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Even though it's the dream of anyone who writes about aviation to make an appearance at Smithsonian's National Air and Space - the Rocket Men table was next to Apollo 11's Columbia on the floor and The Spirit of St. Louis in the air - I have to say that my favorite D.C. invitation came from the Patuxent River Naval Air Station, where The Right Stuff found its opening chapters. Since another of my books, The First Heroes, tells the story of the birth of the Air Force in World War II with the Doolittle Raid, I've done a lot of talks with servicemen. And these audiences always end up surprising me right out of my shoes.

Every time I talk at a military academy or base, I start off dreading that the audience will be be gimlet-eyed and blasé, youths slouched in boredom and impossible to reach. But in fact, every time, the exact opposite happens - the hardcore military pilots are the most enthusiastic audience ever, fans who are super fans. It's even visible in economic fundamentals: A young aviator, buying three hardcovers at $85 while being paid military grade, is making a serious commitment. Yet, every time this happens, I'm startled all over again, even though I've seen it time after time at Wright-Pat, and the Citadel, and numerous base-adjacent flight museums. And it was at Pax River that I finally understood. 

When you first meet someone, and the talk goes something like: "You love Korean barbecue? ... Bertolucci? ... Russian icons? ... I can't believe it! Me too!" - a pretty terrific bond can begin. A form of Communion. And this is what happens with young flyers hearing the stories of their great and brave professional ancestors, their overriding passion pulling them together and making them a part of a remarkable history, that very rare group of men and women who share the exhilarating dream of flying the world's greatest aircraft. When you're that age, and you feel that enthusiasm, and you're engulfed in that mass of focused attention ... why, it's almost like being in love.