special. We didn’t understand it ourselves, but we knew it was special.
See ... it’s like this. Space isn’t the new frontier. It never was.
What is the new frontier? You have to ask—? That proves my point. You’re looking in the wrong place. The new frontier isn’t out there. It’s in here. In the heart. It’s in us. Dorothy said it. If it’s not in here, it’s not anywhere.
Ahh—you know what, you’re going to go out of here, you’re going to write another one of those goddamn golden geezer articles. You’ll miss the whole point, just like all the others. Shut that damn thing off and get the hell out of here before I whack you with my cane. Nurse! Nurse—!
If real life was as heroic as the movies, we wouldn’t need the movies.
The Firebringers
THE GUNNERS, TAYLOR AND JOHNSON, stood apart by themselves, whispering about something. I wondered if they were going to take their traditional good-luck piss under the tail of the plane before take-off. Would they even dare with all the guards looking on and all the brass who were supposed to be here? The rest of us stood around under the plane like we always did, smoking, worrying and pretending not to care.
There were twenty armed marines spaced in a circle around the plane, so most of us in the crew stayed close to the boarding hatch and kept our eyes averted from their weapons. We weren’t sure we appreciated the honor. Were the guards there to keep everyone else out—or us in?
We looked from one to the other and traded lights off each other’s cigarettes. We talked about whisky, poker, women we had known, chocolate, beer, cigarettes, everything but what really counted. Our terror.
Meanwhile, the fog kept rolling in. It was so thick that even the specially outfitted B-32 above us was only a darker shape in the gloom. The ground crew would be putting out flares all the length of the runway. If we went. I was beginning to wonder. The case under my arm, with all my weather charts and maps was getting heavy. I didn’t know if I wanted to go or not. I didn’t want my work to be wasted. On the other hand....
The sound of an engine was followed by the ruddy glare of headlights, and then three trucks came rolling up to the belly of the ship. The middle one had a flat bed, with a tarp-covered shape clamped securely into place. The other two trucks were hooded and carried more armed marines. They spilled out of their vehicles in silence and quickly formed a secure circle around the loading operation.
Ollie, one of the two ordinance officers, climbed out of the shotgun side of the second truck and began gently cooing instructions to the bomb crew; he was so polite it was eerie. The scuttlebutt was such that you could roll a Jeep over his foot and he wouldn’t even say ouch. He was a corpulent man, but he moved like a dancer—and he was scrupulous about the loading, watching over every move like a mother hen with a single egg. He demanded precision and delicacy. Before the war, he and his partner Stan had been piano movers. Stanley was the quiet one. Once we were in the air, they’d actually arm the device.
Bogey, the bombardier, chewed an unlit stogie and looked skeptical. He’d had that stogie since the war started and he wasn’t going to light it until he was sure he could get another one to replace it. He held a couple of steel ball-bearings in his right hand, which he rotated nervously while he waited. Despite our incessant drilling and practicing and studying, Bogey remained outspokenly skeptical. He was only going along for the ride, he said. After the war, he was going to reopen his gambling salon in Morocco. Uh-huh. Most of us didn’t believe he’d ever been farther east than the Brooklyn Bridge. But it was his finger on the button. He’d look through the Norden bombsight, he’d press the release when the moment came. Maybe his tough-guy attitude was his way of not letting himself think about it too much.
While we watched, the bomb crew
See ... it’s like this. Space isn’t the new frontier. It never was.
What is the new frontier? You have to ask—? That proves my point. You’re looking in the wrong place. The new frontier isn’t out there. It’s in here. In the heart. It’s in us. Dorothy said it. If it’s not in here, it’s not anywhere.
Ahh—you know what, you’re going to go out of here, you’re going to write another one of those goddamn golden geezer articles. You’ll miss the whole point, just like all the others. Shut that damn thing off and get the hell out of here before I whack you with my cane. Nurse! Nurse—!
If real life was as heroic as the movies, we wouldn’t need the movies.
The Firebringers
THE GUNNERS, TAYLOR AND JOHNSON, stood apart by themselves, whispering about something. I wondered if they were going to take their traditional good-luck piss under the tail of the plane before take-off. Would they even dare with all the guards looking on and all the brass who were supposed to be here? The rest of us stood around under the plane like we always did, smoking, worrying and pretending not to care.
There were twenty armed marines spaced in a circle around the plane, so most of us in the crew stayed close to the boarding hatch and kept our eyes averted from their weapons. We weren’t sure we appreciated the honor. Were the guards there to keep everyone else out—or us in?
We looked from one to the other and traded lights off each other’s cigarettes. We talked about whisky, poker, women we had known, chocolate, beer, cigarettes, everything but what really counted. Our terror.
Meanwhile, the fog kept rolling in. It was so thick that even the specially outfitted B-32 above us was only a darker shape in the gloom. The ground crew would be putting out flares all the length of the runway. If we went. I was beginning to wonder. The case under my arm, with all my weather charts and maps was getting heavy. I didn’t know if I wanted to go or not. I didn’t want my work to be wasted. On the other hand....
The sound of an engine was followed by the ruddy glare of headlights, and then three trucks came rolling up to the belly of the ship. The middle one had a flat bed, with a tarp-covered shape clamped securely into place. The other two trucks were hooded and carried more armed marines. They spilled out of their vehicles in silence and quickly formed a secure circle around the loading operation.
Ollie, one of the two ordinance officers, climbed out of the shotgun side of the second truck and began gently cooing instructions to the bomb crew; he was so polite it was eerie. The scuttlebutt was such that you could roll a Jeep over his foot and he wouldn’t even say ouch. He was a corpulent man, but he moved like a dancer—and he was scrupulous about the loading, watching over every move like a mother hen with a single egg. He demanded precision and delicacy. Before the war, he and his partner Stan had been piano movers. Stanley was the quiet one. Once we were in the air, they’d actually arm the device.
Bogey, the bombardier, chewed an unlit stogie and looked skeptical. He’d had that stogie since the war started and he wasn’t going to light it until he was sure he could get another one to replace it. He held a couple of steel ball-bearings in his right hand, which he rotated nervously while he waited. Despite our incessant drilling and practicing and studying, Bogey remained outspokenly skeptical. He was only going along for the ride, he said. After the war, he was going to reopen his gambling salon in Morocco. Uh-huh. Most of us didn’t believe he’d ever been farther east than the Brooklyn Bridge. But it was his finger on the button. He’d look through the Norden bombsight, he’d press the release when the moment came. Maybe his tough-guy attitude was his way of not letting himself think about it too much.
While we watched, the bomb crew
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