Read Online Cassada by James Salter - Free Book Online Page B

were joining up, Isbell asked, “Red Four? How’d you do?”
    â€œI got hits,” Cassada said confidently.
    They came in over the bay, the boats at anchor beneath them, the buoys, and turned just short of the city, white in the early day, to line up with the runway five miles off. Isbell looked to the side. They were in echelon, one motionless canopy beyond the other.
    â€œRed Lead,” he called as he whipped to the side, “on the break.”
    After debriefing they stood around and waited for the tow ship to come back. Harlan had picked up some pebbles and was shaking them in his fist.
    â€œHow’d you do?” Isbell asked.
    Harlan shrugged. “All right, I guess.”
    â€œWhat color were you firing?”
    The heads of the bullets were dipped in paint to identify who had fired them.
    â€œBlue,” Harlan said.
    â€œYellow,” Cassada murmured, almost to himself, as if to cards or dice.
    Along the far side of the runway, the tow ship came in sight, flying low, ready to drop.
    â€œWhat color did you say?” Isbell asked.
    â€œYellow,” Cassada repeated.
    A truck came from the direction of the runway, the dust rising. It pulled up and the bundled target was thrown off. It was unrolled and hung lengthwise on the scoring board. Isbell was at the tail end hooking the nails through. The end was slightly frayed but it was still almost full length, twenty-eight feet. They stood with the firstlook at it. There were red and blue spread through it and one burst of green in front near the bar, but no yellow.
    â€œDamn it,” Cassada said in disbelief. “Where’s the yellow?”
    Finally Harlan found one at the very bottom near the edge.
    â€œHere you are,” he said.
    Cassada stood helplessly. It was as if he had lost the power to move.
    â€œHere you are, dead-eye,” Harlan said. “You’re right. You did hit it.”
    Cassada looked at the single hole. He seemed dazed. He took the fabric in his hand.
    â€œI can’t understand it,” he said.
    â€œYou had a good airplane,” Isbell said. “You were probably firing out of range.”
    Cassada shook his head.
    â€œHow do you know?”
    â€œNo, sir. I was in there.”
    â€œWell, you were doing something wrong.”
    â€œI can’t understand it. I did everything right. I had the right airspeed, the G’s. The pipper was right on.”
    â€œWe’ll have to look at your film.”
    â€œI forgot. It’s still out in the airplane.”
    â€œYou’d better go get it before it gets lost.”
    Looking at the ground, carrying all the disappointment he could bear, Cassada walked towards the ramp. Phipps had picked up the clipboard and was marking down the hits as Harlan called them out. Blue. Red. Blue. Three reds. Blue. When they had finished, Isbell had forty-six and Harlan forty. A crowd had gathered around to watch the scoring. It was the best target thus far.
    â€œDamn fine shooting,” Wickenden commented.
    Dunning strolled up with a cup of coffee in his hand. They were unhooking the target.
    â€œJust a minute, gentlemen, just a minute. Let it hang up there for a while. Give these other squadrons a chance to look at it.”
    He picked up the score sheets. He was reading them when Cassada came back. Dunning did not look up.
    â€œWere you firing on this one, Lieutenant?” he asked blandly.
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œWhat color?”
    â€œYellow.”
    â€œI don’t see too many yellow hits here,” Dunning said, pursing his mouth speculatively. “What seemed to be the trouble, bad sight?”
    â€œNo, sir,” Cassada said. “The sight was good.”
    Dunning waited.
    â€œMajor, I don’t understand it,” Cassada admitted.
    Dunning made a slight sound of acknowledgement.
    â€œOh, let’s face it,” Harlan muttered. “You’re not about to hit anything.”
    Cassada looked at