cc.themediterraneancaper2-第1部分

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　　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　　something　to　happen。
　He　was　totally　bored；　and　for　good　reason。　Air　traffic　was　slow　on　Sundays。　In　　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　young…in　his　early　twenties…and　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　　ninety…eight　degrees；　the　armpits　of　his　khaki　uniform　displayed　no　damp　sweat　　stains。　The　collar　on　his　shirt　was　open　and　missing　a　tie；　a　custom　normally　　allowed　at　Air　Force　facilities　located　in　warm　atmospheres。
　He　Leaned　forward　and　adjusted　the　louvers　on　the　air　conditioner　so　that　the　　cool　air　ran　up　his　legs。　The　new　position　seemed　to　satisfy　him。　and　he　smiled　　at　the　refreshing　tingle。　Then；　clasping　his　hands　behind　his　head；　he　relaxed　　backward；　staring　at　the　metal　ceiling。
　The　ever…present　thought　of　Minneapolis　and　the　girls　parading　Nicollet　Avenue　　crossed　his　mind。　He　counted　again　the　fifty…four　days　left　to　endure　before　he　　was　rotated　back　to　the　States。　When　each　day　came　it　was　ceremoniously　marked　　off　in　a　small　black　notebook　he　carried　in　his　breast　pocket。
　Yawning　for　perhaps　the　twentieth　time；　he　picked　up　a　pair　of　binoculars　that　　were　sitting　on　the　window　ledge；　and　surveyed　the　parked　aircraft　that　rested　　on　the　dark　asphalt　runway　stretching　beneath　the　elevated　control　tower。
　The　runway　lay　on　the　island　of　Thasos　in　the　northern　part　of　the　Aegean　Sea。　　The　island　was　separated　from　the　Greek　Macedonia　mainland　by　sixteen　miles　of　　water。　appropriately　called　the　Thasos　Strait　The　Thasos　land　mass　consisted　of　　one　hundred　and　seventy　square　miles　of　rock；　timber　and　remnants　from　classical　　history　dating　back　to　One　Thousand　B。C。
　Brady　Field；　as　generally　termed　by　the　base　personnel；　was　constructed　under　a　　treaty　between　the　United　States　and　the　Greek　government　in　the　late　nineteen　　sixties。　Except　for　ten　F…105　Starfire　Jets；　the　only　other　permanently　based　　aircraft　were　two　monstrous　C…133　Cargomaster　transports　that　sat　like　a　pair　of　　fat　silver　whales；　glistening　in　the　blazing　Aegean　sun。
　The　sergeant　pointed　the　binoculars　at　the　dormant　aircraft　and　searched　for　　signs　of　life。　The　field　was　empty。　Most　of　the　men　were　either　in　the　nearby　　town　of　Panaghia　drinking　beer；　sunbathing　on　the　beach　or　napping　in　the　　air…Cooled　barracks。　Only　a　solitary　MP　guarding　the　main　gate；　and　the　constant　　rotation　of　the　radar　antennae　atop　its　cement　bunker　offered　any　form　of　human　　presence。　He　slowly　raised　the　lenses　and　peered　over　the　azure　sea。　It　was　a　　bright；　cloudless　day；　and　he　could　easily　recognize　details　on　the　distant　　Greek　mainland。　The　glasses　swung　east　and　gathered　in　the　horizon　line　where　　deep　blue　water　met　light　blue　sky。　Through　the　shimmering　haze　of　heat　waves　　the　white　speck　of　a　ship　resting　at　anchor　came　into　view。　He　squinted　and　　adjusted　the　focus　knob　to　clarify　the　ship's　name　on　the　bow。　He　could　just　　barely　make　out　the　tiny　black　words：　First　Attempt。
　That's　a　dumb　name。　he　thought。　The　significance　escaped　him。　Other　markings　　also　darkened　the　ship's　hull。　In　long；　heavy；　black　lines　across　the　center　of　　the　bull　were　the　vertical　letters　NUMA　which　he　knew　stood　for　the　National　　Underwater　Marine　Agency。

　A　huge　crooked　crane　stood　on　the　stern　of　the　ship　and　hung　over　the　water；　　lifting　a　round　ball…like　object　from　the　depths。　The　sergeant　could　see　men　　laboring　about　the　crane；　and　he　felt　inwardly　glad　that　civilians　had　to　work　　on　a　Sunday　too。　Suddenly　his　visual　exploration　was　cut　short　by　a　robot…like　voice　over　the　　inter。
