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hold
line.”
    “Roger,
Control.” Fred released his brakes and added a touch of throttle;
then he pulled onto the end of the runway and turned left to make
his run. Still moving, he scanned his instruments quickly and
rolled his head once to check for low flyers. (“Never trust the
control tower,” his first instructor had said, “check for
yourself.”) Then he smoothly pushed the throttle all the way
forward and the rubber-marked concrete runway slid under the nose
of the Hellcat with increasing speed. Fred relaxed his body and let
the acceleration press him into the seat. These first few moments
before takeoff were the most thrilling. Being so close to the
ground, moving so fast with so much power at your fingertips, with
the danger of destruction so immediate—it never failed to take his
breath away and fill him with exhilaration. With half the runway
still before him, Fred drew back the stick and hopped the fighter
into the air, easing back slightly on the throttle and pushing the
landing gear lever into the “up” position. Gaining altitude
quickly, he rubbernecked once more for encroaching aircraft and
began the turn which would take him in five minutes to the
rendezvous point over the beach.

    Duane’s first
impressions of the new pilot were almost uniformly good. Having
been around planes and pilots for a number of years, he could size
up a flyer in a short time with a fair amount of accuracy. New
pilots were generally unpredictable, though. A short period of time
with combat-experienced pilots could turn an uncertain, young kid
into a topnotch pilot, or a promising flyer into a complete bust.
Still, there were things about Fred Trusteau that he liked to see
in the men who flew with him: non heroic self-assurance, a calm
attitude, the promise of being able to handle whatever came along
without a lot of bullshit.
    Higgins watched
the leading Hellcat take to the air and begin its right turn, then
he began his run. First impressions were one thing, actual ability
something entirely different. He smiled as he pulled his Hellcat
into the air, recalling the stories already circulating in the
squadron regarding Trusteau’s first Saturday night “strategy
conference.” Some of the guys were calling him “Trusty” now.
    Duane started a
right turn and headed for the rendezvous point. He hoped that
Trusty Trusteau’s flying abilities were as well developed as his
screwing abilities.
    Fred reached
the rendezvous point over the beach and went into a gentle
right-hand turn at ten thousand feet. The weather this morning was
excellent: scattered cumulus below eight thousand feet, ceiling and
visibility unlimited above. It was a common tropical condition
which aviators lyrically referred to as “scat-cum-cavu.” Below, the
lush green jungle crowded a white beach that was brushed by long
foaming combers. The deep blue Pacific stretched away into
infinity. Fred switched to the operating frequency on the radio and
waited, enjoying the view.
    “Banger One
Three, this is Banger Leader, radio check.”
    Fred touched
his throat mike and replied, “Banger Leader, this is Banger One
Three, loud and clear.” It sounded like the Exec was just off his
wing, but there was no sign of the other fighter. Fred circled once
more, straining to see in the direction he had flown from, but
still saw no other aircraft. Checking his clock, he determined that
fifteen minutes had passed since he left the airfield and that the
Exec was now five minutes or more overdue. Fred knew exactly what
was going on. Lieutenant Commander Deal had tried the same thing
barely four weeks ago. He wasn’t about to get caught twice.
    Fred pushed the
throttle all the way forward and headed up, directly into the
morning sun. He hoped he wasn’t too late. When he reached fifteen
thousand feet, he leveled off, throttled back, and began searching
for Banger Leader’s blue Hellcat.
    “Banger One
Three, this is Banger Leader. Sorry for the delay, got held up