Exactly as MacConnachie predicted, the helicopter flew its course. By the time he was back in the hills, the pilot was over the gully, and MacConnachie knew he was worried. It would have been strictly against orders to buzz them, but he needed contact with the enemy, this man, he needed the release that comes from pursuit and kill. MacConnachie knew him as he knew himself, and this made him strong.

Oh, but he was a clever bastard, though. He made his run to the left of the hills coming off the gully, then, halfway up, crossed over to the right. MacConnachie had seen it coming and, laughing with appreciation, he readjusted his own position to maintain a dead location. Everything the man did appealed to him, satisfied his sense of tactical rightness. The tighter the conflict became, the more MacConnachie’s admiration for his adversary grew.

Now the pilot pulled out to go after Ansell, but MacConnachie sat tight, grinning. Sure enough, the manoeuvre turned into a hard about-face, and the man came roaring back for one last very low run across the hills. MacConnachie applauded with delight.

This time, he knew, the pilot had gone in earnest, committing himself to the attempt to locate Ansell. He moved quickly to his prearranged firing position. The question was, could Ansell lure that man, under pressure, to leave himself open long enough for just one shot? Throughout the entire battle so far, with all its manoeuvrings, the pilot had not given him one clear look at the tank; his skill was prodigious. If he made a mistake now, it would be just the one. There would be no second chance. The man was too good for that.

So was MacConnachie.

At first Ansell had lain, with a sudden and terrible sense of isolation, watching the helicopter swoop back and forth across the hills, wracked by his inability to intervene, his legs jerking and clenching with every twist of MacConnachie’s flight, as he imagined it to be. Then, free for the moment of MacConnachie’s bullying, he had started to think. The plan could be improved.

To run the chopper on to MacConnachie’s gun was simple and direct, just the sort of improvisation he would expect of MacConnachie. But if he moved now to a flank, he could lead the helicopter in across MacConnachie’s field of fire and, by angling towards MacConnachie at the right moment, cause it also to dip, thus exposing what might prove to be the vital extra inches of tank. He was convinced also that if the aircraft found him already out to one flank, it would be more likely to follow the path he cut out.

First, he rid himself of the canteen, burying it deeply in a crack near the pimple, and covering it with hastily yanked handfuls of scrub. The observer in the helicopter would be armed and, given a chance at the unprotected canteen, could deprive them of water and reduce their fighting effectiveness by ninety per cent at a single stroke.