The soldier shot back. Bullets pierced the fuselage.
One of the Cessna’s wheels ran through a deep dip. The whole aircraft jolted violently – and Eddie’s right foot slipped.
Unbalanced, he swung further out of the plane. The strap creaked, biting into the flesh of his wrist. His other foot was hooked round the hatch’s frame, metal digging painfully though the leather of his boot.
His right arm started to slip back down the fuselage’s curved roof. . .
The Cessna’s nose tipped upwards. The Jeep was falling behind, but still firing. More bullets riddled the plane.
Eddie kept sliding—
With a last straining swing of his arm, he jammed the AK over the base of the tailfin – and swivelled the weapon to fire at the Jeep.
The remaining bullets spewed out, most of them harmlessly hitting soil and grass – but one caught the speeding Jeep’s front tyre, which deflated abruptly, the wheel rim shredding it. The Jeep flipped over and tossed both soldiers high into the air.
The Cessna’s wings flexed as they took the plane’s weight—
The ground made one final attempt to claw the plane back down to earth, a wheel striking a muddy hump. The Caravan lurched – and Eddie’s boot lost its grip on the doorframe.
The seventy-five mile an hour wind snatched him out of the hatch. He lost his hold on the AK-103, the weapon spinning away as the Cessna took to the sky. He slapped his hand against the roof, but there was almost no grip to be found on the smooth metal. The strap around his wrist creaked and strained, the fastener attaching it to the hull buckling under his weight.
‘Eddie!’ Macy cried. She yanked at her seatbelt release.
The plane kept climbing: one hundred feet, one-fifty. Valero struggled to keep the controls steady. ‘Close the hatch!’ he yelled.
‘Eddie’s out there!’ Macy screamed back. She staggered to her feet, clinging to the seats as she made her way down the steeply sloping aisle.
‘No, you’ll be killed!’ Osterhagen shouted, but she kept moving. With a curse, he unlocked his own seatbelt.
Outside, Eddie felt what little hold he had on the fuselage slipping away as the plane picked up speed. He was flapping like a flag, legs trailing helplessly.
And the strap was giving way. He could feel the fastener breaking . . .
A hand grabbed his wrist. He squinted into the wind. Slim fingers, neat nails. Macy. She poked her head through the hatch, black hair whipping round her face. ‘Get back in!’ he yelled.
‘No, hang on!’ she shouted, tugging at his arm. Eddie shook his head, desperately willing her back inside. He didn’t want to die – but he wanted to drag her with him even less. Macy just didn’t have the sheer physical strength needed to pull him through the hatch against the wind – and his fingertips were slipping off the hull . . .
Another hand seized his arm. Osterhagen. The German leaned out of the hatch behind Macy, gripping the upper frame with his free hand. ‘Oscar!’ he bellowed.
Valero jammed the control stick hard to the right, putting the plane into a steep roll – and simultaneously pitching it downwards.
Eddie lost his grip, swinging away from the hull. Macy and Osterhagen both hauled on his arm with all their strength—
And Eddie dropped head first into the cabin as gravity overpowered wind resistance, bowling them with him against the cabin’s starboard wall as the plane banked practically on its side.
‘Hang on!’ Valero howled. They were far from out of danger. The plane was still at a low altitude – and getting lower by the moment. He shoved the stick back over to level out, throwing his passengers to the floor. The Orinoco wheeled ahead. The Cessna was only two hundred and fifty feet above it.
And still in a dive.
‘Oh,
Eddie looked up, seeing nothing but water through the cockpit windows. Two hundred feet, the Caravan pulling up, but slowly, too slowly. Greenery on the far bank replaced the river as the plane’s nose rose, but they were still too low—
A slam of impact – and a huge spray of water came in through the open hatch.
But the plane was still in the air, even if only by inches. The landing gear had skimmed the great river, Valero levelling out just in time. The Venezuelan whooped in relief, then worked the controls to gain height again. The Caravan climbed, trailing sparkling raindrops from its wheels.
‘Everyone okay?’ Eddie gasped.
Osterhagen crawled back into a seat. ‘I feel . . . airsick.’
‘Oh, my God!’ Macy squealed. ‘I’m alive. You’re alive.
‘Steady on, love, I’m married,’ said Eddie. ‘Oscar, how’s the plane? Can we make it to Caracas?’
‘It will fly okay, but some of the instruments are broken.’ Valero gave him an almost apologetic look, indicating the bullet damage. ‘And so is the radio.’
