Dead Centre - Andy McNab [130]
Mr Lover Man shouted. He was glaring at me.
I gave the calm-down sign I’d been using a lot lately. ‘It’s OK, mate.’
Joe wasn’t impressed. ‘They got more than that fucking M4, man. This is what I’m going to do. I’m going to get above him, come right on top of the fucker, crossing the ramp so we can get a good look inside the cockpit. If that ramp keeps open we can still see inside. You got that?’
‘Sounds good to me.’
‘They’re going to be looking for us now. I’m not going to fucking hang about, man. No way. So keep sharp.’
‘I’m ready.’
‘I’ll be able to check the cockpit as I come in on top of them. That heap of shit couldn’t outrun a fucking wheelbarrow.’
The Cargomaster tipped right, and then we were suddenly climbing at forty-five degrees, gaining height as the engine screamed. Joe hurled the aircraft round in a tight turn. With blue sky and blue sea and no cloud, I had no point of reference with what was happening, apart from my stomach. I had to grab the struts on the side of the fuselage. I moved to the door, grabbed the rear of the frame with my left hand, keeping the weapon down on the floor with my right.
I saw the horizon. Then I caught a glint of silver. Joe completed his manoeuvre and the Skyvan was two hundred feet directly below us. We surged down. I felt the force of several times gravity. The engine was going ape-shit. All the loose crap inside the cargo hold flew around like slow-motion shrapnel. Some got caught in the drag of the door and was sucked out.
I felt the side of my cheek balloon as I tried to look out.
The Skyvan leapt towards us. My eyes felt like they were about to pop out of their sockets. It was like we were doing a kamikaze dive on it until we were fifty feet away, then Joe pulled the airframe left, towards the rear of the target.
He screamed into my cans, ‘The cockpit! He’s in the cockpit!’
We roared past the open ramp. Ant and Dec, still bollock naked, were kneeling on the threshold of the cargo hold. The ramp was the only protection forward of them.
A thin stream of tracer arced its way towards us. The rounds found their mark. Hot metal ripped through the Cargomaster’s floor.
Joe dived still lower.
Suddenly I was looking up at them. They were trying to move forward on the ramp, trying to get some rounds down.
Their tracer really did make it look as if we were in some Second World War dogfight, until we levelled out again, way out of range.
Joe sparked up: ‘The boy is definitely in the cockpit. He’s with that fucker who took him. They’re in the right-hand seat. You see them, Nick?’
‘No.’
‘He’s definitely there. But that’s fucking close to the fuel tanks, man. It’s going to take some fucking good shooting. You up for that shit?’
‘I fucking have to be.’
He laughed far louder than he needed to. ‘You told me you didn’t know how to use the fucking thing. But I had you drilled down as soon as I saw you, man.’
‘Joe, can you come in higher and just slightly to the left, over his left wing? I need a line straight down into the tanks and out the bottom without hitting the boy. Can you do that?’
‘As you say, man – I fucking have to.’
The aircraft started to climb. He held the Cargomaster in a tight bank. I tried to look out of the door. I had no idea where the Skyvan was. The engine screamed. More crap got thrown about. We all held on to whatever we could.
Sunlight leapt at me before the blue sky surrounded me, and then all of a sudden I saw it. The Skyvan was four hundred metres away and much lower.
Joe was on the cans: ‘As soon as they see us they’re going to try and manoeuvre, but fuck ’em. You just get the rounds down, man. Right?’
‘I’ll tell you when.’
I moved the mike out of the way and screamed to Mr Lover Man. ‘Come here! I need you!’
He scrambled towards me. The Skyvan was still below us.
‘I need you as a platform. On the door.’
Mr Lover Man knelt down, arms out, gripping the sides of the frame.
25
I KNELT DOWN beside his left arm, using it to support the weapon as I leant against the frame.
I pushed the mike back on. ‘Joe, I’m ready.’