For a moment, we're stunned. Jackson can't believe it, but Saavedra, the radio operator, gets confirmation from other stations. Me, I'm already thinking about the big picture. The story I set out to do can wait. What's important now is that I'm over Japan and she's surrendering. From such luck spring instant bylines and cold cash.

My excitement lasts only a few minutes, and then it's rudely interrupted. Suddenly, we're the sitting duck. The crew's frantic voices mingle in my earphones. My stomach flip-flops and I feel my luck do the same, going from fantastic to maybe fatal. Montez, at the radar, has been careless; he's let something slip up on us. The bomber tilts as we take some sort of evasive action.

"Can you identify that thing?"

"Not ours. That's no Starfire."

"Not even a jet."

"Japanese."

"I've seen 'em all -- Zeroes, Raidens, Shidens, Gekkos, Hiens -- but nothing like that."

"A hybrid. Something slapped together out of spare parts and scrap."

Up front, Baptista opens up with his two 50-cals.

"By God!" rumbles Jackson.

We're all scrambling for cover like rats in a waste can. The bombardier's guns keep on chattering, but there's no echo from the waist or tail guns. That's because there aren't any guns there. They were stripped out in favor of extended range long ago.

I'm trying to remember how to pray when Estenssoro shouts.

"Got him!"

Then Bong's voice erupts in my ears.

"God-damn kamikaze!"

We all feel the impact. Part of the bomber tries to hit me and does. For a moment I'm dazed. I wonder if a truck got us at that last intersection. Then I see that it was an airplane that clipped us. Parts of it tumble past my window, briefly obscuring the blue sky.

My head clears quickly. But I'm hearing a strange ratchetting sound. I realize it's one of the engines. In a moment, the noise stops. So does the engine.

Estenssoro curses in his Bolivian brand of Spanish.

There are some scared people around me, and I'm one of them. Bong, calm as a cucumber, receives damage reports. After a short, tense eternity, he tells us we're gonna be all right. B-29s were built to take hard knocks, he says. The Duck is still in one piece and will stay that way.

"We're in no shape for the return flight to Saipan, but we can make it to a friendly airfield in Korea."

A fuel line clogs not far from the Jap coast, proving Bong wrong. He gives us the bad news as another motor starves and dies out on the right wing. We'll never reach that big runway at Pusan, nor even the sea. Our remaining thousands of gallons of fuel are a useless, even dangerous cargo. Bong jettisons it and the bomber pees high-octane for half a mile.

There aren't enough parachutes to go around, but it doesn't matter. No one's gonna jump here, over a land we've bombed to pieces for the past ten years. We'll try to glide the last few miles to the sea, helped by a tail wind and the last dregs of fuel. Then we'll ditch, or failing that, crash-land on the most promising piece of real estate available.

Jackson is keeping a cool head, but he's worried, too. He asks Prideaux for a weapon. Pistol, rifle, anything'll do fine. I know what Mr. VFW is thinking. He's remembering those tales he's heard about crazed, starving Japs. And their gastronomic habits. If things get really bad, he'll offer his last bullet to Doran's fiancée; I'll make book on that.

We're not gonna reach open water, Bong warns us, but such a warning isn't necessary. We can see the land flopping up around us from where we've strapped ourselves in. Montez gets a last Mayday off.

The steel floor, twisting up to meet the ceiling, is our first clue that the landing will not be perfect. The girl screams. So does Doran. Then my light goes out.