Emerald Death by Bill Craig Page B

worried.  They were zigzagging across the sky, and growing larger with each passing second.  It didn’t take a gemstone with magic powers to divine their intentions.  As the dots grew bigger, he recognized them for what they were: fighter planes.  Things were about to get very hairy.
    The planes were still barely larger than buzzing flies in the distance when they swung into line and began driving straight toward the floatplane.  
     
    Hannigan spied a flickering light emanating from the pursuing aircraft, yet it wasn’t until he saw white streaks zipping through the sky that he realized what was happening: the Nazi fighter planes had opened fire!
    Hannigan drew his Colt as he tried even harder to make himself a part of the Duck’s fuselage.  Tracer rounds burned past him; close, too close.  Something sparked off a wingtip, a scratch only, but nonetheless, a hit. 
    Bridget reacted like someone stung by a wasp; sending the floatplane in what felt like a panic climb higher into the sky.  Hannigan’s stomach dropped and he involuntary clutched at the smooth exterior of the plane for a moment.  The fighters however, easily mimicked the maneuver, and continued to close the gap.
    Hannigan, feeling a little like David with his sling, leveled the Colt towards the approaching warplane and thumbed down the safety.  Locking his elbow, he took careful aim and pulled the trigger again and again.  The closest plane suddenly swerved away and Hannigan swore he saw glass on the cockpit shatter. 
    Then he saw nothing but sky as Bridget threw the Duck into a gut-wrenching loop and barrel roll trying to evade the gunfire from the second fighter.  Hannigan tried to aim at the Messerschmitt, but Bridget’s acrobatics had put the fuselage of the Duck between him and it.  So he did the one thing he could: he held on for dear life!
     
*****
     
    Bridget was a much better pilot than Hannigan could have conceived.  While she was no combat veteran, she had learned her skills, not just from her father, who was an adequate aviator, but also from a former ace that had fought in the Great War, and retired to Africa.  His stories of dogfights over the fields of Europe had inspired her to practice and learn a repertoire of daredevil stunts, which she used to entertain native children whenever an occasion arose.
    Still, it was a lot different when bullets were bouncing off the wings.
    “Holy Mary!” she had exclaimed as the first volley sparked off the edge of the wing.  Someone was shooting at them.
    Instinctively she had sent the plane climbing higher into the sky, racking her brain to come up with a survival strategy.  It wasn’t until she heard a loud popping noise from the tail of the Grumman that she remembered Hannigan, tied to the fuselage near the tail. 
    He’s shooting back! For all the good it will do.
    She looped, diving back down just as suddenly one of the fighters veered off.  She sent the plane into a barrel roll, praying that Hannigan would survive the battering she knew he had to be enduring.
    Over the din of the engine, she heard a strange mewling noise from the observer’s cockpit; the fat Italian was throwing up.  “You’re going to clean that up!” she shouted, then threw the Duck into another roll.
    Sweat beaded on her forehead as she maneuvered the floatplane in ways it was never meant to be maneuvered.  Weaving and sliding from side to side, she could hear Hannigan firing whenever the attacking fighter was where he could aim at it.  She breathed a little easier, knowing he was still alive at least for the moment.  She let the Duck sideslip to the left, giving Hannigan a better angle, but knowing also that he would be completely exposed to the enemy fire. 
    Suddenly there was an explosion behind her. She sent the plane into a loop and watched in amazement as the Messerschmitt plunged into the jungle, and erupted in a ball of fire.  Breathing a sigh of relief, she began searching for a stretch of