"With luck, I'll be in San Hermano before you."
"All right."
"Nine thousand," the captain said. "Border ahead."
"Pour on the coals. Take your stations, men." Segador patted Snub Nose on the back as the youngster crawled into the glass bubble below the pilot's feet. The navigator went to the guns in the rear. "Stay here, Mateo," Segador ordered. He climbed into the mid-ship gun turret.
Hall had once been accustomed to being human super-cargo on board a fighting plane. This time the feeling irritated him. For want of something better to do, he took down a tommy gun from a rack near Segador's seat and examined it for dust and grease. It was immaculately kept. He laid it across his lap.
"Crossing the border now," the pilot announced.
The plane shot across the heavily wooded mountains, left them well behind in fifteen minutes. Hall followed the fading shadows of the plane as it sped over the foothills. In a few minutes, darkness would blot out the shadows, and then he would again know the strangely exhilarating feeling of being alone in the skies at night.
"Lieutenant," Segador said, "go up front and check the course."
The major and the sergeant remained at their guns. "More hills ahead," the navigator explained to Hall as he passed.
"No lights," Segador ordered.