It took him a second, but he caught on.
The torpedoes missed McGinty's falling rig by a good three hundred yards apiece.
I let Loftus take a look.
"What's he doing?"
"Blasting like hell at the tail," the young lieutenant said. "He'll hit like one of those old-time ski jumpers! Between Aristillus and Autolycus, in that flat, open plain—"
I watched him hit.
And it was as Loftus said. He slewed onto the flat, dust-covered plain like a ski jumper, falling but going forward at a hell of a rate, probably using up the last of his fuel in a single, sustained, straight-ahead blast.
And then there was a flurry of dust maybe ten miles long. And after that, even with the 'scope, you couldn't see anything.
"Good try," I heard myself saying.
"Might've made it!" Loftus said, hope ragged in his voice. "He just might've—"