Franken was a systems guy too—you had to be to fly the Megafortress. It was so different from all other aircraft that it was best to let the computers do the flying, watch the computers like a hawk, and be ready to take over if they rolled over and died. But Lindsey was from another dimension when it came to machines. She wasn’t much of a flier—she got airsick at the slightest hint of turbulence and used almost every non-narcotic airsickness remedy known, from wristbands to ginger tablets, to help her get through it. But when it was time to go into action, she was ready—usually.

“Three minutes to low-level entry point,” Lindsey reported. She had two overhead air vents blowing cold air on her face, plus she was breathing pure oxygen to try to settle her stomach. “All birds reporting ready.”

“Then try to relax a little, Lindsey,” Franken suggested. “Take off the gloves and loosen your fingers.” Lindsey always wore gloves—she said it was easier to find them that way in case she needed something to throw up in. “You’re too tense.”

“I’ve never flown into ... into combat before,” she murmured.

“The exercises we do back in the ranges are much more intense than we’ll see here,” Franken assured her. “You’re a good crew dog, Linds. Relax and take it easy.”

“Okay,” Lindsey said. But it was no use—a few moments later, she was holding a barf bag at the ready. She was nervous, Franken thought—usually within three minutes time-to-go, she was fine.

“Give me the leg brief, Linds,” Franken said.

“I don’t feel so good....”

“The leg brief, MC,” he ordered sternly. “Right now.”

The voice got her attention, and the discipline and routine got her mind off her churning stomach. “First heading one-nine-five, leg time twelve minutes fifteen seconds, auto TF descent,” Lindsey recited. “Level-off altitude two thousand feet... set and verified. The SA-10 site at SAM is our first threat. I’ve got only air traffic control search radars up now.”

At the initial point, Franken issued voice commands to the EB-52 Megafortress’s flight computer, and the big aircraft responded—it started a ten-thousand-foot-per-minute descent, automatically retarding the throttles to keep the airspeed under the red line. All he had to do was monitor the computers, keep up with his ears as the cabin pressurization changed, and watch out for floating objects as the fast descent created some negative Gs, almost like being weightless. Franken kept an eye on Lindsey—if she was going to hurl, it would be now. But she was wearing her combat face now, and nothing would interfere with it—he hoped.