Bob craned his neck to find where the other planes were. He saw two, three . . . another one pulling gees to catch up with them.

He banked and started climbing to rejoin the group, his own gee suit squeezing his guts and legs, his breath gasping. Hard work, pulling gees. And he felt a stray tendril of thought, like the wispy memory of a tune that he could not fully recall.

“Bill?” he asked aloud.

Then something exploded and he was slammed against the side of the cockpit, helmet bashing against the plastic canopy, pain flaming through his legs and groin.

The shock of contact was a double hammer blow. Bill’s body went rigid with sudden pain.

Bobby! What happened? But he knew, immediately and fully, just as if he sat in the A-7’s cockpit.

Flak, Bobby gasped. I’m hit.

Jesus Christ, the pain!

I’m bleeding bad, Billy. Both legs . . .

Can you work the controls?

It took an enormous effort to move his arms. Tabs and ailerons okay. Elevators. Another surge of agony, dizziness. Can’t use my legs. Rudder pedals no go.

Radio’s shot to hell, too.

They’re leaving me behind, Bill. They’re getting out of here and leaving me.

That’s what they’re supposed to do! We’ve got to gain altitude, Bob. Get away from their guns.

Yeah. We’re climbing. Engine’s running rough, though.

Never mind that. Grab altitude. Point her home.

Can’t make the rudder work. Can’t turn.

Use trim tabs. Go easy. She’ll steer okay. Like that time we broke the boom on the Sailfish. We’ll get back okay.

You see anything else out there? MiGs?

No, you’re clear. Just concentrate on getting this bird out over the sea. You don’t want to eject where they’ll capture you.

Don’t want to eject, period. Or ditch. Not in the shape I’m in.

We’ll get back to the carrier, don’t worry.

I won’t be able to land it, Billy. I don’t think I can last that long anyway.

We’ll do it together. I’ll help you.

You can’t . . .

Who says I can’t?

Yeah, but . . .

We’ll do it together.

I don’t think I’ll make it. I’m . . .

Don’t fade out on me! Bobby, stay awake! Here, let me get that dammed oxygen mask off you; we’re low enough to suck real air.

Bill, you shouldn’t try this. I don’t want us both to get killed.

I’ve got to, kid. Nothing else matters.

But . . .

Bobby, listen to me. I ought to be there with you. For real. 1 should’ve been on the line with you instead of playing around out here in space. 1 took the easy way out. The coward’s way out. They gave me a chance to play astronaut and I took it. I jumped at it!

Who wouldn’t?

You didn’t. I owe you my life, Bobby. You’re doing the fighting while I’m playing it safe a quarter million miles away from the real thing.

You’re crazy! You think blasting off into outer space on top of some glorified skyrocket and riding to the fucking Moon in a tin can is safe?

There’s no Indians up here shooting at us, kid.

I’ll take the Indians.

Bobby, I’m not kidding. I feel so goddamned ashamed. I’ve always grabbed the best piece of the pie away from you. All our lives. I ran out on you . . .

I always got the piece I wanted, big brother. You did what you had to do. And it’s important work. I know that. We all know that. I’m doing what I want to do.

You’re putting your life on the line.

So are you.

I shouldn’t have run out on you. I should have helped you fight this war.

There’s enough of us fighting this lousy war. Too many. It’s all a wagonload of shit, Bill. Talk about feeling ashamed. Making war on goddamned farmers and blowing villages to hell isn’t my idea of glory.

But how else . . .

You do what you have to do, brother. Doesn’t make any difference why. You get locked into the job by the powers that be.

The gold braid.

The gods.