The twenty minutes passed by as the Silver Cloud slowly entered final approach, docking with the mooring spire the Blue-painted Zeppelin had left so recently, allowing the crew chief to tow the other three planes of the impromptu squadron to the edge of the field, where the crew chief then showed each pilot the written message that had been sent from the Blue Ridge. "Now kids; I see only five of you, so one of you will be in a three-plane element. Don't want any one of you haring off alone in those clouds; good chance of getting turned into mountain paste if you tried that crap. Argue among yourselves over who's teaming up with whom, but don't take more than five minutes; I have a busy field to run and traffic control doesn't like waiting on a bunch of hotshots to get their thumbs out."<br/><br/>He paused, then patted the neck of Dixie Mae's horse. "As for your steed, we'll take care of him. Now, don't forget; it's a rough strip; try not to lift off too steeply, or those of you with pusher props will be spitting gravel through the blades. Good for the repair shops, not so good for you kids. Don't forget to call Control before you leave; she should say yes now."