He was getting his night vision back now, and a quick glance showed him that the windsock was flowing straight out above the black, silent hangar against the pearly false dawn. Aloft, the stars were paling without any cloud-dimming, or even much twinkling. The wind was steady north up the valley; ideal flying weather.
Small lumpy figures were running across the field from the parked cars toward the shack. The squadron was scrambling.
“Mac!” Martinson shouted from inside the shack. “Where are you? Get your junk in here and get started!”
McDonough slipped inside the door, and swung his BEG
components onto the chart table. Light was pouring into the briefing room from the tiny office, dazzling after the long darkness. In the briefing room the radio biinked a tiny red eye, but the squadron’s communications officer hadn’t yet arrived to answer it. In the office, Martinson’s voice rumbled softly, urgently, and the phone gave him back thin un-intelligible noises, like an unteachable parakeet.
Then, suddenly, the adjutant appeared at the office door and peered at McDonough. “What are you waiting for?” he said. “Get that mind reader of yours into the Cub on the double.”
“What’s wrong with the Aeronca? It’s faster.”
“Water in the gas; she ices up. We’ll have to drain the tank. This is a hell of a time to argue.” Martinson jerked open the squealing door which opened into the hangar, his hand groping for the light switch. McDonough followed him, supporting his sling with both hands, his elbows together.