“Fighter,” Fanny reported. “Two o’clock, mile or two off.” Del strained to see the feeble sparks of tracer in the distance. Then there was a brief, bright yellow glow. Maybe the bombs, maybe the fuel—the fighter had hit something big, anyhow.
“Stay alert,” Del said.
“Yeah,” someone, Billy or Bobby, said in a tired tone of voice. It sometimes surprised Del, the amount of expression some people could convey over the crackling distortion of the intercom.
“Hey, Skip, you saw that other kite before the last turn, right?” Fanny asked.
“It was G-Gorgeous,” Del replied.
“Bastards!”
“Stupid sprogs!”
“All right,” Del said calmly. “I’ve put some distance between us.” Del wanted them to belt up; a fighter could be after them any time.
Del watched faint flickerings off in the distance; there we
