"In hindsight."

He ran a hand through his hair. "You ever hear of Richard Bong?"

"Who?"

"I've had the chance to read up on Air Force history quite a lot over the past few months," Kinsman said. "Dick Bong was a fighter pilot in World War Two. In the Pacific. Our top ace. Shot down forty Japanese planes in the first couple of years of the war. All in aerial combat, man-to-man victories, not strafing planes on the ground,"

Colonel Campbell regretted that she had not turned on the tape recorder in the bottom drawer of her desk. Too late now, she chided herself.

"His commanding general came over to the island where he was stationed to pin a medal on him. The Japanese pulled an air raid on the base in the middle of the ceremonies. Bong and the general dived into the same slit trench. One of the Jap planes was hit by antiaircraft fire and started to burn. The Japanese pilot didn't have a parachute. Or maybe it just didn't open. Anyway, he jumped out of his burning plane and fell to the airstrip like a rock. He hit the ground just a few feet in front of Bong and the general."

"But what does—"

"Bong never shot down another plane for the rest of the war. He flew combat missions, but he couldn't hit anything with his guns."

"I see," Colonel Campbell said softly. "I understand."

"It makes a difference," said Kinsman. "It's one thing to kill by remote control. It's something else when you see who you've killed, face-to-face."

"And you think that's what's bothering you?"

Kinsman nodded.

"But you can handle it now?" she prompted him.

"As long as I'm not put into combat missions," he answered.

"And the fact that the person you killed was a woman has nothing to do with it?"

Kinsman's jaw dropped open and suddenly he was glaring at her. "How the hell should I know?" he shouted. "How high is up?"

"I don't know. Captain. You tell me."

He turned angrily away from her. There was perspiration beading his brow. Colonel Campbell noticed.

"That's enough for today, Captain. You may go." 125

She watched him stand up slowly, looking slightly puz- zled. He went to the door, hesitated, then opened it and left the office without looking back.

Colonel Campbell opened the bottom drawer of her desk and pulled out the book-sized tape recorder. She turned it on and began speaking into the built-in microphone. After more than fifteen minutes she concluded:

"He's definitely looking for help. That's good. But we're nowhere near his problem yet. We've only scratched the surface. He's built a shell around himself and now not only can no one break through it to get to him, he can't crack it himself to get out. It could be something from his childhood; we'll have to check out the family."

She clicked the recorder's STOP button and turned to look out the window. The hot Texas sky was turning to molten copper as the sun went down. A helicopter droned overhead somewhere, like a lazy summertime dragonfly. The screech- ing whine of a jet fighter shrilled past.

She turned the tape recorder on again. "One thing is certain," she said. "Killing the cosmonaut was only the triggering trauma. There's more, buried underneath. If it's buried too far down, if we can't get to it quickly, he's finished as an Air Force officer. And as an astronaut."

The breeze whipping across the flight line did little to alleviate the heat. It felt like the breath from a hot oven- The sun beat down like a palpable force, broiling the life juices out of you.