WILL REPEAT THIS MESSAGE. WILL REPEAT THIS MESSAGE ON 6210 kcs. WAIT/LISTENING ON 6210. WE ARE RUNNING NORTH AND SOUTH.” Leaning forward into the stick, the pilot pointed the nose of her Lockheed Electra dural, NR 16020, downward and guided the plane through a dense layer of cumulus clouds. Within a thick mass of gray vapor she flew blindly for several minutes, the peace of a surreal aerial world broken only by the steady roar of the plane’s twin Pratt & Whitney engines. Emerging from an opaque mist at seven hundred feet, she drew a concerned breath and turned to her navigator. “We should be in visual range by now, Freddy. But I don’t see it.” Having crawled from the cramped quarters of the fuselage into the flight cabin, Freddy also searched the expanse of steely water below. Since they’d turned eastward somewhere near Truk Island, he had tried to take a star fix, but to no avail.
