A crew-chief came up and touched Johnny's shoulder. "Colonel Youngbear," he said, "Observation is going up."
Johnny stood and looked out the tiny window at the red-painted B-52.
"See you tonight, Mitch. Eight o'clock? Don't forget. Westerns."
"See you," said Mitch. He looked back down at the helmet and was turning it over and over again when Johnny left.
The Observation B-52 climbed, screaming.
Johnny lit a cigarette and watched out the port at the contrails rolling straight and white behind the jets.
He sat by the radioman, a Sergeant, ignoring the rest of the officers in the converted bomb-bay.
"Hope he makes it, Colonel," said the Sergeant.
"He'll make it," Johnny said flatly, irritated. Relenting, he added in a gentler tone, "The pilot section breaks away. If he gets in serious trouble, he can dump it and ride the nose down. Like a bird. He'll make it."