It was oven hot, and it was Sunday. In the air traffic tower, the control operator at Brady Air Force Base lit a cigarette from a still glowing butt, propped his stocking feet on top of a portable air conditioner and waited for
He was totally bored, and for good reason. Air traffic was slow on Sundays.
fact, it was nearly nonexistent Military pilots and their aircraft rarely flew
on that day in the Mediterranean Theatre of Operations, particularly since no
international political trouble was brewing at the moment. Occasionally a plane
might set down or take off, but it was usually just a quick refueling stop for
some VIP who was in a hurry to get to a conference somewhere in Europe or Africa.
The control operator scanned the large flight schedule blackboard for the tenth
time since he came on duty. There were no departures, and the only estimated
time of arrival was at 1630, almost five hours away.
He was youngóin his early twentiesóand strikingly refuted the myth that fair-haired people cannot tan well; wherever skin showed, it looked like dark
walnut laced with strands of platinum blond hair. The four stripes on his sleeve
denoted the rank of a Staff Sergeant, and although the temperature was touching
