KERR-RANG! . . . wol-oomph. . . Christ! Scott! DO something!"" Sound effects and exclamation points abound when pilot Bill Scott--ex-con (a youthful mistake), crop-duster, freelance flight instructor, and near-bankrupt air-freighter--is blackmailed into smuggling a hoard of Krugerrand gold pieces from Antigua to Puerto Rico for an ex-Nazi who has made a fortune on a crooked deal with Cuba. For every authentic cockpit crisis--oil leak, a bomb in the engine--there's one on the steamy, West Indies ground (CIA searches, Cuban hit-men who want Fidel's money back), so even non-aviaphiles can sweat along as Scott viscerally first-persons his efforts to get out alive and--if possible--rich. For all his helplessness and dreams of his native England, you may not like Scott much, certainly not as much as the Dick Francis heroes he's modeled on; he's something of a racist and heavy on the self-pity. But the islands beckon, the bullets fly, the gold gleams, the propellers whir, and you'll have a tough time resisting the highstrung (""God! Man! Get OUT!"") but highly devourable action.