Phase Three Alert

PROLOGUE

Daylight was a little more than two hours old. The hard nip in the air was only slightly relieved by a frosty sun that glittered off the exposed ice and hard-packed snow. The air itself still had the cutting edge it had developed during the night; it hacked away relentlessly at the exposed flesh of the men who were out of doors and working. The sky lacked the crisp clearness that normally follows the passage of a cold front, but both ceiling and visibility were satisfactory. By the standards of the ten-month-old United States Army Air Corps Air Transport Command, it was a good day for flying.

The airfield was crowded with planes, most of which had been cold-soaked for at least twelve hours and were therefore difficult to start. The engine oil was cold and congealed, cylinders had contracted, and pistons were reluctant to move. The job of the crews and mechanics working with them was complicated by an eighteen-knot wind that cut across the field, dropping the chill factor down to where numb fingers could not hold wrenches securely and cowl fasteners resisted all reasonable efforts to get them open or shut.

There was some illusion of warmth in the sharp sounds that cut across the wide open areas: sounds of engines being run with manifold pressures of eighteen inches and up. The discs cut by the propellers took on hard outlines and the air they hurled backwards generated dozens of snow eddies that danced like wintery spirits behind the tail surfaces of the planes. Three B-17’s had all four engines going and the combined cacophony of their power plants hurled defiance at the numbness of the cold air. Their sustained roar was augmented when a fighter turned onto the end of the working runway and opened up, the whine of its propeller adding powerful overtones to the basic thunder of its power plant. It moved down the field, gaining speed, until near the end of the runway its pilot pulled back and the aircraft lifted off into the sky. It was heavily loaded and did not climb rapidly.

As he walked toward the operations building, Major General Walter Lippincott was acutely aware of the activity of the base. He surveyed what was going on with a professional’s eye and despite the cold and the sharp wind, he breathed deeply of the smell of the Air Corps facility. It was a mixture of exhaust fumes, fuel, lubricants, and the unique aroma of aircraft themselves, something duplicated by no other man-made objects. He paused to watch as a lumbering B-17 began to turn slowly onto the end of the runway. His trained ears told him that the engines were running well; unconsciously he had heard them during the run-up when the separate magnetos had been checked. He knew without being told that she was headed for Goose Bay, a ferry hop of 569 miles that was the first leg of the North Atlantic Route that eventually ended at Prestwick, in the British Isles.

As the big bomber began its roll, General Lippincott lowered his eyebrows and wondered how competent her pilot was. The general had earned his own wings the hard way in the old biplanes that depended for their aerial lives on the tough wires that held them together; it scared him profoundly to see some of the inexperienced young flyers who were setting out to cross the Atlantic guided by navigators who had never been over an ocean before in their lives. The early estimates had called for a ten percent loss of the planes and crews due to raw personnel, sometimes acute weather phenomena, the usual hazards of military flying, and the unrelenting wartime conditions.

As the B-17 gained speed, for just a moment her port main landing gear lifted up. The pilot corrected quickly, rolling his aileron into the wind and holding his aircraft straight down the runway at the same time. General Lippincott clenched his teeth; with a crosswind like that the pilot should have had his aileron into the wind before he even started to roll — thank God he had corrected in time. If he lived long enough, he would learn. The general continued watching until the twenty tons-plus that the B-17 represented at last parted from the ground and the wheels began to retract. Two and a half to three hours should see her safely on the ground at Goose Bay, the shortest, and in many respects the easiest, leg of the transatlantic route behind her. It was a marvel that the ten percent loss rate had not materialized, considering the greenness of the crews. The new flyers lacked experience but not guts; they did their best and it was usually good enough. Before long they would be in the skies over occupied Europe and the German fatherland. There they would have to tangle with the swarming fighters of the Luftwaffe that would pour death at them from every angle while the bursting flak would take over the moment the fighters withdrew. Then many of the brave young bodies would be torn apart and the fine new aircraft would be crumbled and blasted by the vicious ground fire. Compared to that, the North Atlantic ferry was a Fourth of July holiday.

That’s what they were flying into; they knew it, but still they went. They would go and they would keep on trying, and that was their enormous strength.

