Phase Three Alert

CHAPTER ONE

After many weeks of hibernation, the Arctic sun had at last reappeared; as it hung low and brilliant in an almost cobalt sky it gave out abundant light if very little warmth. The long period of almost total darkness was over, a welcome respite for those who, for one reason or another, had spent the barren winter months north of the Arctic Circle. The welcome sunlight threw back the curtains of the long-lived night and gave fresh promise of an eventual springtime, at least in name.

In the crisp cold of early morning Technical Sergeant William T. Stovers walked across the sharply crunching snow, his parka hood safely protecting his neck and ears and his thermal boots insulating his feet from the twenty-four-degrees-below-zero (Fahrenheit) temperature. As he breathed in the biting air he noted that it had warmed up somewhat during the past twenty-four hours. The blessing was academic because he would be leaving Sondrestrom shortly and he did not know when he would be back.

Sergeant Stovers knew that he was in a somewhat dour mood and that fact in itself he found upsetting. Deeply within himself he had a determined pride in his professional skills and he had schooled himself to keep free of any involvements that might interfere with his efficiency. As he continued on at a steady pace, he concentrated on the thought that he had work to do and banished all other considerations from his mind.

In a matter of another two minutes he reached his airplane, which was out on the ramp awaiting him, and climbed up into the main cargo hold. It was one of the few C-130 Hercules turboprop airlifters in the Air Force that was equipped with auxiliary ski gear. Because it was normally used to support the DEW Line sites far out in stark isolation on the ice cap, it required a loadmaster of more than ordinary abilities. In that capacity Sergeant Stovers knew precisely how to allow for the added weight and drag of the cumbersome ski gear. In addition, he had an expert’s knowledge of snow and ice cap operations that few men shared. The aircraft itself was in superb condition, he had no concerns there. Two things, however, were bothering him: the first, that his aircraft commander happened to be Lieutenant Scott Ferguson and, the second, that as far as he could see in any direction, it was a bright and beautiful day.

Normally he was highly in favor of lovely days. He had enjoyed many of them in Europe. In the tropics he had made the most of them in a variety of different ways. In the Orient he had used them to pass out candy to eager youngsters or to go walking with the pretty and polite girls who still found a frequent place in his thoughts. In the Arctic they inspired him to draw in deep lungfuls of the crystal-clear air, except when he happened to be in Greenland and in Lieutenant Ferguson’s crew. Then, experience had taught him, they could be a portent of possible trouble.

Sergeant Stovers liked Greenland, not because he was inspired by low temperatures and the total absence of anything at all that could be called a tree, but because of the towering, incredible ice cap that was a professional challenge unmatched in the world. To him it was greater than the Grand Canyon, both as a spectacle and as evidence of nature’s ability to do things on a scale that mere humans could never dream of duplicating. Not even the Great Wall of China could challenge it.

The ice cap, which covered all but the edges of the immense island, kept the nature of the inland terrain forever shrouded in a perpetual mystery. The vast frozen monolith rose from the bare ground near the shoreline to a maximum thickness of 10,600 feet — more than two vertical miles of solid ice that exerted a pressure almost beyond calculation. It had been variously estimated that if the Greenland Ice Cap were to melt, all of the oceans and seas of the world would rise from 23 to 30 feet.

Because of the fantastic pressure, the ice at the lower edges was continuously forced to break off and become the icebergs that harassed vessels using the North Atlantic sea lanes. Some of it, he knew, formed the basis for a new industry — it was cut into small cubes and shipped under refrigeration as far as Tokyo to cool drinks with the pristine purity of the ice age. In the central region the vast sea of ice, the only true Arctic desert, remained largely static — an immensity of size, bulk, and weight which, even when seen from the panoramic heights of a pressurized aircraft, was beyond the capabilities of the human intellect to comprehend.

The C-130A, which at the moment was Sergeant Stovers’s main responsibility, could land on the ice cap. The 6,200-pound ski gear, in addition to the wheels, made it possible for the powerful turboprop to fly to the isolated DEW Line sites, which perched like spacecraft on some far-removed planet, and to set down on the marked-off landing areas known to be free of crevasses and other hazards common to wilderness ski flying. There the airlifter could deliver tons of supplies for the men who manned the cubical structures with the bulging radomes on top. They perched above the ice on massive steel legs which constantly sank, inch by inch, into the frozen sea underneath. To keep the stations in position, they were lifted every few days; when the tops of the steel supports were reached, fresh sections were bolted on and the process continued.

Taking off on skis from the ice was not a simple matter. The impromptu runways were not smooth, but hilly. The skis themselves added very substantial weight and drag. The altitude was usually 9,000 feet, plus. The friction was much greater than that of wheels rolling down a clean paved runway. The four mighty engines kept their turbines screaming and their propellers torturing the air during those takeoffs, and every one was a thrill. Adjusting and securing the load each time so that the plane would make it successfully took knowledge and talent. That was Sergeant Stovers’s job.

To him the ice cap was a permanent adversary; to Lieutenant Ferguson it was a plaything.

Ferguson was a good pilot — no one had officially doubted that. Personally Stovers liked him; he only resented the fact that he sometimes seemed to forget the seriousness of the business in which he was engaged. One really bad mistake and the ice cap could assimilate plane and crew somewhere out on a wilderness of such vastness, with total lack of any possible food or fuel, so as to make it a terrible enemy.

Lieutenant Ferguson, having discovered the ice cap and having read as much as he could find about it, was apparently determined to explore it every time he got the opportunity. Whenever the weather permitted and he was present to do so, he would find a suitable excuse to go off flying over the never-visited areas just to look at a part of the vast frozen emptiness that possibly no one else had ever before seen. He had never been known to go out on the same heading twice.

On this particular morning the flying weather was close to Arctic perfect and the C-130 was ready to go. It was programmed to take out three of the locally attached personnel to get in their required flying hours before returning to base. That meant at least a half-day trip and, since Ferguson would be in command, it meant that as much time as possible would be spent over seldom-if-ever-visited areas atop the great hostile desert. That was why Sergeant Stovers bemoaned the fact that the day was so brilliantly clear and suitable for long-range observation. It would have been far more sensible to have stayed on the Thule airway and perhaps practice an instrument approach or two on the way back.

There was no load to be carried other than the required arctic survival kits and equipment, the mandatory sleeping bags, and the other emergency supplies that a careful crew chief, and the equally cautious loadmaster, always made sure were on board.

After a final check of all equipment and gear, and a verifying inspection of the weight and balance figures, Sergeant Stovers glanced at his watch. Takeoff was scheduled in twenty-two minutes, so the rest of the crew should be coming on board shortly. He looked out of the entrance doorway and almost collided with Lieutenant Jenkins, the navigator, who had chosen that moment to come in from the other side.

“Where to?” Stovers asked, just to be sure.

The lieutenant came on board and sat down heavily in his arctic gear on a stack of parachute pack survival kits. Because he was, at twenty-eight, not only already balding, but also notably overweight and unable to do much about it until he left the Arctic, he was short of breath. He gathered himself together and began a mock lecture. “Our route this morning has been scientifically chosen. Careful study of existing documents has revealed the fact that there is a considerable area of the ice cap, located approximately halfway from here to Thule, which is virtually unexplored. At least it has not been visited under conditions of good visibility within the memory of man. We are going there.”

The lieutenant looked around and noted with approval that both coffee jugs and the flight lunches were on board and secured.

Sergeant Stovers did not comment, there was no need. Instead he climbed down the four steps to the ground in order to feel the solid, safe, firmament of Greenland once more under his feet. He was wearing three pairs of massively thick wool socks, over them mukluks, and then arctic thermal boots with added double-felt innersoles. Even on the ramp area there was a good bit of snow, under that a substantial layer of ice, and beneath that, concrete. Nonetheless Bill Stovers felt that the soil itself was as good as pushing its way between his toes, and the thought gave him an improved outlook. After more than 6,000 hours of professional flying he knew the high reliability of properly maintained and flown aircraft that stayed out of lethally bad weather. In another five or six hours he would be back at the same spot and free to go his own way. At Sondrestrom for all practical purposes there was nowhere to go, but at the moment that thought did not disturb him.

Down the ramp a vehicle was approaching; that would be the Fearless Leader and the rest of the crew. He stood by the door and watched them unload. Ferguson, he noted at once, was in a particularly pleasant and optimistic mood, which made matters slightly worse. Stovers recalled his happier days with the considerably more cautious and conservative Major Sams, who had had twenty years in the cockpit behind him and who had insisted that everyone on board wear parachutes during all takeoffs and landings.

Ferguson was tall and lean, the very picture of the popular man about campus who had won his letter in basketball. His long arms were made for waving carefree greetings and his somewhat skinny rear for fitting into the bucket seats of sports cars. His hair was thick and bunched on the top of his head so that he appeared at least eight years younger than his true age. He did not look the part of an aircraft commander and he often refused to act it according to the long-accepted script.

Fortunately, he made up for his lack of appearance and decorum by a youthful skill at the controls that at times approached the phenomenal. He made dead-on-the-button instrument approaches and he had once set his C-130 down during a snowstorm whiteout with both ILS and RAL unavailable. They still talked about that one, how he had apparently smelled the ground and the comforting safety of the runway with no radio aids at all to guide him on final approach. When he had been asked about it by his superiors, he had simply answered, “I knew where it was.”

In ten years, Stovers thought, he would be one hell of a pilot. Maybe even sooner if he settled down.

As Ferguson ducked his head to climb on board, Stovers said a proper, “Good morning, sir.” It pleased him that he put into the words exactly the intonation he had wanted: official correctness, but with subdued undertones of professional restraint.

In fifteen minutes they were airborne. In the cold air the props took hold with abrupt suddenness and the heavy airlifter fairly jumped off the ground. Once they were clear of the fjord and the surrounding hills, Jenkins passed up a climbing heading toward the northeast, one that would take them over the long upper reaches of the timeless frozen desert that deserved recognition as one of the true wonders of the world.

When they had been out slightly under an hour, Ferguson evicted his regular copilot and put one of the Sondrestrom men in his place. “When you fly one of these things,” he explained, “don’t let the fact that there are skis hanging on underneath bother you too much. They only cost about four miles an hour of cruising speed. Actually, if anything, the aircraft is overpowered and you don’t have to worry about hot, thin air up here. Let me show you.”

After that he began a series of maneuvers close to the ice cap that caused Sergeant Stovers to withdraw well back into the all-but-windowless fuselage so that he would not have to witness what was going on. He felt the pull of the G’s in the steep turns and knew that Ferguson was flying the big empty transport like a fighter. Fortunately the sergeant had a strong stomach, otherwise the abrupt changes of attitude and almost continous turns would have had him reaching for one of the urp buckets in a hurry. As it was, one of the Sondrestrom crewmen who was along for the flying time did not look too happy.

Stovers shut his eyes and thought of the navigator, who was supposed to be keeping track of the position of the aircraft over an area totally without any possible points of ground reference. At the moment, he reflected, he did not care where they were.

Another steep turn revealed itself in the pull on his stomach; the Sondrestrom man reached for the wax-lined bag. Stovers watched him as the thought touched a corner of his own brain that he, too, was beginning to feel certain symptoms of distress.

At that moment Staff Sergeant Andy Holcomb, the flight engineer, craned his neck down from the flight deck in some position he found possible and called back, “Hey, Bill.”

Stovers unbuckled and got up to answer the summons; as he started walking forward the pull of another steep turn hit him and he hoped that the overlong demonstration of flight tactics would soon be finished.

He reached the short ladder and climbed up onto the flight bridge to answer whatever schoolboy question Ferguson wanted to put to him for the benefit of the local men. As soon as he was able to straighten up and take hold of the back of the engineer’s chair he sensed at once that his initial guess had been wrong. There were five other men in the good-sized cockpit and all of them were concentrating their attention out of the windows. The C-130 had excellent visibility, even down at the sides.

“Look,” Holcomb said, and pointed ahead. Stovers looked and in a matter of seconds picked up a dark object half-buried on the ice cap. As they came up on it and it swept underneath, Sergeant Stovers was already prepared with the answers. Since he was the senior man in the crew, both in terms of age and experience, he expected that his opinion would be asked.

It was. “What do you make of it, Bill?” Ferguson inquired.

“It’s a World War II B-17, sir. It’s one of a flight of nine, I believe it was, that took off on a ferry flight to England and ran into impossible weather as they neared Greenland. As I recall, sir, some turned back, one ship made it to the destination airport, one or two got in along the coast line, and this one made a forced landing on the ice cap. Colonel Bernt Balchen subsequently rescued the entire crew — no casualties. It was lost for something like twenty-two years, then a few years ago it was rediscovered.”

“Are you describing the My Gal Sal?” Ferguson asked.

“Yes, sir, that was the name of the aircraft.”

“Tell him, nav,” Ferguson directed through the intercom.

“That isn’t it,” Jenkins answered. “I know where the My Gal Sal is — it’s on the ice cap south of Sondrestrom. We’re way north of there now.”

The loadmaster was not given to being impulsive; he waited until the C-130 had been racked around again, then, with thoughts of discomfort forgotten, he took another close look. Definitely it was a B-17 with its nose vaguely pointed toward the west, apparently the direction in which it had gone in. It appeared to be in reasonably good condition, which suggested that the crew had probably at least survived the landing.

“Have you seen the My Gal Sal?” Ferguson inquired. Although the question appeared to be open, Stovers knew that it was meant for him.

“Officially, no, sir, actually, yes. We swung by it a time or two when Major Sams was out supplying the DEW Line. Naturally we all wanted to have a look at it.”

“I’m with you,” Ferguson responded. “Then you remember that Sal had her fuselage broken just back of the wing, right?”

“Yes, sir.” Stovers looked again at the object on the ice cap which was coming up once more and saw that it was definitely not the same wreck. The wing was not tipped forward at the same drunken angle and it appeared to be a little deeper in the wind drift lines that patterned the loose snow on the surface.

“My apologies, sir, I was mistaken. That isn’t the Sal; I don’t know what it is. When we get back we can check with the Air Rescue people and see if they have it charted. If not, then its a new find and we can report it as such.”

As soon as he had spoken he realized that he had given justification to all of the many exploratory trips that Ferguson had made over rarely visited sectors of the ice cap, but the man had possibly made a discovery and he was entitled to the satisfaction that went with it.

Ferguson studied the surface of the ice cap less than 500 feet below his aircraft with fierce concentration. He seemed to be memorizing and analyzing every detail. When he spoke again into the intercom, it was for everyone’s benefit.

“I remember what happened when the My Gal Sal was found; they located the pilot in California and brought him all of the way back up here to revisit his aircraft. Colonel Balchen came too. Then, at the last minute, somebody issued an order that they couldn’t land out there. The idea was that the pilot — he was a doctor named Stinson, I believe — was to go back on board and see if he couldn’t find something of his own to recover after all those years. Life magazine had photographers on board the aircraft and there was one correspondent. Well, they flew around in circles, took some pictures from the air, and then came home.”

“Sounds like a fizzle,” Jenkins said.

“No, not quite that bad, but nothing to what it might have been. Colonel Balchen, who knew more about those things than anyone, said at the time that a landing would have been easy.”

Sergeant Stovers, who was definitely not slow witted, was already engaged in making a series of mental calculations. He had them completed to his satisfaction before another low-level pass close to the downed bomber had been completed. After that last flyby, Ferguson eased back on the yoke and pulled the C-130 up to a comfortable 1,000 feet above the seemingly endless ice plateau.

“I think we should take a vote on this,” he said. “It looks very good to me, but I can’t deny an element of risk. All those in favor…”

Corbin, the youthful copilot, nodded his approval; being a copilot, he knew he had better.

Jenkins, the navigator, lifted a thumb in the air.

“Andy?” Ferguson asked.

Aware that he would have to make any repairs required if something went wrong, the flight engineer hesitated. “As far as I can see it looks all right,” he hedged.

“Bill?”

Sergeant Stovers knew that if he, as loadmaster, issued a veto, it would be respected. He had only to say that in his opinion the fuel load made it unwise and that would be that. Ferguson had not asked for his vote as a man as much as for his professional opinion. The fuel load was well within tolerances and the big freighter was all but empty. With a slightly light-headed feeling, he drew breath into his lungs. “OK by me,” he declared.

Ferguson did not even look at him, which would probably have been a mistake. Instead he concentrated totally on the wind lines that marked the top of the ice cap. Then he issued a crisp command.

“Skis down.”

CHAPTER TWO

When the safety of his aircraft and the welfare of his crew were involved, Ferguson did not underestimate the ice cap. He was acutely aware that if anything happened to disable the C-130, the consequences could range from serious to disastrous. Therefore, once having decided to land, he proceeded with such obvious caution that Sergeant Stovers was amazed.

After deciding on the area which looked most promising as a runway, he inspected it minutely during a flyover in each direction at minimum safe speed and altitude. When he had done that, he pulled up to give himself a little more maneuvering room, swung around 180 degrees, and then set up a long, slow approach at a very shallow rate of descent. He timed it almost perfectly so that he arrived at the beginning of his selected landing area just as he was at flaring altitude. He eased back on the yoke and then rested his right hand on the pitch controls as he waited for the two rear skis to touch. When they did so, the harsh, loud scraping sounded through the whole aircraft. He did not drop the nose ski on; instead he added a fraction more power.

Nose lifted, the big turboprop moved across the ice cap just under takeoff speed with its rear skis tracing a firm pattern on the snow cover. Concentrating intently, and ready to add power the moment there was any evidence of a possible snow bridge that might give way, or any other unseen hazard, Ferguson felt out the surface without committing himself to a landing. When he had covered a good 8,000 feet, he eased back on the yoke to increase the angle of attack, added additional power, and lifted quickly back into the security of the air.

When he had sufficient altitude, he turned back at reduced speed and inspected the tracks he had just made for any evidence of a possible dangerous area. Satisfied at last, he climbed again to turning altitude, swung around once more, and established his final approach. He flared with extreme care, but as the rear skis made contact the airframe shook gently and the noise was abrasive throughout the fuselage. This time Ferguson eased the nose ski down and the heavy airlifter was fairly on the ice. It was as good and smooth a ski landing as he had ever made. As soon as the speed began to drop and it was evident that everything had been successful, a certain constrained excitement began to be felt by every man on board.

Ferguson let the Hercules slide across the snow cover at partial power until the old B-17 was only a short distance ahead. Then he chopped the power back and his airlifter slid to rest less than seventy yards from the end of the wing of the old bomber.

Sergeant Stovers opened the crew door and swung it down to form the four steps that led to the surface of the snow. As he did so, he had an odd, undefinable sensation. He had made many ice cap landings at DEW Line sites, but always in marked-off and established areas. Now he was hundreds of miles from any place he had ever been on the ice cap before and the ghost of the abandoned B-17 hulk added a sense of unreality.

Although he was far from a romantic, the thought did come to him that if he had had a space suit on, it might have been something like stepping onto the surface of a different planet. Against his own well-seated conservative judgment, he was for a few stimulating moments glad that Ferguson had decided to set down.

In the hold, the rest of the crew and the three riders from Sondrestrom were busy getting into their parkas and other arctic equipment. When everyone was ready, Stovers included, by common unexpressed consent they all waited for Ferguson to be the first to step out onto the virgin snow. Sensing this, the youthful aircraft commander ducked his head, thrust his shoulders through the doorway, and climbed down. Despite the invitation of the silent, frozen bomber, he first made a careful inspection of his ski gear and assured himself that the C-130 was standing firmly on the ice and was in no possible danger of sinking in. Satisfied, he went back to the crew door where the others were still waiting.

Together the nine men who made up the party walked abreast the short distance to the old bomber. As they drew closer it seemed to grow a little in size — a patient piece of relatively complex machinery which, in utter solitude, had stood there for more than three decades. Once it had been able to fly, now it was a hopeless derelict totally without any power whatever to help itself.

