his jaws clenching nervously and his eyes too large for his face.
Again there was silence on the radio, and every head turned back to
watch the jet.
'Come on, Bucko, come on!' grunted Hendry impatiently. He spat into the
palm of his right hand and then wiped it down the front of his jacket.
'Come on, we want you.' With his thumb he flicked the safety catch of
his rifle on and off, on and off.
Suddenly the radio spoke again. Two words, obviously acknowledging an
order, and one of the words Bruce recognised. He had heard it before in
circumstances that has burned it into his memory.
The Hindustani word
'Attack!' 'All right,' he said and stood up. 'He's coming!' The wind
fluttered his shirt against his chest. He settled his helmet firmly and
pumped a round into the chamber of his FN.
'Get down into the truck, Hendry,' he ordered.
'I can see better from here.' Hendry was standing beside him, legs
planted wide to brace himself against the violent motion of the train.
'As you like,' said Bruce. 'Ruffy, you get under cover.'
'Too damn hot down there in that box,' grinned the huge Negro.
'You're a mad Arab too,' said Bruce.
'Sure, we're all mad Arabs.' The jet wheeled sharply and stooped
towards the forest, levelling, still miles out on their flank.
'This Bucko is a real apprentice. He's going to take us from the side,
so we can all shoot at him. If he was half awake he'd give it to us up
the bum, hit the loco and make sure that we were all shooting over the
top of each other,' gloated Hendry.
Silently, swiftly it closed with them, almost touching the tops of the
trees. Then suddenly the cannon fire sparkled lemon-pale on its nose and
all around them the air was filled with the sound of a thousand whips.
Immediately every gun on the train opened up in reply.
The tracers from the Brens chased each other out to meet the plane and
the rifles joined their voices in a clamour that drowned the cannon
fire.
Bruce aimed carefully, the jet unsteady in his sights from the lurching
of the coach; then he pressed the trigger and the rifle
juddered against his shoulder. From the corner of his eye he saw the
empty cartridge cases spray from the breech in a bright bronze stream,
and the stench of cordite stung his nostrils.
The aircraft slewed slightly, flinching from the torrent of fire.
'He's yellow!' howled Hendry. 'The bastard's yellow!'
'Hit him!'
roared Ruffy. 'Keep hitting him.' The jet twisted, lifted its nose so
that the fire from its cannons passed harmlessly over their heads.
Then its nose dropped again and it fired its rockets, two from under
each wing. The gunfire from the train stopped abruptly as everybody
ducked for safety; only the three of them on the roof kept shooting.
Shrieking like four demons in harness, leaving parallel lines of white
smoke behind them, the rockets came from about four hundred yards out
and they covered the distance in the time it takes to draw a deep
breath, but the pilot had dropped his nose too sharply and fired too