Lippincott stamped his feet to dislodge the excess snow as he paused just outside of Operations. A four-man crew coming out saw him; the young men stopped in their tracks and saluted — all but the navigator, who, contrary to regulations, was carrying his octant in his right hand. Since his left was already burdened with his heavy flight kit and his high-altitude 214 tables for celestial navigation, he was automatically excused.

“Good morning,” the general said.

“Good morning, sir.” The crew commander did not look a day over twenty-five, but he was precise and businesslike. As he pushed open the door to go inside, Lippincott blinked his eyes once as a token subservience and said a quick silent prayer, asking that the crew he had just met be allowed to survive. Having done the best that he could for them, he walked rapidly down the corridor and into the operations commander’s office.

The colonel jumped to his feet, but General Lippincott waved him down again. “What have you got for me?” he asked.

The colonel picked a waiting folder off his desk and handed it to his superior. “This should fill the bill, sir.”

Lippincott dropped into a chair and crossed his legs. “Give it to me verbally,” he directed. “Have you any coffee around this place?”

The colonel raised his voice. “Hank!”

A side door popped open. “Yes, sir.”

“Two coffees, please. The general likes his black, a little sugar.”

“Right away, sir.”

Lippincott knew that the coffee would be terrible, but it would be welcome, just as poor visibility was better than no visibility at all.

The colonel spoke clearly, with the air of a man who is sure of his subject. “The crew commander is a Captain Miller. He’s a professional and was in the Air Corps well before Pearl Harbor. He was in the top tenth of his class at flying school; his personal record is also very good. Married, an infant son. Close to an ideal career officer with over twelve hundred flying hours without accident. He has a reputation for being cool in the face of emergency: he’s had a couple and handled them well.”

“Of his own making?”

“The reports said not.”

“Good. Get him in here.”

“He’s standing by; I told him to wait for possible special orders.”

The sergeant who had taken the coffee order came in, two steaming mugs in his hands. He served the general, set the second mug in front of the colonel and then asked, “Anything else, sir?”

“Yes, I have a Captain Miller standing by in the crew section. I want to see him immediately.”

“Yes, sir.” The sergeant left quickly and closed the door behind him.

“How about the rest of the crew?” General Lippincott asked.

“Copilot and radio operator a little better than average. The navigator isn’t a pro, but Miller has a good opinion of him.”

“When a pilot thinks well of his navigator, that’s a good sign. How’s that boy in the fighter crash?”

The colonel shook his head. “The prognosis isn’t good. If he does make it, he may be crippled.”

“His fault?”

“Partly — partly ours, I supposed, for not having given him more seasoning. He pulled up too sharply on takeoff and stalled out.”

The general also shook his head. “A man with ten flying hours should know better than that. I hope he makes it, but he probably was showing off — to himself.” He stopped talking in order to drink his coffee. The hot brew was overstrong and its acid bite hit his stomach with a reminder that he had had no breakfast. He had not had time to eat — there had been too much to do.

A knock sounded on the door. The colonel barked, “Come in,” and waited.

The young captain who responded was precisely the sort of person Lippincott wanted to see. He was perhaps twenty-seven and had about him the air of a professional who has found his career and is proud of it. He stood a shade under six feet and as he saluted, Lippincott noted that he mercifully lacked the brand-new brightness that characterized so many of the freshly commissioned officers who passed through Presque Isle in a steady flow.

“You sent for me, sir,” he said.

“Yes., Captain. General Lippincott would like to speak to you.”

In the presence of the general the young captain stiffened a little more. Lippincott was used to it and with little egotism on his own part, he approved of it.

“I understand that you are scheduled out at fourteen hundred hours over the North Atlantic.”

“That’s correct, sir.”

“Off the record, how competent is your crew?”

“The best, sir. My copilot is relatively new, but he’s capable. Our radio man was a ham operator before the war.”

“How about your navigator?”

“Exceptional, sir. Lieutenant Mafusky taught high school math before he joined up. He went into navigation by his own choice — he isn’t a pilot washout. At his experience level, I doubt if there’s a better man in the Air Corps.”

“Have any of you any over-ocean experience?”

“No, sir, but we’ll all have some shortly.”

Lippincott was satisfied. “Captain, I understand that you are a career man.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Captain, what is the condition of your aircraft? Any squawks?”

“None, sir. She’s a more or less brand-new B-17, but she’s well rigged and the power plants are fine.”