Perhaps out of respect for the flying machine it had once been, the little party walked completely around it to inspect its condition. Jenkins, the navigator, had his Rolleiflex that had been modified for Arctic use. With it he took a number of pictures, squatting down for better camera angles and then backing away to get in some of the sweep of the ice cap which now formed almost all of the visible world.

“Shall we go on board?” Holcomb asked.

Ferguson paused by the nose before he answered. “I’ve got to respect the man who flew her,” he said aloud, but largely to himself. “He put the gear down before he landed. The easy and safe way would have been to slide her in on her belly, but he wanted to give her a chance.”

Corbin, a redheaded Californian who had once had thoughts of trying to organize an Arctic skin diving club, felt the miasma that filled the sharply cold air close to the old warplane and asked a reasonable question. “Do you think he had ideas about taking her off again? Otherwise, I don’t see why he put the wheels down. It was a lot riskier way to land.”

“I think he couldn’t bring himself to do the thing that he knew would permanently wreck his fine new bird,” Ferguson responded. “He must have been almost certain before he set her down that she would never fly again, but there’s always that one outside chance. Suppose he iced up in bad weather and couldn’t climb above it. Probably he knew almost nothing about the ice cap, but he could well have believed that with improved weather, if it came soon enough, he would be able to clear up the trouble and get her airborne again. It must have been a pretty desperate hope, but he took a calculated chance without too much added risk.” He stopped and looked again at the ghost ship half-buried in the compacted snow. “I’d have done the same thing,” he added.

Sergeant Stovers was interested in the fact that the design which had been painted on the nose was still partially visible despite the cruel weathering it had endured. It was far from intact, but it could be made out. Some of the letters of the name were totally gone, others were readable. By making four or five patient trips to first one side and then the other of the nose, he was at last able to decipher what the words had been. As is characteristic of many senior NCO’s, he did not volunteer the information, but waited to be asked.

Ferguson finished his inspection of the nose area and walked around the wing toward the rear of the old fuselage. He felt very strongly the magnetism of the derelict aircraft, at last receiving visitors after such a long and hopeless wait. Over the years the snow had gradually built up into a semi-solid mass against the fuselage until it was almost level with the top of the main structure.

One of the riders from Sondrestrom, a captain named Finch, came up to stand beside him. “Want to go on board?” he asked.

“I think so,” Ferguson answered.

“I’ll get an axe from the C-130,” Finch said. “We can chop a hole through the top. It’s the easiest way.”

“We’ll do nothing of the kind,” Ferguson came back. “This may be an old wreck, but it’s still an airplane and entitled to some respect. If we go on board, it’ll be properly through the crew door.”

For some reason that proclamation warmed Sergeant Stovers. He gladly went back to the C-130 and broke out the two shovels he kept on board against the time that a ski might plow in somewhere and have to be dug out. It was up to him to think of things like that.

When he came back with the tools, he handed one of them to Andy Holcomb. Then he allowed himself the honor of chopping out the first shovelful of snow and throwing it aside. For five minutes he and Holcomb labored to make headway through the hard-frozen snow that had gathered against the gear and had piled up underneath the bomb bay. When the captain tapped him on the shoulder and offered to take over, Stovers handed him the shovel and let him work out his penance.

It took some time to chip away enough of the stubborn stuff, but the wind was light and there were plenty of fresh hands to keep the work going. Ferguson did his share as did everyone else until, after a good thirty minutes, enough snow had been removed to give access to the underneath crew door.

As everyone had expected, it was frozen rigidly shut.

“Maybe it’s locked,” Corbin suggested.

Ferguson shook his head, “The pilot wouldn’t do that, he’d leave it open. There aren’t any sneak thieves around here.”

The Californian pressed his lips together, wishing that he had had the sense to see that before he had made a fool of himself. His embarrassment was relieved when Andy Holcomb returned from another trip back to the C-130; this time he was carrying a thin red signal flare in his left mitten and an empty canvas bucket in his right.

“Bill,” he said to Stovers, “fill this with loose snow and stand by. I’m going to try and free up the door without setting fire to the whole wreck. If anything starts to sizzle, get the snow onto it fast.”

When everything was ready he pulled the cap off the flare and struck it expertly despite the cumbersome arctic mittens he had on his hands. When the hot chemical flame appeared, he brought it slowly close to the door handle and latching mechanism. He spent more than five minutes of cautious careful work, testing continuously, trying to get even the slightest sign of movement from the unyielding handle. Then, quite abruptly, it gave way and turned. Holcomb looked over his shoulder with a grin on his face. “It still works,” he announced. “It should. Nothing corrodes on the ice cap. It’s virtually impossible.”

Carefully wiping away the melted ice as fast as he got it to yield, he worked his way around the door jamb. By the time he finished the latch was again immovable, but the application of a little more heat released it once again. Like a magician presenting his climactic illusion, he jerked, yanked, used the flare at several points of resistance and then with one last concerted effort pulled the protesting door open. His success achieved, he threw the still-burning flare well out onto the ice cap where it could do no harm.

At Ferguson’s motioned invitation, Holcomb climbed in first. As he elbowed his way up through the opening, it seemed to him that he was invading a stark relic of a bygone age. Everything was in rigid, frozen immobility. A thick layer of snow covered everything that was flat enough to offer it a bed. Something about the scene seemed familiar, then he remembered. He had seen a movie not too long before in which part of the earth was shown after it had been presumably seared by a nuclear blast. It had been the same way — a kind of frozen animation, as though men had been here and then had suddenly gone a long time ago.

There was no odor whatever inside the old wreck, not a trace of the familiar aircraft smells of fuel, oils, metal, heavy fabrics, electrical insulation, hydraulic fluid, spilled coffee, and the coming and going of many human bodies. The absolute absence of any kind of scent gave the whole fantastic scene a strong aura of unreality. For the first time he realized how utterly and hopelessly dead the old bomber was. He was inside a cadaver.

Ferguson had come up and was looking inside the cockpit. It was mute and empty, still waiting for the skilled hands of the pilots who would never come. Despite three decades of merciless exposure, a few of the fittings still looked new, proof that the gallant old bird had been born only to meet an almost immediate and undeserved death. Ferguson felt the controls and found them as rigid as stone.

He wondered, if some great crane were to lift the wreck to a warm climate and let it thaw out there, how many of the multiple levers, switches, and handles could be made to move. It was idle speculation, because the Arctic was unrelenting in its grip, particularly at this high latitude. It might be another twenty years before any other human beings would visit this tragically deceased four-engined bomber.

He turned away to find Holcomb watching behind him. “Would you like to fly it, sir?” the sergeant asked through his thick white breath.

“If I could, I would,” Ferguson answered. “She deserved better than an end like this. I hate to go away and leave her out here.”

Holcomb thought about that for a moment. “Sir,” he inquired, “do you think we could take back something, some part of her, as a souvenir?”

“I was thinking the same thing, but I’d hate to hack her up to do it.”

“Certainly not,” Holcomb agreed. “No butchery. I won’t have it on my conscience.”

“Then anything you can get loose and out the door, I think we can have. But don’t take too much time, we’re expected back.”

“Yes, sir.”

While Holcomb returned to the C-130 once more to get what few tools he might need, the others in the party took their turns visiting the old bomber hulk. There was a mixed reaction; two of the Sondrestrom pilots were already bored and clearly wanted to get back home. Holcomb, on the other hand, and Jenkins, seemed willing to remain all day if it were possible.

Remembering his responsibilities, Ferguson set a twenty-minute time limit for the collection of souvenirs from the wreck. At the end of the allotted time, plus a five-minute dispensation to complete a job on hand, Jenkins had proudly recovered the ship’s octant; and Holcomb, with Stovers’s patient if not particularly sympathetic help, had a real prize — a communication set he had succeeded in removing from its brackets by heating them with a candle flame. The candle itself came out of a personal survival pack which Stovers had devised to contain everything that the regular equipment did not include.

The adventure over, Holcomb fired up the APU on the C-130 and the desolate ice cap echoed with the shrill scream of the turbine generator.

“I wonder if she can hear it?” he asked, only half in jest, of Jenkins, who was making a measurement on his chart.

“I’d like to think so,” the navigator answered as he plotted his best estimate of their exact position.

After the engines were started and the checklists completed, there was no real point in taxiing back to where they had first touched down; the ice cap appeared equally firm and solid ahead of them and there was still a good 4,000 feet of ski tracks to show where the surface had been tested.

Without a load on board, and in the cold, heavy air, the Hercules required only a short run, even at the high altitude and on skis. With the combined howl of four great turbines, the C-130 moved forward, gathered speed, and returned to her element.

“Did you get the tail number?” Ferguson asked his navigator over the intercom.

“Yes, sir,” Jenkins answered. “And I have her exact position plotted as closely as I could determine it. I’m within a five-mile circle, I’m sure of that.”

“Don’t forget that that octant you have is technically government property, although I expect they’ll let you keep it. The same goes for your radio, Holcomb — it won’t be of any use now, but let’s keep everything proper and above board.”

“Absolutely,” Jenkins agreed.

“Scotty, do you know Sergeant Murphy up at Thule?” the copilot asked.

“I’m not sure, what about him?”

“He hates the Arctic like the devil, but he’s an electronics genius. I’m going to ask him to get this thing working again, just to prove that it can be done. My money says that he can.”

“Five bucks,” Jenkins cut in.

“You’re on. Any time limit?”

Jenkins pressed his intercom button once more. “No, but he has to get the original set working and get a recognizable signal on it. He can use a reasonable number of new parts, if he can find them, but he can’t build the whole thing over.”

“Fair enough.”

Sergeant Holcomb made a contribution. “The instrument shop might be able to get that octant in shape again. It’s a Bendix Mixmaster and they won’t be able to get any parts for it anymore, but those guys are pretty sharp.”

Ferguson touched the intercom switch on the back of the yoke. “No bets on that; it may not be too hard. The thing has been in a weatherproof case and the fuselage gave it some added protection.”

During the quiet that followed for the next several minutes Sergeant Bill Stovers fought an invisible battle with himself. He had been incubating an idea ever since the takeoff, but his better judgment told him to forget it. He walked back and forth a few paces each way in the big empty cargo hold, pretending to inspect various pieces of equipment that he already knew to be in perfect order, while he thought the matter out. At last he overcame what he knew was his better judgment and returned to the flight deck.

He plugged in a headset, adjusted it, and then used the intercom. “Sir,” he asked, “do you think it’s possible that we might go back to that B-17 again sometime? If we took the proper equipment along, we might be able to salvage a propeller or something like that for the NCO Club.”

“I can’t see why not,” Ferguson answered.

CHAPTER THREE

The discovery of the B-17 made the return to Sondrestrom a minor event. Although he kept it from showing, or thought that he did, Lieutenant Ferguson had the fiery hope that it was, indeed, a new find. He had his own private reasons for that and they had nothing to do with a desire to put his name on file as the discoverer.

Together with Jenkins, his navigator, he went to Operations, and through the communications available there reported to the Aerospace Rescue and Recovery Service the location of the downed bomber and the tail number by which it could be identified — if any records were still available after thirty years. One of the functions of the ARRS was to keep careful track of every known aircraft wreck anywhere in the free world.

The Operations NCOIC was interested. “How well were you able to see it?” he asked. “How close did you get?”

“We landed,” Jenkins answered. “The area was ideal for it and we wanted to determine if there were any bodies on board that should be returned to the States for proper burial.”

“What did you find?”

“Nothing except the old bird itself. We were able to check inside and there was no evidence of the crew.”

The sergeant behind the counter nodded. “That may save some headaches later on. Thanks a lot, Lieutenant.”

“No sweat.”

The NCOIC checked the board behind him. “You know that you’re scheduled out to Thule at ten hundred hours tomorrow.”

“Yes,” Ferguson answered, “but we still don’t know why.”

“They’ll tell you, sir — eventually.”

“I’m sure they will. Call us a taxi, will you?”

The sergeant nodded and picked up a phone.

Lieutenant Ferguson’s mind was churning as he lined up the runway, five minutes early, and ran through the last few pre-takeoff checks. Behind him he had a six-pallet load that had been checked and secured by Sergeant Stovers. Up near the front of the cargo hold the crew’s personal gear had been stowed and strapped down. The four turbine engines were howling their song of power; the rugged airframe was closed up and ready.

As soon as the tower gave the word, Corbin eased the power forward and the engines surged. The wheels began to roll down the snow-covered runway at exactly 0957. As he always did, Ferguson enjoyed, the gathering speed of the Hercules; with a little more than 4,000 feet of runway behind him he rotated and the big airlifter came smoothly off the ground. When the wheels and flaps were up, and he had sufficient altitude, he turned her north toward Thule — the furthest outpost of the United States Air Force and perhaps the most extraordinary military base in the world.

Sondrestrom was well north of the Arctic Circle, but Thule was hundreds of miles beyond that. Its desperate isolation and extreme latitude had justly earned for it the ancient name Ultima Thule — the end of the earth.

Below the wings of the aluminum bird there was nothing but snow, a vast eternity of it, and occasional rocks that broke through like the lost souls in Dante’s frozen sea. In the left-hand seat, Ferguson looked out at the fantastic panorama and almost shuddered because of the thoughts that were tumbling through his mind. Each time that he flew this route he remembered again his great ambition to be an astronaut and the defeat that had been forced upon him simply because he was too tall. There had been no measurement of his abilities or of his determination, only the bare fact that he was too far over the height limit and therefore, by accident of birth, cut off from the great adventure into space. Instead of an exotic spacecraft traveling to the far reaches of the solar system, instead of the red deserts of Mars or the shrouding cloud cover of Venus, or even the totally hostile — yet attained — moon, he had to settle for a chunky freighter, a flying truck condemned by its special equipment to remain forever in the limited areas of the Arctic. Free bird that it was, it could not even roam its own planet as it had been built to do.

He had been sentenced to earth because of three inches nature had added to his frame. The C-130 had been sentenced to the Arctic because Lockheed had fastened a set of cumbersome skis to its underbelly — more than three tons of added weight it must always carry, three awkward objects perpetually out in the slipstream to add punishing drag and cut down the streamlining of the clean wing and the otherwise trim fuselage.

He took hold of the control yoke and touched the red button that disconnected the autopilot. Flying then by hand he breathed his understanding to the aircraft that was his partner in flight. So far and no further they could go together. The destiny of man always seemed to rest with a privileged few who somehow managed to be standing in just the right place at the right time, with the right degrees, the right attitudes, the right aptitudes, the right ages, the right reactions, the right rank — and the right dimensions.

Ferguson wanted to wrench the transport around in a barrel roll, to work off his emotions by soaring high, topping out, and then plunging downward, by pulling up onto his back in a half loop and rolling out in a stomach-wrenching Cuban 8. But you can’t do that in a loaded C-130; a fine bird she is, but built to fly straight and level. Her job is to plod on down the highway of the sky and deliver so many tons of freight at the other end — mission accomplished.

Probably the pilot of the old B-17 had had some of the same feelings, because he had been a flyer too. He had had no aspirations toward becoming an astronaut, they had been all but undreamed of in those days, but he had known the wonderful freedom of the skies and had experienced the subtle patterns of ever-changing clouds that only the airman can witness. Perhaps he had been green and inexperienced, and therefore had wrecked the beautiful new bird they had given him to fly because he hadn’t known where in hell he was going. But he had put the wheels down, proof that he had hoped to fly it out again, one way or another. That was the mark of a man willing to take an added risk to try and save his airplane, and Ferguson mentally reached across the span of years that had passed since then and saluted him for it.

Corbin tapped him on the shoulder and broke his reverie. With a gesture of his hand his copilot indicated that it was time to descend. For a second Ferguson was disoriented; he had been flying mechanically with his mind preoccupied. Swiftly he pulled himself back to reality. He checked the heading, read the DME, and saw that he was fast approaching Thule; the C-130 was already within 900 miles of the North Pole. As Corbin reported in, Ferguson set up a standard rate descent. His daydreams were gone now — he was fully occupied in bringing in his aircraft despite the fact that the traffic that close to the top of the world was negligible; he was given number one to land while he was still above 10,000 feet.

The business of the checklist began as the Hercules continued to unwind its altimeters, coming steadily closer to the frozen world that lay below. Presently the distinctive round shape of the Arctic mesa known as Mount Dundas lay directly ahead and Thule was within visual range.

He banked the C-130 the allowable amount, put it on the glide path, brought it down the track, and greased it on without giving a thought to allowing Corbin to test his skill. Ferguson was not in a mood to relinquish anything.

When he checked in at Operations, there was a message for him. He was to call General Pritchard in the Pentagon immediately upon his arrival.

The sickening thought hit him that he was to be chewed out from on high for having landed without authority on the ice cap. In a way, despite the careful precautions he had taken, it could be argued that he had unnecessarily risked his aircraft and his crew. Normally his orders came from Scott Air Force Base in Illinois, the headquarters of the Military Airlift Command. If the Pentagon wanted him, then something out of the ordinary was definitely afoot.

Good-bye command.

Fortunately there was a phone he could use without the embarrassment of having others tuned in and listening. He informed the base operator of the order he had received and then patiently waited for the moment when the axe would descend.

The pattern of communications was woven and the general’s aide came on the line. “One minute please, the general would like to speak personally with Lieutenant Ferguson.”

The one thing Ferguson most feared at that moment was the thought that Sergeant Stovers would be able to hitch up his pants and silently say, “I told you so,” for the rest of his life.

The general came on the line. “Lieutenant Ferguson, I understand you are the crew commander of the C-130 that discovered the wreck of a B-17 on the ice cap yesterday.”

“Affirmative, sir.”

“Am I correct that you actually landed next to the hulk and explored it to some extent?”

Here it came. “Yes, sir, after checking the area first, of course. If there had been any bodies…”

“I understand. How much risk is involved in landing out there, Lieutenant?”

How decent of him to put it that way!

“Apart from the possible dangers inherent in all unconventional operations, sir, I would say almost none at all. Landing out there is like landing on the dry lake bed at Edwards. Not quite that good, but very nearly, sir.”

Now let him chew him out, the stinger had been pulled.

“All right, Lieutenant, there is something I would like to have you do. I’ve already cleared it with Scott, so that’s taken care of. You know approximately where the wreck is, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Weather permitting, I’d like to have you go back there tomorrow. If the tail number we received here is correct, there may be something on that B-17 I’d like to have you recover if possible.”

“Would you describe it, sir.”

“Yes, of course. It’s a wooden box, or crate, unmarked. I don’t have the exact dimensions, but it should weigh about a hundred pounds, plus or minus. There may be two or three other crates stowed somewhere on board; if by any chance you find them, it would be prudent to recover them all. I realize that they may no longer be there — it’s been a long time.”

“It’s still possible, sir. It’s an extremely isolated area with no surface traffic at all to my knowledge.”

“I don’t presume that you saw anything like that when you explored the wreck.”

“No, sir, but everything was covered with a thick blanket of snow and we weren’t there very long. If those crates are still on board the aircraft, we’ll get them for you, sir.”

“Fine, so ordered. When you do, bring them back to Thule and then report immediately to Colonel Kleckner, the base commander. He will direct you where they are to be stowed. They are not to be delivered to anyone else.”

“Understood, sir.”

“Now if for any reason the weather isn’t good, or if you need your regulation crew rest, it doesn’t have to be tomorrow. I would say, however, that now that the plane has been rediscovered, there is some urgency in getting this errand done as soon as possible.”

“You can depend on us, sir.”

“One more thing: I realize that the word is out on your having found that old bomber and it can’t be recalled. That’s all right, but concerning your errand, keep it as quiet as you reasonably can.”

“How about the crew, sir?”

“They will have to know, of course. Once that piece of freight is safely in your possession, the major risk will be over. By the way, handle it with some care. It was originally equipped with a protective device that would destroy the contents if an unauthorized person attempted to open it. I’m sure that it’s no longer operational after thirty years, but try not to put a crowbar to it if it happens to be frozen down hard. Chop a piece out of the airframe if you have to.”

“I understand, sir. We’ll treat it as hazardous cargo, sir, and take all of the usual precautions.”

