Sean was taxiing the Hercules at a reckless speed, so fast she was already developing lift and wanting to fly. He knew that if he came off the concrete taxiway onto the grass, there was a chance of bellying her or getting her stuck, but not as good a chance as having her shot up by the 12.7-men if he delayed the takeoff a moment longer than was necessary.

"Job," he said over the intercom, "I'm going to give you cabin lights so you can make sure the lads are seated and strapped in.

Takeoff in forty seconds."

He switched on the cabin lights to prevent chaos in the dark belly of the fuselage, and then flicked his headset to the control tower frequency of 118.6 megahertz.

They were calling him stridently. "Air Force Hercules Victor Sierra Whisky. State your intentions. I say again, Air Force Hercules-"

"This is Air Force Hercules Victor Sierra Whisky," Sean replied. "Request taxi clearance to avoid hostile ground fire."

"Sierra Whisky, say again. What are your intentions?"

"Tower, this is Sierra Whisky. Request..." Sean mumbled and slurred his transmission deliberately, forcing the tower to ask for a further repetition. He was watching his engine temperature gauges anxiously as the needles crept up infinitely slowly toward the green.

"Tower, I am having difficulty reading your transmission," he stalled them. "Please repeat your clearance."

Behind him Job barged open the door to the flight deck. "The men are strapped in ready for takeoff," he called.

"Get into the right-hand seat and strap in," Sean ordered without looking around. The engine temperature gauge needles were touching the bottom of the green. The main runway was coming up fast. Sean toed the wheel brakes, slowing for the turn and lineup.

"Air Force Hercules. You are not cleared to taxi or line UP.

Repeat, you have no clearance from tower. Discontinue immediately and take first left. Return to your holding area. I repeat, return to your holding area. "Up yours, mate!" Sean muttered as he pulled on ten degrees of flap and revolved the trim wheel to slightly tail heavy.

"Air Force Hercules. Stop immediately or we will fire upon you. and swung the monstrous Sean switched on the landing lights onto the main runway. She handled as lightly as his little aircraft twin Beechcraft.

"You are a pussycat, darling." He'knew that, like a woman, an aircraft always responded to loving flattery. He advanced the bank of throttle controls smoothly, and at that moment the heavy machine gun beyond the tower opened up on them.

However, the Hercules was accelerating strongly and the gunner had not learned the art of forward allowance. He was shooting at the place where the aircraft had been seconds before, and perhaps nd.

his nerves were still rattling for his fire was high as well as behi The first long burst of tracer curved away over the high tail fin.

"That cat needs shooting lessons," Job remarked calmly. Sean always wondered if Job's cool and phlegmatic behavior under fire was put on.

The next burst was low and ahead; the tracer splashed across the concrete runway just under the Hercules" nose. "But he learns fast," Job grunted a reluctant admission.

Sean was leaning forward slightly in the seat, his right hand holding the bank of quadruple throttles fully open, his left feeling the control wheel for signs of life, watching the airspeed needle revolve sedately around the dial.

"Here comes your friend," Job said, and pointed out of the side panel of the canopy. Sean glanced around swiftly.

An open Land-Rover was tearing wildly across the grass verge alongside the main runway, its headlights cutting crazy patterns in the darkness as it bounced over the uneven ground. It was attempt. to cut them off, 4Pd Sean could just make out the features of mg ood in the back of the speeding vehicle.

the man who st "He doesn't give up easily, does he?" Sean remarked, and gave his attention back to the Hercules.

Carlyle must have commandeered one of the guard Landits black driver. He was standing in the open back, Rovers and clinging to the mounting of the RPD machine gun, and his face was pale and contorted in the reflection of the Hercules" landing lights as he egged on the driver to greater speed. He really taking it to heart." Job leaned forward to watch with interest as Carlyle swung the machine gun in its mountings, aiming up at the cockpit of the Hercules.

The driver swung the Land-Rover over on two wheels until it was tearing along beside the huge rolling aircraft only fifty yards away, almost level with the wingtip.

"Hey, man." Job shook his head. "He's aiming at us personally." Carlyle braced himself behind the gun, and the muzzle flashes blinked rapidly at them. Bullets raked the Perspex canopy, starring it with silver dollars, and both of them ducked instinctively as shot flew past their heads.

"He's a better shot than the other cat," Job murmured. With the tip of his finger he touched the drop of blood on his cheek where a splinter had cut him.

Sean felt the controls come to life in his hand as the Hercules approached flying speed and the wings developed lift. "Come on, pussycat," he murmured. Carlyle fired another burst at the same moment the Land-Rover hit a concrete culvert and bounced wildly, throwing his fire high and wild. He steadied himself and lined up to fire again.

"He's fast becoming my least favorite cartoon character." Without flinching Job watched him take aim. "Okay, here it comes!"

From the off side the heavy machine gun at the gates fired again, and a stream of 12.7-men bullets skimmed the belly of the Hercules, then flew on to pour into the racing Land-Rover beyond.