‘Lets give them a run then.’ The pilot suddenly pushed his stick forward and the plane nose dived toward the water. The pursuing sycorax went screaming after them. Miranda felt sicker than a month of binges, but with no toilet to crown herself and the g-force pushing her larynx into her ears making even swallowing difficult, she kept it down,watching, transfixed, through the front window, the dizzying shining waves getting closer.
A few yards above the big blue wall, the pilot swung the plane up again and violently pulled out of the dive. Miranda’s head snapped back against the seat and smashed loudly against the cabin’s back wall. They skimmed along the waves. The pilot watched as the following sycorax descended and attempted to draw up behind him. The plane was so low it felt as if it was nearly surfing, the teeth-gritting speed was all too evident now they were so close to the surface.
‘Hit a wave at this speed and we’ll all be in the soup, the Donald Campbell’s Soup,’ the pilot laughed, obviously enjoying the near-death experience more than most of his passengers. Miranda noticed that Tony had turned that unpleasant pale shade of pastel green that covers the walls of old hospitals and large institutions.
At this low altitude, the following sycorax found itself in a little trouble. To retain the speed, it needed to be tipped forward at nearly forty-five degrees. Its propellers were close to clipping the water and the helicopter pilot realised that he needed to back off a little and gain some altitude again. The seaplane had bought itself a little time. Tipped as it was, it was impossible for the sycorax to establish a lock-on target for its guided missile and, so close to the water, the air to air weaponry had no space to right themselves. Fired now, they would just hit the surface of the water doing nothing more than damaging the fishing quota of the area for a few decades.