“That won’t be necessary, Lieutenant. The protective device, even if by some chance it thawed out and functioned, would not endanger your aircraft. It was expressly packaged for air shipment.”

“Sir, may I ask a question?”

“Go ahead.”

“We’d be very grateful if you could tell us anything about the fate of the crew that flew the B-17. We’d like very much to know if they made out all right.”

“The crew made out fine. They got pretty cold, and hungry, but they were able to send out some radio signals. Have you heard of Colonel Bernt Balchen?”

“Of course, sir. The great Arctic expert.”

“Right. Colonel Balchen rescued them off the ice cap, just as he did the crew of the My Gal Sal. I assume you know about that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“They were out there several days before Colonel Balchen got to them. They were pretty far gone, but they all made it. Shortly after they were picked up, a major storm closed the area and laid down a fresh blanket of snow. After that, no one was able to find the plane. There was a shortage of equipment and too many other things to do at the same time.”

“Thank you very much, sir. I understand now why they weren’t able to bring that piece of cargo out with them.”

“Don’t underestimate that crew, Lieutenant; they tried their best, but they got the wrong crate. It wasn’t their fault. This isn’t for publication, but the crates were color-coded. The pilot was conscious and he asked that the right one be brought.”

“Then what fouled it up, sir?”

“A color-blind Eskimo. Such things happen, you know.”

“Sir, were you by any chance there?”

“Negative, Lieutenant, but since this is a semi-secured line, I will tell you that at one time we were quietly looking for that bird. For some reason, we didn’t find it; fortunately you did.”

“Thank you, sir. Weather permitting, we’ll be out early in the morning.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant. Good-bye.”

Chief Master Sergeant Perry S. Feinberg relaxed expansively in the warm interior of the Thule NCO Club and took his ease in the grand manner. He was a big man, six feet tall and of impressive bulk which was not all muscle, despite the fact that he liked to think it was. His mind was alert, his professional competence legendary, and his discretion absolute. Although the tour at Thule is only one year, at that moment Sergeant Feinberg could not comprehend how the base would manage to operate once he had departed. In full justice to his remarkable abilities, it needs to be added that during occasional fleeting moments the base commander shared the same thought. Sergeant Feinberg invariably got results.

There are certain men who have such unbounded confidence that no challenge appears too great, no proposition too tough to be handled. Sergeant Feinberg was such a person. He had his full measure of ego and took justifiable pride in what he was able to do. He was also in full possession of the well-known fact that the United States Air Force is directed and run by those mighty and potent men who are addressed professionally as “Sergeant.” Generals he considered excellent for making plans, awarding decorations, and appearing as required before various committees of the Congress. When it came to supervising the maintenance of complicated aircraft, for example, and seeing that even thumb-fingered mechanics did things right the first time, practically all generals in his opinion would be out of their depth. Chief Master Sergeant Perry Feinberg would not.

Despite Sergeant Feinberg’s outgoing personality, Bill Stovers found him much to his liking. As in the case of the Mikado of Japan, when he said a thing would be done it was as good as done; virtually it was done, and it was safe to say so.

With a gesture that Gregory Peck would have recognized as beyond his powers, Sergeant Feinberg summoned the waiter, who was a moonlighting enlisted man, and ordered another round of drinks. When it came, Stovers picked up the tab because it was his turn.

“Tell me more; give me the details,” Sergeant Feinberg demanded.

“After we scraped across the deck once to see if there were any potholes in the way, we set down and had a look at it. You could still read the tail number clearly.”

“Did you get inside?” A gleam of unusual interest was visible on Feinberg’s face.

“Yes, we did. One of the deadheads wanted to chop a hole in the upper deck, but Ferguson wouldn’t allow it. He said it was still an airplane and entitled to respect.”

“That’s more sense than I gave him credit for,” Sergeant Feinberg said generously.

“Andy Holcomb thawed out the crew door with a small flare and we got inside. We looked around a bit, but there wasn’t too much to see. We recovered the navigator’s octant and a communications set. There’s a bet on about that.”

“Let me guess.” Sergeant Feinberg sampled from the newly provided glass and found it satisfactory. “Of course the bet is whether it can be made to work after all these years.”

“Specifically, the bet is whether Sergeant Murphy can get it going and bring in a recognizable signal on it. He can use a reasonable number of necessary parts, but he can’t rebuild it from the ground up.”

Sergeant Feinberg lit a cigar like a Spanish grandee. “It’s a losing bet, because Murphy won’t do it. My money says he could if he wanted to, but forget it. He’s only got a few weeks to go and then he’s out. He keeps track — hour by hour.”

“I never saw the countdown chart above his desk.”

“The only man without one. He objects to it because it depicts a nude female. Sergeant Murphy has principles; he belongs to a very conservative church.”

“But he still keeps track, you said, ‘hour by hour.’ Is he stir crazy? The Thule Twitches?”

“How well do you know Mike Murphy?” Feinberg asked.

“Not too well.”

Perry Feinberg blew a smoke ring that floated like the nebula in Lyra until the sergeant sent a thin jet of smoke after it and it dissipated. “Mike Murphy, apart from his family, has only two major interests in his life and the commanding one is gardening.”

“Gardening,” Stovers repeated.

“Gardening. He made a perfectly serious proposal to build a heated greenhouse, equip it with artificial lights, and raise some of our own fresh vegetables up here. He felt sure he could do it. Since the soil is virgin, he thought it would be fascinating to plant it for the first time. Most soil has produced thousands of crops — weeds if nothing else. The soil up here hasn’t produced anything since the ice age, possibly not since the earth was formed.”

“That is a thought,” Stovers agreed. “With no rotted older plants to put nitrogen into the soil, would it bear?”

“Ask Mike Murphy, maybe he has the answer to that one. Anyway, Mike can’t wait to get out of here; when he retires, he’s all set to go into the nursery business.”

“I still don’t see, though,” Stovers persisted, “why his plans to go into business would interfere with his fixing a radio set. That’s his job, isn’t it?”

“Not that World War II set; that would have to be a labor of love. Look at it this way: when a man is crouched down, with his fingers on the line ready to start a hundred-yard dash, that’s a helluva time to try and sell him any life insurance.”

Sergeant Holcomb appeared and joined the party without waiting to be invited. Mercifully, the jukebox was quiet, and across the room there was little activity at the bar. “I thought you’d like to have the word,” he said to Stovers. “Tomorrow we fly.”

“We just got here!”

“Well don’t count on too much crew rest, because we’re going back to the wreck we found yesterday.”

“Back to the wreck?” Stovers was genuinely nonplussed. “How did the boy wonder ever get permission to do that? Or did he set it up on his own?”

The waiter appeared and Holcomb ordered beer. “All I know,” he said, “is that Sergeant Withers in Ops had a message for him when he came in to call General Pritchard in the puzzle palace immediately upon arrival.”

Perry Feinberg leaned back in his chair with a considerable satisfaction showing on his broad face. “It’s time I let you guys in on something,” he began expansively. “For a while it was classified, but it couldn’t be anymore. Do either of you guys know Ed Scott? Well, he was at Sondrestrom during the war when it was Bluie West Eight. He was a corporal at that time and was in the communications end. One day the word came in that a high-priority B-17 flight was coming through. They caught an unexpected Phase Two and the bird had to overfly. The crew crash-landed somewhere north of Bluie on the ice cap. Fortunately some radio gear was still operational and they were able to put out a signal. They were saved after about four days. Colonel Balchen pulled them off.”

“The same B-17?” Holcomb wanted to know.

“I’m not sure, but it could be. When Ed finally told me about that incident, he remembered the name of the aircraft; it was called The Passionate Penguin.”

Bill Stovers took his time; when he did speak, it was without emphasis. “It’s the same airplane,” he announced. “I read the name on her nose when we were out there. That was it, The Passionate Penguin. ”

“Then…” Sergeant Feinberg paused clearly for dramatic effect, “you’d probably like to hear the rest of the story.”

“If it isn’t still classified,” Bill Stovers cautioned.

“A restricted flight over an established route covering friendly territory couldn’t still be under wraps after thirty years,” Feinberg replied, flicking an ash from his cigar.

“All right,” Stovers conceded.

“According to Ed Scott, who didn’t tell me until be was satisfied that it was no longer secret, the Penguin was carrying a package of important war dispatches, or so it was rumored, and when the crew was rescued, they left it on the airplane.”

“They couldn’t have been that careless,” Holcomb said.

“They weren’t careless; they came out lugging something they thought was their secret cargo. But they had the wrong container.”

Bill Stovers said nothing until he had lit a pipe and had it going to his satisfaction. “Probably they were given a fake container while the real one was marked ‘mechanical parts’; it was a familiar dodge and a very stupid one. Where’s Ed Scott now?”

“Japan,” Feinberg answered. “I’m going to write to him when I get back to my quarters. There’s a C-130 coming through tomorrow that’s going over the top to Alaska. At Elmendorf they can hand the letter to the flight engineer of the next C-141 headed for Japan. Scotty should have it in three or four days. If he answers promptly — and he will unless he’s on TDY — in a little more than a week I should know a lot more about the B-17.”

“It could just be,” Holcomb said slowly, “that with the hurry-up call from the Pentagon right after we found the old wreck, we might be going out to recover that secret shipment — even after so many years.”

“You are now the last man at this table to have thought of that,” Feinberg informed him. “Not that it’s secret anymore, but they might like to have it back, just the same.”

The glasses were empty and Holcomb bought a round.

“So when you go out there tomorrow,” Sergeant Feinberg continued, “I think I’ll come along. Just in case the boy wonder doesn’t have orders to pick up that container, I’ll latch onto it, if I can find it, and bring it back. The colonel just possibly might be interested.”

“I would say so,” Stovers agreed.

“In addition to which,” Feinberg added, “I plan to take along a few of my boys and some light maintenance stands. You suggested, Bill, that a prop from the old bird would look nice all shined up on the wall there.” He indicated the proper spot. “Any objections?”

Holcomb shook his head. “Not as long as you can handle the boy wonder.”

Sergeant Feinberg casually flicked the ashes from the tip of his cigar again and made a neat mound in the ashtray. “A mere bagatelle,” he said.

CHAPTER FOUR

Lieutenant Scott Ferguson had no intention of carrying any extra personnel on his return to the carcass of The Passionate Penguin. Because his active imagination would not be stilled, he had allowed himself the luxury of considering his special assignment to be a particularly sensitive classified mission of the type that seldom falls to the lot of first lieutenants. The idea of carrying any additional sightseers did not at all fit with his conception of the thing he had been asked to do. Sergeant Feinberg sensed his attitude at once and proceeded according to plan.

“May I speak with you privately for a moment, sir?” he inquired at the appropriate moment.

Ferguson handed in his flight plan to the Ops man on duty and then glanced at his watch. “Certainly, but if it’s about coming along with us this morning, I’m afraid that I can’t approve it.”

Sergeant Feinberg led him away from the counter and toward a private corner of the Operations area. “Sir, there is a consideration involved about which you may not know.”

“What is it?” Ferguson asked, trying not to appear impatient, but at the same time suggesting that he was a busy man.

Sergeant Feinberg became confidential. “A few years ago I attended the NCO Academy at Orlando with Sergeant Edmund Scott, who is now a close friend of mine. Sergeant Scott was on duty in Greenland at the time that the B-17 was lost on the ice cap.”

“Could we skip the ancient history?”

“Not very well, sir, if you’re to be fully informed.”

“Then go ahead.”

Sergeant Feinberg managed to suggest with an invisible gesture that Lieutenant Ferguson had just made a very wise and prudent decision. “The point is, Sergeant Scott mentioned to me on one occasion that the flight of that aircraft was quite heavily under wraps; it was reputed to be carrying something of a significant nature as an item of special cargo. Of course, since it had been more than twenty years ago at the time, the classification had been removed.”

Ferguson looked at him for a long moment.

“I am now confiding in you, sir, the fact that to the best of Sergeant Scott’s knowledge, the sensitive item on that aircraft was never recovered. I believe I can recognize it. What I plan to do, with your approval of course, is to pick it up quietly and secure it on board the C-130. One more thing, sir: so as not to be obvious about it, I’ve dropped the suggestion that it might be interesting to recover one of the propellers from that old crates I beg your pardon, sir — I mean aircraft and display it properly refurbished in a place of honor in the NCO Club. Some of my men would like to do that.”

“A smoke screen,” Ferguson said.

Feinberg beamed his appreciation of Lieutenant Ferguson’s astuteness. “Exactly, sir. It will also explain, if anyone happens to be interested, why we went back to the B-17 in the first place.”

Ferguson thought and considered three possible responses before he spoke.

“All right, you and your boys can come along in order to create a suitable diversion. Pass the word to Sergeant Stovers to load some maintenance stands — you will have to have them to get a prop off. And possibly an A-frame to get it down without dropping it.”

“Yes, sir.”

Just as Feinberg was turning away, apparently to follow his instructions, Ferguson had another thought. “That is, if it won’t take too long,” he added.

It was the moment for truth and Feinberg recognized it. “I believe that they’re already on board, sir,” he said. He was careful to keep his face wooden as he spoke.

The takeoff at 0840 hours was uneventful. The C-130 rolled down the runway hardly more than 3,000 feet, rotated, and surged up into the cold sky. After leveling off at 15,000 feet Ferguson passed control to his copilot and went down into the main cargo hold to see precisely what he was carrying. There were several light maintenance stands, a large heater unit, kits of tools, four sets of skis, and, including Sergeant Feinberg, a total of six additional crew members.

Ferguson signaled to the chief master sergeant and spoke to him above the howling of the turbines just outside. “Did you need this many people? All this gear?”

Feinberg managed to show respect and radiant confidence at the same time. “I tried to think of things that would be useful, sir. For example, the heater unit will thaw out the door quickly for us and then make the inside of the B-17 a lot more comfortable. It occurred to me that some of the things we might like to recover will be frozen down pretty solidly. The heater should handle that problem without attracting undue attention.”

Ferguson admitted to himself that he hadn’t thought of that solution.

“Two of the troops are ski experts,” Feinberg went on. “While we’re at the aircraft, they will survey the landing strip and check it for safe operations.”

“Is that what those markers are for?” Ferguson asked, nodding his head in the direction of some additional supplies he had just noticed.

“Yes, sir. It’s expendable equipment, and knowing how these things sometimes work out, it seemed like a good idea to secure the landing area.”

Ferguson decided to be candid. “In other words, to support my judgment when I landed there in the first place.”

Feinberg gave him a significant look. “Well, sir, there’s no harm in protecting yourself, as it were, when you have the chance. Not that I’m suggesting that you need it, sir….”

Ferguson returned to the bridge and the left-hand seat. He did not even pause to speak with his loadmaster, who had carefully remained at a deliberate distance to let Feinberg do the talking.

Less than an hour later, the Hercules was three minutes short of Lieutenant Jenkins ETA when the redheaded copilot came on the intercom. “There she is,” he said, and pointed ahead at a two-o’clock angle. Ferguson chalked one up for his navigator, who had fixed the position of the wreck so accurately on their first visit and had relocated it so efficiently. The possible embarrassment of having to report to General Pritchard that they couldn’t find the B-17 again would have been overwhelming.

Once more he checked the area carefully before putting the skis down. His former tracks were clearly visible and there were no signs of any landing hazards he could detect. Satisfied, he ordered the pre-landing checklist, extended the skis, set up an approach, and when everything was ready, slid the big airlifter onto the ice cap almost as gently as though it had been a dead-flat paved runway.

“You were right,” Perry Feinberg said in the cabin to Bill Stovers, “Junior can fly.”

“Damn right he can,” Stovers responded.

This time, remembering the relatively heavy equipment that would have to be moved by hand, Ferguson taxied up until the left wing of the C-130 almost reached over the hull of the old bird whose long desolation was being broken for the second time within forty-eight hours. As Sergeant Holcomb shut down the engines and silence returned to the lonely ice cap, Ferguson felt again the sensation that he was on the surface of some other planet and about to explore the ruin of what had been an early spaceship — one of the first to land here. He kept his private romantic imaginings to himself and maintained a matter-of-fact, commander’s exterior for the benefit of the others who were present.

By the time that he had donned his arctic gear and climbed down the four steps into the hold, the rear ramp had already been dropped and two men on skis were just exiting out onto the snow. They were roped together in the manner of mountaineers and had a small sled on which the runway markers had been loaded. That phase of the operation was well underway and Ferguson dismissed it from his attention.

The heater unit was next; it too had been sled mounted in order to make it reasonably movable on the surface of the ice cap. Sergeant Stovers was busy supervising its unloading and no additional help was needed. Ferguson chose the open crew door and stepped out himself into the sterile cold of the fantastic plateau. Comfortable in his arctic clothing, he looked with renewed wonder at the old hulk that had been standing in such total desolation for so long. He could not help wondering if, in some strange manner that humans could not grasp, she understood that she was once more receiving visitors; that her all but endless vigil, waiting for her pilots to return, was, for the moment, over.

Since it would take a while to get the heater operating and the door thawed out once more, he walked around to the front of the old bird and drank in the contrast between her and the C-130 turboprop that was poised almost wingtip to wingtip. What a change in twenty-odd years of aircraft design!

Now that he knew what her name had been, he studied the nose of the old bomber and made out the letters for himself. The tail number was still quite clear, but the paint that had been used to christen her had not been of equal quality. There she sat, dead without knowing it, still putting up a pretext that she was an aircraft with her nose lifted toward the sky.

Ferguson’s imagination frequently took off on its own without filing a flight plan as to its intentions. As he looked at the outdated wreck, he wished that some good fairy would grant him three wishes. He stood quietly in the snow, ignoring the splendid C-130 that was his to fly, and thought about the abandoned aircraft that had never lived to fulfill her destiny. She was a hulk, but she still looked like an airplane, and that was enough to win his sympathy.

Sergeant Feinberg approached, a huge bear of a man in his heavy arctic clothing. “We’ve got the heater going and we’ll be inside shortly,” he advised. “I told the boys that you’d given the order she was not to be chopped up and that whatever was taken off was to be removed properly. Is that right?”

“That’s right!” Ferguson replied, and he practically barked the words.

Almost as though they had been working on that type of aircraft all of their lives, three of Perry Feinberg’s boys were busy removing the number four propeller. The powerful portable heating unit threw a steady stream of warm air inside the fuselage as Lieutenant Jenkins and Sergeant Holcomb scraped the encrusted snow off the places where it had lodged and pitched it down into the bomb bay. Ferguson lent a hand on the job, but as each bit of the interior was cleared, he paid close attention to what was being uncovered. With his arctic gloves on his hands he prodded the banked-up snow along the bottom sides of the fuselage. When he uncovered the corner of something that was clearly a wooden crate, a savage thrill of discovery took hold of him. With two or three minutes additional work he had it clear and as far as he could tell, it was the sensitive cargo he had been sent to recover.

As anticipated, it was frozen down as firmly as though it had been riveted in place.

He continued with his exploration and within a matter of minutes he had unsnowed two additional crates not too different from his initial find. He was satisfied then that one of them would be the critical item, safe and sound after three decades of unguarded isolation.

The heater would have all of the crates thawed out within a reasonable time, he postulated. Inwardly he was secretly glad that it would probably not be too soon; in a somewhat strange mood that he himself could not recognize, he was in no hurry to leave. He had the thought that he would never be returning here again and at his age he disliked to close any door behind him finally and forever.

He paid another visit to the cockpit, planning to content himself by simply looking at the frozen controls. For a moment he put his right hand on the four throttles and imagined that he was indeed pushing them forward. Then he remembered; he couldn’t do that — they were working on one of the props.

Ferguson wanted some part of her to keep for his own, as a symbol of a new-found friendship between man and machine. He had not even been born when she had last flown, but they met now as adults.

The cushion on the pilot’s seat probably would be thawed out in a little while. The fleeting heat would warm up the old bird a bit before the perpetual cold would return. It was one amenity she had been granted as a kind of posthumous salute. He promised silently that he would use the cushion whenever he could and in that small way help the aircraft to regain her self-respect.

