To The Stars

“We have you cleared for the Azores, Air Forceflight.” There was the sound of mumbled voices for a moment. “We have a flag on your flight plan that you seem to be running fifty-nine, that is five niner minutes ahead of your filed flight plan.”

“Strong tail winds,” Blonstein said calmly, “Understood, Air Force flight. Out.”

There were other ears listening in on the ground control frequency, A burnoosed man concealed from sight in a grove of trees close to the coast highway, Paralleling the highway were the columns of a high tension electricity line. The man had been following the conversation closely, frowning as he concentrated on making out the words through the crackle of static on his cheap radio. He waited a few moments to be absolutely sure that the transmission was over. Nothing else followed. He nodded and bent down to press the button on the box at his feet.

A bright white flame lit up the night; a few seconds later the sound of the explosion reached him. One of the pylons in the 20,000 volt line leaned over, faster and faster, until it struck the ground. There was a colorful display of large sparks that went out quickly.

So did half the lights in Rabat. It was not by accident that the radio beacon station was included in this circuit as well.

The duty staff at Cruz del Luz airport on the island of Santa Maria were all soundly asleep. Very few planes had been stopping recently for refueling in the Azores, so the night shift had quickly become used to staying awake during the daytime hours. Admittedly someone had set the alarm bleeper, but that wasn’t really needed. The radio would wake them up.

It did. Captain Sarmiento was pulled from a deep and dream-free sleep by the amplified voice from the wall speaker. He stumbled over from the couch and banged his shins ruthlessly on the control station before he found the light switch.

“Cruz del Luz here, come in.” His voice was rough with sleep and he coughed and spat into the wastebasket while he groped through the printouts on his desk.

“This is Air Force flight four seven five requesting clearance fir landing.”

Sarmiento’s scrabbling fingers found the printout even while the voice was speaking; yes, the right one. “You are cleared for approach on runway one. I have a reading you are locked in to landing control.” He blinked at a figure on the sheet, then looked up at the clock. “Your arrival approximately one hour ahead of schedule Air Force flight…”

“The winds,” was the laconic reply.

Sarmiento dropped wearily into his chair and looked with disdain at his sleepy, shambling crew just entering the office. His temper burned strongly,

“Sons of whores! A major refueling, the first in six months, a most important wartime occasion and you lie around like swine in a sty.”

Sarmiento continued enthusiastically in this manner while his staff hurried, hunch-shouldered, about their duties. This was good employment and they wanted to do nothing to jeopardize it.

The runway lights came on brightly as the fire engine raced along it to take position at the end of the runway, Out of the darkness the beams of landing lights speared in and the first of the arrivals thundered overhead to slap down to the runway’s surface. One after another they landed, and once on the ground were guided automatically to the refueling points. Every bit of the operation was computer-controlled. Engines were cut and brakes applied at the proper spot. A TV camera rose up from each refueling well and scanned the undersurface of the wing above, locating the fuel access port. Once identified and pinpointed the smoothly articulated arm could open the cover and insert the hose so that pumping could begin. Sensors in each tank assured that there would be no overflow or spillage. While this industrious robot activity was taking placc all of the big planes remained dark and quiet, sealed tight. Except for the command ship. The door on this one opened, the entrance stairs ground out and settled into place. A man in uniform came quickly down them and strode firmly down the length of the refueling stations. Something drew his attention to one of the pits, he bent over and looked close. His back was to the tower, the underpart of his body in shadow, the package that slipped from his jacket dropped into the well, unseen. He stood, brushed his clothing straight, then continued on toward the illuminated control tower.

Sarmiento blinked up at the officer and felt slightly grubby, The man’s black uniform was pressed and smooth, the buttons and gold braid gleaming in the light. A maltese cross hung about his neck, there were decorations on his breast, a glass lens covered one eye. Sarmiento climbed to his feet, impressed.

“Sprechen sie Deutsch?” the man said.

“I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t understand what you are saying.” The officer scowled, then continued in thickly accented Portuguese.

“I am here to sign the receipted form,” he said.