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Fifty-four.”
    The driver indicated the number on the revetment. The lieutenant stepped off the bus and was immediately accosted by a captain
     in a flying suit.
    “Hi, I’m Chip Barnes. You must be Sommers. You’re late. We have to mount up right now and get started. I’ll be your instructor.
     Denney Hodges is the radar and he’s got all the mission paperwork with him. Jump on up and I’ll throw your gear in. We got
     to get buttoned up right now.”
    Justin just gaped wide-eyed at the verbal barrage from the captain. He was barely able to nod at what he thought must be the
     appropriate places. Before he knew it he was in the nav station ejection seat and strapping in for a flight. His first mission
     with a real crew was going to be a real honest-to-goodness war mission. No time to learn.
    A few minutes later the big bomber lumbered out of the revetment and headed for the runway. On the way out they passed the
     bus that had brought Justin to his plane. The driver waved out the window, but the bomber proceeded without notice. The driver
     shrugged and headed for the next pickup.
    Well, I tried,
thought the driver.
Maybe the kid won’t need his helmet this time.
    In the haste to get Justin aboard, a very important piece of his personal safety gear had been forgotten. A crew flight helmet
     is never referred to as a crash helmet, but every flyer knows what it’s there for.
    In SAC the worst thing for a navigator is to be behind the airplane. In school they told him, “you’ve got to stay ahead of
     the aircraft. You’ve got to anticipate, plan ahead, always stay one step in front.”
    Here, now, on a real flight, in a real war, Justin felt like he was so far behind that he was probably still back in the parking
     stub. He sweated in the cellar of the big, black bomber. Paper flew and pencils broke. He and the senior nav, the radar navigator
     in the seat next to him, strived to keep the big bomber on course in spite of capricious winds and last-minute changes. Justin
     wrestled with the time control. Everything had to be controlled to the second or they wouldn’t have to worry about enemy gunners.
     They would run into a friendly who was on time and end up in a monumental aluminum shower.
    They were in-country and on the bomb run before Justin had time to breathe. His instructor had given quiet instructions and
     whispered words of encouragement up to this point. Now he was strapped into his seat as the hostile threats made flying more
     and more dangerous.
    The B-52 is one of the few two-storied airplanes in the Air Force. The pilot, copilot, and electronic warfare officer were
     on the top story, striving to dodge the antiaircraft fire and flaming SAMs or surface-to-air missiles.
    Down below, in a windowless room illuminated only by the orange glow of the radar, the nav team prepared to deliver the bomb
     load. Justin glanced at the radar nav. The RN was an old head, used to the stress of battle. He was refining his aiming and
     quietly readying the equipment that would deliver over fifty tons of high explosive on the target. The gunner, in his private
     cockpit in the tail of the aircraft, was calling out SAMs being launched. His voice did not betray the anxiety he must be
     feeling.
    They reached the initial point. Now all the energy of the crew would be directed to putting the bombs on the target. The RN
     assumed control of the aircraft. Every move of his tracking handle moved the giant bomber closer to the target. Justin counted
     down the seconds. “Five, four, three, two, one, hack.” The bomb lights flashed, the aircraft jumped slightly and its weight
     suddenly decreased.
    “Two’s clean, breaking away,” said the copilot over the radio.
    The mighty bomber executed a sweeping turn to the left, away from the target and the enemy.
    “Watch it, Two. You got a SAM coming up at you.” The call from the number three aircraft in the cell alerted the pilot. He
     racked the control column to the left,