"Skipper!" Smith said, returning the smile, the Air Force treasure.
The ship thrummed. Buzzed. Hummed. Ate air. Hurried toward the enemy islands.
Colonel Calm feigned to look from the blister. He supposed he saw, in the gray below, the corrugations of the Pacific, and above, the pearly heavens, the solid stretch of wing, the streamlined engine-housing. They were there, at least.
"The man with White. His name. Can't think of it."
"Chris."
"Chris what?"
Smith seemed embarrassed. "All I know. He came through the tunnel half an hour ago. 'Call me Chris,' he said. And he said, 'Mind if I sit?'"
The smile was a mask. He could keep it on his face even now. Eyes lighted up by the battery of will, corners crinkled, lips relaxed, a human twitch of the nose—man-loving, disdainful of blood and death, enemy and calamity. He could.
Came through the tunnel.