Wallops Station is on the mainland of Virginia, just across the bay
from Chincoteague Island. Once it had been a Naval Air Station, teeming
with activity--planes roaring off and gliding in; signal crews waving
orders; officers and men, pilots and engineers, radio technicians
and clerks all criss-crossing from building to building. Then the
government closed the base, and for three years the buildings stood
empty, like a forest of dead trees.
But when the helicopter landed that stormy March evening, lights were
blazing in every window. The whole place had come to life. Fire trucks
were racing to meet helicopters, rushing sick refugees to the emergency
hospital and others to the barracks and even the administration
building.
The storm was now twenty-four hours old. Wind still blowing strong.
Rain gusty. Clouds low. No moon, no stars.
At the edge of the landing strip the little clump of passengers stood
huddled, clutching their blankets, staring at the yellow headlights
coming toward them.
"Which building?" a fireman called out as he drove the truck within
earshot.