Land of Fire by Chris Ryan

It was easier walking and we made good time, but the lack of cover was worrying.
    We reached the crossroads two gravel tracks in the wilderness running away into the distance. There was no sign of anyone. The rock outcrop was about a quarter of a mile off, with the cave at one end.
    We covered the last stretch in just fifteen minutes. Doug was on point, but at the cave entrance he drew up sharp and made a gagging sound. Sheep car cases were dumped all over the cave floor. They must have gone in there for shelter and died of starvation or cold. The stink was disgusting, so we moved back on to the plain to wait in the fresh air.
    Then we heard the sound of the plane again.
    "Take cover!" I heard Andy shout. Sod this, I thought wearily as I pulled out my camo net again. The ground was hard as iron. On this barren plain I figured we'd stick out like turds on an ice rink. The plane was flying due south, following the line of the border. We were that close. Just as we were thinking it had passed over and missed us we heard a change in the engine note.
    "Bastard's seen us and he's coming back," Taffy growled. I squirmed into the ground and tried to lie as flat as possible. It's a horrible feeling being hunted from the air. There's no escape from the all-seeing eye.
    The plane was circling round, picking up speed. Guy was close by me. I heard him calling to Andy, discussing what to do. They agreed it was no use sticking where we were while the plane vectored ground units on to us. Now we had been spotted our best chance lay in making a break for the border and to hell with cover.
    We jumped up and pulled on our packs. We could see the plane swooping towards us in a shallow dive. "Shit, he's going to strafe us!" I shouted, unslinging my rifle. There wasn't a prayer of bringing down an aircraft with a single-shot weapon, but the gesture would make me feel better.
    Tom, our Stinger man, was crouched on the ground with the tube to his shoulder. I could see the plane clearly now. It was a twin-engine Pucara ground attack equipped with air-to-surface rockets. A salvo of those landing among us could wipe out half the unit. The pilot was readying up for his attack. He must have reckoned us for a soft target, I thought. He'd let us have it with the rockets and bombs, then come back for a second pass to finish us off with his guns. With luck he hadn't realised we had a missile launcher.
    The other guys were readying their weapons like me. Aircraft had in the past been destroyed by small-arms fire, but it was a remote chance. They say the only way is to wait till the plane is overhead and then fire directly upwards.
    I saw Tom press the eyepiece of the missile launcher to his face and heard the whine of the generator as he switched on the battery and lined the target up on the graticules. The missile's maximum altitude was around 3000 feet, and it performed better against an approaching target. We all waited as the plane grew larger, urging Tom silently to hurry up and press the tit. He was carrying three rockets with him but at this rate there wouldn't be time for a second shot.
    Everything happened very quickly.
    The pilot must have seen the plume from the launcher as Tom let fly, because he jerked the plane's nose up in a frantic scramble for height. He must have triggered his rockets automatically at the same instant, because the front of the plane was suddenly obscured by a burst of smoke. It was just as well for us he did pull up, because the salvo screamed over our heads as we threw ourselves to the ground, and exploded yards behind us, showering us all with rocks and dirt. I was smothered in a cloud of dust and gravel and for a moment I thought the plane had crashed on us. By the time we picked ourselves up we could see it staggering away towards the south-east, flying very low and trailing smoke from the port engine. The Stinger's proximity fuse had exploded the warhead right under the wing, peppering the fuselage and nacelle with