“Have you named her yet?”

“Yes, sir. The Passionate Penguin.”

Lippincott smiled to himself; the names became more fanciful every day. He suspected that there would be a fairly graphic illustration painted on the plane’s nose, but that didn’t concern him at the moment.

“Captain Miller, there is a piece of highly classified cargo that has to be delivered to Prestwick as soon as possible. I mean it when I tell you that if it fails to reach England promptly, our entire war effort might be affected. But more than that, under no circumstances, regardless of any risks or sacrifices that may be involved, must it be allowed to fall into enemy hands. That would be disastrous.”

“I understand, sir.”

“I’m planning to have this piece of highly sensitive cargo put on your aircraft for delivery in England. On your arrival, it will be picked up personally by General Falkenberg; you are to give it to no one else.”

“Right, sir.” The tightness was back, which was good.

The general handed over a photograph. “This is General Falkenberg. Also, don’t hesitate to ask him for his ID.”

“Thank you, sir. I would have done that anyway.”

“Good.” The crate contains an explosive device that will operate if an unauthorized person attempts to open it. However, it is not hazardous unless the crate is dropped or otherwise badly mishandled.”

“Could you give me the weight, sir?”

“Eighty-six pounds.”

The captain was relieved. “Then it won’t figure on our weight and balance.”

“It shouldn’t. There will also be two or three other crates, as decoys. Stow them somewhere up front. I’ll arrange security for your aircraft at Goose and the other stops. You’re going via Bluie West Eight?”

“Correct, sir.”

“That’s all, Captain, except for the fact that you will tell your crew as little as possible about the cargo. It was something you were asked to take and you have no idea what it is. Which is true. Your guess is that it is an urgently needed part that ran out of stock overseas — a part for an experimental aircraft somewhere in England.”

“From now on, sir,” Captain Miller said carefully, “that is precisely what it is.”

“Excellent, Captain. The crates will be color-coded; the sensitive one is yellow.”

“We’ll take it there, sir.”

Lippincott stood up and shook hands. “Have a nice flight, Captain.”

The youthful aircraft commander saluted, turned on his heel, and left.

The departure of the B-17 at 1400 hours was without visible incident. With four small crates stowed aboard she ran down the runway, her ailerons properly into the wind, and lifted off precisely when she should. She had a good solid feel about her and as she climbed upward to her cruising altitude, her crew sensed her strength and stability. Although she was a new aircraft, Miller felt a real affection for her as she answered his commands and bored her way through the sky with her great wings reaching out over a hundred feet and her four engines sounding a unison chorus of almost perfectly synchronized power.

As Miller flew her on, he saw her not as a war bird, but as the prototype of some future great airliner that would be able to carry 50 or more passengers at speeds approaching three hundred miles per hour. With perhaps 40 passengers and a greater fuel load, transcontinental nonstop flights were a definite possibility. Give her the same wing and engines, but a different fuselage, and she could handle twelve rows of seats — 48 passengers as contrasted to the 21 carried by the ubiquitous DC-3, the pride and joy of Douglas Aircraft.

He was still thinking about that as he guided her down the approach path to Goose Bay, flared just short of the runway, hung her wheels an inch or two above the surface, and let her settle on. When she had found the ground, he slowed her up and let the tail wheel settle on with hardly a bump. The first leg was behind him and he had enjoyed every minute of it.

As soon as everything had been secured to his satisfaction, and the classified cargo had been properly cared for, he headed for the crew ladder and climbed down into the sub-Arctic cold of Labrador. The impacted snow crunched hard under his feet as he walked out from under the nose of his aircraft, remembering as he did so that he was scheduled for an 0800 departure. Getting everything started up, warmed, and ready to go in the morning would be a difficult task after what promised to be a long and frigid night. That thought was fully occupying his mind as he led his small crew across the hardstand toward the operations building.

By 0730 everything was in shape; Mafusky’s flight plan showed five hours and forty minutes for the slightly more than 1,000 miles they had to go. It would be the longest leg and in some respects the most hazardous. Bluie West 8 was at Söndre Strömfjord, well up on the west coast of Greenland, and had only one runway. It had to be approached by flying at low altitude up a fjord and the go-around, in case of a missed landing, was reportedly one of the worst in the world. Also, departing traffic would be coming down the same narrow fjord in the opposite direction, which was a mental hazard if nothing else.

