THE SMALL FIGHTERS DRONED across the taxiway, leading the bomber to the white stripes at the end of the runway like ducklings tottering in front of a huge, olive-green mother goose.
They lined up in front of the bomber in six pairs. When Captain Davies stood from the cockpit of his P-40 Warhawk and waved his cap, the first two pushed throttles to top speed and zipped along the patched concrete.
Dean watched from the co-pilot’s seat of Soaring Dove.
“I hope this ends well,” he said.
Tony rested his hand on the vibrating throttle control between them. “Hope is for children and the sick,” he said. “A grown man acts.”
The twelve old fighters roared into the air and split apart, half for the white plane and half for the yellow. Like swallows darting through the twilight, they dove and spun around the two helpless planes, forcing them off course and onto a westerly heading.
“Now!”
Tony pushed the twin sticks of the throttle forward. The engines of the old bomber roared like an express train full of engine parts on fire hitting another train full of engine parts, but she slowly picked up speed. Halfway down the runway, her nose lifted and orange clouds filled the windscreen.
Dean slapped Tony on the shoulder and crawled to the tail of the plane. From the bubble of the rear gunner’s position he watched Davies and the rest of the 99th Fighter Squadron chase the two planes into the distance, until they disappeared over the horizon.
Back in the radio compartment, he sat next to Emerson. Her face and hands were pale and cold to the touch.
“Are you okay?” he shouted over the engine roar.
Emerson shook her head. “I hate flying!”
Dean found an old woolen blanket and put an arm around her as the plane droned toward the east and a quickly approaching night.