He looked out and saw that the number four prop was already off; loaded on the heater sled, it was being taken on board the C-130. After all, it was a reasonable thing that they had done, even though he didn’t like to see the B-17 dismembered like that. He sat down inside the still-warming fuselage and contented himself with doing nothing.

At 1212 hours Bill Stovers brought him a box lunch and a cup of hot coffee. It had been a helluva long time, Ferguson thought, since anyone had sat and drunk hot coffee inside that old bird.

He looked out and noted that part of the crew was back in the Here, presumably eating and using the head, but the rest were still at work. A substantial A-frame had been rigged over the number four nacelle; it took him a while to awake to the fact that they were also removing the number four engine.

Taking off an engine was hard work, particularly under the existing circumstances — it was cold out there. He watched and marveled at the fact that the men at work seemed to be genuinely enjoying themselves. With a small blast heater, which was another piece of cargo he had not noticed on board, they were thawing out the bolts and connections. No one was using a hacksaw; everything was being disconnected properly.

Dammit, maybe he wasn’t the only sentimental slob in the whole stiff-necked Air Force! He got up and tested one of the crates for movement; it showed some signs of loosening. He finished his lunch and gathered up the small amount of trash. Feeling a little guilty that he had absented himself for so long, he redonned his parka and climbed down the crew hole into the sharply cold air outside. He had to move a piece of canvas that had been used to block the space between the heater hose and the door frame to do it. As he dropped into the snow, he noted that the door itself had been removed.

Two men were carrying what appeared to be the left elevator into the back of the C-130. The passion for souvenirs appeared to have no limit.

Sergeant Stovers, quite suddenly looking like a man who had emerged from his shell, came briskly toward him. “Sir,” he said, “we’d appreciate it very much if you’d give us a hand. We’re trying to get the number four engine off and it’s going to take every available man to do it.”

Ferguson went willingly and ignoring the matter of rank joined Jenkins and Corbin in helping on the ropes that had been expertly slung around the power plant. He estimated quickly: the engine delivered 1,200 horsepower and therefore it would weigh something like 2,400 pounds. A careful look at the block and tackle hung from the A-frame satisfied him that the ratio was right, three men would be able to do it.

Sergeants Holcomb and Stovers climbed into position and took off the last set of nuts as Perry Feinberg kept a critical eye on the job and served as ground anchor man. With enough men to do the job it was comparatively easy; at the right moment the A-frame took the strain and then it was a relatively simple matter to lower the cumbersome piston engine down onto the sled that had been placed to receive it. The sled itself was piled with blankets to reduce damage to a minimum.

After all hands had pushed and hauled the engine to the rear of the Hercules and had muscled it up the ramp, Ferguson had the feeling that things had gone about far enough. He returned to the ancient B-17, whose crew door would never be frozen shut again, and tried once more to move the most accessible of the wooden crates. It yielded to his reasonable persuasion and he slid it over to the crew door opening without undue difficulty. Waiting for him there was Sergeant Feinberg and one of his men; the senior NCO relieved him of it without a word.

When the last of the wooden boxes had been retrieved, he checked the now comfortably warm cabin of the bomber and satisfied himself that there were no more crates on board. Then, with reluctant steps, he returned to his own living aircraft and suggested that it was about time to return to Thule.

As he had anticipated, Sergeant Feinberg asked for a brief dispensation to allow a small piece of work that was under way to be finished. The small piece of work proved to be the number one propeller which was hauled on board to join the number four that had already been secured by Sergeant Stovers.

Just in time, Ferguson remembered the seat cushion he had decided to appropriate for himself. Trying not to look conspicuous, he returned to the B-17, went back up inside, and shortly reappeared with his modest prize. The skiers who had checked the landing area had long since completed their job. The last of the maintenance equipment was being stowed under Sergeant Stovers’s direction. Within the next minute the hydraulic actuators lifted up the rear ramp and moved the upper section down to form the rear seal. Everything was on board and everyone seemed quite happy.

As soon as Andy Holcomb had the outrageously noisy APU going, the C-130 pulsed with life. The airscrews began to rotate and then whirled into discs as the turbines took hold. When the checklists had been completed, Ferguson moved her out into the center of the newly marked runway area and then headed into a takeoff run down the long snow path. Even with all her power, the mighty bird was a little slow to come off because of the altitude and the friction of her skis. She broke loose at last and climbed up into the sky while the whine of her power plants echoed over the endless empty vastness of the ice cap.

Inside the C-130 the parts of the old aircraft began to give out thin trickles of water as the ice within them melted slightly in the heat of the cargo hold. The men themselves were tired and lay sprawled on the horizontal canvas benches along the sides of the fuselage. Even Sergeant Feinberg set aside his dignity and let his bulk overflow the narrow pallet while he slept.

As airmen do everywhere, they awoke in time to buckle down for the landing. Once again Ferguson slid the Hercules expertly onto the white-painted Thule runway. At the tower’s instruction he parked a little past Operations, a somewhat superfluous gesture since there were no other aircraft anywhere on the ramp.

Half an hour later Ferguson was still aboard his command. In spite of the cold, he had elected to remain to attend to the necessary paper work and to make sure that the wooden crates he had brought in would not be removed without his knowledge. When he had finished his work, he climbed down onto the cargo floor as a six-pack truck drew up outside. Moments later Sergeant Feinberg entered the aircraft, closely followed by Sergeant Stovers, the loadmaster.

“Colonel Kleckner is aware that we’re back, sir,” Feinberg reported. “We’re instructed to put the crates in this truck; Sergeant Ragan, the head of base security, will take over from there.”

“Thank you very much.”

“Also, sir, the commander is in his office and I believe that he’s expecting you. A taxi will be here momentarily.”

“Good.” Ferguson paused, wondering if he should ask the question that was on his mind. “Sergeant,” he began finally, “now that you have them, what are you going to do with all of the parts from the B-17?”

At that moment Sergeant Stovers found it necessary to check something on the outside of the aircraft; he left without a word.

Perry Feinberg paused himself before replying, which was a rare thing. “I think you have already guessed, sir,” he said when he was ready. “Forgive me, but I saw you when you were standing in front of the nose of that abandoned old bomber, and I believe I know what you were thinking.”

Feinberg paused and carefully read out the reaction to his words. When he was satisfied, he went on. “We’re going to clean them up and put them in good order. We have quite a bit of time on our hands up here, sir, and sometimes without too much to do. It may take a while, but I think, and the others agree, that we can bring that old bird in, piece by piece, and put her back together again.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Colonel James Kleckner put down the telephone by means of which he had been talking with the Pentagon and gave his attention to the NCO who had appeared in the doorway of his office. “Lieutenant Ferguson is here, sir,” the man reported.

“Ask him to come in.”

Since he had not yet met Ferguson, the colonel got to his feet to receive his newest junior officer. The colonel was a tall, well-built man who wore a suitably impressive array of ribbons on his uniform, and atop them, the wings of a command pilot. His features showed that he was used to carrying responsibility, but like most good commanders he was, under normal circumstances, an affable man with a quick smile and a relaxed manner.

Ferguson came in, offered his salute, and then took the hand that was extended to him. “Sit down, Lieutenant,” the colonel invited.

“Thank you, sir.” Ferguson took his place with a proper amount of dignity.

The colonel sat down behind his desk. “Welcome to the top of the world,” he said. “I understand that you’ve been to Thule before.”

“I’ve passed through several times, sir, but we’ve never been on the ground here more than an hour or so.”

“Have you and your crew had the Thule briefing?”

“No, sir.”

“Then I’ll attend to that. There’s no place on earth like this, Lieutenant. For example, even during the very coldest days in the middle of winter, we have a heavy requirement for air conditioning.”

“For what reason, sir? The hospital, perhaps?”

“No; as a matter of fact, it’s outdoors.”

The colonel paused as two cups of coffee were brought in. “You see, Lieutenant, this whole base is built on the permafrost. There is a comparatively thin layer of soil that thaws somewhat during the summer, but below that the ground is permanently frozen like a solid block of steel that may go down a half mile or more. It makes an excellent foundation and it will bear enormous weight as long as it remains frozen. But when you put a building on it and then heat the building, the next time you look the building may be five or ten feet lower. So the buildings here are all well above the ground and we use air-conditioning units to prevent the permafrost from melting underneath them.”

“It’s fantastic, sir.”

“Indeed it is. That’s why the runway is painted white, incidentally — to reflect away the sunlight in summer. As it is, there are some rough spots, as you may have noticed.”

Ferguson decided that it was time to ask his question. “Sir, would you care to tell me why we’ve been ordered to report here? Frankly, we’re all very much in the dark about that.”

The colonel relaxed back in his chair. “I’m glad that it hasn’t leaked out. While it isn’t classified, I’d like to see as low a profile as possible maintained concerning the assignment you’ve been given. Is that quite clear?”

“Absolutely, sir. I’ll pass the word to the rest of the crew.”

“Good. The news gets around pretty fast up here, so the whole base will know what’s going on, but the less you emphasize it, the less attention it will be given. How much do you know about Camp Century?”

Ferguson recalled something he had once heard. “Is that the city under the ice?”

The colonel nodded. “Correct. Several years ago, with the permission of the Danish authorities, the United States Army went far out on the ice cap and built a considerable installation, literally under the ice. Instead of tunneling, the Army engineers cut a series of very deep trenches and then installed prefabricated buildings in them, complete with plumbing, electricity, heat, and everything else that was needed. Then the top was closed over.”

“How did they power it, sir?”

“With a nuclear reactor. Camp Century at the time seemed like something out of science fiction; actually it was used as a research station until the programmed studies were completed. Then it was abandoned and certain of the equipment was removed. But the basic installation is still there — approximately a hundred and fifty miles from Thule.”

“I take it that there is a landing area, sir.”

“Definitely,” the colonel answered. “The location for the camp was well chosen and there certainly was enough space on the ice cap available. All around the camp the area is very smooth. As you have probably guessed by now, the Army is very shortly going back to Camp Century to make some further studies on the ice movement, if any, and certain other things. Army personnel will be out there for at least several weeks — it may be longer. Your job will be to support them.”

“It sounds very interesting, sir.”

“It certainly should be. By the way, I understand that you were successful in your mission this morning.”

“We believe so, sir. Lieutenant Jenkins, my navigator, relocated the B-17 on the first pass. We went on board and recovered three medium-sized crates that were still there. Base security has them now.”

The colonel nodded his approval. “You won’t discuss anything about that, of course. If anyone asks, you went back to the B-17 to salvage a propeller for the NCO Club. You got it, I suppose.”

Ferguson thought very quickly before he answered that. “We did, sir, and one or two other things.”

The colonel flashed an agreeable smile. “Yes, I would suspect so. By the way — one of the Danish workers here is quite a good artist. His name is Viggo Skov; he’s over at the mess hall. Perhaps he could do a painting of a B-17, on the ground or in the air, and it could be permanently displayed with the propeller as an artifact beside it.”

Ferguson found himself on the only patch of thin ice in northern Greenland. “I shall certainly keep that in mind, sir,” he promised. Before he committed himself any further, he stood up. “Thank you, sir,” he said.

The colonel smiled once more. “I think you’ll have an interesting time while you’re with us here.”

“There’s no doubt of that, sir,” Ferguson replied. “No doubt at all.”

Chief Master Sergeant Perry Feinberg stood with his parka unbuttoned surveying the vast interior of hangar number eight on the Thule flight line. Large enough to contain a B-52 easily, the big structure was all but empty. Along the west wall an assortment of maintenance stands were stored against the time that they might be needed. The floor of the hangar was solid concrete, but not far from where the stands were parked there was a wide, gradual depression that covered a considerable area. Although it was approximately eighteen inches deep at its center, the concrete itself was not broken.

A staff sergeant was explaining the layout. “There’s plenty of vacant hangar space; right now eight, nine, and ten are all virtually empty. They’re kept on the ready in case SAC wants to use them on short notice.”

Sergeant Feinberg already knew all that, but he had his reasons for letting himself be informed once more. Meanwhile he was taking everything in with an expert’s eye. “Just in case SAC did come in unexpectedly,” he said, “would they park a B-52 or anything like that on the low spot?” He lifted his arm and pointed.

“No, the ’52’s weigh too much to stand on anything but the strongest areas. And it wouldn’t be needed.”

“But that doesn’t mean that that spot is necessarily weak.”

“No, not at all — it means that the permafrost somehow melted and gave way a little. The only thing wrong with it, actually, is that it isn’t precisely level.”

“Do tell,” Sergeant Feinberg commented. “I have some stuff I want to park inside for a while; all right if I use that area?”

“No problem, go ahead. I’ll clear it with Major Eastcott if you’d like.”

Feinberg lifted his shoulders slowly and then eased them down. “I don’t see any reason to bother him about it right now,” he declared. “Now, do you happen to know offhand if Supply has any propeller stands available?”

“Propeller stands!”

“I have a use in mind for them.”

“Possibly in cold storage, Perry; Supply will know. There’s a lot of gear down there, but it’s been locked up for some time and there’ll be two feet of snow on everything.”

“Who’s the right man to talk to, in your opinion?”

The sergeant thought for a moment. “For efficiency, Baker, but if you want a favor done, see Atwater.”

A satisfied smile appeared on Sergeant Feinberg’s broad face. “Precisely the way I see it myself. Meanwhile, this little discussion is just between ourselves — right?”

The other man waved a hand. “Of course. Off the record, what’s up?”

Perry Feinberg had been ready for that question for some time. “You may have heard that they are planning to start a Thule flying club.”

“Yes, I did catch some wind of that. And you want to park an airplane there.” The sergeant nodded.

“We may have one coming in,” Feinberg told him.

Sergeant Stovers carried his burden under one arm as he opened the heavy outer door of the building and then the inner one that provided a double seal. Safely inside, he hung up his parka, stashed his arctic hand coverings, and then without difficulty found the desk where Sergeant Mike Murphy was at work. Murphy’s desk was piled with a considerable work load of paper; on top of the largest pile, and weighing it down, there was a four-month-old copy of Better Homes and Gardens.

Stovers set down his load and dropped into a chair without ceremony. “How are you doing, Mike?” he offered.

Sergeant Murphy gave him his attention. “Hello, Bill. What in hell have you got there?”

“A communications set. It belongs to Andy Holcomb; he’d be here himself, but he’s down helping to get some things off the C-130.”

“That’s your job, isn’t it?” Murphy asked.

“Normally yes, but in this instance, Andy is the right man. What do you think of the set?”

Murphy barely glanced at it. “World War II,” he said flatly. “A relic.”

Bill Stovers was patient — a virtue that had been noted many times by others. “I’d like to plug it in and try it,” he stated calmly, “but I don’t want to blow the damn thing up. So I came to see your first.”

“Where, for the Lord’s sake, did you find it?”

Stovers stuck to the strict truth. “We were down in Sondrestrom,” he answered.

“I hope you didn’t pay anything for it.”

“No, but we would like to get it working. Can you give us a hand?”

“No,” Murphy answered.

Bill Stovers did not appear ruffled. “Somehow I got the notion that anything electronic was more or less up your alley.”

Murphy mellowed. “Look, Bill, nothing personal. First, to put it bluntly, the set isn’t worth fixing. Secondly, I’ve got a lot of work to do and not much time to get it done. I’m leaving, you know.”

“How much longer, Mike?”

“Just over six weeks. And I’m using every minute of my spare time. Do you remember Ted Funakoshi?”

“Yes, I met him in Frankfurt.”

“That’s the man. His family is big in the nursery field out in California. He’s retiring soon and so am I. We’re going to go into business together on the Coast. That sort of thing takes a lot of careful planning; I won’t be half-finished before it will be time to leave here. So understand, Bill, I don’t have either the time or the inclination to put several hours of work into checking out that antique set you have there.”

“All right,” Stovers said. He picked up the set and left; minutes later a base taxi deposited him in front of the personnel door to Hangar 8. He went inside with the communications set and discovered that some workbenches had already been set up in the back. Two men were inspecting the elevator that had been taken off the B-17. He put down the radio, studied the two propellers that were temporarily laid out on the floor, and then walked up to Perry Feinberg.

“Do you remember the discussion we had at the club about Mike Murphy and his ability to fix electronic gear?” he asked.

“Very well indeed,” Feinberg answered.

“At that time you said that there were two things that interested him. One of them was gardening.”

“Right.”

“What’s the other one?” Stovers asked.

A base taxi pulled up in front of Supply and Andy Holcomb got out. He opened the first door, stamped the excess snow off his feet, and then went inside. He didn’t know Atwater, but he found him sitting in civilian clothes at a desk that was comfortably covered with forms and requisitions. Because he was cheerful and outgoing, Andy had no trouble establishing contact with the man he had come to see. “I’m going to be stationed up here for a while,” he explained, “and I thought I’d drop in and see what your setup is like. I may be needing some things.”

“You name it, we’ve got it,” Atwater answered. “There’s a story that when Thule was first built back in 1951, somebody shipped up fifty lawn mowers to keep the grass cut. We don’t have any lawn mowers — if the story’s true they were sent back — but is there anything else on your mind?”

“I was thinking about some propeller stands.”

“We’ve got ’em; we used to have C-54’s in here. But I don’t know if you can use them; you’re on the C-130 aren’t you?”

“Right.”

“Our stands may not be big enough, those are pretty large props you’ve got. We can try; if they don’t fit, we can have one made up.”

“Let me try the one’s you already have,” Holcomb suggested.

“Fine. They’ll have to be dug out of cold storage and, believe me, that means cold. But we know just where they are. How soon?”

“Are you busy?”

Atwater got to his feet. “There’s something here you haven’t told me yet,” he said, “but let’s go and look at the stands if you’d like. I’ve got a truck outside.”

Atwater got his parka, donned his heavy gloves, and then led the way. His vehicle was nosed up to the building in a row of others. He went to the front, unplugged the electric heater, which was standard equipment in every car and truck at Thule, and then climbed inside. Andy joined him and they were off.

The flight ramp was well cleared of snow and there was little trouble getting to the large building where the seldom-used equipment was stored. Once inside, Atwater threw a switch and overhead lights revealed a remarkable scene. It too could have been a small corner of the earth after an atomic holocaust had wiped out all remaining forms of life. It was dead and inert; a heavy blanket of snow that had somehow found its way inside lay over everything with a virgin purity that seemed to forbid trespassing.

It was at least twenty below zero inside; because of that fact, Atwater’s breath was clouded in front of his face when he spoke. “I think I know right where to find them; I was looking at the diagram just the other day. A lot of stuff that’s here will probably never be used again, but we keep it — the rent is cheap.”

He led the way across the floor, his feet sinking to below the ankles at every step. He had a broom he had picked up close to the door, one that had obviously been left there for the purpose he intended. When he reached the spot he wanted, he set to work with the broom and in a few seconds he had uncovered the top of a stand that made Holcomb’s heart sing with joy. “That’s it,” Holcomb declared.

“We’ve got some engine stands here too,” Atwater said. “A little bit of everything.”

“Engine stands!” Holcomb could not keep the excitement out of his voice.

Atwater turned toward him. “Yes, engine stands. For piston engines. You can’t use them.”

Holcomb made a decision. “Just possibly I can,” he confided.

Atwater remained calm. “Suppose you tell me about it,” he invited.

“Make one guess,” Andy said.

The supply man thought a moment. “Everyone knows that you guys found another B-17 out on the ice cap.”

Holcomb nodded. “You’ve got it.”

“Good God!” Atwater thought some more. “I don’t think it’s possible.”

“Why not — there’s no corrosion out there. And the bird’s intact; she’s sitting up on her gear just as though she was on the ramp right here.”

A long pause filled the strange, frigid warehouse. “Does the colonel know about this?”

“He probably will, in time.”

“You’ll need hundreds of parts; that stands to reason.”

“You said you had everything.”

One more time Atwater thought. “Yes, as a matter of fact we do — even tubes for 1943 radios. But…”

Holcomb put his thumb on the scales. “Since you know, how about it — are you with us or not?”