Those were some of the difficulties he had heard about. He also knew that German submarines had been sending out false navigational signals. They had caused a number of planes to fly off course and some of them had crash-landed on the dreaded ice cap as a consequence. He considered these things carefully, but he was not afraid of them. He simply was cautious, as befitted a pilot, no matter how experienced, who was about to take his aircraft and his crew into a difficult situation he had never faced before. By knowing what lay ahead of him, he would be able to deal with whatever problems arose. He had great confidence in his B-17 and that was by far the most important factor in his planning.

The weather briefing had been generally good. The forecaster had seemed confident as he had laid out the expected winds at the altitude and anticipated conditions at Bluie 8. Nevertheless, Miller had ordered full tanks on the sound theory that you can never have too much gas when you are flying into a possibly uncertain situation. The Penguin was an E-model, which meant that she had more than four times the range necessary to reach her next destination, if you discounted the need for holding reserves. In a pinch, she would be able to go straight on through to Reykjavik, Iceland, another 847 miles across Greenland and the hostile North Atlantic. He didn’t fancy that, particularly since it would mean an unfamiliar night landing after ten or eleven hours in the cockpit, but he was prepared to do it if he had to.

At 0755 he called the tower and asked for taxi instructions. Although he tried not to let it show, he took a genuine pride in the fact that his crew was on time to the minute; it was doing things right that won wars. His satisfaction grew as the Penguin rolled slowly over the hardened snow toward the end of the business runway. At that moment he loved every rivet in her. She was a living thing to him, and she was going to bomb the hell out of Hitler’s Germany.

At the end of the taxiway he turned into position and ran up all four engines, making sure that everything checked out properly. That completed, he called the tower and reported the Penguin ready for takeoff.

Despite her eight tons of fuel load, she did not take too long to get off. The cold air suited her wings and its increased density helped her. As she bored steadily upward, her wheels tucked up for the next several hours, she was more than ready to accept the challenge of the High Arctic. Mafusky passed up a heading that Pat Ryan, the copilot, clipped in place where they could both see it clearly. Miller glanced at his twenty-four-year-old second-in-command and read out that he too was taking pride in their bird and what she was doing.

Fifty minutes out of Bluie West 8, the base reported deteriorating weather conditions and advised all aircraft in the vicinity to stand by for further data. Miller checked that the whole crew had heard the transmission, then he spoke into the intercom. “Don’t any of you forget that German subs have been active up here sending out false weather and navigational information. This could be our first contact with the enemy.”

He glanced around and received back a series of approving nods; no one was visibly nervous. He turned his attention back to the sky ahead and watched for any signs of changing weather.

Ten minutes later the radio operator sent in Mafusky’s position report and ETA. Bluie West 8 came back with a further advisory that the weather was worsening and to expect possible holding.

“Keep a careful watch out,” Miller ordered. “I want to know as soon as you see anything.”

As he flew on, he glanced at the instruments only occasionally, keeping his major attention on the sector of sky visible through the windshield.

Three minutes later he caught a change in the visibility. It was dead ahead and a trifle ominous. At almost the same moment the radio crackled and Bluie 8 advised all aircraft in the vicinity to be on the ground within fifteen minutes. Miller knew without asking that the Penguin could never make that deadline; he picked up the intercom and told his navigator to repeat their arrival time to the base and to ask for instructions. He looked again at the sky directly ahead and studied the visible evidence of possible trouble. For the first time he accepted the weather transmission as genuine.

His opinion was reenforced by the radio operator, who advised that the signals were coming from the right direction.

Greenland was in sight by then, an apparent vast mountain of unbroken snow and ice. He knew he was seeing the edge of the ice cap, the incredible phenomenon that covered almost all of Greenland. An enormous monolith of incalculable weight, it soared to 10,000 feet and went on for hundreds of miles. Despite the weather problem facing him, Miller took time to look and to think about what he was seeing. Tomorrow they would fly across it, if the weather had cleared up enough to permit a takeoff, and he would see it closeup in detail. It was one of the most astonishing sights in the world and he wanted to enjoy it while he could.

His thoughts were interrupted by another radio call: Bluie 8 reported that the field was closing and would remain closed for an indefinite period due to an Arctic storm. Miller called back for instructions.

