“Give ’em the works!”
“That must be the signal to take off,” Stan muttered as he pinched one wheel brake and blasted his tail up, snapping the P–40 around in a tight circle.
The six Tomahawks bumped across the rice paddy, noses into the wind, and were off. Stan lifted his ship off the ground and sent it surging up into the sky. It was like old times when he was a test pilot back in the United States. The instruments and controls were familiar and he eased back against the shock pad.
Up spiraled the P–40’s above the high-piled clouds. They bored along in close formation. Allison had charge of three planes, and an American from Texas had charge of the other three.
“Japs on the left,” Allison’s voice cracked in over the air, “beyond the white cloud. Take two thousand feet more air under you, Flight Five.”
“O.K.,” Stan called back.
“Don’t be after wastin’ me time,” O’Malley grumbled. “I see a Jap down under.”
“Take two thousand, O’Malley,” Allison drawled. “Fighter planes, upstairs.”
They went on up, looped over a huge cloud and burst out above a flight of twenty bombers with red circles on their wings.
“Peel off and go down,” Allison ordered. There was a happy, reckless note in his voice. This was action again, a fling at bullet-filled skies.