But this—this was different! This time the reaper had struck down Red Barrett, his chum, his more-than-brother. Struck him down traitorously and from behind without a chance to defend himself. Red, who had asked nothing more than to go down fighting—and had not been granted that break!
It did not even occur to Ramey that as he sat there, stunned, stricken, about him still hammered the blazing darts of enemy fire. There was welling within him a great flame, a torrential, all-consuming fire of rage that burned through his veins like vitriol. And suddenly it no longer seemed to matter that he was under orders to avoid all fights; the problem of an "international incident" was a hollow legality in which he had no concern.
If he thought at all, his thoughts were mere rationalization. Three Japanese flyers—and himself! Lost in the clouds above a wild, green jungle. Unspied upon, unseen. If none of the three were ever to return to his base, who was to report this episode? Who accuse the Thais of violating their neutrality? And did it make much difference, anyway? Everyone knew the Sons of Heaven—on some excuse or other—would march into Siam when they were ready. So—
Ramey decided. His hand found the trigger-press for which Red's fingers had yearned. A kick on the rudder ... knee to the gun ... and the tiny Curtis came up and over like a wild bird soaring. And it was no longer a startled swallow, but a killer-shrike, vengeance-bent and striking with the pent fury of boundless wrath. The butcher-bird darting on its prey.
And finding it! Before the foremost of his pursuers could analyze and parry this unexpected maneuver, Winters was upon him. In the circular machine-gun sight the Jap airplane loomed nearer, larger, more solid. Then—the gun bucked and kicked against his palms. The vision before him quivered and seemed to crumple, sheered off and away, spun giddily....
"One!" said Ramey Winters, and did not know he spoke aloud. "That's one!"
He kicked over, sensing a danger behind him, and in that one motion became attacker rather than attacked. It was a closer thing this time. His foeman's gun bore squarely upon him for a brief, unguarded moment. Ramey felt something like the jerk of a hand on his sleeve, and glancing down, saw with mild astonishment that his leather flying coat was split from wristband to elbow, spilling powdery fleece.
Then his 'plane righted itself, his own gun answered and—it was a most amazing thing! Before his eyes the enemy ship blossomed into a crimson bloom with burgeoning petals of black! A flower which suddenly burst asunder and spiraled to earth in a host of flaming motes.
And that, he thought grimly, was two! The third—?