Atwater gave another swish with the broom and more snow toppled off the long-unused propeller stand. “Count me in,” he said.

After the evening meal in the mess hall, a line equally made up of Danes and Americans formed in front of the base theater. A few men went to the immaculately maintained base library, which contained the newest books, as well as many on esoteric subjects. The two Danish librarians on duty were ready to transact business.

A small but steady flow went into the base gymnasium, a converted hangar that offered surprisingly good facilities. The karate class was due to meet and the NCO who taught it was warming up, loosening the tendons of his body.

Under the same roof the base bowling alley had a most unusual attraction — a woman. Captain Carolyn Yang from the base hospital was taking part in a foursome. She commanded all of the attention she could possibly desire. In addition to the nurses, there were also two female officers at the BMEWS installation at J Site, the massive radar installation that was the reason for Thule’s existence. They were never at a loss for invitations to go out, going out being somewhat limited 690 miles north of the Arctic Circle.

On the flight line, where no activity was scheduled, darkness had fallen. It served somewhat to cover the movements of several men who manned two trucks and drove toward the cold-storage area. Within half an hour the trucks were on their way back, this time being reasonably careful to keep out of sight. No one appeared to notice them, not even when they turned onto the ramp and then disappeared into the vaulting interior of Hangar 8.

Major David Valen, United States Air Force, was a tall man of slender build who was happiest when he could communicate with his fellow human beings in a quiet, nonspectacular way. No one at Thule could recall when he had raised his voice. He was also an excellent listener; he listened as Sergeant Stovers sat, fully relaxed, in his presence.

“So that’s it, sir,” Stovers concluded. “Now, may we count on you for a little help?”

“Of course. I’m not a mechanic, but any way that I can lend a hand I will. I’m in the resurrection business. What do you want me to do?”

“Well, Chaplain, we’ve hit a small snag. To restore the old aircraft just as she was, we have to fix the radios.”

“Of course.”

“Sergeant Mike Murphy is the man to do the job, but he’s a short-timer and he doesn’t want to get involved.”

“Then he should be persuaded. Suppose I talk to him about it. ”

“Excellent, sir, but we also had another idea.”

“Speak.”

“Mike has two main interests apart from his family: gardening and a certain Hollywood actress.”

“I’ve heard him refer to Monica Lee,” the major said.

Stovers nodded quickly. “You’ve got it, sir. As you know, she makes a specialty of playing the wholesome girl next door — a sort of professional virgin if you’ll pardon me. That’s why he likes her so much. With all the stuff that’s been coming out lately, she’s the only one who meets his standards of what a young woman should be. Mike has some very strong convictions.”

The major thought on that. “Yes, I know — he’s a fundamentalist all right, not that there’s anything wrong in that. But I do know that he doesn’t have any pinups on the wall, and that’s a decided novelty around here.”

“Now we’re on the same frequency, sir. To come to the point, Sergeant Feinberg mentioned to me that you know someone in Hollywood.”

Stovers paused at that point. He had never met the Protestant chaplain before, but the word was out that he was a solid citizen.

“What do you think will turn the trick?” Valen asked.

“In Perry Feinberg’s opinion, an autographed picture from her would be dynamite. If you could possibly get one for us, we will tell him that it’s his — as soon as the radios are working properly.”

“Ah, so.” The major reflected. “I don’t know if my friend in Hollywood knows Miss Lee or not, but he could probably arrange to see her without too much trouble.”

Stovers warmed to the good news. “Sir, since time is very short in Mike’s case, would you phone your Hollywood friend? We’ll pay the charges.”

The major shook his head. “In a good cause I’ll pay them myself. However, one question: when are you next going out to that abandoned B-17?”

“Tomorrow morning, sir. Quite early. A proficiency flight, you understand.”

“Perfectly. Now, am I invited to come along?”

“I was just about to ask you, sir.”

“How fortunate. In that case, perhaps I’d better book the call right away.” He reached for his telephone, but Stovers raised a hand.

“That’s already been done, sir. Sergeant Feinberg took care of it. He knows the base operator quite well, so you’ll be called on the first open spot.” He remembered his game plan. “If she could just sign it ‘To Sergeant Mike Murphy’ or something like that, then the problem is solved.”

“My contact is a pilot; may I tell him about the airplane?”

“Yes, sir, but please ask him to keep his mouth shut; we don’t want any publicity at this point.”

“Understood.” As if to punctuate that comment, the phone rang.

Sergeant Stovers discreetly took his departure. He was so quietly elated, he was all but unaware of the thirty-one-below-zero temperature he encountered as soon as he stepped outside. As he walked across the crisp snow, he noted that there was very little wind. For Thule, it seemed quite warm.

The shallow sun had long since painted a High Arctic twilight on a segment of the sky and then had silently and inexorably disappeared. A very deep cobalt blue formed the infinite sky overhead; not even a wisp of cloud interfered with the brilliant display of thousands of stars of varying intensity that proclaimed the night.

Venus hung brightly almost exactly due south, a beacon planet that shone from its own probable lifelessness down onto the sterile immensity of the timeless desert of ice. Throughout the ages the great ice cap had been building, inch by relentless inch, as the loose snow was solidified and then pressed down by successive layers until it at last surrendered its own identity and became part of the homogeneous mass that would endure until the end of earthly time, or until the coming of some overwhelming disaster that would boil the seas and unlock the ice cap’s trillions of tons of petrified water.

In the southern quadrant, where the vast sea of ice met the almost black sky to form the horizon, a three-quarters moon steadily rose — a cold light cast on an eternally frozen world. As the night slowly passed the moon climbed higher into the sky until it gave a faint illumination to the endless whiteness. Not within a radius of more than two hundred miles was there any living creature to witness the phenomenon; the wan beauty and stark reality of the spectacle were as wasted as the “gems of purest ray serene that the dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.”

Standing outlined in the cold moonlight, the remaining bulk of The Passionate Penguin was motionless and still. It had once been a machine capable of flight, a creation of the twentieth century, but as it stood effortlessly opposing the moderate wind that blew unfelt over the total desolation, the resistance it offered to the elements was totally passive. It was, or had been, only a machine, one of many thousands that had been built under the glowing hot stresses of war to fly and fight until it was shot down or the enemy capitulated. It felt nothing and it knew nothing.

The Passionate Penguin did not know and could not know, because it was incapable of feeling the pain of living things, that its partially amputated framework only gave the illusion of wholeness. Underneath, in the vital area where its basic structure was centered, the main right landing-gear fitting only barely still supported the weight above it. The impact of the final landing had been such a merciful release to the men who had been on board, they had been unaware of how severe it had been. The gear had not collapsed, by a blessed mechanical miracle, but the vital structural component had been broken.

During three decades of ice accumulation, and more than ten thousand days of drifting snow, the cracked section had gradually sealed over in a frigid embalmment. The Passionate Penguin was eternally grounded and the fatal rupture of her structure did not, of itself, make any material difference.

CHAPTER SIX

By 0800 hours the sun was up; it was still low on the horizon, but after the two-hour morning twilight it was providing abundant daylight even in northern Greenland. The long weeks of the unbroken Arctic night were over and the astonishing maze of Thule’s above-the-ground plumbing was fully revealed for all to see.

On the flight line, despite the fairly early hour, a good bit of activity was under way. Several trucks had already brought supplies to Hangar 8, where a large accumulation of gear was being built up. A diesel-powered generator was delivered, all sled mounted and ready to go. Almost two hundred separate tools had been laid out in a systematic pattern on the floor; they ranged from light wrenches and screwdrivers to two heavy sledges that had been produced from somewhere. There were also maintenance stands, A-frames equipped with block-and-tackle hoists, two large heating units and several smaller ones, various power tools, and even a small self-propelled crane that would fit inside a C-130 with four inches to spare.

The organization was remarkable. The advance planning had been brief, but thorough. As the best-qualified member of the team, Sergeant Holcomb was in charge of engineering. He had a list on a clipboard; as each piece of equipment was delivered and put into position, he carefully checked it off. He had to face only one disappointment — a meticulous search of the base library and all available records that might in any way supply the necessary data had failed to turn up any information at all concerning the structure of the B-17 bomber. All he had to work with were superficial facts: the wingspan was 103 feet, 9½ inches; the length was 74 feet, 4 inches; the height 19 feet, 1 inch; and the total gross weight, fully loaded, was 54,926 pounds. After making some careful calculations he had come up with an empty weight of 34,000 pounds, but that could not be considered more than an informed guess.

Another small truck arrived with some specialized tools that had been borrowed from the BMEWS installation. Andy checked them in and then noticed an item on his list that had not been crossed off. “Penetrating oil,” he called out. “Anybody got it?”

“Coming,” someone answered.

He turned to find Lieutenant Ferguson at his elbow. “Andy, if you take all of this stuff, there won’t be any room left to bring anything back.”

“It’s not all coming back, not on this trip. We’re going to leave some of the stands out there this time. They won’t be needed here; we have plenty more.”

“How many ACM’s are coming with us?”

Holcomb referred to his list. “We have twelve additional crew members and one deadhead — Major Valen, the chaplain.”

“Deadhead my ass,” Ferguson retorted. “If he comes, he works.”

“Don’t worry, sir, he will. He already has.”

“Why the sledges?”

“To drive out driftpins. We’re not certain, but they may be needed to get the wings off.”

Perry Feinberg, immense in his parka, appeared. “The last of the gear is here,” he advised. “Bill Stovers wants to start loading ASAP.”

“Begin now,” Holcomb authorized. He turned to Ferguson. “Sir, it would help like hell if we could have the Herc backed up to the main door so that we could go right up the rear ramp. We’ve got a lot of stuff to secure.”

“As of now,” Ferguson answered, and headed for the door. The whole spirit of the thing had his emotional batteries fully charged. Within ten minutes he had the powerful airlifter backed into position ready to receive her cargo. As the hangar door was opened enough to permit all of the equipment to be moved out, there were at least twenty men on hand to help with the work. Only the fact that it was Saturday made that many willing hands available.

The loading was half-completed when a staff car drew up. For a sick moment Ferguson thought it was the colonel, then he remembered that the base commander had a red light atop his own vehicle. The base Information Officer climbed out carrying a large bag of camera gear. He slung the strap across his shoulder and then came over to Ferguson.

“Morning,” he said. “I’m Tilton, the 10. We met at the mess hall.”

“Yes, of course,” Ferguson acknowledged.

“You know the motto of the information branch — Last to Know, First to Go. I only got wind of this last night. Good God, Scott, this is the biggest story we’ve had since the B-52 crash; you should have told me.”

“We’ve been trying to keep it quiet,” Ferguson admitted. “Nothing personal, Frank.”

“Forget it; you can’t. Anyway, you’ve got to have some pictures. I checked with the photo lab and found that no one had been assigned. So here I am.”

“No one is assigned to anything,” Ferguson explained, “not officially. This is a spare-time activity — call it a recreation project.”

“All right, but how about adding an ACM? You can’t leave me out of this one.”

Ferguson saw an opening. “Will you help cover for us if it becomes necessary?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then tell Perry Feinberg that you’re on the list; he’s handling personnel.”

The maintenance stands were being moved rapidly into the Hercules. The crane operator fired up his vehicle, preparatory to driving it on board. Because of the close fit, it would be the last thing to be loaded.

The crane went on six minutes later. Sergeant Stovers supervised its careful progress up the rear ramp and then had it come forward, almost literally inch by inch, until it was in position. Chains were waiting to secure it solidly, an operation that took an additional five minutes. Then, at last, everything was loaded and ready to go. Perry Feinberg checked the selected personnel on board and waved his thanks to others, all of whom held a first priority on the next trip. Stovers operated the controls that raised and sealed the rear ramp.

The APU was already splitting the morning air with its blasting shrillness. On the bridge Ferguson was going through the checklist with the aid of Corbin, his copilot. Lieutenant Jenkins spread out a chart and spun his computer to determine a climb-out heading.

“Weight and balance?” Ferguson queried when that item came up on the checklist.

“Satisfactory. Way under max gross; less than twelve thousand pounds.”

“All cargo and ACM’s secured?”

“Secured and briefing given.”

Four minutes later the first of the four powerful turbine engines began to rotate; as it gained speed the next one came to life. Presently the third started to whirl and the APU was shut down. The fourth propeller began to turn and then as the fire was lit it accelerated and became a visual disc. Corbin pressed the switch on his yoke and called the tower. In response he was given clearance to taxi and take position at the end of the runway. Ferguson released the brakes and the C-130 began to move forward across the ramp.

Corbin made the takeoff. He did a smooth job of it and climbed out steadily until he had enough altitude, then he set up a standard left turn toward the ice cap.

Captain Tilton loaded his cameras and prepared them for action. They were especially equipped with arctic batteries and were taped over wherever possible to avoid any contact between bare metal and the hands of the operator. Major Valen stood between Ferguson’s left seat and the side of the fuselage, looking ahead at the spectacle of the ice cap. Ferguson was flying then, with the autopilot disconnected. As his fingers gripped the yoke, he seemed to feel through them the life of the aircraft he commanded.

Corbin spoke over the intercom. “Do you think the colonel knows about this?”

Ferguson had thought about the same subject. “If he doesn’t he will shortly — that’s for sure. But he may not know officially. ”

“In other words, we don’t mention it to him unless he asks.”

“Right! If he orders me not to fly out here any more…” He left the sentence unfinished.

The remarkable visibility from the cockpit of the Hercules offered a panorama of the ice cap that no camera ever devised could capture. As far as the eye could see, over an arc of more than 180 degrees, the vast whiteness extended unbroken — a desert devoid of any form of life for more than 1,500 miles of stark grandeur. Ferguson had seen it many times, but like a schoolboy experiencing his first wonderful discovery of Sherlock Holmes, it held at that moment an almost hypnotic fascination. And it was going to be made to give up something that it had unlawfully seized and had held for more than a generation.

Or perhaps the ice cap was not to blame. Viewed another way, it had provided a haven — a resting place almost two miles up in the sky where a distressed aircraft had found sanctuary of a kind and her crew the opportunity for survival. Without the ice cap, it could have had a different ending. Perhaps, far underneath, there was jagged, hostile terrain that would destroy any aircraft that tried to find a place where it could get onto the ground. At some other part of the globe, in a jungle somewhere, the gallant old B-17 would have been destroyed by a hundred natural enemies within a few weeks or months. Only on the ice cap had she had a chance.

He flew on, a strange tingling running the length of his spine. He was insensitive to the passage of time.

“Dead ahead.”

Ferguson came to abruptly; he had been wool gathering more than he had realized. He scanned through the windshield and saw the B-17, little more than a tiny dot, a mile or two directly in front of him. “Pre-landing checklist,” he ordered.

He was alert as he planned his final approach. By rights it was Corbin’s turn, but he did not want to risk even the slightest mishap, good as he knew Corbin was. Tilton leaned over his shoulder to snap a picture. To accommodate the information officer he circled the wreck once, then put the skis down and set up his approach once more. With the power reduced he crept closer to the surface of the covering snow until the runway markers swept back underneath; then he eased the throttles back still farther and lifted the nose into a landing attitude. The Hercules slid onto the ice cap with hardly a quiver of the airframe.

With delicate skill Ferguson guided his aircraft to a position within a few feet of the right wingtip of the abandoned hulk and then stopped when the rear ramp was at a minimum distance from the nose of the World War II bomber. Well satisfied, he shut down and secured the flight controls and systems.

The rear ramp opened up and within two minutes the crane backed out. It’s huge tires sank a little into the hardened snow, but it was quite able to maneuver. As the first of the maintenance stands was being unloaded, Andy Holcomb began a detailed inspection of the B-17’s structure.

It was cold on the ice cap; a fair wind was blowing and the chill factor had to be somewhere around thirty below. That did not deter Holcomb, principally he was concerned with the work that had to be done.

In front of the nose of the bomber a large canvas was spread, on it a wide assortment of tools was laid out. Stands were placed around the number three engine and two men fired up a small heating unit to thaw out the propeller hub fastenings. Similar attention was being given to the other remaining propeller. Three more men equipped with another of the portable heating units spread a second canvas near to the tail and set up stands to reach the high rudder and vertical stabilizer. After five minutes of careful inspection, one of them called to Holcomb.

“Andy,” he reported. “Good news — it comes off. I was afraid that the fin was an integral part of the fuselage.”

“Need any help?” Holcomb asked.

“One more man would be welcome.” In response, Major Valen climbed up from where he had been standing on the snow. “I’m not a mechanic,” he said, “but I’ll lend a hand.”

Perry Feinberg started one of the big heating units and fed the large-diameter hose up into the fuselage. The ice cap came comfortably alive with noise.

Captain Tilton circulated, taking photographs as rapidly as he could get himself into position. He snapped one of Ferguson as the young aircraft commander stood near to the hull of the B-17 and then paused for a moment. “I want to record all this,” he declared. “It’s the first project of its kind I ever heard of. Whenever you need an extra hand, I’m available.”

“We’ll let you know,” Ferguson promised.

Stands were being placed around the number one engine and the remaining heater unit was spotted on top. All four engines would have to come off, but that should be no problem since one of them was already safely stored back in Hangar 8 and now there was the crane to help.

When the last of the gear had been removed from the C-130, Sergeant Stovers rigged a substantial canvas curtain to close off the front twenty feet of the hold. That done, he set out some of the food he had obtained from the mess hall and connected a good-sized coffee maker. He also laid out a kit of first-aid supplies in case of accident. Five minutes after he had finished, the crane moved into position to take the propeller from the number three engine as soon as it was freed.

Inside the fuselage of the B-17 Andy Holcomb was making a careful inspection; Ferguson was with him. “Hot damn!” the sergeant said. “Look, skipper, the fuselage breaks here, right behind the trailing edge of the wing. That should make it possible to bring her in in two approximately equal sections. What I’m saying is: neither section can be much more than forty feet long, which means that they will fit inside the C-130.”

“That’s great,” Ferguson replied. “Terrific — if the wings come off at the root. That’s the big question.”

“I know,” Holcomb answered. “There are fillets that will have to come off; we may have to drill out the rivets, but there are worse jobs.”

“Oh, sure.” Ferguson was checking the control cables that ran down the inside of the fuselage. “Andy, these appear to be in duplicate, but there are turnbuckles — they can be opened right up.”

“Boeing sure in hell knew what they were doing when they designed this baby. Simple and easy maintenance. That’s what you need for a war bird like her.”

“Let’s get all of this snow out of here,” Ferguson suggested. “Then we ought to be able to take up the flooring without too much trouble.”

“Do you feel strong, sir?”

“OK, I’ll do it.”

Holcomb dropped through the crew door opening down onto the snow and moments later passed up a broom. There was hardly room inside the cramped quarters of the B-17 to use it. “Let’s have a shovel,” Ferguson said.

As soon as he had the tool he wanted, Scott Ferguson set to work. The interior was growing warmer from the heater and he took off his parka. He worked willingly, pushing the snow up to the crew door and then shoving it down out of the aircraft. Because it was an aircraft and at the moment, it was his aircraft.

It was a tight fit in the center of the fuselage, between the wings. From in back he pitched the snow up onto the narrow walkway; when he had a sufficient pile, he climbed over it and cleared it off from the other side. When he had finished to his satisfaction, it was quite warm inside the old hull and he was mildly sweating. He knew the danger of that in the Arctic and stopped to let his metabolism return to normal.

Outside he heard the crane laboring; he looked through the part of the windshield that had partially defrosted and saw that the number one engine had just been detached and that the crane was backing away from the nacelle with it in a sling. Then the crane turned and headed toward the C-130.

A visual check told him that both of the remaining propellers had been removed. He was missing too much; he had to see what was going on. Forgetting the fact that his pores were still open, he dropped down onto the mound of snow he had made and walked out from under the belly of the aircraft.

He could hardly believe it all. The rudder was gone and the vertical stabilizer with it; the dorsal was still in place and he correctly assumed that it was an integral part of the rear fuselage. The empennage had almost been stripped clean, only one horizontal stabilizer was still in position and two men were working on that.

