The New Year arrived, 1967. At midnight, flares popped all over the perimeter -- parachute flares that hung in the quiet air, star clusters that arced into the dark sky and then rained green and red and white comets. The celebration lasted about five minutes, then a voice of angry authority was on the command net.
"All Comanche elements, this is Comanche Three. All unauthorized firing will cease immediately! Echo Six, Foxtrot Six, Golf Six and Hotel Six will determine who is firing the flares and will take appropriate disciplinary action. Out."
A few seconds later, another voice on the radio: "Well, Happy Motherfuckin New Year to you too. Over."
Comanche Three did not reply.