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fierce-looking soldiers stood guard at the Curtiss Hawk, their long Mauser M1899 rifles unslung. The chauffeur barked at them and they moved sullenly to the side.
    The Curtiss was a beautiful little airplane, mint-bright, as if it had just come from the factory, and Lee felt immediately at home in it, the familiar scents of leather, oil, and metal a relief amid the stink of China. The chauffeur stood at the side of the engine, holding a huge American fire extinguisher he had pulled from the Packard's trunk.
    The Wright Cyclone engine caught on the first crank of the starter, and Lee slowly went through the engine run-up drill, enjoying the aircraft's sense of leashed power as it leaned against the chocks, vibrating with energy.
    He felt rather than heard the first explosion and looked up to see a stick of bombs walk across the field, blasting holes and rearranging the wrecks. A flight of twelve Japanese twin-engine bombers passed overhead in immaculate V-formation. They looked like the Mitsubishis shown in Chennault's notes; supposedly they were fast but lightly armed.
    The chauffeur understood his signal—thumbs thrusting outward rapidly—and pulled the chocks. If Lee had been planning to fly, he'd have worn a seat-pack parachute and be sitting six inches higher; now he was sunk almost below the rim of the cockpit and had to strain against the shoulder-harness to see over the instrument panel. He was airborne after a four-hundred-yard run. The Hawk was simple—no gear controls to worry about—and the power settings were just full forward. Scanning the sky, he sorted out the arming and firing switches. A second group of bombers was in the distance with a copper-toned glint of reflected sun above them—a fighter escort.
    I hope it's one of the bastards that shot us up yesterday. At fourteen thousand feet he was level with the bombers but still well below the fighters. He warmed his guns with a short burst.
    Lee accelerated, running a triangular check between the fighters and the bombers. Squinting, he saw that there were nine fighters, probably the Nakajimas again, monoplanes with fixed gear and a closed canopy.
    They were diving now, slanting over the bombers, trying to cut him off. It was going to be close. The bombers' nose guns were already opening up, little red dots reaching out toward him as they closed at five hundred miles per hour. Lee hunched forward in his seat, raising himself to aim through the simple fixed sight. He fired a quick burst, then dove under the bombers, using them as a shield against the escort fighters while he zoomed back to altitude.
    The lead bomber went straight down, the dead pilots slumped over the controls. The other bombers scattered when their own fighters dove through them.
    The Nakajimas bounced up, silver propeller discs twinkling in the early morning sun, wings moving skittishly as they jockeyed for firing position, their V-formation untidy and strung out. He turned into them, diving down, guns already chattering. The Japanese broke up into two sections, turning right and left. The Hawk was by far the most maneuverable plane Jim had ever flown, but he saw at once that the Nakajimas could out-turn and out-climb him. He broke for the bomber formation, the Japanese fighters whipping in behind him.
    If Chennault's right, if this is the fastest plane in China, I'll outrun them.
    Chennault was wrong; the Nakajimas were faster. When he swiveled his head he saw that the lead planes were already firing, the decking forward of the canopy alight from their 7.7-mm Type 89 machine guns.
    Lee ducked down in his seat, trying to make himself as small a target as possible and still be able to aim. He streaked across the rear of the bomber formation, ignoring the tail guns, firing as he went. One bomber's wing lit up as his tracers flamed its unprotected tanks; it began a gentle arc, a dying bird seeking the ground.
    The Hawk shuddered as it took hits from the rear; there was a sudden roar as his