Andy Holcomb came up to him, smiling despite the penetrating cold wind. “Can you stand some good news?” he asked.

“Let’s have it.”

“Two things. First, the wings do come off right at the root next to the fuselage. We can’t do that yet, of course, but it doesn’t look too tough. We’ve already got penetrating oil on the driftpins. Also there are only about twenty connections, all told, between the main hull and the wing — that’s including mechanical and electrical. Secondly, the outer wing panels come off — about twenty feet from the tips. It’s simple; once we get the connections thawed out, we can take off the wingtips. That cuts each wing down from about forty-five feet to only twenty-five for the root sections. It makes everything a helluva lot easier.”

“Hurrah,” Ferguson said. He could hardly believe how well things were going.

“Now, sir, I’ve got to tell you that we also have an almost insurmountable problem.” Ferguson felt a sudden sinking feeling, but he did not dare to show it. “What is it?” he asked.

The flight engineer was suddenly quite grim. “Sir, you’d better brace yourself for this one. We are keeping on with the work, and we aren’t going to stop, but we’re afraid that we’re licked. It’s the wing root sections. You see, sir, we measured them. At the point where they attach to the fuselage, the chord is almost exactly nineteen feet.”

Ferguson tried to absorb that. “I didn’t realize they were anything like that wide,” he said.

“That’s how it is, and we can’t help it.”

Ferguson fought against what he already knew. “Andy, we’re going to have to split them some way.”

Holcomb shook his head. “No way, skipper. To split them you would have to take the whole wing literally apart, spars and all. Take off all the skin and if we did that, there’s no chance we could ever get them back together again without jigs and the whole lot. And the rear opening of the C-130 is just about nine feet square, as you know. It’s out of the question to try and carry those wing sections on the outside; it would be dangerous as all hell.”

“In other words?”

“In other words, we’ve got two vitally essential wing root sections out here on the ice cap, a helluva long way from Thule, and absolutely no way at all to bring them in. We’ve had it.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Lieutenant Scott Ferguson sat alone, his forearms resting on the table, his head tilted forward as he communed with his own thoughts. It was very quiet in the dining room of the NCO Club; the blare of the jukebox across the hall in the bar seemed not to penetrate. The Officers’ Club was open and available, but Ferguson was awaiting the arrival of Sergeant Feinberg, who had promised to join him. Meanwhile an almost untasted drink rested before him; he was in no mood for any temporal pleasures.

Everything had gone so splendidly until the wing root chords had been measured. Somehow everyone working on the recovery of The Passionate Penguin had known; the job had gone on, but it had become a mechanical exercise — something that had been started and therefore everyone went through the motions of continuing until such time as it was formally called off.

The ice cap had won.

Or the Penguin had lost: the ice cap hadn’t made her wings too big to load even into the wide-mouthed C-130.

Another young officer entered the room and looked about him. Ferguson inspected him, but as far as he knew, they had never met. Ferguson definitely did not want any company, but he was also acutely aware of how close-knit the Thule community was — there was no other air base like it. The extreme Arctic isolation brought everyone together and he could not afford, as one of the newest officers aboard, to appear less than cordial. Therefore when he met the man’s eye, he gestured an invitation.

The other lieutenant came over, drew out a chair, and sat down.

“My name is Collins,” he said. “Tom Collins.”

“Yes, sir,” a waiter said, directly behind him.

Collins raised a hand. “That’s my name, not an order. Bring me a martini.” He looked again at Ferguson. “What are you drinking?” he asked.

“I’m fine, thank you. Scott Ferguson.” He held out his hand.

“Are you on the C-130 that came in?”

“It’s my airplane.”

“Welcome aboard. You don’t look too happy.”

“I’m not.”

“Brace yourself; Thule isn’t that bad. One year and it’s all over. And in summer, the scenery is pretty spectacular.”

Ferguson didn’t want to pursue that topic any further. “What’s your job?” he asked.

Collins sat up straighter and assumed an attitude. “I am one of the chosen few,” he replied. “The gods of fortune have smiled upon me. I am a helicopter pilot.”

“Sit down anyway,” Ferguson said. Collins was already sitting, but that was an unimportant technical detail.

“Someday,” Collins continued, “you may have to ditch in the drink. When that happens, do not despair. We’ll be along to fish you out.”

“There isn’t any water up here,” Ferguson noted. “It’s all ice. Unlimited masses of ice.”

“So much the better — that way you don’t have to get wet.”

The waiter reappeared with the martini and set it down. Close behind him Andy Holcomb was approaching. Ferguson waved him to a chair. “Lieutenant Collins, Sergeant Holcomb. My flight engineer.”

“My pleasure,” Collins said, and shook hands.

Holcomb had some notes he spread out on the table. “Sir, do you feel like talking?” he asked.

“Go ahead. Tom here will keep his mouth shut I’m sure.”

“About the B-17? Everybody knows, but whatever goes on at this table is under the rose, OK?” Collins signaled the waiter and pointed to Holcomb. Andy ordered a beer.

“I’ve come to discuss some possibilities,” Holcomb began. “First, I reviewed the idea of disassembling the wing root sections, but finally and absolutely that’s out. I can quote a dozen engineering reasons, one of them being we don’t have any jigs to put them back together in. Forget it.”

“All right,” Ferguson agreed.

“So we’ve got to move them in as is — or as will be when we get them off the rest of the airframe. The nacelles don’t come off; possibly we could drill the rivets out, but it would be a hideous job to try and disassemble the engine frames and then get them back together again. Nyet.”

Ferguson tried his drink at last; he needed it. “I won’t argue; they’ve got to come in as is. If we get them in at all.”

“I know, sir, I feel just the way you do. But there’s got to be a way. Alternative one — dog teams. Det. Four, the helicopter outfit, flies regularly to an Eskimo village north of here, seventy or eighty miles up the coast. It’s called Kanak, I believe. They have dog teams. And dog teams, I find out, have been regularly moved by helicopter. So we get the whirlybird boys to bring in a couple of dog teams and drivers. We take them out on the ice cap. Then they go to work.”

“Andy, I don’t want to be the devil’s advocate,” Ferguson said, “but that’s an awfully long shot. It’s a helluva ways out there, you know that. Secondly, I don’t know how much a dog team can handle, but remember that those damn root sections are nineteen feet wide and twenty-five feet long, more or less. Plus the nacelles. I don’t think they can do it; they won’t have sleds anything like that size.”

“How much do they weigh?” Collins asked.

Holcomb had been working on that. “I’ve made an estimate,” he replied. “I can’t get the exact data; maybe Boeing has it, but it would take two weeks at the least to try and find out from them. Basically there are three elements: the skin, the spars, and the fuel cells. The skin won’t amount to much. There are two spars and they are rugged as hell, so they will weigh up. Then there are the fuel cells and they can’t be removed without taking the whole wing apart. I figure four hundred pounds for them. So all told, I make it about twelve hundred and fifty pounds. That’s an informed guess, no more.”

“I don’t know how much distance a dog team can make in a day, but thirty miles should represent a limit,” Ferguson said. “That means a minimum of ten days at maximum output. And we’d have to drop supplies all along the way. Plus the fact that there are two of those root sections. Forget the dog teams, Andy, they’d never be able to do it.”

“All right, we come to that noble organization, the United States Army. The Army built Camp Century; tons upon tons of stuff were hauled out onto the ice cap. They built a whole city, remember, and our wing roots can’t be the same load as, say, a nuclear reactor. They must have the sleds that can do it, and the snow cats to pull them.” By the time he had finished there was a decided look of hope and expectation on his face.

“The Army could do it,” Collins agreed, “but none of that gear is here. Getting them to bring it back again for an unofficial project would be hell. Even if it was here, asking them to go out that far would be tough. They might, but none of that equipment is anywhere closer than Sondrestrom at the best.”

Perry Feinberg appeared and was introduced to Collins. He sat down and, in a drastic departure from his usual form, displayed a hint of discouragement. “The troops are dis-spirited,” he reported. “The stuff is all unloaded and in the hangar, but it was a chore.”

“How do we stand?”

“We’ve got both outer wing panels, all four props, three engines, and the complete tail assembly. And some miscellaneous bits and pieces. But those damn wing roots. .”

“We’ve discarded the idea of dog teams,” Holcomb told him. “And the Army has taken away the stuff it used to build Camp Century.”

Perry Feinberg began to recover. “I covered the same ground and got the same answers. However, we do have Trackmasters here for use in phases. If we built a sled that would hold them, we might be able to airlift the sled out there and also a Trackmaster. Of course the colonel would have to approve that and he is a bear about keeping all rescue equipment on the ready at all times. The Trackmasters are rescue vehicles.”

Ferguson was looking hard at the table top, hearing nothing. The others noted his condition and waited. Finally, he looked at Collins. “What kind of choppers do you fly?” he asked.

“Jollies. Jolly Green Giants. HH-3’s.”

“What kind of an operating range do you have?”

“Maximum, about a hundred and seventy miles.”

That figure was a blow, but Ferguson persisted. “How many do you have?”

“Two. That was the full complement of aircraft here at Thule until you arrived with that fixed-wing monster.”

Ferguson ignored the jibe; greater matters were on his mind. “How much weight can a helicopter lift?” he asked.

“The sky crane can hoist ten tons with no sweat.”

“How much can a Jolly lift?”

“That depends on the fuel load and what equipment is on board. Normally we carry six thousand pounds of fuel. And because we are rescue vehicles, we have to have eight hundred pounds of rescue gear on board at all times.”

“But with full tanks and all the rescue gear, you still have a reserve capacity?”

“Oh, sure, we carry a full load of passengers, their baggage, and the crew.”

“With a half-fuel load, then, you could pick up a piece of hardware that weighed twelve to fifteen hundred pounds.”

“With a sling, no sweat. I know what you’re thinking, but we don’t have anything like the range to go and get those wing roots for you.”

Perry Feinberg had a thought. “Just suppose,” he said, “that we were out on the ice cap and stranded where the B-17 is. For some reason, we couldn’t fly. What then?”

Collins shrugged his shoulders. “Then we’d come and get you, that’s all.”

“How?” Holcomb asked.

“Several ways. When an active rescue is on, and lives are at stake, we do a lot of things that aren’t in the book. We have a midair refueling capability, but that calls for a tanker, of course.”

“What kind of a tanker?”

“A C-130.”

“Ah!”

“But it has to be specially equipped and yours won’t do.”

Ferguson was thinking intensely. “Maybe it will,” he declared. “Not for midair refueling, but we sure as hell can spot fuel bladders or drums for you along the route.”

“And put beepers on them so you can find them,” Holcomb added.

“You’d have to talk to the major,” Collins said.

“I am acquainted with the major,” Feinberg said. “A splendid gentleman and of course a superb pilot, but something of a stickler for the rules.”

“That he is.”

“One last question,” Ferguson interjected. “Tom, suppose somehow we could get this set up — do you see any technical reason why it wouldn’t be possible?”

Collins thought. “No, none that we couldn’t overcome. You know the reputation of the Jollies. It would be a helluva operation, but we could probably hack it.”

Andy was not satisfied. “And if we did manage to get approval, would the guys at Det. Four go for it? Would they give us a hand?”

“Oh hell yes,” Collins answered.

To Sergeant William Stovers, a problem was not something to worry about — it was something to be solved. It was in that context that while the others were talking in the NCO Club, he pushed open the series of doors that gave access to the hangar where Det. 4 was housed, stamped the snow off his feet, and hung up his parka. Then he went inside. With a sure instinct he avoided the section where the commander and the other officers would be found and instead located the area where the working NCO’s were busy.

He was made welcome. A mug of hot coffee was placed in his hand and a chair was put at his disposal.

“I’ve got to admit,” he said, “that I know very little about helicopters. Since I’m going to be up here awhile, it seemed like a good idea to come down and find out a few things.”

“That’s a helluva good idea,” the chief of maintenance responded. “Have you had any rotary-wing experience at all?”

“A couple of superficial rides,” Stovers answered, “but all I did was sit on my butt in the cabin.”

“Let’s go look at the airplanes,” the chief suggested.

Stovers was so well attuned to what he was doing, he did not even flinch when he heard the word “airplanes.” He followed his guide into the main hangar area, where two of the big helicopters were sitting in perfect alignment side by side. There was plenty of space between them, Stovers noted, and the housekeeping inside the hangar was immaculate.

“We always maintain an alert posture,” the Det. 4 man explained. “Of course, we never know when a call may come in, but when one does — we’re ready. If we have any reason to expect one, we have one of the airplanes fully cocked so that all the crew has to do is to jump on board and hit the starters.”

“How do you cock them?” Stovers asked.

“We go through all the preliminary checklists — and they’re quite complicated — and take everything up to the ‘start engines’ stage. After that no one touches the ship or changes anything. If any work becomes necessary, we go through the whole thing again.”

“They must be very complex machines.”

“That’s right, Bill, they are. They have all kinds of special systems and flying them isn’t that easy.”

Stovers began to lead into his subject. He looked carefully inside the cabin and counted the available seats. He measured the remaining cargo space with an experienced eye. Then he studied the size of the airframe and tried to relate the physical dimensions to the machine’s ability to lift. “I see that you can carry ten or twelve pax,” he commented.

“Yes, easily. Plus all their gear and baggage. We do that all the time when we go out to the Eskimo villages.”

“You carry a lot of semi-permanent gear.”

“Yes, that’s all rescue equipment. It has to be on board at all times. If we get a call when we’re going someplace, we can divert right then and there and we’ll have everything with us. About eight hundred pounds worth.”

“Isn’t it true,” Stovers asked, “that you can also carry things externally?”

“Absolutely, that’s one of the advantages of a helicopter. They use them, for instance, in erecting high tension towers. When they want to build a cross-country electrical trunk line, they assemble the tops of the towers on the ground, which is a lot easier. Then a helicopter picks them up, one after another, and puts them in place. A skyhook in other words.”

“These aircraft could do that?”

“Yes, the H-3 could, depending on the size of the towers of course.”

“Is there anything in particular that you carry?”

“Yes, Firebees for one thing. They’re pilotless drones that we recover and carry externally.”

“How big are they?”

“Almost twenty-three feet long, a little less than thirteen feet in span.”

“How much do they weigh?” he asked.

“Empty, about fourteen hundred and fifty pounds, but they can gross up to thirty-two hundred.”

A half an hour later Bill Stovers left the Det. 4 hangar and took a cab to Hangar 8. It was a short distance, but he had already been at Thule long enough to know that wandering around in severe sub-zero temperatures was definitely not recommended. That was one reason why the free taxi service had been set up.

The driver did not mind at all. He dropped Bill at the doorway and then asked casually, “What’s going on in there?”

“Some repair work,” Stovers answered.

Once inside he turned on the overhead lights and then spent ten minutes surveying all of the parts and components that had already been brought in. The wing panels had been laid out in their approximate positions on the floor. The four propellers were in a neat row. One engine had been mounted on a stand and two of the cylinders have been taken off.

When he had inspected everything to his satisfaction, he walked over to the workbenches that had been set up. On one of them he found the first real piece of aircraft structure that had been brought in — the left stabilizer. He examined it minutely, as though it had some special secret that it could reveal to him. When he was at last satisfied, he checked carefully to see what sort of tools were at hand.

From a hidden corner of Supply someone had unearthed aircraft cleaning compound. Placed next to it there was an electric buffer with several spare discs.

Sergeant Stovers took off his parka and folded his sleeves back above his elbows. Then he set to work. He tried a small test area first, carefully rubbing the cleaner by hand until the accumulated patina of soil had been loosened and partly wiped away. Then he switched on the electric buffer and guided it carefully over the metal. The results were satisfying. As soon as the test section had been thoroughly cleaned, he looked for polish, found some, and applied it to the same small area. When it had dried sufficiently he used the buffer once more. This time the aluminum brightened until it shone like new — each individual rivet head a tiny bright eye studding the surface of the Alclad.

That was all that he had to see. He worked on for more than three hours, carefully and systematically, until he was finished. Then he replaced the tools and threw the waste into a barrel. He knew why no one else had come to put in some spare time and he was glad for his own reasons that he had not been interrupted. When he had finished putting everything in order, he checked over his handiwork.

The left stabilizer shone more brilliantly than it probably had when it had been indeed brand-new. The transformation was phenomenal; no one looking at it would call it anything other than a fine aircraft part; even by the not too brilliant hangar lighting far over head it showed highlights on its almost dazzling surface.

Bill Stovers was satisfied. When the others saw it, they would get the message. He got back into his parka, called a cab, and then waited outside in order to let the icy air cool the fire in his brain.

It was almost an hour later when another vehicle pulled up before the door of Hangar 8. The tall man who got out was alone. After shutting the door of his staff car, he looked around to be sure that he was not observed. When he saw no one, he went inside and found the switch; once more the overhead lights came to life.

He did not bother to take off his parka, but he did walk around and look at the various parts that were laid out on the slightly concave floor. As he surveyed them and appraised their condition, he pressed his lips silently together and without realizing it, shook his head.

He was about to leave when he looked toward the workbenches and saw the bright reflections from the stabilizer. He walked over, at a slightly faster pace, and stared down at the polished aluminum. He ran a hand over the surface and examined it by touch as well as by sight. Then he lifted one end and sighted down the edge to be sure that it was straight and true. He checked the fittings and found them all to be in apparent good order.

Despite himself, he began to revise his thinking. He drew breath and spoke aloud, to himself. “Maybe they can do it,” he said. “Just possibly they can.”

Almost at once he discovered that his mood had improved. He definitely felt better as he snapped off the lights and emerged once again into the frigid Arctic night. As he walked toward his car, a small brown shadow shifted position on the snow. He stopped and watched the movements of the tiny Arctic fox.

“Hello, Archie,” he said, fully aloud this time. He felt in the pocket of his parka, but he had nothing to throw to the little animal.

It came a few steps toward him, hoping for food, but the man it was trying to approach backed away. He liked animals, but he knew that the Archies were almost all rabid, despite the fact that they showed none of the symptoms. Many of the husky sled dogs also carried the deadly disease, and had to be treated accordingly.

When Archie was convinced that his new-found friend had nothing to give to him, the little creature ran off into the night, its very thick fur making it possible for it to survive under the severe conditions that were all that it knew.

Regretting that he had had nothing to offer to the hopeful little animal, the colonel got back into his vehicle and drove away.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The visitor who enters the Non-Commissioned Officers’ Club at Thule will find the bar to his right, immediately after the checkroom, where he can leave his parka. To his left there is a dining room which offers an unexpected degree of elegance in the almost desperate isolation in the High Arctic. Straight ahead there is a large room, with a bandstand at the west end, which can serve many purposes. It was toward this room that Chief Master Sergeant Perry Feinberg made his impressive way.

When he entered the room he found, as he had expected, that some ten of his colleagues were gathered, seeking consolation. At once his broad face illuminated in a beaming smile; he suggested Franklin D. Roosevelt listening to the election returns whenever he happened to be running for President.

Without waiting for an invitation, Sergeant Feinberg seated himself. “Gentlemen,” he announced. “Our troubles are over. I have reached a decision.”

Sergeant Steele, from Operations, looked at him from under heavy lids. “Would you care to favor us with your conclusions?” he asked.

“Certainly.” Sergeant Feinberg was expansive. “After carefully reviewing all aspects of the matter, I have decided that the boys in Det. Four are going to bring in the wing root sections for us. Sergeant Prevost, who owns one of the Jollies, has advised me that they can do it. I regard his opinion as final.”

Bill Stovers said nothing, content to wait and see what was coming next.

Atwater, from Supply, filled in as straight man. “Now that it has been decided that the splendid gentlemen from Det. Four, which includes the junior officers, are going to accomplish this miracle a couple of hundred miles beyond their normal operating range, has anyone been so thoughtful as to notify them of this fact?”

Sergeant Feinberg lit a cigar in the grand manner. “All in due time,” he answered. “A few minor details remain to be resolved.”

“The colonel for one,” Holcomb suggested.

