one minute to
nine
It made a perfect meeting place -- secluded , misty with the clinging mountain vapors , far apart from the war . Lance felt like a prowling werewolf there , waiting for its ghostly mate . Rain was still splattering in desultory bursts , but distance muted the rumbling salvos ' of thunder . His watch told him it was one minute to nine . Now -- what ? Hay , or a swooping squadron of Slav planes ? Lance stepped out of the cockpit into the rain , though holding himself tensely ready to leap back again and soar away .