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"These guys play tough. They wouldn't dare kill a Mountie unless they've got orders from someone high up in Dorsett Consolidated."
"I can't believe they expect to get away with it."
"They're sure as hell going to try," Pitt said quietly, his eyes locked on the gunner. "Get ready." He was not optimistic. Their only advantage, which was really no advantage at all, was that the 530 MD
Defender was better suited for ground attack than air-to-air combat.
Stokes held the control column between his knees as one hand embraced the flap levers and the other gripped the throttle. He found himself wondering why he placed so much trust in a man he had known less than two hours. The answer was simple. In all his years with the Mounties he had seen few men who were in such absolute control of a seemingly hopeless situation.
"Now!" Pitt shouted, raising and firing off the automatic in the same breath.
Stokes rammed the flaps to the full down position and slapped back the throttle. The old Beaver, without the power of its engine and held by the wind resistance against the big floats, slowed as abruptly as if it had entered a cloud of glue.
At almost the same instant, Stokes heard the rapid-fire stammer of a machine gun and the thump of bullets on one wing. He also heard the sharp crack of Pitt's automatic. This was no fight, he thought as he frantically threw the near-stalling plane around in the air, this was a high school quarterback facing the entire defensive line of the Arizona Cardinals football team. Then suddenly, for some inexplicable reason the shooting stopped. The nose of the plane was dropping, and he pushed the throttle forward again to regain a small measure of control.
Stokes stole a glance sideways as he leveled out the floatplane and picked up speed. The helicopter hard veered off. The copilot was slumped sideways in his seat behind several bullet holes in the plastic bubble of the cockpit. Stokes was surprised to find that the Beaver still responded to his commands.
What surprised him even more was the look on Pitt's face. It was sheer disappointment.
"Damn!" Pitt muttered. "I missed."
"What are you talking about? You hit the copilot."
Pitt, angry at himself, stared at him. "I was aiming at the rotor assembly."
"You timed it perfectly," Stokes complimented him. "How did you know the exact instant to give me the signal and then shoot?"
"The pilot stopped smiling."
Stokes let it go. They weren't out of the storm yet. Broadmoor's village was still thirty kilometers away.
"They're coming around for another pass," said Pitt.
"No sense in attempting the same dodge."
Pitt nodded. "I agree. The pilot will be expecting it. This time pull back on the control column and do an Immelmann."
"What's an Immelmann?"
Pitt looked at him. "You don't know? How long have you been flying, for God's sake?"
"Twenty-one hours, give or take."
"Oh, that's just great," Pitt groaned. "Pull up in a half loop and then do a half roll at the top, to end up going in the opposite direction."
"I'm not sure I'm up for that."
"Don't the Mounties have qualified profes
sional pilots?"
"None who were available for this assignment," Stokes said stiffly. "Think you might hit a vital part of the chopper this time?"
"Not unless I'm amazingly lucky," Pitt replied. "I'm down to three rounds."
There was no hesitating on the part of the Defender's pilot. He angled in for a direct attack from above and to the side of his helpless quarry. A well-designed attack that left little room for Stokes to maneuver.
"Now!" Pitt yelled. "Put your nose down to gain speed and then pull up into your loop."
