"Go get a couple, Major," the crew chief said.
"God go with you."
Canidy smiled and nodded.
The crew chief climbed down the ladder, then removed it from where it hooked on the cockpit. Another crew member, as Canidy ran the controls through their limits, rolled up a fire extinguisher. Then he and the crew chief looked up at the cockpit, waiting for Canidy's next order.
Canidy looked down and saw they were ready for him.
This is not the smartest thing I have ever done, Canidy thought. I know better. Only a goddamn fool goes off voluntarily into the wild blue yonder, from which he stands a good chance indeed of dying inflames.
The alternative was sitting around Whithey House going nuts. Christ only knew what Donovan had in mind for Jimmy Whittaker. And at this moment, Eric Fulmar was somewhere in Germany wearing the uniform of an SSObersturmfuhrer (first lieutenant). If the SS caught him in that, they would be inspired to see that his death was preceded by their most imaginative interrogation techniques.
It was either this--which by stretching a point could be considered flying a reconnaissance mission himself that otherwise the Air Corps would have to make--or drink. Or go nuts.
He flipped the Main Power Buss on, then adjusted the richness control of the left engine. He looked down from the cockpit.
"Clear! "he called.
"Clear, Sir," the crew chief called back.
Canidy leaned forward and held the engine start left toggle switch against the pressure of its spring.
The left engine began to grind, and the prop began to turn, very slowly.
Then the engine caught for a moment, bucked, and spit. The prop became a silver blur.
There had been time to think. He was just along for the ride. He was riding Douglass's wing, throttled back at 25,000 feet so as not to outrun the bomber stream ofB-17Es at 23,000 feet. Douglass had the responsibility for the flock of sheep. All Canidy had to do was maintain his position relative to Doug.
The first thing he thought was that this was where he really belonged. He was a pilot, and a good one, a combat-experienced pilot. And also an aeronautical engineer. He knew what he was doing here. He should have fought this war as a pilot.
But other thoughts intruded. Experience was relative to somebody else's experience. Relatively speaking, he was an old-timer in the intelligence business, not because he'd done so much but because hardly anybody else had done anything at all. The Americans, as the British were so fond of pointing out whenever they found the opportunity, were virgins in the intelligence business.
There had been a cartoon one time on the bulletin board at MIT in Cambridge:
"Last Weak I Cudn't Even Spell "Enginnear'And Now I Are One."
There should be one on his cork board in his office, he thought: "Last Year, I Didn't Even Know What An Action Officer Was, But Look At The Now!"
And I am now possessed of knowledge, he thought, that would scare the shit out of those guys in the bombers. They have been told so often--by people who believe what they are saying--that the "box" tactic--which provided a theoretically impenetrable fire zone of.50-caliber machine-gun fire-is going to keep them safe from harm that they tend to believe it.
They question what they are told, of course. They're smart enough to figure out--or have learned from experience--that German fighters will get past the fighter escort and then penetrate the box. But they hope that the fighter escorts will grow more skilled and the.50-caliber fire zones will be refined so that things will get better, not worse, and that all they will really have to worry about is flak.
I know that the Germans have flight-tested fighter aircraft propelled not by air screws but by jets of hot air. I know that these aircraft will fly two or three hundred miles per hour faster than our fighters, which means the Germans will be able to just about ignore our fighter escorts. And I know that the best aerial gunner in the world isn 't going to be able to hit a small fighter approaching at closing speeds over 800 mph.
And I know that unless we can stop the Germans from getting their jet fighters operational, there is going to be an unbelievable blood bath up here.
It is for that reason that I can intellectually, if not emotionally, justify sending Eric Fulmar into Germany. If we can find out from the guy he's bringing out what the Germans need to build their jet engines, maybe we can bomb their factories out of existence before they can start turning out engines. In the cold, emotionless logic of my profession, that justifies dispatching an agent, even running the risk that if he is caught, the Sicherheitsdienst will begin his interrogation by peeling the skin from his wang, before they get down to serious business.
"Dawn Patrol Leader," Douglass's voice came over the air-to-air.
"Dawn Patrol Two. We just crossed the German border."
Under the black rubber oxygen mask that covered the lower half of his face, Canidy smiled. What seemed like a very long time ago, when he and Doug had been assigned to fly patrols at first light looking for Japanese bombers on their way to attack Chungking, they had, feeling very clever about it, chosen "Dawn Patrol" as their air-to-air identity. Errol Flynn had recently played a heroic fighter pilot in a movie with that name.
"If you see Eric, wave," Canidy said to his microphone. He immediately thought, Now, that wasn't too smart, was it?
"No shit? "Douglass replied. This time Canidy didn't reply.