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little machine one hundred feet ahead of the Boeing and rocked his wings in the ‘Follow me’ command.
    The Boeing sailed on serenely as though it had not seen or understood. The Mirage pilot nudged his throttles and the gap between the two aircraft narrowed down to fifty feet. Again he rocked his wings and began a steady rate-one turn onto the northerly heading ordered by Cheetah.
    The Boeing held rock steady on its standard approach towards Johannesburg, forcing the Mirage leader to abandon his attempts to lead her away.
    He edged back alongside, keeping just above the jet-blast of the Boeing’s port engines until he was level with the cockpit and could stare across a gap of merely fifty feet.
    â€˜Cheetah, this is Diamond One. I have a good view into target’s flight deck. There is a fourth person in the cockpit. It’s a woman. She appears to be armed with a machine pistol.’
    The faces of the two pilots were white as bone as they turned to watch the interceptor. The woman leaned over the back of the left-hand seat, and lifted the clumsy black weapon in an ironic salute. She smiled and the Mirage pilot was close enough to see how white her teeth were.
    â€˜â€“ a young woman, blonde hair, mooi, baie mooi —’ the Mirage pilot reported. ‘Pretty – very pretty.’
    â€˜Diamond One, this is Cheetah. Position for head-on attack.’
    The Mirage thundered instantly ahead and climbed away swiftly, the other four aircraft of the flight sweeping in to resume their tight ‘finger five’ formation as they went out in a wide turn ahead of the Boeing.

    â€˜Cheetah. We are in position for a head-on attack.’
    â€˜Diamond Flight. Simulate. Attack in line astern. Five-second intervals. Minimum separation. Do not, I say again, do not open fire. This is a simulated attack. I say again, this is a simulated attack.’
    â€˜Diamond One – understands simulated attack.’
    And the Mirage F.1 winged over and dived, its speed rocketing around the mach scale, booming through the sonic barrier in a fearsomely aggressive display.
    Cyril Watkins saw him coming from seven miles ahead.
    â€˜Jesus,’ he shouted. This is real,’ and he lunged forward to take manual control of the Boeing, to pull her off the automatic approach that the electronic flight director was performing.
    â€˜Hold her steady.’ Ingrid raised her voice for the first time. ‘Hold it.’ She swung the gaping double muzzles of the shot pistol onto the flight engineer. ‘We don’t need a navigator now.’
    The captain froze, and the Mirage howled down on them, seemed to grow until it filled the whole view through the windshield ahead. At the last possible instant of time the nose lifted slightly and it flashed only feet overhead, but the supersonic turbulence of its passage struck and tossed even that huge machine like a piece of thistledown.
    â€˜Here comes another,’ Cyril Watkins shouted.
    â€˜I mean it.’ Ingrid pressed the muzzles so fiercely into the back of the flight engineer’s neck that his forehead struck the edge of his computer console, and there was the quick bright rose of blood on the pale skin.
    The jet blasts struck the Boeing one after the other as the Mirages attacked. Ingrid clutched wildly for support with her free hand, but kept the pistol jammed into the navigator’s neck. ‘I mean it,’ she kept shouting. ‘I’ll kill him,’ and they could hear the screams of the passengers even through the bulkhead of the flight deck.

    Then the last Mirage was passed and gone and the Boeing’s flight director recovered from the battering of close separation and quickly realigned the aircraft on the radio navigational beacons of Jan Smuts Airport.
    They won’t buzz us again.’ Ingrid stepped back from the flight engineer, allowing him to lift his head and wipe away the trickle of blood on the sleeve of his