"Looks like we've got a problem, old buddy. The trusty USN has shut down the airspace around the island. Closed it to commercial traffic."
"Don't like the sound of that. It's getting a little lonesome down here."
"From the look of things, it may get worse. We're going to have to slip the original insertion. We'll need another twenty-four hours. Can you hang on that long?"
"Hey, I'm making new friends all the time. No problem. The downside is that the rockets may start going up. I'm still trying to get a handle on that end of it. Now it sounds like I may have to look into trying to reschedule things a little."
"We need a breather," Armont said. "Our options don't look too good at this end. But we'll be there, so don't believe anything you hear on the radio. All things may not be what they appear."
"Copy that. Have a nice day."
"Roger." Armont clicked off the mike. "All right." He turned and motioned Spiros back to the cockpit. "Tell them we're losing radio contact. And our navigation gear is going. Say we're going to have to reduce altitude and fly with a compass and visuals. Maybe that will muddy things long enough to get us down."
Dimitri Spiros hit the radio and delivered the message. To total disbelief.
“That's a crock, Delta One. Assume a heading of three-four-zero immediately and get the hell out of this airspace. Immediately. Do you acknowledge?"
“Transmission breaking up," Spiros replied, toggling the switch back and forth as he did to add some credibility to his assertion.