Free Cassada by James Salter Page B

finished firing. You have to follow through, just like everything else. Let up on the trigger, track for a split second, then break off”
    â€œLet’s run it through again.”
    â€œNo, that’s enough. It’s hard on the eyes.”
    Lifting a corner of the blanket, Isbell came out rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. He waited until Cassada rewound the reel and put it away.
    â€œI’ll tell you something else,” he said when Cassada emerged. “You’re pressing in a little too close. You’re going to fly right into the target one of these times. That target bar is made of iron. Start breaking off at six hundred feet like you’re supposed to.”
    â€œI’m not going to run into it, Captain.”
    â€œListen to me. You’ll have a major accident on your hands and the major and I will get the blame. Break off at six hundred feet.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œGo ahead and catch the bus. I’m going to be here for a while.”
    â€œWhat does the schedule look like for tomorrow? I need missions.”
    â€œYou’ll see it. Go on, now.”
    Cassada hesitated at the door as if he were going to say something, then let go of the jamb and walked out, heading towards the bus stop.
    Isbell turned to Abrams,
    â€œAll finished?” he asked.
    â€œI’m just checking it over.”
    â€œThat doesn’t sound like you.”
    Abrams lowered his head as if in even greater effort. “Sir,” he said, “I always check it.”
    â€œYou do?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œIt’s a good thing we’re not running a bank,” Isbell said. “Here, give it to me.”
    He took the page and scribbled his name at the bottom of it without looking at the figures. “How many mistakes are in there?” he asked, handing it back.
    â€œCaptain, it’s correct. I checked it. There are no mistakes.”
    â€œThat would set a record,” Isbell said.
    He began reading the score sheets on the wall. They had been posted at the end of the day.
    â€œThose are up to the minute,” Abrams offered.
    There was no reply. He began to type the envelope the reports went into.
    â€œWe’re not doing too bad,” Isbell murmured, almost to himself.
    â€œNo, sir. We’re ahead of the other squadrons. I keep tabs.”
    â€œI know.”
    Abrams shook out the black typewriter cover and began to put it back on. Through the window he could see the lone figure, waiting.
    â€œDo you think the lieutenant will win the bet?” he asked.
    â€œI doubt it,” Isbell said. “What do the men think?”
    â€œWell . . . they’re betting on Lieutenant Harlan, I guess.”
    â€œProbably a good idea,” Isbell said. “Who are you betting on?”
    â€œOh, I haven’t made any bets. Lieutenant Cassada is certainly trying though, isn’t he?”
    â€œYeah, he’s trying.”
    Abrams glanced out the open window again. “He sort of puts me in mind of the turtle.”
    Cassada was walking slowly back and forth, a few steps each way, watching for the bus.
    â€œWhich turtle?”
    â€œYou know, Captain. The one that beat the rabbit. In the story.”
    â€œThat’s a little lesson for you, isn’t it?”
    â€œHe might come from behind, like the turtle.”
    â€œWe’ll see. It’s a good thing he believes in himself.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œDoesn’t always mean a lot. I can tell you that from experience.”
    In flying school Cassada had been an enthusiastic student. He loved flying and had never, from the very first, felt any fear. When he received his wings he could not repress his excitement and pride. He’d had two years of college and for a while the love, somewhat dramatic, of a girl in Savannah who wanted to be an actress, but all that did not matter compared to what lay ahead. He was going to join the ranks, go to a squadron