Bursting back to life, the engines yank the plane east, fighting the wind as we turn for another pass.

“CIRCLING FOR A THIRD PASS,” Bickler offers.

The wind is going the wrong way. Why is the wind going the wrong way? Can we be in the wrong place?

“WE’RE LINED UP;” Bickler calls out for a third time.

“TAKING OVER,” the bombardier replies.

As we settle into this third bomb run, I run some numbers.

We arrived at the target 10 minutes later than I thought, but there was a headwind and almost complete pitch-blackness since leaving Dalhart. We had banked west upon getting airborne, flew at 300 miles an hour for 25 minutes, and...

“THREE AWAY,” the bombardier perfunctorily calls out, as if bored by the experience.