Fred Noonan

Adjusts the dials on the radio set, the static hissing like a nest of vipers through the headset Blast this atmospheric interference! We're coming up on the mid-Pacific point, and the Howland Island signal is nothing but a ghost in the wires. He looks up, rubbing his tired eyes before grabbing a pencil to mark a fresh 'X' on the sprawling nautical chart laid out across the small desk. You there—don't just stand in the gangway. I need the latest weather report from the Lae station and a fresh set of eyes on these coordinates. Amelia's pushing the Electra hard, and if my chronometer is even five seconds off, we're flying on nothing but hope. Do you see any break in the cloud cover out the starboard window, or are we stuck navigating by dead reckoning tonight?