“Two in,” Phipps called.
Isbell had reversed his turn and was coming in from the rear of the target which shone in the light like a grail. His gunsight had locked on. His speed was increasing. He quickly checked it, three forty. He could feel the G’s as he held the turn and then, in a rush, the climax when he was in range for a second or two with the target suddenly expanding in size until the final instant when he broke off.
“Lead off,” he called.
“Three in,” he heard and as he was climbing back up, “Two off.”
He had not fired on the initial pass, but on the five following ones, all just so, not a single bad one, bursts of about a second, long and even. He was getting hits, he was sure of it. It felt exactly right. The ship seemed firm under his hand, obedient to the last moment, the white rectangle slowly enlarging, not much at first then faster and faster like an express going by. The bullets left traces of smoke as they vanished into the cloth.
If the sight was any good, that was the only thing. When the aircraft were listed he had given Cassada his choice, then Phipps, then Harlan. He had taken the one that was left.
“I have a feeling I’m going to hit today,” Cassada had said.
“Glad to hear it.”
“I just have the feeling.”
On the way back, as they were joining up, Isbell asked, “Red Four? How’d you do?”
“I got hits,” Cassada said confidently.
They came in over the bay, the boats at anchor beneath them, the buoys, and turned just short of the city, white in the early day, to line up with the runway five miles off. Isbell looked to the side. They were in echelon, one motionless canopy beyond the other.
“Red Lead,” he called as he whipped to the side, “on the break.”
After debriefing they stood around and waited for the tow ship to come back. Harlan had picked up some pebbles and was shaking them in his fist.
“How’d you do?” Isbell asked.
Harlan shrugged. “All right, I guess.”
“What color were you firing?”
The heads of the bullets were dipped in paint to identify who had fired them.
“Blue,” Harlan said.
“Yellow,” Cassada murmured, almost to himself, as if to cards or dice.
Along the far side of the runway, the tow ship came in sight, flying low, ready to drop.
“What color did you say?” Isbell asked.
“Yellow,” Cassada repeated.
A truck came from the direction of the runway, the dust rising. It pulled up and the bundled target was thrown off. It was unrolled and hung lengthwise on the scoring board. Isbell was at the tail end hooking the nails through. The end was slightly frayed but it was still almost full length, twenty-eight feet. They stood with the first look at it. There were red and blue spread through it and one burst of green in front near the bar, but no yellow.
“Damn it,” Cassada said in disbelief. “Where’s the yellow?”
Finally Harlan found one at the very bottom near the edge.
“Here you are,” he said.
Cassada stood helplessly. It was as if he had lost the power to move.
“Here you are, dead-eye,” Harlan said. “You’re right. You did hit it.”
Cassada looked at the single hole. He seemed dazed. He took the fabric in his hand.
“I can’t understand it,” he said.
“You had a good airplane,” Isbell said. “You were probably firing out of range.”
Cassada shook his head.
“How do you know?”
“No, sir. I was in there.”
“Well, you were doing something wrong.”
“I can’t understand it. I did everything right. I had the right airspeed, the G’s. The pipper was right on.”
“We’ll have to look at your film.”
“I forgot. It’s still out in the airplane.”
“You’d better go get it before it gets lost.”
Looking at the ground, carrying all the disappointment he could bear, Cassada walked towards the ramp. Phipps had picked up the clipboard and was marking down the hits as Harlan called them out. Blue. Red. Blue. Three reds. Blue. When they had finished, Isbell had forty-six and Harlan forty. A crowd had gathered around to watch the scoring. It was the best target thus far.
“Damn fine shooting,” Wickenden commented.
Dunning strolled up with a cup of coffee in his hand. They were unhooking the target.
“Just a minute, gentlemen, just a minute. Let it hang up there for a while. Give these other squadrons a chance to look at it.”
He picked up the score sheets. He was reading them when Cassada came back. Dunning did not look up.
“Were you firing on this one, Lieutenant?” he asked blandly.
“Yes, sir.”
“What color?”
“Yellow.”
“I don’t see too many yellow hits here,” Dunning said, pursing his mouth speculatively. “What seemed to be the trouble, bad sight?”
“No, sir,” Cassada said. “The sight was good.”
Dunning waited.
“Major, I don’t understand it,” Cassada admitted.
Dunning made a slight sound of acknowledgement.
“Oh, let’s face it,” Harlan muttered. “You’re not about to hit anything.”
Cassada looked at him, unable to speak. The words were jammed in his throat.
“What did you get?” he said. His cheekbones were burning.
“I don’t know,” Harlan shrugged. “Forty-eight percent. Something like that.”
Cassada stood there, humiliation coloring his fairness.
“Good enough for you?” Harlan said. He was dropping the pebbles from one hand to the other.
“I’ll beat it,” Cassada said.
Dunning was watching with a cool, remote smile.
“You will, eh?” Harlan said.
“Yes, I’ll beat it.”
“You’ll be lucky if you even qualify.”
Cassada’s hands were trembling. He had put them in his pockets.
“I’ll beat any score you make,” he said.
“Just put up your money.”
Cassada stood there. He tried to think for a moment of what he was doing. Harlan was pouring the pebbles from hand to hand. That was the only sound. The vehicles passing, the aircraft engines being started, all of it seemed far off.
“Well?”
“All right,” Isbell broke in. He was about to say, that’s enough, but Dunning lifted a hand in restraint.
“Look…” Isbell nevertheless began.
“Captain Isbell,” Dunning warned.
“I’ll bet,” Cassada said. “How much?”
“Just whatever you want,” Harlan said.
“Fifty dollars.”
Isbell was shaking his head in disgust.
“Hell. Is that all?” Harlan said.
“I’ll bet whatever you want to bet. A month’s pay. Is that good?”
“Yours or mine?”
“I don’t care. Yours,” Cassada said.
Harlan sniffed calmly. He dropped the pebbles he was holding to the ground. “All right, that’s a bet.” He held out a hand.
Cassada ignored it. “My word’s enough,” he said.
“Your word, hell. Shake on it.”
Cassada didn’t move. “You have enough witnesses,” he said.
He stayed at the target afterwards, alone, staring at it as one might at some construction where everything had gone wrong. Isbell went back into the operations hut. Wickenden followed him.
“That’s about what I would expect of him,” Wickenden said. “Didn’t surprise me at all. He’s a fool.”
“Somebody should have stopped them. I wanted to,” Isbell said.
“What for?” Wickenden said. “That’s the only way someone like that ever learns.”
Chapter IV