High above the waves of the Atlantic Ocean, Swan spied a speck in the sky above them. Next to him in the pilot’s seat, Wenham spoke into his radio mike. ‘Red Rooster Three Nine, Red Rooster Three Nine, this is Rapier Two-Five, requesting instructions — over.’
Swan listened as the static on the radio, suddenly found a voice. ‘Rapier Two Five, this is Red Rooster Three Nine. Proceed forty degrees East, at a height of twenty-two thousand feet. We see ya on scope for a central drogue feed.’
Wenham acknowledged, and moving the control column, the aircraft banked right, placing the KC-135 Stratotanker dead ahead of them. Swan watched as the mighty silver coloured converted Boeing 707, drew closer. Its long probe already deployed.
A few minutes later, they were under the descended drogue. On the F-111, the small door of the fuel insert, situated behind the cockpit opened, ready to receive its injection of aviation fuel, and as the fixed central drogue sailed towards them, precision flying was needed so not to damage the Perspex canopy. Wenham carefully brought them into position, and with a slight jolt, they locked with the probe.
After receiving fuel from the tanker, Wenham disengaged and thanking the tanker crew, banked left, dropping the nose of his aircraft down to head on a course, taking the big swing-wing fighter bomber, across the Caribbean and along the Florida Keys, to the runway at McCoy Air Force Base in Orlando.
Swan was speechless, and had been for most of the trip. This had indeed been one flight, he would never forget.
Wenham spoke to him through the mike. ‘Say, Alex, off the record, what’s going down buddy? The brass told me diddly squat, as to why I was taking a civilian in my bird, across to the states. I was just told to do my duty, and get you there, ASAP.’
Swan looked across the middle console to his right and spoke into his mask. ‘Well, let’s just put it this way: I’ve got two birds to find. Which will hopefully mean that another bird can still be saved.’
Wenham was still at a loss, as to what his passenger could mean by this.
Outside Steve’s Diner, Antonio Martello lifted down the tailgate of his delivery truck, walked inside and unhooked the strap, securing the sack barrow. One by one, he lifted the crates of Coca Cola onto it. At a stack of five high, he stopped and with both hands, pushed the load down the ramp and into the diner.
Steve Keneally was there to greet him, wearing his signature white apron. He held open the door. ‘Afternoon Tony. How's ya day, buddy?’
Martello nodded to him. ‘Swell, Steve, except my boy has been tampering’ with my goddamn radio again. I can't get the music too good on WSGN. Damn thing keeps doing static, especially when driving through the town.
Keneally gestured to the crates. ‘Say you dump those out back, and I'll fix you some coffee, burger and fries.’
Martello’s eyes lit up. ‘Gee, that'll be great, Steve.’
Twenty minutes later, Martello was sitting at the bar eating his lunch, when the door behind him opened, and two uniformed Orange County policemen walked in. Martello stared at the reflection in the mirror in front of him and monitored the officers, as they walked over and sat down at a table, In the mirror, he saw the blue and white marked Ford Mercury, parked in front of the diner.
Keneally greeted the known regulars to his establishment with a friendly smile. ‘Howdee officers, can I get you fellas, your usual?’
One of them smiled, raising his hand, and Keneally walked back to the bar to pour coffee into two cups. ‘So, you boys having a good day?’
The taller of the two officers acknowledged him. ‘Yeah Steve. Nothing doing as usual, all quiet. I guess that all the action will come when the Saturn takes off tomorrow, huh?’
Keneally agreed. ‘Yeah, I think you may be right, there. It'll be like a church on Thanksgiving Day, in here after the launch.’
Martello had finished his lunch and wiped his mouth with a serviette. He shouted over to the owner. ‘Well, I guess, I'll be going now, Steve. I gotta load more deliveries to do. Truck's full. Looks like everyone will be seeing the astronauts off with a Coke, tomorrow instead of a beer. Can't stand that stuff myself, though.’
The officers were listening to the two men. The shorter one sniggered, then addressed the delivery driver. ‘Well, there's a strange thing, you drive a truck painted like a Coke label, and you don't even like Coke?’
Martello half smiled at the humorous comment, turned on his heel, and waved a gesture to Keneally, before opening the door and walking outside. In the parking lot, he seethed with anger, mumbling to himself. ‘How dare those bastard cops, make fun of me.’ He climbed into his truck and sat for a few minutes to calm himself down. He didn't like cops much, and suddenly he began to think again of what had happened to his father. It was June 1930, the period of Prohibition in the USA. Frank Martello, had owned a haulage company in down-town Chicago. One early September evening, one of his clients had approached him to take a cargo of wooden crates across the city to a warehouse. At first, he was curious as to what was inside them. However, when he was informed that he would be paid handsomely for his trouble, and especially when told the figure of his fee, he agreed to do it. With a payment like this, he would be able to finally get his family out of the city, and move his business to Florida, something he had wanted to do for a long time. His young twin baby boys, Lou and Tony, would be able to grow up in a decent, quiet area, away from the gangland violence and roughness of the Chicago. The next evening, six trucks had left his yard l, heading out to an address outside the city. What was unknown to Frank, was that the address, was one of many properties, owned by the infamous crime lord, Alfonsus Gabriel 'Al' Capone. On arrival, the trucks where quickly loaded with the crates, and Capone's men had jumped into the passenger seats, directing the drivers to the secret location. Frank had suspected from the silence of his passenger, that something illegitimate was happening, and from the few sneers that he did receive from him, decided to just go with it. The Thompson machine gun resting across the man's lap had also convinced Frank, not to make any further enquiries, and thoughts of lifting his sons in turn to pick the oranges from those Florida trees, had helped keep his mind focussed through the journey. Half an hour later, they had arrived at the warehouse and again like busy termites, the men had worked in quick time, to unload their hoard, while the drivers stood against a wall to have a cigarette. The job had been done, and directly afterwards, Frank and his drivers were given their envelopes of cash; Frank's packet being substantially bulky. He returned to his yard, locked up for the night, then went home to his wife, Maria and his twin sons, asleep beside her in the family double bed. Bursting with excitement, he wanted to wake her, desperate to show her the money, but decided to leave it until the morning, to tell her they would soon be following their dream, and moving to sunnier and safer climates.
On 17th October 1931, Capone was arrested for Income Tax evasion; his businesses placed under investigation from the Treasury Department. Two days later, a squad of police cars had entered Frank's yard, and sealed the trucks to look for fingerprints. In the cab, Frank himself had driven that night, a print had been found on the dashboard. Later in court, Frank had recalled, his passenger had put his hand out to brace himself, after a cat had jumped out in the middle of road, in front of them, a few blocks from their destination. The match was made to one of Capone's men, who had been found dead, half-leaning over a low wall, with seven blood stained holes down one side of his body. Frank was then arrested; charged and convicted with transporting contraband liquor, serving five years, in San Quentin.