But no sooner is this peril past than a new one besets our heroes. First the ground explodes, then the sky goes mad. But do not fear: once more our men are prepared! Drones ― aerial targets ― are the villains. The Vulcan's six barrels can achieve an elevation of eighty degrees. They achieve it now. The Vulcan's radar range finder is co-mounted, her ammunition load is two thousand shells, and she is firing them in bursts of a hundred at a time, so loudly that Jonathan has set his face in a grimace of pain as he presses his hands over his ears.
Belching smoke, the drones disintegrate and, like scraps of so much burning paper, tumble sedately into the jungle's depths. On the grandstand it is time for Beluga caviar served from iced tins, and chilled coconut juice, and Panamanian Reserva rum, and single malt Scotch on the rocks. But no shampoo ― not yet. The Chief plays long.
* * *
The truce is over. So is lunch. The town may finally be taken. From the pampas grass a brave platoon advances frontally on the hated colonialists' buildings, shooting and drawing fire. But elsewhere, covered by the distraction, less conspicuous assaults are being launched. Waterborne troops with blackened faces are advancing down the river on inflatable dinghies, barely visible among the reeds. Others, in special combat gear, are stealthily scaling the outside of the U. S. Army HQ. Suddenly, on a secret signal, both teams attack, tossing grenades through windows, leaping after them into the flames, emptying their automatic weapons. Seconds later, all remaining parked cars are immobilised or commandeered. On the rooftops, the hated flags of the oppressor are lowered and replaced by our own black cross. All is victory, all is triumph, our troops are supermen!
But wait! What is this? The battle is not yet won!
Attracted by the growl of a plane, Jonathan again glances up at the ridge, where the control team sits tensely over its maps and radios. A white jet aircraft ― civilian, sparkling new, unmarked, twin-engined, two men clearly visible in the cockpit ― skims over the hilltop, dives steeply and zooms low over the town. What is it doing here? Is it part of the show? Or is it the real Drug Enforcement Agency, come to watch the fun? Jonathan looks round for somebody to ask, but all eyes, like his, are fixed upon the plane, and everyone is as mystified as he is.
The jet departs, the town lies still, but on the ridge the controllers are still waiting. In the pampas grass also, Jonathan spots five men huddled in a fire group and recognises the two look-alike American trainers among them.
The white jet is returning. It sweeps over the ridge, but this time it ignores the town and begins instead a rather vague ascent.
Then from the pampas grass comes a furious, extended hiss, and the jet vanishes.
It does not break up, or shed a wing, or reel giddily into the jungle. There is the hiss, there is the explosion, there is the fireball that is so quickly over that Jonathan wonders whether he has seen it at all. And after that, there are the tiny sparkling embers of the aircraft's skin, like golden raindrops, disappearing as they fall. The Stinger has done its work.
For a dreadful moment Jonathan really does believe that the show has ended with a human sacrifice. In the grandstand Roper and the distinguished guests are hugging and congratulating each other. Roper is popping Dom. Colonel Emmanuel is assisting him. Swinging round to the ridge, Jonathan sees delighted members of the control team congratulating each other also, wrestling hands, ruffling each other's hair and slapping each other on the back, Langbourne among them. Only when he looks higher does he see two white puffs of parachute half a mile back in the jet's flight path.
"Likee?" Roper enquired in his ear.
Like a nervous impresario, Roper was moving among the other spectators collecting opinions and congratulations.
"But who on earth were they?" Jonathan demanded, still reluctant to be mollified. "Those crazy pilots? What about the plane? That was millions of dollars of stuff!"
"Couple of clever Russkies. Hell-bent. Slipped down to Cartageña airport, pinched a jet, put her on automatic pilot second time round and bailed out. Hope the poor owner doesn't want it back."
"That's outrageous!" Jonathan declared as his indignation gave way to laughter. "That's the most disgraceful thing I ever heard!"
He was still laughing when he found himself caught in the cross-gaze of the two American trainers, who had just arrived from the valley by jeep. Their similarity was eerie: the same freckled smile, the same gingery hair and the same way of resting their hands on their hips while they studied him.
"You British, sir?" asked one.
"Not particularly," said Jonathan pleasantly.
"You're Thomas, aren't you, sir?" said the second. "That Thomas Something or Something Thomas?
