March 10, 1956

37,000 feet above the Mediterranean Sea

Captain Earl Johnson had never felt so alive.

The B-47's lightning speed and unparalleled maneuverability set his senses ablaze. But even the turbojet's six-engines couldn't keep his crew warm today. Plummeting temperatures had shrouded the plane in an icy shell. He concentrated, eyes narrowed. His frozen fingers caressed the throttle, careful to keep his plane in formation with the three other Stratojets.

Earl shifted in the cramped space, his breath exiting in crystalized puffs. The plane's beefy manual rested under his feet, protecting his toes from frostbite. His co-pilot's and navigator's teeth chattered, but they'd never utter a word of complaint. Cold, stiff, uncomfortable — and all happy as prize pigs slathered in mud. Earl couldn't imagine a more perfect moment than this; rocketing along at 37,000 feet, the altitude at which they had optimum fuel consumption — but where the difference between overspeed and stall speed was a mere 5.8 mph. Dangerous but efficient, that was "coffin corner." Riding the edge kept him sharp and provided a good distraction from the icy temperatures and the financial pressures of a new baby on the way.

They'd left MacDill Air Force Base in Florida over eight hours ago, destination Ben Guerir in Morocco. The four planes torpedoed through the sky, headed for their rendezvous with the aircraft tankers so they could execute their second refueling. Each B-47 held two containers of Uranium 235, enough material to construct two bombs, each a hundred times more powerful than the one that pancaked Hiroshima.

Earl's radio buzzed on the encrypted frequency.

"Bluebird Three, visibility's socked in from 28,500 to 14,500 feet. We'll need to descend to 14,000 for refueling. Standby." Earl's best friend, Slow Joe — as he was ironically called due to his need for speed — piloted the fourth plane.

"Roger." Earl eased the throttle to 557 mph, and let her howl before they had to dive deep into the clouds. Joe's hand would undoubtedly be twitching as Earl's bomber took the lead.

"Your 47 screams louder than your wife after a five-day layover." Slow Joe's voice was playful over the radio. "Yessiree, she told the squadron commander that no way could she handle you for three hours, let alone five days."

Earl's co-pilot and engineer laughed at Joe's poke, used to the two of them carrying on. The tight space inside the bubble canopy offered zero privacy.

"Y'all think you're funny, but no one's cooking grits for you at home," Earl replied. The single men weren't subtle about envying his married status. He took his ribbing with a dash of humility — until the guys got too rambunctious and he had to tamp them down.

He checked the time and pressed the radio button. The tankers should be waiting for them under the clouds. "Trail formation on the way down," he said, commanding one plane to follow the next. "Thicker than corn syrup today. Try not to get lost, Joe." Okay, maybe he wasn't oozing with humility, but any pilot worth his salt had to have a pair.

"Roger. You're buying the beer when we get to Morocco. It's the least you can do for making me refuel last." Slow Joe might be full of sass, but there was no more reliable captain.

"I bought last time. Nice try. Over and out." Earl dove through the thick clouds, keeping an eye on his altimeter. The cloud cover was impenetrable, like a kettle billowing steam straight at the windscreen.

He followed Bluebird Two in trail formation, as planned. His eyes darted back and forth, his knees quivered — from the cold or pressure, he wasn't sure. Damn, he could barely see the tail of the plane in front of him. Good thing the precise power control made formation flying relatively simple.

He blocked all distractions, his world narrowing to a pinpoint of focus. Ragged, wispy clouds whipped by the canopy, then disappeared as the B47 shot into the clear. A quick glance at the altimeter. Yep, 14,000 feet and out of the goo, just as the weather guessers had advertised. Earl eased the control wheel aft to arrest the bird's descent and nudged a handful of throttles forward to hold altitude. He exhaled a long, steady breath.

Three tankers hovered below. Bluebird One and Two were already starting the process of connecting with two of them. Behind each tanker, there was an imaginary cone-shaped segment of space known as the envelope. Inside that zone, the boomer could transfer the fuel.

The third tanker loomed in front of him, a huge mothership of fuel. Connecting with the tubby KC97s always presented a challenge. Two planes linking up mid-air to deliver highly combustible fuel — what could possibly go wrong?

Earl's attention sharpened, his speed dropping to a pedestrian 235 mph to match the tanker's shallow dive. Slow Joe had a phenomenal track record of first-shot contacts; he was an air-refueling ace. Earl didn't want any glitches or he'd take more razzing tonight over drinks. Bottom line — wind, weather, and just about anything else could mess with the process.

He opened the small refueling door in the nose and maneuvered the B-47 up and a little to the left. The boomer placed the receiver in the receptacle, connecting the bomber with the KC-97.

"Filler 'er up, and get that windshield cleaned, sir?" the engineer asked.

Earl shook his head with a smile. "Why is everyone a comedian today? Let's just get this done." It had been a long, grueling flight.

The "connected" signal lit up, and the engineer initiated the fuel transfer. A thirsty B-47 could suck in 600 gallons per minute during refueling, even faster than Slow Joe's beer intake on a good night.

Earl concentrated on keeping the B-47 steady, trying to adjust for the burble of air buffeting the plane from the KC-97. Fuel splattered the windscreen, startling him. Dammit, the seal must have a crack in it. Slow Joe would have a go at him for this. Looked like an elephant was taking a whizz right on them. He flicked on the bomber's wiper blade and strained to see through the spray and oily film smearing the windscreen.

The tanker sped up slightly as its fuel load decreased. Grateful, Earl increased his speed to keep pace. The B-47 ached to go faster, like a reined-in racehorse.

He fought to stay in position, the control wheel in constant motion as he made small adjustments, but the film of fuel on the windscreen warped his view of the tanker.

Finally, the boomer finished refueling and radioed him. "You're full, sir. Cleared to disconnect."

"Roger, over and out." He smiled. Success, even with a crack in the seal. Let's see if Joe could be this slick.

"We're clear," the engineer said.

Freed from the tanker, Earl pulled alongside the KC-97 so the crew could read his bomber's number. He yearned to return to the thinner air where the B-47 was more at home.

"Okay, Slow Joe, you're up. See if you can beat my time." He waited for a smart aleck reply.

Silence greeted him.

Unusual. His buddy was never at a loss for words.

"Come in, Bluebird Four." He waited.

Nothing.

"You see him?" Earl asked his co-pilot.

"No joy, sir."

Earl tried the radio again.

No response.

"Bluebird One and Two, any visual on Four?" Earl asked.

Several seconds passed.

"No, sir."

"Can't see it."

For a moment, Earl thought, even hoped, that Slow Joe...