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Wilson shot a glance over his right shoulder at San Ramon. In addition to the blinking of anti-aircraft artillery guns, he could see clouds of smoke on the field from the numerous Slash hits. Breathing through his mouth, he concentrated on getting fast and maintaining a slight climb. Bright fireballs of AAA shot by him in groups of three and four, orderly trails from low to high. His body was tense, ready for impact. He felt and heard the thud behind, on his right.

For a moment Wilson froze and looked at the white-helmeted pilot who sat high on the nose of the colossal fighter. Across the small void, he saw the pilot's eyes peer over his mask. Dark, chilling eyes. Wilson kicked right rudder to slide closer and jam any chance for a bandit gunshot. When the bandit pulled all the way over, almost on its back but in control, he cursed in frustration at what he knew was coming next.