Bluie advised him to proceed, but to make all possible speed. In response he began an immediate letdown, inching the throttles forward instead of easing them normally back. The Penguin dropped her nose and the airspeed began to build up rapidly.

Ten minutes later, while the aircraft was passing through altitude 4,000 feet, the air suddenly became rough. Trusting the structural integrity of the big Boeing, Miller kept his throttles where they were for another minute and a half, but by the end of that time the Penguin was bucking so badly he was forced to ease off. As he did so, he checked behind him and saw that the radio operator was reaching for the urp bucket, which was a bad sign. Miller glanced at Ryan to see if he was all right; his copilot was holding himself in, but the turbulence was beginning to get to him and he might not last another two minutes.

Bluie called and advised that extreme conditions were building up in the fjord. Approach control wanted to know how much fuel he had remaining. Miller read the gauge as best he could and reported back that he had enough for another five hours. That was an understatement, but he was playing it safe — it still gave Bluie the option of ordering him on to Iceland if it was deemed necessary.

Approach control advised him to begin a climb immediately on a northeast heading and to report weather conditions being encountered at five minute intervals.

Ryan gathered himself together and after a nod from his captain he advanced the throttles as much as was feasible under the turbulent conditions. Miller pulled the nose up and set a rapid climb; the bucking of the aircraft was getting his crew sick and while he still felt all right, he knew that he had his own limitations as well. One element of airsickness was fear; that emotion he blocked completely.

The Penguin climbed up through 7,000 feet without any improvement in the conditions she was encountering. Two minutes later she should have crossed the coast of Greenland, but there was no way to tell; visibility was drastically reduced and flying by hand required Miller’s complete attention. As a means of keeping Ryan in responsive condition, he passed the actual flying over to him. The youthful copilot took over his task and overcontrolled somewhat as he fought to minimize the constant heavy turbulence.

It was bad and Miller knew it. He had been briefed about Arctic ice storms and had been told how they could come virtually without warning. He had no doubt that he was flying in one and what was more, it was steadily getting worse.

At 9,000 feet he came on the controls along with Ryan to help do what he could. He reported to Bluie, but he could not hear any response.

At 10,000 feet he breathed a quick sigh of partial relief; they would soon be above the ice cap and he had been worrying about that. If it had suddenly loomed up before him, with the poor visibility he had, it would have been impossible to turn in time. It would have been finis for the Penguin and all aboard her.

At 11,000 feet he had major difficulty in controlling his aircraft. He was flying her now with Ryan pretending to follow through on the controls. Bluie called with a message, but he could not hear anything more than a background voice shattered into distorted fragments. To spare his suffering ears, he cut off the radio. He glanced back and saw that both the radio operator and the navigator were so airsick they could not function. He did not blame them; they had to ride blindly while he, at least, could make the pretense of doing something to ease the strain.

As the Penguin climbed, it seemed to him that the turbulence was growing even worse; in response he leveled off and pulled the throttles back to minimum cruising speed. That, at least, would relieve some of the strains on the airframe. A moment later a fearful updraft seized the Penguin and flung her almost onto her side, as though she had been a toy; Miller got control, but as he held hard aileron to return her to an even keel, the number four engine began to lose power. He did not detect it at once, but as soon as he was able to scan the engine instruments once more, he knew the fresh problem he was facing. Ryan should have been taking care of it, but his copilot had turned visibly white and his face was covered with a fine sweat.

Miller applied full carburetor heat and enriched the mixture. That should have produced a fairly fast response, but as the continuing gusts pounded against the aircraft’s structure, the power output steadily dropped. He reached for the throttles and tried to coax more life out of the power plant, but while he was still making adjustments, a sharp, quick shuddering told him that it was too late. The engine was quitting and there was nothing he could do to save it. He pushed the feathering button to streamline the propeller and cut the ignition. Then grasping the throttles once more, he pulled back on engines one and two and fed a little more fuel to number three to help maintain the trim.

He glanced again at Ryan; his stomach knotted when he saw the trace of blood that tinged his lower lip and the hard stare in his eyes.

