Prelude To Afghanistan

It was night. They were westbound over the Ocean. Swain, the navigator, stood in the companionway behind the flight engineer, Reploeg. Swain was fiddling with his octant (a periscopic sextant), the top half of which stuck up through a sealed hole in the roof of the aircraft. He had an eye pressed into the eyepiece at the bottom of the instrument and was fingering a knurled knob on its side. Occasionally he grunted, pressing the stop watch in his left hand, and then bending down to write a series of numbers on a pad. Swain had skewered the planets Venus, Jupiter, and the star, Aldebaran, and was immersed in reducing those angular measurements into reassuring lines of position that would tell them where they were – or more accurately – where they had just been. Five hours earlier, they had left Honolulu. They were heading to Wake Island, a dot in the middle of the North Pacific Ocean. Until they came within range of Wake’s powerful radio beacon, they were hostage to Swain and his arcane navigational skills. Clay needed to know how he did that but was convinced Swain would no more divulge his secrets than would Cook on his voyage to Tahiti. He had handed a slip of paper to Al Ladoo, their captain. On it, a number: 272 degrees. Swain had determined that they were right of course and must change their heading two degrees to the left. Al took the turn knob of the autopilot out of its detent, rotating it to the left a fraction. The DC-6 banked imperceptibly to the left. When the compass read 272, Al gently returned the knob to the zero detent, and the wings of the DC-6 leveled again. Swain bent over the engineer to squint at the compass and confirmed they were on their new course. Then, he handed Clay details of their present position and an estimate of their position in one hour – information which Clay would forward by high frequency radio to Air Traffic Control in Honolulu. Swain had curled up on his air mattress on the floor behind the flight engineer Reploeg, to sleep for an hour. Reploeg had just taken some engine readings and had his ear pressed into a small pillow jammed into the side of the engine ignition analyzer. He too was asleep. Al looked over at Clay and yawned. “Think you can keep an eye on things for a while?” he asked, tilting his seat back to its limit. “Of course,” Clay said. “OK, poke me in an hour; then you can take a dive. You’re on your own, Ace.” Except for the faint red glow of the forward panel instruments, the cockpit was dark. Outside, 14,000 feet above the ocean, the air was smooth and crystal clear. They seemed suspended and motionless. From horizon to horizon, the dome of the sky engulfed an infinity of stars, many brilliant enough to illuminate the water below. I am insignificant, suddenly very small, yet filled with wonder and awe, Clay thought. I believe I have just been given a lesson in humility.