The Colonel's mouth hung slack. He looked to the fifty planes parked smartly on his runway and tried to match their appearance with Charlie's description of a squadron. He couldn't.

At Charlie's salute the other pilots stepped away from their planes and slammed to attention to salute in their own fashion, from a Boy Scout to an old navy salute. The intense pride of each pilot in his plane and his mission could be felt across the runway.

Some were old and rusty, other's, like The Elegant Widow Carlisle's, were new and sparkled in the afternoon sun.

"Ready for battle?" The Colonel whispered.

Widow Carlisle smiled at the Colonel and extended her hand, murmuring softly,

"Minerva Carlisle. Colonel Wilcox, it's an honor to meet the man fighting to help the American farmer in this, our hour of desperate need."

Lydia's twelve-year-old budding female instincts made a mental note on "How to handle a difficult man of authority" and filed it away for future use.

Colonel Wilcox leaned forward to hear the widow's soft words. "We are in your debt and at your service, sir." She smiled and he melted like hot pork fat over a barbecue pit. Lydia made more mental notes and filed them.

"Ma'am?"

"She means we've come to help you kill that bugger." Charlie sighed.

"Watch your mouth!" Colonel Wilcox protested. But Charlie didn't like the way the Colonel looked at the widow. As members of the same farming community, he'd always kept an eye out for his old war-buddy's widow.

"Minerva, back to your plane." He ordered.

"Commander Matthews, I must protest!" Wilcox blustered.

Charlie managed not to preen. By addressing him by his title the Colonel acknowledged his rank, retired or not.

"Lady's my second in command, Colonel. She leads the second wave."

"The second wave of what?" The Colonel was all attention now. His disdainful glance at the raggedy crop dusting planes made the pilots lean forward, as if ready to rush him.

"Sir?" One of his aide's tried to interrupt but was waved off.

"What in Alexander's name can crop dusters do to that that army bombs can't?" He flailed an arm at the worm behind him. "That thing is eating its way across the country and nothing we do stops it. Why do you think you can?"

"Excuse me, sir." Lydia tried to imitate her grandfather's salute. "But you've tried bombs, flame throwers, insecticide, mines and missiles, right?"

Colonel Wilcox glared down at her. "Everything short of the atom bomb." His eyes stabbed back at Charlie. "I repeat, why do you think you can kill it?"

Charlie studied the giant worm again. The pinkish white mound of gelatinous flesh had stubby, flaccid legs unable to touch the ground. At the end of the waving stubs were clawed feet half the size of a one-car garage. Dirt, foliage, slime, hunks of metal and chunks of broken buildings were embedded in its gooey folds. Charlie wasn't positive, but he thought he saw the top of a set of golden arches disappear into the grime.

"Sir! It's moving again!" A soldier cried out. Jeep engines rumbled and the mortars swung around to face the worm.

"Move back. Now! I can't have civilians hurt."