The Templar Cross

"RPG!"

One of the running figures had one of the familiar skinny launchers on his shoulder. An RPG-7, capable of stopping an M1 Abrams, not to mention a tin-can Goat. One round from a weapon like that and they'd be vaporized. Holliday swung left, traversing the gun, then twisted in the opposite direction, reverse-tracking and potshotting the running line of men, dropping them like puppets cut from their strings. The man with the RPG dropped along with the rest.

They were through, the line of helicopters behind them, the one in the middle blazing like a torch. At least two of the others had been badly damaged and probably more. Heavily armed or not, if the commando group was stranded without transport they were as good as dead; Qaddafi, father and son, weren't known for their compassion. They'd take a flight of old MiG-23 Floggers out of mothballs and blow whatever commandos survived into eternity.

Tidyman pulled up beside the runway. The Skymaster Holliday had seen that morning was tied down under a Mylar awning beside a line of fifty-gallon drums with hand pumps. Both cockpit doors were wide open.

"Where's the pilot?" Holliday called out as he dropped down from the rear of the truck. The cockpit of the push-pull twin-engined aircraft was empty. He flinched involuntarily as an explosion sounded behind them. He turned. The fire had spread; a second helicopter was burning now. The commandos had almost certainly expected a quick in and out with a minimum of casualties or damage and now it had all turned to crap.

"I'm the pilot," said Tidyman, climbing out of the truck.

"You've got to be kidding," said Rafi.

"I got my license in Canada when I was fifteen," said Tidyman. "I was flying before I could drive a car." The Egyptian went around to the pilot's-side door and got in behind the little half wheel. Rafi and Holliday climbed in after him, Holliday taking the copilot's chair.

Tidyman slammed his door shut and latched it, then started flipping switches. Holliday closed and latched the door on his side as well.

"Egypt had compulsory military service back then," said Tidyman, continuing his explanation. "I spent two years flying Sadat around in one of these."

Tidyman set the fuel mixture at Rich, the RPMs at High and held down the ignition switch. The engine coughed and died. He released the ignition and went through the procedures again. This time the engine caught. There was a sharp cracking sound from the tail section of the aircraft and then a second impact.

"Somebody's shooting at us," said Rafi.

Holliday looked out the window on his right. Except for the flames rising from the burning helicopters the night was black.

The engine roared as Tidyman advanced the throttles. More bullets hammered into the plane.

"Time to go," said Tidyman. He released the brake and they rolled out from beneath the Mylar cover, turning hard, the front of the aircraft pointing down the dark runway. Tidyman pushed the throttles as far forward as they would go, set his feet on the pedals and set the flaps at one-third down. The twin-engined aircraft leapt down the runway and threw itself up into the enclosing night. They were airborne.