As a US Air Force cargo plane enters Afghan air space, exploding bombs and fires flicker yellow on the land below.
On this night, as since the war began, some Afghans may die from aerial bombs. Others are to receive packets of biscuits, peanut butter, lentils and other food aid raining down from the C-17 Globemaster high above.
"I want justice to come to the terrorists," says Gary, 34, from Cleveland, who oversees the cargo of 17,000 meals to be dropped below. "But I'd rather be dropping food than bombs."
Usually war offers no such choice. But since the start of the US-led campaign in Afghanistan two weeks ago, Washington hopes the high-altitude food drops will play a key role in its fight for the hearts, minds and stomachs of the Afghan people.
The 14-hour round-trip flight from the US air base at Ramstein in Germany will climax in a seven-second burst over northern Afghanistan. Yet the mood on board already grows sombre two hours before, when the crew prepare their guns and put on full combat gear, crash helmets and parachutes.
In a dull red light, they don oxygen masks and the aircraft is depressurized.
Military duffel bags next to the emergency exit contain chemical and biological suits and masks, lest the plane be forced to make an emergency landing in hostile territory.
"Anytime you're flying over airspace where someone does not want you there, there is a threat," says Captain Stan, 33, the flight's lead pilot.
Like the rest of the crew of men mostly in their early 30s, Stan has family and children back in the US and prefers not to give his last name as a security precaution.
By Saturday, 11 missions over Afghanistan -- initially of two and now four US$240 million C-17 planes -- have gone well. Yet risks remain, even as crew fears have lessened somewhat over time.
"This is more intense," said Gary, who has served in hostile places including Haiti, Panama and Somalia. "We know that they have SAMs (surface-to-air missiles)."
On the ground, the cargo jet appears as a tiny dot in the sky and Afghan fighters have fired at them as well as bombers.
Tethered to the jet's wall for their oxygen supply, the crew awaits the crucial sequence: "Five, Four, Three, Two, One, Green!"
At Ramstein before take-off, officers tell a handful of journalists allowed to fly over Afghanistan for the first time this week that even uttering "green" at other times on the flight is considered bad luck, lest it trigger a premature drop.
After the evening take-off, the arrival over the Black Sea brings the mission's first challenge: refuelling with a KC-135 Stratotanker, a 1960s jet which mates from 4m above to deliver thousands of liters of additional fuel.
The food is stored in 2m high cartons along the length of the plane's belly.
Inside, bright yellow packages show an American flag, a cartoon of a man eating happily from the bag and large letters reading: "Food Gift from the People of the UNITED STATES OF AMERICA."
English, Spanish and French text -- nothing in Pashto, Tajik, Uzbek or Afghanistan's other languages -- say the bag contains nourishment for a day.
Those able to read English -- and less than a third of Afghans can read even their own language -- can puzzle over the nutritional facts on the packaging back, such as the amount of saturated fat within.
The food manufacturer's name is printed on the wrapping. But in jittery America these days, the three companies that make the food refuse to answer questions about it.
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