piston-driven maritime bombers that bore more than a passing resemblance to the B-24 Liberators of World War II fame and were almost as old. There was a quartet of Dassault-Breguet Alize antisub aircraft, bulbous little airplanes that somehow found room for a crew of three and a bomb-bay big enough to carry two torpedoes. Probably the oddest craft was the Embraer P-95 Bandeirulha, an old Brazilian design that looked more like a sporting plane than a military aircraft. For in-flight refueling of this plucky group, there was also a pair of BA “Victory” K.Mk 2 jet tankers.
Frost had been flying MPS for six days. This had been his first flight in the venerable Buccaneer, and as he had vowed many times in the last 16 hours, it would be his last. Easing himself into the waiting jeep now, he could hear his knee joints crackle and pop as he stretched them straight for the first time in more than a half a day.
“I might be getting too old for this,” he thought, even though he was just a few weeks shy of his thirty-sixth birthday. “Either too old or too smart…”
Sensing his condition, the Jeep driver drove slowly, carefully, across the rough tarmac, depositing Frost without so much as a bump at the front door of his officers’ billet. The driver promised to fetch Frost a hot meal from the chow hall and maybe a few cans of Mooselake ale, too. This cheered the pilot enough to will himself out of the Jeep and up the steps of his quarters. The Jeep driver gingerly turned his vehicle around and then roared off into the night and fog.
It was now close to 2 A.M. and in the background Frost could hear the heart-stopping growl of two Shackletons starting up their paleolithic engines. Behind them were a pair of Alizes, and behind them, adding its own primitive engines to the roar, one of the “Victory” refueling ships.
This meant just about all of the MPS pilots were either in the air or climbing up into it. When Frost came through the front door of the officers’ billet, he was the only living soul around.
That was okay with him. The last thing he wanted to do now was to see anybody, talk to anybody, or have to interact in any way. All he wanted was a shower, a shave, his meal, a few ales, and then bed.
This plan began unfolding like clockwork. He reached his quarters, stripped, and showered in luxurious privacy. He had a quick towel-off, a quicker shave, and then there came a rapping on his door. It was the Jeep driver, carrying a tray holding an enormous bowl of stew, a basket of rolls, a tin of common crackers, and a small container of hot sauce. It was Frost’s favorite meal! He gratefully accepted the tray only to find the man was also holding the promised six-pack of Mooselake ale. Exhausted and famished, Frost felt tears come to his eyes. He thanked the driver profusely, promised him a citation of some kind, then shooed him out. Returning to his billet, Frost opened the first beer, rustled up an old copy of Air Progress, and dived face first into the basin of stew.
It was hard to say what went down quicker, the heavily seasoned goulash or the first Mooselake ale. Either way, they were both gone inside of five minutes. Frost licked the bowl several times over, then poured the first few drops from beer number two into the vessel and drank the runoff. Once the rolls and crackers were gone, he got up from the table, staggered a bit, and collapsed onto his bed. It was almost 2:30.
Outside the wind was beginning to howl; a huge storm was churning in the Atlantic. Frost and his backseater had seen the massive clouds forming on the southern horizon all during their long flight. The weather service was predicting this storm would hit New England within hours and linger there indefinitely. Some forecasters were already speculating that it might be one of the largest storms to hit the East Coast in history; it was so big it was already affecting them way up here in Gander.
Yet now, looking up through the overhead window
Frost had been flying MPS for six days. This had been his first flight in the venerable Buccaneer, and as he had vowed many times in the last 16 hours, it would be his last. Easing himself into the waiting jeep now, he could hear his knee joints crackle and pop as he stretched them straight for the first time in more than a half a day.
“I might be getting too old for this,” he thought, even though he was just a few weeks shy of his thirty-sixth birthday. “Either too old or too smart…”
Sensing his condition, the Jeep driver drove slowly, carefully, across the rough tarmac, depositing Frost without so much as a bump at the front door of his officers’ billet. The driver promised to fetch Frost a hot meal from the chow hall and maybe a few cans of Mooselake ale, too. This cheered the pilot enough to will himself out of the Jeep and up the steps of his quarters. The Jeep driver gingerly turned his vehicle around and then roared off into the night and fog.
It was now close to 2 A.M. and in the background Frost could hear the heart-stopping growl of two Shackletons starting up their paleolithic engines. Behind them were a pair of Alizes, and behind them, adding its own primitive engines to the roar, one of the “Victory” refueling ships.
This meant just about all of the MPS pilots were either in the air or climbing up into it. When Frost came through the front door of the officers’ billet, he was the only living soul around.
That was okay with him. The last thing he wanted to do now was to see anybody, talk to anybody, or have to interact in any way. All he wanted was a shower, a shave, his meal, a few ales, and then bed.
This plan began unfolding like clockwork. He reached his quarters, stripped, and showered in luxurious privacy. He had a quick towel-off, a quicker shave, and then there came a rapping on his door. It was the Jeep driver, carrying a tray holding an enormous bowl of stew, a basket of rolls, a tin of common crackers, and a small container of hot sauce. It was Frost’s favorite meal! He gratefully accepted the tray only to find the man was also holding the promised six-pack of Mooselake ale. Exhausted and famished, Frost felt tears come to his eyes. He thanked the driver profusely, promised him a citation of some kind, then shooed him out. Returning to his billet, Frost opened the first beer, rustled up an old copy of Air Progress, and dived face first into the basin of stew.
It was hard to say what went down quicker, the heavily seasoned goulash or the first Mooselake ale. Either way, they were both gone inside of five minutes. Frost licked the bowl several times over, then poured the first few drops from beer number two into the vessel and drank the runoff. Once the rolls and crackers were gone, he got up from the table, staggered a bit, and collapsed onto his bed. It was almost 2:30.
Outside the wind was beginning to howl; a huge storm was churning in the Atlantic. Frost and his backseater had seen the massive clouds forming on the southern horizon all during their long flight. The weather service was predicting this storm would hit New England within hours and linger there indefinitely. Some forecasters were already speculating that it might be one of the largest storms to hit the East Coast in history; it was so big it was already affecting them way up here in Gander.
Yet now, looking up through the overhead window
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