![]() The road was always heavily traveled, and at this hour the standard of driving would not be high. It was now well after midnight, Saturday night. There are nightclubs up and down the beachfront highway, A1A, that links Cape Canaveral and Patrick Air Force Base, 25 miles to the south. What if there were a wreck? Can you imagine? Those garbage cans would go flying and pop open - the thought was unbearable. The colonel and the guard were still arguing. The three black, plastic-coated fabric bags were unloaded, put first into 30-gallon plastic garbage cans, then into the back of an open-bed U.S. It was the grimmest night in a business where grim nights are common. The gallows humor didn't have its biting edge, and it simply trailed off, unanswered. Though the crew of the USS Preserver was accustomed to duty of this nature, this was somehow.different. Everyone felt.yes, spooky was indeed the word. ![]() ![]() The skipper and the other guy he'd been diving with that day, the astronaut, had gone off for a debriefing with a Marine colonel, the one who was over there now, arguing with a security guard. They had been in port with their cargo, if that was the word, for three or four hours now. A storm would arrive in a couple of days - it was building - and it added to the uneasiness the sailors already felt. There was no moon early the morning of March 9, 1986, and at Cape Canaveral Air Force Station the breeze was ominous. From Tropic, the Miami Herald Sunday magazine, 13 November 1988įirst came the bang.
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