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IN THE READY ROOM of US Marine Aviation Forward Attack Squadron Wildcat, the three pilots turn to each other as Jimbo, who as ranking pilot has charge of the remote, clicks off the TV. They are all in regulation flight suits that allow pilots of supersonic planes to withstand up to nine G’s without passing out. The tight-fitting trousers prevent blood from pooling in the lower body, thus preventing it from draining from the brain. Unless they are about to fly, no pilot will wear them. The discomfort is considerable. Each suit weighs fourteen pounds.

Chris has an aeronautical map in front of him. “Two hours.”

“Guys,” Stan says. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Shee-it, everybody knows you Jews got no sense of direction. You people done wandered in the desert forty years. We wouldn’t want you to get lost out there all on your own, would we now?” Chris folds the map.

“Hell, no,” Jimbo says. “We sure as hell wouldn’t want that.”