“Quite possibly, yes,” Feinberg concurred. “But I regard the colonel as a most enlightened man of great capability. It’s the dunderheads who usually bollix up the works. They lack imagination.”

“If he needs to get someone in line,” Steele said, “the colonel can be highly imaginative.”

“Now,” Sergeant Feinberg expounded, “what we need to do is to impress on the commander of Det. Four the somewhat urgent need for a realistic, long-range training exercise.”

By a fortunate — and carefully arranged — coincidence, two of the younger helicopter pilots from Det. 4 developed a sudden interest in the C-130 airlifter and in its forthcoming mission on the ice cap. They were, therefore, on the flight line quite early the following morning, in arctic flight suits, prepared for an orientation ride in the big Hercules. Ferguson welcomed them and after a brief preliminary agreement, he took them into Hangar 8. Four men were working on the engine that had already been stripped of two of its cylinders. “It’s been there thirty years,” Ferguson said, “but it’s been in a deep freeze — no corrosion, no rust. It can be overhauled.”

“That’s incredible,” one of the helicopter pilots declared.

“If you can freeze a steak, why not an airplane?” Ferguson asked. “And the airplane is a helluva lot more durable. Think of it this way: a lot of planes are tied down outside the year around in all weather and they still last for twenty years or more.”

“That’s true,” the other pilot agreed. “I used to own part of one.”

Ferguson made the most of the carefully shined-up left stabilizer. He exhibited it and let his two guests look it over in detail. When they had done so, he knew that he had them sold. “Another thing,” he added by way of further explanation. “Just because aircraft are few and far between up here right now doesn’t mean that we’re short of good mechanics. Some of the best in the business are here, many of them in other types of jobs. This isn’t being undertaken by a bunch of amateurs.”

“Obviously not,” the first pilot agreed. “Let’s get going, we’re ready.”

“Sergeant Stovers is the loadmaster,” Ferguson told him. “He’ll let us know when the gear is loaded. The bird is cocked, so it won’t take us long to fire up.”

Less than fifteen minutes later the Hercules lifted off the Thule runway with a total of twenty persons on board and a considerable amount of equipment. A small tractor tug with a snowplow attached sat close to the rear ramp opening. Its nineteen-year-old operator had a wide grin on his face: he knew that he was good and he was anticipating the chance to prove it.

Even Sergeant Feinberg had to admit that the cockpit drill was beyond reproach; it was a premium quality crew all the way. He still thought so after what remained of The Passionate Penguin showed up, within one minute of Lieutenant Jenkins’s estimated time of arrival. Ferguson put the skis down and executed another of his near-perfect ice cap landings. There was a moderate crosswind, but that did not trouble him at all. When the big Here slid to a stop, it was again almost wingtip to wingtip with the derelict B-17, an arrangement that was spoiled only by the fact that the World War II bomber had no wingtips left — they were back in Hangar 8 at Thule.

The work for the day had been carefully laid out in advance. Enthusiasm had returned; it was assumed that somehow the helicopter detachment would solve the problem of the oversize wing root sections.

A large A-frame that had been left at the site was rigged over the outer end of the right wing root and a sling was fitted under the wing section. When that had been done, the line from the block and tackle was attached to the small tractor that was fired up and ready for action. As the tractor backed away, its driver cautiously obeying the hand signals of Andy Holcomb, the sling tightened and for the first time in more than a generation, the right main wheel lifted off the ground.

A canvas was spread underneath it to make the job easier and four men began to disassemble the landing gear. In the sub-zero temperature and moderate wind high on the ice cap, it was a difficult job, but a large portable heater helped greatly by unfreezing the fittings and by offering a warmed area in which to work.

While that was going on, the remaining engine was being removed with the aid of a smaller, but powerful, heater-defroster. The remaining large heater was once more at work pouring warmed air into the fuselage.

Meanwhile the fairings at the wing root were being taken off to expose the heavy driftpins that held the wings on. They would have to be sledged out and it would be, at the best, a difficult task.

But nobody minded. Least of all Sergeant Holcomb, who was foreman for the whole job. Inside the fuselage, Lieutenant Jenkins was busy carefully removing the bolts that held the front and rear sections of the fuselage together. He was not alone: the two helicopter pilots joined him in his labors while Bill Stovers carefully undid the turnbuckles that held the complete double set of control cables in position.

In one hour and twenty-two minutes that job was completed; The Passionate Penguin’s fuselage had been separated into two sections just behind what remained of her wings.

For the next forty-five minutes the tractor operator was in his glory. With his snowplow blade he built a ramp at the rear of the C-130 up to the interior floor level. When the ramp on the aircraft was raised to the level position, he pushed some snow onto it to make sliding easier. Then he drove his powerful little vehicle across the snow toward the tail of the old bomber.

It took ten minutes to rig the ropes properly. When Sergeant Holcomb was at last fully satisfied, the tractor was ready to pull. At that moment someone remembered; he yelled, “Stop! You forgot the tail wheel!”

It took forty-five minutes to correct that oversight. The wheel could not be raised into its well, so it was taken off after enough snow had been shoveled away to make the work possible.

The rest was almost anticlimactic — the tractor pulled, the fuselage shuddered slightly, and then the rear section slid slowly backwards, an empty tapered cylinder that had been stripped of all of its tail surfaces — only the dorsal remained in position.

With expert skill the tractor driver turned the section around, then pulled it across the loose snow to the end of the ramp he had made with his blade. Then he unhitched and drove around to the open end so that he could push the half-fuselage section into the C-130, tail end first.

Sergeant Stovers saw to every detail of that. He had a freight pallet waiting on the 463L tracks that were fitted into the floor of the Hercules. At very slow speed, and with extreme care, the fuselage half was pushed on board, a wooden plank cushioning the contact between the tractor and the fuselage itself. It took an hour to do it and to fasten the section down, but when the job had been completed, despite his temperament Bill Stovers wanted to cheer. They had been bringing back bits and pieces; now they were bringing back an airplane.

The right landing gear went in on a sled; the remaining engine came down off the nacelle that had held it so long and was carefully rested on another sled that was waiting to receive it. The nose section of the old bomber remained exactly where it had been except for the tilt of its wing; the snow packed underneath its center section was enough to hold it in place.

There was a break for lunch aboard the C-130, then the other main landing gear was recovered. “I wonder about the tires,” Atwater said to Andy Holcomb. “Those we haven’t got in Supply, of course, and I don’t know where to get any more.”

“Somebody must stock them,” Andy replied. “I’ve been reading up — did you know that there are several B-17’s flying in California right now? They use them to drop retardants onto forest fires. That means lots of landings and takeoffs, which means they have to have a source for tires.”

“It sounds logical,” Atwater agreed. “I’ll start nosing around.”

The toughest part of the work was separating the wing root sections from the main fuselage forward section, which was all that remained. The heavy tapered pins were rammed home so securely that repeated attacks with a powerful sledge did not seem to budge them a bit. Heat was applied, and more penetrating oil, but the stubborn pins would not let go. Everything else was ready; the service lines into the wing had been uncoupled and only the driftpins stood in the way of progress.

Still they refused to yield. “No wonder the B-17 was so tough,” Ferguson said to Perry Feinberg. “Even the right way, it’s almost impossible to get it apart.”

The massive chief master sergeant smiled. “It is obviously now time,” he declared, “for me to get into the act. We should have brought Angelo from the weather service; he’s a weight lifter and a muscle man. But since he is not here, I shall have to attend to it personally.”

In his heavy arctic boots and other equipment, Feinberg climbed up into position, took off his two outer pairs of gloves, and fitted a smaller leather pair into position. Then he hefted the sledge, calculated his stance, adjusted his position minutely, drew a deep breath, and swung the sledge in a mighty arc through the air. The whole remaining aircraft shuddered from the impact, but the pin did not visibly move. On the sixth swing it did; it shot out of its socket and was very nearly lost in the snow.

After the first victory the rest seemed easier; it had been proven that it could be done. Two hours and twenty minutes later, which was a longer time than Ferguson had intended to spend on the ice cap by a considerable margin, the last pin on the left side let go. The wings were off. The tractor pulled them a little to one side. As the sun threw the last of its light into the sky, all that remained of The Passionate Penguin on the ice cap was half a fuselage section and the two huge wing root sections. The back of the massive job had been broken.

Thirty-five minutes out of Thule, at 16,000 feet, Ferguson received notification of a Phase Alert. Although he had not spent much time at Thule, he had been thoroughly briefed on the intense Arctic storms that occurred there during eight months of the year. They were highly dangerous, so much so that going out under Phase Two or Phase Three conditions, except in pairs and on specifically authorized missions, was a court-martial offense. He radioed back at once, giving his position and ETA, and asking for further advice, if any.

Thule reported that Phase Alert was in effect, but that he could continue his approach at best possible speed. Phase One, the first drastic level of the expected storm, was estimated to be an hour away. Ferguson began an immediate letdown at close to red-line speed; at the same time he asked Jenkins to work out immediate headings for Sondrestrom, in case he would have to divert there, and for Alert, the Canadian military facility at the extreme northern tip of Ellesmere Island, some 420 miles from the geographic North Pole — a place he was eager to see. This northernmost permanently occupied point on the globe had a landing strip that could handle a C-130; he knew that because the Canadians passed through Thule with their C-130’s on their way up to the ultra-isolated station. Normally Alert was closed to all visitors, but a United States Air Force transport forced to fly there, and with only military personnel on board, would probably be accepted. Meanwhile, as Jenkins worked out the headings, he continued his approach to Thule and communicated with the ground people there every few minutes.

When he was fifteen minutes out, he was advised that Phase One was definitely coming, but it was likely he would be able to get in all right before it hit. He was cautioned to watch out for strong and possibly rapidly shifting winds.

Ferguson put out of his mind the thought that he was carrying a considerable portion of the Penguin’s fuselage in the cargo hold; he passed back the word that an emergency landing might be in the cards and ordered all personnel to fasten seat belts. Sergeant Stovers made another thorough check — as he had twice before — of the lines securing the cargo and equipment on board. When he was satisfied, he seated himself once more and pulled his seat belt as tight as he was able. He knew what a phase was.

As the C-130 came down from over the ice cap, Ferguson did not waste moments by setting up a conservative formal approach; instead he asked for clearance, got it, and then racked his aircraft around in a steep turn that pointed his right wing almost directly at the ground. Gear and flaps down, he swung over the end of the runway, chopped the power, and put the Hercules on, halfway down the strip. He had 10,000 feet to work with and half of that was more than adequate under emergency conditions. He encountered a sharp gust just as he touched down, but reacted quickly and successfully. He was clear of the runway in seconds, and headed for the shelter of Hangar 8. The ground people raised the door so that it was fully open just as he arrived on the ramp outside. Ferguson fed in a little power and taxied directly inside. By the time that the props had stopped turning, the door was closed and sealed.

The extreme High Arctic base of the United States Air Force was located in northern Greenland by permission of the Danish government. Since Greenland is a county of Denmark proper, very close cooperation between Denmark and the United States is both a pleasant fact and an absolute necessity. Thule Air Base is owned and used by the United States, but the physical operation of the facility is a Danish responsibility. All of the Danes who work there are required to be able to speak English. It is a voluntary, civilian service suitable only for men who enjoy the very high Arctic and who can adjust without difficulty to that demanding environment. Some of the Danish civilian personnel have been on the job for many years. A few actually find comfort in the solitude that Thule provides, and they empathize with its wild and stark scenery during the daylight months.

After two years at Thule, Danish citizens are excused from paying the very substantial income tax imposed by their country. For as long as they choose to remain, they continue to enjoy tax-free status — it is one of the major inducements to serve in the Arctic.

The architecture of the base is not another. Most of the buildings are low, cubical, prefabricated structures designed for maximum utility and zero aesthetics. The only concession to decor is the Thule Christmas tree. Enjoying its eminent status as the only tree in Greenland, it rises some twenty feet in front of the headquarters building. It is lit as a symbol of the holiday festivities in November when the long Arctic night settles in and it continues to spread holiday spirit until late in February when the sun begins to be visible once more. In the unbroken blackness of high noon in January the Christmas tree shines out its message and offers good cheer. It is undoubtedly the longest-lasting Christmas tree on earth. Constructed of pipe that has been carefully welded and then painted, the tree can withstand winds of more than 150 miles per hour — and it has.

Building 708 at Thule is known as “the high rise” because it towers a dizzying three stories against the background of the not-too-distant ice cap. It is an officers’ billet that houses the base commander, VIP guests, the executive staff, the pilots of Det. 4, the Catholic and Protestant chaplains, and a superb collection of fetching and heartwarming pinups. There is also a small indoor garden that draws its nourishment from fluorescent lights hung overhead.

There is a closed and restricted room, which becomes an immediate command post in the event of Phase Two weather. During Phase Alert and Phase One it is not activated, but if Phase Two conditions are declared, the command post goes into action. One of its major functions is to account for every person on the base, Danish or American. Since phase weather can be swiftly fatal without the fullest protection, the head count is vital. Widely known at Thule is a powerful Dane, a bearded giant of a man who, some years before The Passionate Penguin was rediscovered, was caught out of doors in a Phase Three and survived. Only indomitable will, tremendous physical toughness, and fantastic luck had made it possible.

During Phase Alert, all preparations for severe weather are made, time permitting. All loose equipment or materials outside must be secured.

During Phase One, indoor activities may continue, but outdoor pedestrian travel is by the buddy system only. Trips to the great BMEWS installation that is commonly referred to as J Site may be made only if authorized.

If Phase Two is declared, all personnel must remain in whatever building they are in. Those outdoors must seek immediate shelter in the nearest possible place. Vehicle traffic is limited to authorized emergency equipment only. The buddy system is mandatory.

Phase Three requires every person on base to report his whereabouts. Outdoor travel of any kind is forbidden — with the sole exception of authorized rescue efforts. For this purpose the Trackmasters, which resemble tanks as much as anything else, are called into use. Designed to operate under the most violent of Arctic conditions, they can maneuver on and off roads with their very wide, multilevel tracks. They are low to the ground and can go almost anywhere to seek and, if possible, rescue personnel caught stranded in conventional vehicles or out in the open.

Phases can last a few minutes or several days. They can come with very little warning and great violence. Along the road between Thule proper and J Site, there is a series of phase shacks built to give emergency shelter and to withstand whatever the Arctic can throw at them. Phase shack number seven was equipped with an anemometer until the instrument finally blew off the roof — but not before recording a wind velocity of 207 miles per hour, the second highest wind speed ever measured on earth. How much higher the wind got after that no one knows.

Lieutenant Ferguson and his crew members, regular and added, were still in the hanger securing the C-130 when Phase One was declared. As the loudspeaker repeated the news, Andy Holcomb rushed to the phone and requested three cabs for the trip from Hanger 8 to the mess hall. None of the men had eaten, and if Phase Two were to come, the mess hall was as good a place to be trapped as any.

The dispatcher could not promise immediate service. At that point Chief Master Sergeant Feinberg made his presence known over the line and suggested urgency. The cabs, in the form of six-pack pickups, arrived within five minutes.

The wind was vicious as the men climbed inside the sturdy vehicles. The weather was already unflyable; sharp gusts picked up clouds of loose snow and flung them wildly against the sides of the hangars, against the trucks, and against the parka-clad men as they scrambled to get inside the cabs. When the taxis started out, they had to go slowly because of the drastically reduced visibility.

The air was sharp and biting when the men got out and covered the fifty feet from the roadway to the first of the triple doors that led inside. Within the brightly lit hall that served all comers, a massive meal was waiting. As Ferguson spooned up the first of his hot soup, he offered a half-prayer that Phase Two, if it was coming, would hold off until after they had eaten and made their way to quarters. He remembered the weather outside and the cruelties that it inflicted on the Archies and the huskies that remained in the open all of their lives. It would be even worse far up on the ice cap, almost two miles above where he sat, where what remained of The Passionate Penguin was totally exposed.

He finished his soup and tied into a huge portion of meat loaf. The Danes made it their own way, but no one complained that it wasn’t good. There was even some Thule ice cream and reconstituted milk that was a vast improvement over the mixtures that had been served during World War II.

Because they had been working together all day on a joint project where rank had had little meaning, the men sat in groups of four around the tables ignoring the slightly more comfortable section that had been set up for ranking civilians and officers.

“I tell you, Det. Four can do it,” Andy Holcomb declared with some heat. “Bill was down there and checked their lifting capability. The damn things can set down almost anywhere on the ice cap to refuel. On the way out, they can set up their own caches. And another thing — when they start bringing the sections back, if they’re mounted properly in the slings, they can carry their own weight. They’ll fly.”

“I don’t think they want them to,” Ferguson answered. “It would raise hell with their weight and balance. Suppose one of the wing sections lifted itself right out of the sling, or up against the bottom of the chopper. My guess is that they’ll fly them endwise.”

A phase announcement came over the PA system. It was still Phase One, but a worsening of the storm was expected. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” Ferguson said. “I want a night’s sleep.”

Taxis were summoned. The men climbed into their parkas one more time, stuffed their hands into their liners and mittens, and then into their arctic gloves. Sergeant Stovers pulled a wool knit cap over his head. When the taxis came, the men were ready. Ferguson was the last to leave; just before he pushed open the first of the doors, the PA system began: “Attention all personnel, this is a phase announcement. .”

To keep his conscience clear, he ran outside before he could hear what was going to be said. As it was, the taxi ride was a nightmare. Visibility was hardly more than five feet; the truck crept slowly, finding its way by the reflective phase markers that lined both sides of every Thule roadway. Somehow the driver found Building 708 and pulled up directly in front of the center door. Ferguson got safely inside and closed the massive outer door. After he had fixed the heavy bar that held it shut, he paused for a minute and gave thanks — not in a formal prayer, but remembering that if he had delayed even a little longer on the ice cap, he could have ended up anywhere. Perhaps even forced down as the Penguin had been, thirty years before.

But it had been worth it, nonetheless. One more trip would bring in the rest of the fuselage; that left only the wing root sections that Det. 4 would somehow have to be persuaded to airlift. Then, by God, the ice cap would have been stripped of its prey and the job of restoration could begin.

The brass couldn’t stop that; there would be no reasonable way. One more trip, two chopper missions — those were the only hurdles. And after that. .

Tired as he was, he climbed the steps to his quarters two at a time in full arctic gear. As he passed the open door of the command post, he saw that twelve or fifteen men were on duty at their stations, verifying and adding up the head count.

His mind was full of the airplane and it kept him awake long after he had hoped to be asleep.

CHAPTER NINE

There was little work done at Thule the following day. The Phase Two storm kept up its unabated fury so that the base personnel could only be grateful that at least it wasn’t getting any worse. No one was able to go anywhere, not even to the mess hall. The emergency phase rations were broken out, overdue letters were written, and books that had been waiting weeks to be read were picked up at last.

On the third floor of Building 708 three of the junior officers of Det. 4 were hard at work on a problem. As they labored, their efforts were inspired by an almost solid wall of pinups. None of the captivating young ladies depicted would have lasted outside for half a minute in what she was wearing — which, in practically all cases, was nothing whatever. The pinups were one of the few amenities that helped to make life at Thule a bit more endurable.

First Lieutenant Ron Cunningham was laying out the project. “If we leave an hour before dawn, then we should be able to make our fuel drop on the ice cap in late twilight. That’s no problem.”

Lieutenant Mike Turner, who combined a string-bean physique with a mathematical mind, punched an electronic calculator in his hand. “If we pick just the right spot,” he announced, “we should be able to do it with one refueling. That is, if those damn wing sections don’t weigh a lot more than we think.”

Tom Collins was deeply absorbed in the chart of upper Greenland that he had spread out before him. “If they do, then we might need two drinks to get back. Roughly, we’ll be able to lift more than eight hundred additional pounds that way.”

Turner, who both knew the performance regulations and believed in them, shook his head. “That would make matters a lot worse,” he said.

“I know,” Cunningham agreed, “but what we can do once we can do twice if we have to.”

