He unrolled a heavy paper napkin, took stainless-steel cutlery from it, and sawed off a piece of the steak and dipped it in the yolk of one of the eggs.
When he looked up again, he saw the RAAF officer was waiting for him to give him his attention again.
"On leaving Port Moresby, the Hudson will climb to maximum altitude, which we estimate will be about twenty thousand feet, and will maintain this altitude, passing to the west of Kiriwina Island, until it nears Buka itself. There is nothing in the Solomon Sea, except, of course, the to-be-expected Japanese Navy vessels, and possibly some Japanese naval reconnaissance aircraft. The thinking is that at high altitude our chances of being spotted-or, if spotted, identified-by Japanese surface vessels will be minimal. Further, we expect that if Japanese reconnaissance aircraft are encountered, they will be at ten thousand feet or so, and will be directing their attention downward. And again, the chances of detection are minimal. Finally, if we are spotted by Japanese reconnaissance aircraft, the odds are they will be seaplanes or amphibians, which will have neither the speed nor the agility to pursue the Lockheed. In the worst-case scenario, detection and/or interception by Japanese fighter aircraft, we have the twin .303 Brownings on the Lockheed to protect ourselves. Are you following me, son?"
"Protectourselves"? Bullshit! You’re not going.
"Yes, Sir."
"As I say, I think that on the way in, our chances of detection are minimal."
"Yes, Sir."
The navigator replaced the map of the whole area with a map of Buka itself. This one was drawn on white-coated cardboard.
"You’ve seen the photographs, I understand, of Sub-Lieutenant Reeves, and the message he cut out in the grass?"
"Yes, Sir."
"They were taken here," the RAAF officer said, pointing. "There is a natural field, a plateau, so to speak, in the hills. It is at 2,100 feet above sea level. It is approximately twelve hundred feet long and, at its widest, about seven hundred feet wide, narrowing to about five hundred feet near this end."
Jesus Christ! We’re going to wind up in the fucking trees!
"Once the Lockheed nears the target area, it will make a rapid descent to 3,500 feet and approach the drop zone from the north. From the time the descent begins, of course, the chance of detection increases. We believe, however, that it will not be possible for the Japanese to launch fighter aircraft in time to interfere with the drop."
"What happens afterward?" Steve blurted.
"Well, you’ll be gone, won’t you?" the RAAF officer said.
"We’ll hide in the clouds, Sergeant Koffler," Flight Sergeant Keyes said. "With a little luck, we’ll have some at ten to fifteen thousand. Once we’re in them, finding us will require a bit of luck on the part of the Nip."
"You will exit the aircraft at 3,300 feet, and the aircraft will have established an indicated airspeed of ninety miles per hour. If there are the expected prevailing winds, that will produce a speed over the ground of approximately seventy-five to eighty-five miles per hour."
"You can’t get any lower than that? Thirty-three hundred feet will be twelve hundred feet over the drop zone. You can get yourself blown a long way if you jump at twelve hundred feet," Steve said.
"I’ll put you in at any altitude you want," the pilot said.
"Eight hundred feet," Steve said.
"Done."
"Will there be enough time, if you jump at eight hundred feet, to activate your reserve parachute?" the RAAF asked.
"No," Steve said. "But I don’t want us to get blown into the trees. We won’t take the reserve."
The RAAF officer looked at him with his eyebrows raised for a moment.
"Is that all right with you, Lieutenant Howard?"
"Steve’s the expert," Howard replied. "Whatever he says."
"Well," the RAAF officer said, after a moment’s thought, "unless there are any other questions, I think that wraps it up."
Steve looked down at his steak and eggs.
He was suddenly ravenously hungry.
"Can I finish my breakfast?" he asked.
"Yes, certainly," the RAAF officer said.
(Three)
Buka Island
0725 Hours 8 June 1942
The pitch of the Lockheed’s two Pratt and Whitney 1,050-horsepower Twin Wasp radial engines suddenly changed, bringing Sergeant Steve Koffler back to the tail section of the Hudson. He had been in the neat little bungalow he was sharing with Mrs. Koffler, the former Yeoman Daphne Farnsworth, in postwar Melbourne, Australia.
He’d seen such a bungalow, a whole section of them, on curving little streets on a hill. From the top of the hill you could see the water in Port Phillip Bay. On the way from Port Moresby, he had picked the exact house and furnished it, paying a lot of attention to the bedroom and the bathroom. In the final version of the bathroom, there was a shower-not just a tub with a shower head and a curtain, but a pure shower, with a door with frosty glass, so you could see somebody taking a shower inside.
When the sound of the engines changed, slowed down, he had just come home from work. He didn’t know exactly what kind of job he had, but it had something to do with importing things from the States to Australia, and it was a pretty good job. He wasn’t rich, but there was enough money for the bungalow and a car, and the steaks and stuff he’d brought home from the grocery store. Daphne wasn’t in the kitchen or the living room. When he looked in the bedroom he heard the sound of the shower, so he stuck his head in the bathroom, and just stood there admiring, just that, admiring, nothing dirty or anything. Daphne was just standing there on the other side of the frosty glass, and she was letting the shower hit her on the face and a little lower.
Then he went to the shower and opened it just a crack and said, "I’m home, honey. I got some steaks."
And she covered her bosom and down below with her hands, because she was modest, even if they were married and had done it several hundred times, not just three the way they really had.
And Daphne smiled and said, "Steaks are fine, but I’m really not hungry right now. Don’t you need a shower?"
And he knew what she meant. He put the steaks down and started to get undressed so he could get in the shower with her; and then the fucking engines changed pitch, the way they do when the pilot is slowing it down and lining it up with the drop zone. And he was back in the rear of the Lockheed, wearing an oxygen mask and fifty pounds of sheepskin jackets and pants and boots and hat and still freezing his ass.
He felt like crying.
He pushed himself to his feet so he could look out the window, and at that moment the Lockheed began a steep, descending turn to the left. He slipped and fell against one of the aluminum fuselage ribs, and pulled the oxygen tube loose from the bottle.
He had a hell of a time trying to plug the damned thing in again, with the heavy gloves on, holding his breath until he did; Sergeant Keyes had told him he would lose consciousness in ninety seconds without oxygen.
He took several deep breaths when he had it back on, and then tried to look out the window again. All he could see was clouds and far below, water.
The Flight Sergeant navigator came back, carefully making his way past the bomb bay. He was wearing a walk-around oxygen bottle. When he got close to Steve, he pulled it away from his face.