tiny control stick to the movable fins in the rocket’s head.
The disadvantage of the Blowpipe was always that to ask a man to stay still in the face of an attacking gunship was to ensure a lot of dead operators. Martin pushed the two-stage missile into the launching tube, fired up the battery and the gyro, squinted through the sight and found the Hind coming straight back at him. He steadied the image in the sights and fired. With a whoosh of blazing gases the rocket left the tube on his shoulder and headed blindly into the sky. Being completely non-automatic, it now required his control to rise or drop, turn left or right. He estimated the range at 1,400 yards and closing fast. Simonov opened fire with his chain gun.
In the nose of the Hind the four barrels hurling out a curtain of finger-sized machine-gun bullets began to turn. Then the Soviet pilot saw the tiny flickering flame of the Blowpipe coming towards him. It became a question of nerve.
Bullets tore into the rocks, blowing away chunks of stone in all directions. It lasted two seconds but at two thousand rounds per minute some seventy bullets hit the rocks before Simonov tried to evade and the bullet stream swept to one side.
It is proven that in a no-thought instinctive emergency a man will normally pull left. That is why driving on the left of the road, though confined to very few countries, is actually safer. A panicking driver pulls off the road into the meadow rather than into a head-on collision. Simonov panicked and slewed the Hind to its left.
The Blowpipe had jettisoned its first stage and was going supersonic. Martin tweaked the trajectory to his right just before Simonov swerved. It was a good guess. As it turned out the Hind exposed its belly and the warhead slammed into it. It was only just under five pounds in weight and the Hind is immensely strong. But even that size of warhead at a thousand mph is a terrific punch. It cracked the base armour, entered and exploded.
Drenched with sweat on the icy mountainside Martin saw the beast lurch with the impact, start to stream smoke and plunge towards the valley floor far below.
When it impacted in the river bed the noise stopped. There was a silent peony of flame as the two Russians died, then a plume of dark smoke. That alone would bring attention from the Russians at Jalalabad. Harsh and long though the journey might be overland, it was only a few minutes for a Sukhoi ground-attack fighter.
‘Let’s go,’ he said in Arabic to his guide. The boy tried to rise but could not. Then Martin saw the smudge of blood on the side of his thigh. Without a word he put down the reusable Blowpipe launch tube, went for his Bergen and brought it back.
He used his K-Bar knife to slit the trouser leg of the shalwar kameez. The hole was neat and small but it looked deep. If it came from one of the cannon shells, then it was only a fragment of casing, or maybe a splinter of rock, but he did not know how near the femoral artery it might be. He had trained at Hereford Accident and Emergency ward and his first-aid knowledge was good; but the side of an Afghan mountain with the Russians coming was no place for complex surgery.
‘Are we going to die, Angleez?’ asked the boy.
‘ Inshallah , not today, Izmat Khan. Not today,’ he said. He faced a bad quandary. He needed his Bergen and everything in it. He could either carry the Bergen or the boy, but not both.
‘Do you know this mountain?’ he asked as he rummaged for shell dressings.
‘Of course,’ said the Afghan.
‘Then I must come back with another guide. You must tell him where to come. I will bury the bag and the rockets.’
He opened a flat steel box and took out a hypodermic syringe. The white-faced boy watched him.
So be it, thought Izmat Khan. If the infidel wishes to torture me, let him. I will utter no sound.
The Angleez pushed the needle into his thigh. Izmat Khan made no sound. Seconds later, as the morphine took effect, the agony in his
The disadvantage of the Blowpipe was always that to ask a man to stay still in the face of an attacking gunship was to ensure a lot of dead operators. Martin pushed the two-stage missile into the launching tube, fired up the battery and the gyro, squinted through the sight and found the Hind coming straight back at him. He steadied the image in the sights and fired. With a whoosh of blazing gases the rocket left the tube on his shoulder and headed blindly into the sky. Being completely non-automatic, it now required his control to rise or drop, turn left or right. He estimated the range at 1,400 yards and closing fast. Simonov opened fire with his chain gun.
In the nose of the Hind the four barrels hurling out a curtain of finger-sized machine-gun bullets began to turn. Then the Soviet pilot saw the tiny flickering flame of the Blowpipe coming towards him. It became a question of nerve.
Bullets tore into the rocks, blowing away chunks of stone in all directions. It lasted two seconds but at two thousand rounds per minute some seventy bullets hit the rocks before Simonov tried to evade and the bullet stream swept to one side.
It is proven that in a no-thought instinctive emergency a man will normally pull left. That is why driving on the left of the road, though confined to very few countries, is actually safer. A panicking driver pulls off the road into the meadow rather than into a head-on collision. Simonov panicked and slewed the Hind to its left.
The Blowpipe had jettisoned its first stage and was going supersonic. Martin tweaked the trajectory to his right just before Simonov swerved. It was a good guess. As it turned out the Hind exposed its belly and the warhead slammed into it. It was only just under five pounds in weight and the Hind is immensely strong. But even that size of warhead at a thousand mph is a terrific punch. It cracked the base armour, entered and exploded.
Drenched with sweat on the icy mountainside Martin saw the beast lurch with the impact, start to stream smoke and plunge towards the valley floor far below.
When it impacted in the river bed the noise stopped. There was a silent peony of flame as the two Russians died, then a plume of dark smoke. That alone would bring attention from the Russians at Jalalabad. Harsh and long though the journey might be overland, it was only a few minutes for a Sukhoi ground-attack fighter.
‘Let’s go,’ he said in Arabic to his guide. The boy tried to rise but could not. Then Martin saw the smudge of blood on the side of his thigh. Without a word he put down the reusable Blowpipe launch tube, went for his Bergen and brought it back.
He used his K-Bar knife to slit the trouser leg of the shalwar kameez. The hole was neat and small but it looked deep. If it came from one of the cannon shells, then it was only a fragment of casing, or maybe a splinter of rock, but he did not know how near the femoral artery it might be. He had trained at Hereford Accident and Emergency ward and his first-aid knowledge was good; but the side of an Afghan mountain with the Russians coming was no place for complex surgery.
‘Are we going to die, Angleez?’ asked the boy.
‘ Inshallah , not today, Izmat Khan. Not today,’ he said. He faced a bad quandary. He needed his Bergen and everything in it. He could either carry the Bergen or the boy, but not both.
‘Do you know this mountain?’ he asked as he rummaged for shell dressings.
‘Of course,’ said the Afghan.
‘Then I must come back with another guide. You must tell him where to come. I will bury the bag and the rockets.’
He opened a flat steel box and took out a hypodermic syringe. The white-faced boy watched him.
So be it, thought Izmat Khan. If the infidel wishes to torture me, let him. I will utter no sound.
The Angleez pushed the needle into his thigh. Izmat Khan made no sound. Seconds later, as the morphine took effect, the agony in his
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