　〃Hello；　Control　Tower；　this　is　Radar。　。　。　Over！〃
　The　sergeant　laid　down　the　binoculars　and　flicked　a　microphone　switch。　〃This　is　　the　Control　Tower；　Radar。　What's　up？〃
　〃I've　got　a　contact　about　ten　miles　to　the　west。〃
　〃Ten　miles　west？〃　boomed　the　sergeant。　〃That's　inland　over　the　island。　Your　　contact　is　practically　on　top　of　us。〃　He　turned　and　looked　again　at　the　big　　lettered　blackboard；　reassuring　himself　that　no　scheduled　flights　were　due。　〃Next　time；　let　me　know　sooner？〃
　〃Beats　me　where　it　came　from；〃　droned　the　voice　from　the　radar　bunker。　〃Nothing　　has　shown　on　the　scope　in　any　direction　under　one　hundred　miles　in　the　last　six　　hours。〃
　〃Well　either　stay　awake　down　there　or　get　your…damn　equipment　checked；〃　snapped　　the　sergeant。　He　released　the　mike　button　and　grabbed　the　binoculars。
　Then　he　stood　up　and　peered　to　the　west。
　It　was　there。　。　。　a　tiny　dark　dot；　flying　low　over　the　hills　at　tree　top　level。　It　came　slow；　no　more　than　ninety　miles　an　hour。　For　a　few　moments　it　seemed　to　　hang　suspended　over　the　ground；　and　then；　almost　all　at　once；　It　began　to　take　　on　shape。　The　outlines　of　the　wings　and　fuselage　drew　into　sharp　focus　through　　the　binoculars。　It　was　so　dear　as　to　be　unmistakable。　The　sergeant　gaped　in　　astonishment　as　the　rattley…bang　engine　sound　of　an　old　single　seat；　biwing　　airplane　plete　with　rigid；　spoked　wheel　landing　gear；　tore　the　arid　island　　air。　Except　for　the　protruding　in…line　cylinder　head；　the　fuselage　followed　a　　streamlined　shape　that　tapered　to　straight　skies　at　the　open　cockpit　The　great　　wooden　propeller　beat　the　air　like　an　old　windmill；　pulling　the　ancient　craft　　over　the　landscape　at　a　tortoise…like　air　speed。　The　fabric　covered　wings　　wavered　in　the　wind　and　showed　the　early　characteristic　scalloped　trailing　edge。　From　the　spinner　enclosing　the　propeller　hub　to　the　rear　tips　of　the　elevators；　　the　entire　machine　was　painted　a　bright　and　flamboyant　yellow。　The　sergeant　　lowered　the　glasses　just　as　the　plane　displaying　the　familiar　black　Maltese　　Cross　markings　of　World　War　I　Germany；　flashed　by　the　control　tower。
　In　another　circumstance　the　sergeant　would　have　probably　dropped　to　the　floor　if　　an　airplane　buzzed　the　control　tower　at　no　more　than　five　feet。　But　his　　amazement　at　seeing　a　very　real　ghost　from　the　dim　skies　of　the　Western　Front　　was　too　much　for　his　senses　to　grasp；　and　he　stood　stock　still。　As　the　plane　　passed；　the　pilot　brazenly　waved　from　his　cockpit。　He　was　so　close　that　the　　sergeant　could　see　the　features　of　his　face　under　the　faded　leather　helmet　and　　goggles。　The　spectre　from　the　past　was　grinning　and　patting　the　butts　of　the　　twin　machine　guns；　mounted　on　the　cowling。
　Was　this　some　sort　of　colossal　joke？　Is　the　pilot　a　nutty　Greek　with　a　circus？　Where　did　he　e　from？　The　sergeant's　brain　spun　with　questions　but　no　answers。　Suddenly　he　became　aware　of　twin；　blinking　spots　of　light；　emitting　behind　the　propeller　of　the　plane。　Then　the　glass　of　the　control　tower　windows　shattered　　and　disappeared　around　him。
　A　moment　in　time　stopped　and　war　came　to　Brady　Field。　The　pilot　of　the　World　War　　I　fighter　dipped　around　the　control　tower　and　strafed　the　sleek　modern　jets　　parked　lazily　on　the　runway。　One　by　one　the　F…105　Starfires　were　raked　and　　slashed　by　ancient　eight　millimeter　bullets　that　tore　into　their　thin　aluminum　　skin。　Three　of　them　burst　into　flames　as　their　full　tanks　of　jet　fuel　ignited。　They　burned　fiercely；　melting　the　soft　asphalt　into　smoking　puddles　of　tar。　　Again　and　again；　the　bright　yellow　flying　antique　soared　over　the　field；　　spitting　a　leaden　stream　of　destruction。　One　of　the　C…133　Cargomasters　went　　next。　It　erup