"So Colonel Dawkins says," Dunn said as he started pulling on the new flight suit. "Personally, your notion about turning in the wings for a rifle seems tempting."

"You don't mean that."

"I don't know if I do or not," Dunn said. "Galloway talked you out of it?"

"No. I talked myself out of it. I'd make a lousy platoon leader. And so would you. But we do know how to fly airplanes. Ye old round pegs in ye olde round holes, so to speak."

Dunn zipped the zipper of the new flying suit up and down, and admired himself.

"Thanks, Pick," he said, and started to transfer the contents of the discarded flying suit into the new one.

Captain Charles M. Galloway entered the tent. He saw Dunn's new RAAF flight suit.

"Where'd you get that?"

"They had many too many flight suits at Moresby," Pickering said. "They probably won't even miss the ones I stole."

"And what if you have to go back there?"

"What if I don't?" Pickering replied.

Galloway shook his head in resignation.

"Oblensky redlined the R4D for a fuel-transfer pump," Galloway said. "They're going to have to fly it up from Espiritu Santo. It'll be tomorrow before your pal The Killer and his friends can leave, in other words."

"His pal 'The Killer'?" Dunn said. "That sounds interesting."

"He's a very interesting guy, as a matter of fact," Galloway said, and then looked directly at Pickering. "You feel up to flying?" he asked. When there was no immediate response, he went on: "The Skipper wants a search of the Southeast."

"And you volunteered me?"

"I volunteered me," Galloway said. "You want to go along with me? Or do you want to go to Espiritu Santo?"

"I told you on the airplane I'm a fighter pilot, not a truck driver," Pickering said. "Or are you having second thoughts?"

"Just checking, Mr. Pickering, just checking. Five minutes."

He turned and left the tent.

"What was that 'do you want to go to Espiritu Santo' remark about?" Dunn asked.

"We had some time to kill in Port Moresby. Galloway put me in the left seat of the R4D and I shot a dozen touch-and-goes. Since he is an R4D IP, he signed me off on it. I am now officially a dual-engine-qualified Naval Aviator checked out in the R4D. They're easy to fly; a very forgiving airplane."

"That's not what I asked, Pick."

"He said I could go to Espiritu Santo and fly R4Ds for them, if I wanted."

"I think I would have gone."

"You weren't listening, Mr. Dunn, Sir. I am a fighter pilot, Sir, not a truck driver," Pickering said, and pushed himself off the bunk and walked out of the tent.

[SIX]

28,000 Feet above Savo Island

Solomon Islands

1135 Hours 13 October 1942

Pick Pickering was more than a little embarrassed when he saw that he was flying just off Charley Galloway's right wing. He was supposed to be at least a hundred feet to his rear and a hundred feet above him.

You have been woolgathering, again, Pickering! he thought.

That put him back in boarding school: Mr. Whatsisname, the shriveled little guy with the bow ties and the ragged-sleeved tweed jackets, used to bring him back to the here and now by slamming a book on his desk. Obviously guilty as charged, presuming one understood that woolgathering meant not paying attention, daydreaming.

But what the hell was woolgathering? Where did that come from? You cut the wool off live, kicking sheep. If you didn't pay attention to what you were doing, you 'd either lose your fingers or the sheep.

He was cold. Despite the horsehide Jacket, Leather, Aviators, with the fur collar up and snapped in place, and the fine calfskin Gloves, Aviators, it was cold at 28,000 feet. And the cold was made worse because the sweat-soaked flight suit was still moist and clammy.

The oxygen mask irritated his face-he needed a shave-and the oxygen itself seemed colder than normal.

When he glanced again at Galloway, he saw that Galloway, his features hidden behind his oxygen mask, was looking at him.

You have been caught woolgathering, Mr. Pickering. You will be chastised for not paying attention and for not being where you are supposed to be.

Both of Galloway's hands, held palm upward, appeared in the canopy.

Christ, he thinks I crept up to him on purpose, to subtly remind him we are running a little low on fuel: Perhaps, Captain, Sir, you will consider returning to the base before we have to swim back?

Or perhaps I should try to stretch the glide of a dead-stick landing, and do an end-over-end down the runway like Dick and that guy of Dunn's that I didn't know?

A gesture of helplessness, of futility, the palms-up business. The Japanese having elected not to come out and fight, or at least not to come out where we can see them.

Pickering held up both of his hands in the same gesture. Galloway's left hand disappeared from sight, presumably to return to the stick. His right gloved hand, index finger extended, signaled that they should start their descent. Pickering nodded, exaggeratedly, signaling his understanding.

Galloway's Wildcat's nose dropped a couple of degrees and he entered a wide, shallow descending turn. Pickering retarded his throttle, so that as he followed him he would be on Galloway's wing, where he knew Galloway expected him to be.

That lasted almost precisely two minutes, Captain Galloway being highly skilled in making very accurate, two-minute 360-degree turns.

Or, for that matter, one-minute 360-degree turns. Or, for that matter, any-time, any-degree turns. The sonofabitch can really fly an airplane.

Oh, shit! Where did they come from?

There were airplanes down there, a lot of airplanes, Kates and Vals. A dozen of each.

Kates were Nakajima B5N1 torpedo bombers, single-engine, low-wing monoplanes. They could carry bombs or torpedoes. Now obviously bombs, since you can't torpedo an airfield.

Vals were Aichi D3A1 Navy Type 99 carrier bombers, probably not today flying off a carrier, but from the Japanese base at Rabaul. Vals had fixed landing gear, the wheels covered with pants. They looked old-fashioned, but they were good, tough airplanes.