the cold
anger of the shepherd whose flock is under attack.
A line of poetry popped up in his mind The Assyrian came down like a
wolf on the fold, and his hands went purposefully to the chore of
locking in his cannon sselectors and flicking the trigger forward out of
its recess in the moulded grip of the joystick. The soft green glow lit
his gunsight as it came alive and he squinted through it.
The Brig was pressing his attack in to close range, rapidly overhauling
the slower clumsy-looking MIG, and at that moment he knew he would open
fire David saw the Syrian's wing-shape alter. At the fatal instant he
had become aware of his predicament, and he had done what was best in
the circumstances. He had pulled on full flap and while his speed fell
sharply he dropped one wing in a slide towards the earth a hundred feet
below.
The Brig was committed and he loosed his salvo of cannon fire at the
instant that the Syrian dropped, ducking under it like a boxer avoiding
a heavy punch. David saw the blaze of shot pass high, rending the air
