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Clete, who had done many tours as an AOD—aerodrome officer of the day—understood that at a little after two in the morning most AODs would be curled up on a cot and would tend to be annoyed if awakened to deal with anything less than the field being attacked by Martians. And AODs were usually senior to the officer in charge of the flight-planning room.

One of the stage directions Director Frade had issued to his cast was that when he issued an order, the reply would be in the same language used to issue the order. So, when he next said in German, “Hansel, you and Karl take a look at the weather map,” von Wachtstein replied, “Jawohl, Herr Oberst.” Then both headed for the weather map behind the counter.

This tended to further confuse the lieutenant and the sergeant. But the former retained enough of his composure to proclaim, “Hey, you can’t go back there!”

“Don’t be absurd, Sergeant,” Frade said.

“The colonel told you to get the AOD down here, Lieutenant,” Siggie Stein snapped. “Do it.”

“Easy, Siggie,” Frade said.

Frade then extended to the lieutenant the credentials identifying him as an OSS area director.

“Not only weren’t we here, but I didn’t show you that,” Frade said. “Understood, Lieutenant?”

The lieutenant was clearly dazzled by the spurious credentials.

“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant said. “Sergeant, go get Major Cronin.”

Frade impatiently gestured for the lieutenant to return his credentials. The lieutenant hastily did so.

Major Cronin, a nice-looking young officer wearing pilot’s wings, appeared two minutes later, looking somewhat sleepy eyed.

“You’re off that Argentine Constellation, right?” he said.

“Correct,” Frade said. He extended his credentials. “Take a quick look at that, please, Major, and then forget you ever saw it or us.”

Major Cronin looked, then said, “Yes, sir. And what can Val de Cans do for the OSS?”

“You can start, Major, first things first, by getting someone from your radio maintenance section familiar with the Collins 7.2 transceiver up here to assist my communications officer. The 7.2 in my Connie needs service.”

Major Cronin looked confused. “Excuse me, sir . . . what do I call you?”

“‘Sir’ will do just fine,” Frade said.

“Sir, I’m a little confused. The Collins 7.2 is a fixed-station communications device. Are you sure that’s what you have in your aircraft?”

“Trust the colonel, Major, when he says we have one in our airplane,” Stein said.

“Yes, sir,” the major said, and then turned to the lieutenant. “Charley, why don’t you run over to the radio shack and get someone familiar with the 7.2 over here.”

“Better yet, Lieutenant,” Stein said, “why don’t I go with you to the radio shack?”

“Yes, sir,” the major and the lieutenant said in chorus.

“All right, sir?” Stein asked.

“Carry on, Stein,” Frade ordered.

Von Wachtstein and Boltitz returned from the weather map.

“Looks pretty good, Clete,” von Wachtstein announced in German. “A couple of minor storms to the south. The winds aloft will be on our tail.”

“Danke schön,” Frade replied.

Von Wachtstein and Boltitz then moved behind Frade and took up positions roughly like that of Parade Rest.

The major and the lieutenant looked intently at them.