rsquadron speaker rasped and began snapping orders.
Every man in the room stopped talking and listened. A sudden tenseness
filled the air of the room.

"Red Flight, all out! Red Flight, all out!"

"Well, well. Out for a breath of night air," Allison drawled. No one
else said anything and the men of Red Flight barged toward the door.

"Green Flight, stand by," rasped the speaker.

Stan moved out behind Tommy Lane with Allison striding ahead. In less
than three minutes they were bundled in flying suits, with parachutes
batting their legs. Like waddling Arctic explorers they shoved out into
the damp blackness of the night.

On the cab rank three Spitfires were shuddering under slow throttle.
Flight sergeants were clambering down after warming up the motors. The
ragged flare of exhausts whirled grotesque shadows across the ground,
and oil fumes mixed with raw gasoline sucked up into their faces.

Sidders, Recording Officer, waved a sheaf of papers at Allison as he
halted before the Flight Lieutenant. Sidders looked like a big bear with
his greatcoat muffled around him. "Take the notch at 2,500. Landing
signal, K. Good luck."

Allison grinned as he saluted. "Landing signal, K," he repeated
mechanically.

A moment later Allison was jerking his hatch cover back and pinching one
wheel brake. He rammed the throttle knob up and swung the Spitfire
around. It lurched away and his voice came through the earphones of
Tommy Lane and Stan Wilson.

"Slide up, Lane, Wilson." His voice was cold and impatient.

The three Spitfires shoved their noses into the black wall of the night,
their exhausts snarling flame. They hesitated, waiting for the take-off
signal.

"Check your temperatures," Allison droned into his flap mike.

Stan Wilson settled himself against his crash pad and got his chute
squared under him. He had taken up his belt a notch beyond what he
thought was possible. Tension gripped him. This was combat with a
flaming trail ahead. He wasn't test diving and stunting now, he was
hunting and would be hunted. And up there the night was as black as the
inside of a cellar.

They got the clearance signal and the tails of the Spitfires lifted with
a blast of prop pressure. They slid down the runway, gathering terrific
speed. A few seconds later they were screaming over the blacked-out
city.

"Close, close, tight in," Allison's voice droned.

Stan saw below the gray rectangle that was Hyde Park Square. He watched
the