The shockwave sank one of the log tugs and disintegrated the small biplane that had been closing on wing three. It bowled over the spectators who had lined the bank and shook the wooden buildings. A tear drop of burning fuel spread over the water and into the forest.
Upstream, the large biplane was unaffected. Skimming low over the water it was rapidly closing to a range where the autoguns on board could be used. One by one they opened fire on the remaining wing, tracers arcing through the air and cutting through the big, slow plane.
One of the wing�s engines caught fire. It stopped turning and the flames were extinguished. Another engine began pouring out black smoke. A mist of fluid was coming from the bottom of the plane. It tried to climb, but was having obvious problems.
One by one, the biplane�s guns stopped firing as the wing disappeared from their view. Even wounded, the wing could fly faster than the biplane, so they didn�t try to follow it and turned their attentions to the logging camp on the river shore. They eagerly poured fire into buildings and strafed fleeing loggers. They had waited many seasons for the opportunity to fight back and would be ashamed if they returned with any ammunition left.