"Well, he does now," said Bruce.
Swiftly he surveyed the rain clouds in front of them.
They were close; another ten minutes" run and they would be under them,
and once there they were safe from air attack for the belly of the
clouds pressed close against the earth and the rain was a thick
blue-grey mist that would reduce visibility to a few hundred feet. He
switched on the radio.
"Driver, give us all the speed you have - get us into that rain."
"Oui, monsieur, I came the acknowledgement and almost immediately the
puffing of the loco quickened and the clatter of the crossties changed
its rhythm.
"Look at him come," growled Hendry. The jet fell fast away against the
backdrop of cloud, still in sunlight, still a silver
point of light, but growing.
Bruce clicked over the band selector of the radio, searching the ether
for the pilot's voice. He tried four wavelengths and each time found
only the crackle and drone of static, but with the fifth came the gentle
sing-song of Hindustani. Bruce could not understand it, but he
could hear that the tone was puzzled. There was a short silence on the
radio while the pilot listened to an instruction from the Kamina base
which was beyond the power of their small set to receive, then a curt
affirmative, "He's coming in for a closer look," said Bruce, then raising
his voice, "Everybody under cover - and stay there." He was not prepared
to risk another demonstration of friendship.
The jet came cruising in towards them under half power, yet incredibly
fast, leaving the sound of its engine far behind it, sharklike above the
forest. Then Bruce could see the pilot's head through the canopy; now he
could make out his features. His face was very brown beneath the silver
crash helmet and he had a little mustache, the same as the jack of
spades. He was so close that Bruce saw the exact moment that he
recognized them as Katangese; his eyes
showed white and his mouth puckered as he swore. Beside Bruce the radio
relayed the oath with metallic harshness, and then the jet was banking
away steeply, its engine howling in full throttle, rising, showing its
swollen silver belly and the racks of rockets beneath its wings.
"That frightened seven years" growth out of him," laughed Hendry.
"You should have let me blast him. He was close enough for me to hit him
in the left eyeball."
"You'll get another chance in a moment," Bruce assured him grimly. The
radio was gabbling with consternation as the jet dwindled back into the
sky. Bruce switched quickly to their own channel.
"Driver, can't you get this thing moving?"
"Monsieur, never before has she moved as she does now." Once more he
switched back to the jet's frequency and listened to the pilot's excited
voice. The jet was turning in a wide circle, perhaps fifteen miles away.
Bruce glanced at the piled mass of cloud and rain ahead of them; it was
moving down to meet them, but with ponderous dignity.
"If he comes back," Bruce shouted down at his gendarmes, twe can be sure
that it's not just to look at us again. Open fire as soon as he's in
range. Give him everything you've got, we must try and spoil his aim."
Their faces were turned uptowards him, subdued by the awful inferiority
of the earthbound to the hunter in the sky.
Only Andre did not look at Bruce; he was staring at the aircraft with
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
late. The rockets exploded in the embankment of the tracks below them.
The blast threw Bruce over backwards. He fell and rolled, clutching
desperately at the smooth roof, but as he went over the edge his fingers
caught in the guttering and he hung there. He was dazed with the
concussion, the guttering cutting into his fingers, the shoulder strap
of his rifle round his neck strangling him, and the gravel of the
embankment rushing past beneath him.
Ruffy reached over, caught him by the front of his jacket and lifted him
back like a child.
"You going somewhere, boss?" The great round face was coated with dust
from the explosions, but he was grinning happily. Bruce had a confused