Merrill put on the topcoat and opened the doorlock. Even at this slow speed the engine whine was earsplitting. O’Malley turned and braked again. “Go! he yelled. Merrill pushed the door open wide, slung the bag over his shoulder, and moved out onto the step in the humid air. It was like stepping into space. Merrill looked under the wing quickly, fixing the location of the landing gear. He leaned back and pushed off, pulling his legs up under him before he used his forearm to lever his body forward, rolling away from the plane.

He kept going even after the plane rolled past him, the pitch of the engines shifting to a high roar. He stopped as the plane stopped fifty feet away and O’Malley appeared in the doorway, waved, and pulled the door shut. Merrill got up and looked himself over as O’Malley turned the plane around and started back to the runway.

A jeep rolled out from one of the hangars halfway down the strip. Merrill saw a man jump out of the back seat and run toward the runway, silhouetted by arc lights behind him. The ground was so flat that the perspective was like that from the playing field of a major league baseball game. In the man’s arms was a bundle like a case for a musical instrument, like a trombone. The jeep kept coming, picking up speed, growing bigger on the taxiway. The man on the ground behind it was in the middle of the runway, still running.

O’Malley was in position to take off. Merrill almost yelled to him. He saw O’Malley’s hand appear in the windshield – - a last wave. The jeep was bearing down on the plane. Merrill backed up toward the fence, the topcoat hot and flapping like a tent. O’Malley began to roll forward. The engines shrieked and the plane reared back and began to pick up speed. The jeep turned, kicking up a cloud of dust as it spun to a stop like the Lincoln earlier this afternoon.

The Lincoln? The same guys? This was where they had come. They would have been waiting if the Cubans had told them the truth about the missile hitting the hillside. The men scrambled out of the jeep, carrying bundles like that of the man who had got out in the middle of the field. They had no fear of the law, not here. O’Malley raced on by. The first man was in the center of the runway, down on one knee, pointing the trombone case at the plane. The front wheels were in the air when he fired and a rocket streaked forward out of the trombone case on a plume of smoke, passed under the airborne plane and headed over the fence to Merrill’s right.