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Show Flying - 88 and the jeep seems to hang motionless over the immense desert. Even the ovenlike heat seems less like an enemy as they float over sand and sage toward the welcoming green fields of California. Like a great sailing ship driven by friendly winds, the jeep flows on toward the west, rocking a little in the soft slow swell of the waves. The scream of an air-horn snaps him awake. Seventy miles an hour in the left lane and a great red semi-trailer is bearing down on John Henry, lights on and horn wailing. He wrenches the wheel to the right and the jeep cuts under the nose of the truck. The giant bumper flashes past, waist-high, every rivet and bolt clearly visible. The driver's curses fall from far above onto the roof of the jeep, lost in the roar of the Diesel and the wind of passage. "What happened? Did something happen?" says Wilberforce sitting up and looking all about him. In the back Armstrong sleeps on, clubbed down by the rising heat. "Nothing, sir," says John Henry. "We just passed a big truck going the other way." "Any sign of the convoy yet?" "No, sir. We're only about twenty miles west of Casa Grande." Wilberforce looks down at this map. "I see where we are," he says, studying it. Then he points to an odd-shaped cluster of black peaks |