Miller made a decision; they could not remain in these conditions on three engines, he had to find something better. He dropped the port wing and turned until he estimated that he was headed more or less true north. If he could break out of the worst of the turbulence, then the Penguin would be able to hold at reduced speed until the killer storm had cleared Bluie West 8. There were no emergency strips available anywhere and he knew that northern Greenland was almost utter desolation. Thank God he had started out with full tanks!

Ryan reached out a hand and managed to use the intercom. “It’s getting worse,” he said. It was a plea for help, combined with a hope that Miller could perform some sort of miracle. As if in answer, the heaviest gust that she had as yet encountered seized the Penguin and flung her nose up into a position that could lead to a complete stall within a few seconds. Miller rammed the yoke forward with all his strength and with locked elbows held it hard against the firewall. The Penguin rose as though she were on the crest of a mighty wave, climbed, and then plunged downward as the gust let go. Miller pulled back and steadied her, then read the engine instruments once more during the second or two of respite granted him. They told him that number three had fallen off more than twenty-five percent.

Almost frantically he fought to clear the vital engine and get it running properly once more, but in a matter of a few more seconds he knew that it was a no go. That left him only one possible decision; he rammed the yoke forward once more and yelled, “I’m setting her down!”

If the rest of his crew heard him, he got no reaction. Only Ryan was still in communication and he looked as though he would have sold his soul for three minutes of smooth air.

The depressed elevators fought to raise the tail at the same moment that another savage blast hit the underside of the wings. For a horrible few seconds it seemed that the Penguin was doomed to be flung into a whipstall or possibly a spin; then, fighting for her own life, she escaped from the murderous gust, sharply tilted on her side, but with her nose safely down once more.

With the carburetor heat on full, Miller pulled the throttles back to an estimated eighteen inches — he was no longer attempting to read the gauges. Then he pushed the nose hard down and prayed to God that the atmospheric pressure setting he had on his altimeter was somewhere near the truth. If it wasn’t, it could mean their lives.

He brought the Penguin down quickly, as fast as he dared, until the altimeter read 10,500 feet. He was pushing his luck desperately to go that far, but he had not deemed that he had any choice. He slowed her descent and she responded as he had prayed that she would; now he knew that she was a living thing like himself and that they had formed an inseparable bond between themselves; they would live or die together.

The turbulence was still merciless, but possibly it was slightly diminished. Holding onto the yoke with fingers that were locked like steel, he flew at the utmost limit of his skill. He took one second to look at Ryan; his copilot was staring dead ahead with his mouth partway open.

As the number three engine quit, Miller made an instantaneous decision. “Gear down!” he ordered.

Ryan jerked his head around in disbelief. He saw Miller and knew that he meant it, but his mind had already set its course. “No!” he protested. Their only hope was to belly in; that had been pounded into him at flying school.

“Gear down, God damn it!”

Across the edge of fear, Ryan reached out and started the wheels down. Miller rolled the trim tab, then checked the indicator until he saw that the gear was down and locked. After that he shut out the rest of the world and flew like a man in a trance. With the aid of his remaining two engines, he guided his aircraft down through the violent air until he felt a sudden smoothening and knew that it had to be ground effect. At once he pulled the yoke back and tried to hold in a level position, the descent arrested, but not stopped. In a quick flash he seemed to see something through the windshield: a slightly different texture within the all-encompassing whiteness. He came back harder on the yoke, trying to set up a partially nose-high attitude.

The turbulence abruptly let go. For a second or two he was airborne in a whirling snowstorm that filled the entire universe around him with its mad dancing, then he felt the gear hit.

He pulled hard back and held, risking a horrible bounce and knowing it. For a deadly three seconds the aircraft tried to climb back into the sky as she believed she had been ordered to do, but with very little power and a deadly drag on her wheels, she was helpless. At ninety-two miles an hour she absorbed the shock of the touchdown, softened as it was by a mass of loose snow, and ran blindly ahead.

In the cockpit Miller continued to pull back with all of his strength, fighting to hold her tail down. Despite him, the heavy drag on the gear tried to throw her onto her nose. The instant he sensed it he countered by pushing forward partway on the throttles. The fresh blast blew the tail down hard until, despite the added power, the speed lessened. Then Miller eased off on the live throttles and almost sedately The Passionate Penguin ground looped, struggled during a few more desperate seconds of life, and then came to rest at 9,100 feet altitude, somewhere on the Greenland Ice Cap.