Mike Turner still had his reservations. “It isn’t what we can do — it’s what we can get away with.”

“Absolutely,” Collins agreed. “However, the necessary delicate negotiations are in the hands of Sergeant Feinberg. I trust you known him?”

“I do,” Turner answered.

“We’ll have to pass it off as a training exercise,” Collins said. “The problem is there are two of those damn things.”

“So we train two different crews,” Cunningham answered. “It will increase pilot proficiency and qualify us to do difficult lifts off the ice cap — just in case the Army gets into trouble out there.”

Tom Collins was thoughtful. “If only Major Kimsey will buy it, then we’ve got it made.”

A captain from Administration had wandered over in time to pick up some of the discussion. “Frankly,” he said when he had an opportunity, “I think the whole thing’s nuts.”

Rank meant little while in barracks during a phase. Therefore Collins did not hesitate to contradict him. “The hell it is. Look — they’ve brought the whole damn bird back here except for the nose section and the two wing roots. The nose section comes in on the next trip — we do the rest.”

The captain was not satisfied. “And what will they have when they’re finished? Basically junk. They might make the thing into a display, but there’s no one to come and look at it.”

“Eskimos,” Mike said mildly.

“All right — how would you like to fly a chopper that’s been out in the Arctic weather for thirty years? Sikorsky couldn’t fix it. A B-17 is a four-engine beast that’s got to have all kinds of systems and circuits. .” He shrugged his shoulders. “Nuts,” he repeated.

Cunningham went back to his planning. “The C-130 gang will have the sections in position for us to lift. Once the slings have been rigged, the rest should be relatively easy. Well, not easy, but would anybody care to put up any bets?”

Mike Turner was thinking again. “One of us ought to go out there in the C-130, at the risk of life and limb, to see that the sling setup is done properly. The fixed-wing types won’t know anything about that.”

“Good idea,” Cunningham agreed. “One of our flight mechanics would be the boy.”

“About Major Kimsey—” Collins began.

Cunningham nodded to cut him off. “That, of course, is the problem. But I’ll think of something.”

The colonel had the door of his quarters part way open so that Major Valen had no trouble announcing his presence. “Come in, Dave,” the colonel invited. “How about some hot cocoa?”

The chaplain dropped into a chair. “A godsend,” he said. After that he kept quiet until the colonel put a steaming mug into his hands.

“Anything on your mind?” Colonel Kleckner asked.

That was a tough one because something certainly was, but the major didn’t want to discuss it too directly. And he would not lie. “Some general ideas,” he prefaced. “I’ve noticed some things recently.”

“Such as?” The colonel seated himself, in amiable mood, with his own cocoa.

“There’s quite a difference in the way that various people react to the life up here,” the major began. “Some of them adjust very well. Others have a hard time of it.”

“I know,” the colonel agreed. “But on the whole, I think you’ll have to agree that this is a remarkably fraternal community. More than any other place I can name.”

“True, sir, and that helps a lot, but basically this is still tough duty.”

“Is it getting to you?” Colonel Kleckner asked.

The chaplain shook his head. “Only in that I’m concerned for some of the men. Which, after all, is my job.”

The colonel was well ahead of him. “Have you any suggestions, Dave?” he asked.

That was the moment and Valen took the ball. “I can reach some of them from the pulpit, but not everyone comes and there is a practical limit to what words alone can do.”

“Of course.” The colonel continued to listen.

“Summer isn’t too far off; when the weather warms up a little, some additional recreational activity will help a lot. Climbs up Mount Dundas, baseball when it’s possible, some photography — there is certainly some spectacular scenery to shoot up here.”

“You feel that more recreation is the answer?” the colonel suggested.

“Part of it, certainly. Almost anything that the men can get involved in — something that will take their minds off the isolation and the constant presence of the High Arctic. And the separation. Someday, I’d like to see a program for family visits up here — in summer, of course.”

“We don’t have very much summer. And no warm weather.”

“Right — but if perhaps the extra achievers might be rewarded by a visit with their wives or girl friends. .”

“But not both at the same time,” the colonel noted.

Major Valen smiled. “I doubt if any of our guys would make that mistake.”

Colonel Kleckner took his time drinking his cocoa. Then he looked up. “I’ll keep what you’ve said in mind,” he promised.

By 1700 hours the storm had subsided enough to be downgraded to Phase One. That made trips to the mess hall possible and life at Thule brightened immediately as a consequence. The Danish supervisor of the messen saw to it that an especially good meal was prepared; the scheduled beef stew was canceled and steaks were set up instead. All hands showed up for the meal and the big hall was well filled. The movie for the evening was announced. The staff librarians prepared for an extra run of business.

Shortly after 1800, Weather advised that the storm could very well intensify and that a Phase Three was possible. Following that grim pronouncement, the dessert bar did a land-office business. Thule ice cream was consumed by the gallon and the iced-tea containers were drained dry.

Immediately after eating, Colonel Kleckner stopped at the library and asked if there were any books available on the air aspects of World War II. The catalog listed several, but for some unstated reason, all of them had been recently checked out.

After selecting some titles off the shelves, the colonel returned to Building 708. There he shed his parka, got out of his arctic footgear, and washed the used cocoa mugs. After that he went upstairs and casually wandered down to the Det. 4 end of the building.

The poker game was already going strong. Lieutenant Mike Turner sat, shirtless, with the relic of what had once been a hat pulled partly over his eyes. He surveyed his cards and found them about as encouraging as a communication from the Internal Revenue Service.

Tom Collins kept changing the order of the cards in his hand, as if by doing so he could either increase their value or encourage them to blush forth in the same suit.

Ron Cunningham opened with a determined effort to appear casual. Major Richard Mulder, one of the two Det. 4 field grade officers, checked.

The colonel surveyed the board with an expert’s eye and then declined an invitation to sit in. Instead he continued down the hall and then paused by the door of Major Forest Kimsey’s room.

The Det. 4 commander got to his feet. “Evening, sir, come in,” he invited. “Have a beer?”

“By all means.”

A cold can was extracted from a refrigerator and popped open. The colonel sat down to enjoy its contents. “Tell me,” he began, “if you were to get a medevac call right now, how would you handle it?”

“First, I’d check with Weather and get all the poop that I could. Then, if it was still Phase One, I’d have all hands report to the hangar on the double. I’d cock one of the birds and get ready for takeoff.”

“Would you go?” the colonel asked.

“Two things would decide that: the exact level of the weather activity and the urgency of the mission. If lives were at stake, and if it was humanly possible to get airborne under the existing conditions — yes, we would go.”

“Off the record, Major, how well is your outfit tuned up right now?”

“We’re in pretty good shape,” Kimsey answered. “I lost two of my best pilots when they rotated back stateside last month. Their replacements are younger men — not quite as sharp. But they’re good boys and they’ll shape up.”

The colonel drank some of his beer. “With you to teach them, I’m certain that they will,” he said. “When the weather lets up, it might be a good idea to put on a good stiff training exercise. A hypothetical rescue off the ice cap, or something like that. I’d like to see you make it as realistic as you can; I never believed in handing a man a broomstick and asking him to pretend that it’s a rifle.”

“Really go out and do something,” the major confirmed.

The colonel checked the fetching dimensions of the young lady posted on the bathroom door and approved. “Sharpen them up as much as you can. Someday, perhaps under severe conditions, they may have a damn important mission to fly.”

“And the Arctic is merciless,” the major added. “I’ll lay something on that will be realistic and make them sweat a little.”

“Good.” The colonel nodded his approval and then finished his beer.

While the storm outside continued its ferocity, another of a different kind was raging inside the mind and body of Lieutenant Scott Ferguson. He could not get The Passionate Penguin out of his head and even thinking that the vital wing root sections might be impossible to bring in was enough to make him break out in an emotional sweat.

There was one more trip for him to make — he still had to get the forward fuselage section. It was automatically the head, the heart, and the torso of the great bomber and careful measurement had proven that it would fit inside the C-130. He was determined that it would fit even if he had to chop a hole in the powerful airlifter to make it possible. Once that major component had been salvaged, virtually the whole aircraft would be safe and secure in Hangar 8, awaiting only the ministrations of skilled and dedicated mechanics. With the help of God, it was possible that they might be able to give her back her life and her glory.

The wing sections — the damn wing sections. .

He paced up and down his room, keeping an ear tuned to the PA system. The inactivity was killing him; he was so anxious to get down to Hangar 8, he could hardly contain himself. He wanted to do something with his hands. Deep within himself he had the solid conviction that the World War II wreck was bis airplane; perhaps it wasn’t by accident that he had found it, alone and abandoned on the ice cap but otherwise apparently in perfect condition.

Once, when he had been a boy, he had gone wandering in the woods near his home. He had been perfectly safe; the woods were familiar territory and he had been in them many times before. Then he had found a trap that someone had left, and there was a tiny animal in it. One of its legs had been cruelly caught in steel jaws and had been lacerated when the little creature had struggled to get away. When he had found it, it had been in obvious agony.

He had had no idea whose trap it was, but he had hated him nonetheless. With some difficulty, because the trapped animal was crazed with pain, he had managed to get his hands into position and pry the trap open.

The little animal he had freed had let out one final cry of heartbreaking hurt and then had limped off, too frightened to spare itself by going more slowly.

He remembered that he had gone home with a strange new feeling in possession of him — he had felt an almost unearthly happiness. He had believed firmly at the time that the Lord had guided his footsteps so that he would rescue the trapped animal, and it had frightened him a little. He had wondered what he was destined to do with his life, because that had seemed like a preview — tiny foretelling of his future. The incident remained fresh and sharp in his mind; he knew that he would remember it to his dying day. It had implanted in him the strong desire to save things — to spare the hurt of living creatures and to forestall the destruction of worthy objects that deserved a better fate.

The same strong, unreal sensation filled him now. For the first time, he saw the whole picture clearly. It had started out only as a visit to an abandoned wreck. After that it had become a souvenir hunt. Somewhere in the process it had been transformed into a recovery project in the form of a challenge or, perhaps, a game to be played.

Not anymore; the game was over. Somehow, some way, those wing sections would be brought in. Then, if he had to do it alone, by God, that airplane was going to be put back together again. And in the process it would be overhauled until every bit of its structure was restored to its original condition and airworthiness. When all of that had been done, he was going to take it out and fly it. He had never said that to himself before, but he had thought it all along. He was going to roll that airplane out of its hangar in perfect condition, fire it up, taxi it out to the end of the runway, and take off.

There had been some talk about making it an exhibit. It would be assembled just to look at — the world’s largest static model airplane.

Not the Penguin — not her. He refused to accept the possibility that for some unforeseen reason what he planned couldn’t be done.

There was a knock on his door.

He opened it to find Tom Collins and Mike Turner from Det. 4, both of whom had been out on the ice cap with him on his last trip.

“Shut the door,” Mike said.

“We’ve got some dope,” Collins declared, and sat down. Turner planted himself on the edge of the bed. He was suitably dressed for scaling fish and his hat, as usual, was down to his eyebrows. It had started out as a semi-disaster and had descended from there. His mind, however, was functioning.

“Listen,” he began, “at periodic intervals we’re supposed to put on a significant training exercise — something that will really challenge our capabilities. Another one is coming up and Major Kimsey has detailed the two of us to develop a suitable problem.”

Tom Collins continued. “So after deep and profound deliberation, we have decided to propose going after some large pieces of debris that are cluttering up the ice cap and bringing them in. Such a task will give our exercise a little actuality.”

“We talked to the Danish commander and he liked the idea,” Mike declared. “He said that it would improve the ecology of Greenland. Get that — the ecology of Greenland. We’ve got more ecology up here than anyone knows what the hell to do with. Anyhow, he approves. Now, from the limited viewpoint of a fixed-wing pilot, can you think of anything suitable that might take a bit of doing?” The grin he produced shamed the Cheshire cat.

Ferguson was almost unable to speak. “How soon?” he asked.

Tom Collins answered. “After the weather lifts. This forced inactivity has given us some time to do a little planning and work out some weight and balance figures. We’re estimating the wing sections at fifteen hundred pounds each. If they weigh a helluva lot more than that, then no dice.”

“Normally,” Mike continued, “whenever one of our airplanes goes out, the other remains here on standby in case anyone gets stewed and falls through the ice. But since all he would do in that event would be to hit still more ice, we think it would be reasonable to take both birds out on the exercise with the understanding that if we’re called, we jettison whatever we have immediately and hightail it back in a hurry. We get about one rescue call a month. Just before we go, we plan to check with the Danish doctor at Kanak to make sure that he doesn’t have any business coming up for us as far as he knows.”

“Just what is the range of a Jolly?” Scott asked.

“Over seven hundred miles with a partial load, but you’ll still have to haul some fuel out there for us. We’ll plant some more ourselves along the way and fix it so that we can find it again.”

“Would you like me to fly cover — just in case?” Ferguson asked.

“No, thanks,” Collins answered. “We’ll manage. If anything does go wrong, we’ve got good radios and we can yell ‘help’ as fast as anyone.”

The whole prospect was too good to be true; it had Ferguson a little dizzy. “I think,” he ventured, “that I’ll go down the hall and see Major Kimsey. He might appreciate a few words of thanks.”

“If you’ll allow me,” Turner retorted, “my advice to you is that now is a damn good time to keep your mouth shut.” He lifted his chin to improve the angle of his vision from under the edge of his supposed hat. “Just be sure to remember Det. Four when you say your prayers,” he added.

As soon as the storm passed and the weather returned to Arctic normal, a flurry of fresh activity began almost immediately at Thule Air Base. The first arrival on the field was a heavily laden C-141 carrying many tons of supplies earmarked for the use of Camp Century. Three-quarters of an hour behind it another of the heavy jet airlifters flared onto the runway with a full load of pallets bearing additional Army gear.

The great bird was hardly safely blocked on the ramp when there was a whistling overhead and the Eastern Air Lines contract rotator came down out of the sky. The Boeing 727 greased on and pulled up in front of an empty hangar where the reception committee was waiting.

First off was an Army full colonel who headed a party of some twenty other officers. Colonel Kleckner was there to welcome them all. So also were Commander Kure of the Danish Navy — the ranking representative of his government — and a considerable number of other Thule regulars. Captain Tilton, the Information Officer, was on hand with a photographer. This was news for the Thule Times, the newspaper that scooped the world on northern Greenland events each time that it appeared — which was every other week.

The rotator also brought some fifty men who were arriving to begin their one-year tours at the Arctic outpost.

In the morning, when the rotator would return to McGuire Air Force Base, it would carry a load of happy men who had at last completed their tours and could look forward to reassignment in warmer and far less hostile climates. In most cases they would be able to have their families with them, a blessing they were fully prepared to enjoy to the utmost.

The airline captain, whose accumulated experience totaled more than 32,000 flight hours, knew most of the Thule senior staff very well. He quickly spotted Major Valen and drew the chaplain aside at the first opportunity. “I have something for you,” he said. “It was handed to me by Jim Mock, a close friend of mine who flies for TWA. He brought it in from the Coast. He asked me to see that you got it personally.” He handed over a mailing tube that was carefully sealed at both ends.

“Do you happen to know where Captain Mock picked this up?” Valen asked, just to be sure.

“Not for certain, but he came out of Los Angeles the day he brought it to me.”

The major expressed his thanks while visions of perfectly functioning radios danced through his head. He was certain he knew what the tube contained. He was slightly jostled, and looked up to see Sergeant Feinberg there. “I beg your pardon, Major,” the sergeant said. “I wasn’t looking at what I was doing. Is that what I think it is?”

“I believe so,” the chaplain answered. He looked at the tube more carefully and then nodded quite calmly. “It has the right return address.”

“Sir, I am buying.”

“Perhaps Lieutenant Ferguson. .”

Feinberg beamed. “Shall we say at the club in forty-five minutes. The powwow should be over by then.”

Major Valen glanced at his watch. “I shall announce that you are buying,” he said.

Feinberg raised a hand. “Please pass that word with some restraint, sir,” he implored. “Otherwise the turnout will be more than the club can hold. We don’t want to be responsible for the first Arctic riot.”

“No, indeed. Only the regular team members.”

“Done,” Feinberg agreed.

The small party that gathered around a table in the otherwise deserted big dining room at the NCO Club was in a more than festive mood. The horrible problem of the massive wing root sections was about to be solved, no one doubted that, and the means of getting the complicated radios fixed was at last at hand. Andy Holcomb touched on that point while the rest of the group awaited Major Valen’s arrival. “The communications were a lot more involved than you might think,” he explained. “I got some dope on it out of the library. The B-17 had an intercom, of course, and in some cases it was redundant to protect against battle damage. Then there was a communications system to maintain contact with the rest of the formation — the ’17’s seldom flew alone. And, of course, there was all of the usual ground communications on top of that, both voice and CW. So there was quite a lot of electronics for that day. Sergeant Murphy should have a nice time with it all.”

Two minutes after that the chaplain came in with the mailing tube in his hand. As the men gathered around, he opened it with loving care. He knew that its contents were valuable and he was not about to let any slip of his pocket knife deface what it contained. He opened both ends and then carefully removed what was rolled up inside.

It was not a glossy print; it was something on heavy coated paper much larger than he had expected. Silently he weighted down one edge with salt and pepper shakers, then he opened it out.

Even to the little group of men who were more than acclimated to Thule and its decor, it was a startling picture. Beyond any doubt it was Monica Lee; the lovely face that was known to millions smiled with utterly winning charm. She was looking directly at the camera — at the person who was in turn looking at her.

There was quite a bit to see. Both the photographer and his exquisite model had disdained even the thin gauze covering that some of the Thule pinups had seemed to find necessary. For the first time Monica Lee revealed to her vast army of fans an unexpectedly spectacular pair of breasts. Without artificial aid they thrust out, firm and erect, from her body. Their dimensions were impressive and their molding sublime. If that were not enough, they were tipped at the end by upraised nipples that would have fired Praxiteles with the fervent desire to exceed himself.

But they were no more than the rest of her nude figure — it was totally revealed down to her knees. There were many many other nudes at Thule, but this one possessed a symmetry that was unbeatable. The chaplain looked at it and quoted Samuel Finley Breese Morse. “What hath God wrought,” he said.

“Oh man!” Ferguson answered.

“Hardly that,” Holcomb commented.

“That is absolutely the most woman that I have ever seen in my life.” Sergeant Feinberg spoke in hushed tones. “And that is not a statement to be lightly dismissed.”

“It is autographed,” Bill Stovers noted.

Indeed it was. It had been signed with a brush pen and in elegant style:

An awed hush fell over the assembled men. The chaplain was the first to recover; he explored the inside of the tube and found a note addressed to himself. It was from his friend in Hollywood conveying the news that this was a unique item indeed. In a desire to break her too-constraining image as Miss Purity, Monica Lee had accepted an urgent invitation to become the pinup of the month in an internationally popular men’s magazine. The photographic results, in the form of an advance color proof, were enclosed.

Unfortunately, Miss Lee’s agent had had a fit upon finding out about the startling picture and had frantically phoned a large covey of lawyers in a desperate effort to kill the deal. The pinup would not appear — hence the extraordinary value of the enclosed proof, the only one that Miss Lee had consented to autograph. She had done so after much persuasion and a plea for special consideration for Our Boys in Uniform.

That was all and that was enough.

Quiet fell once more after the reading of the letter. All eyes remained fixed on the spectacular picture, but no one dared to speak.

Finally Sergeant Stovers did. “What I’d like to know now,” he said, “is who in the hell we’re going to be able to get to fix the damn radios.”

Corbin agreed. “It’s fate, gentlemen: a picture like that, autographed — and addressed to the only man in the Air Force too square to appreciate it.”

After that, no one said anything. No one could.

CHAPTER TEN

When Scott Ferguson got out of his warm bed shortly before five in the morning, he was infused with the feeling that this was to be the most momentous day of his life. As he went through the mechanical motions of shaving and showering, oblivious to the pitch darkness outside, he was acutely aware that before nightfall the ultimate fate of The Passionate Penguin would be decided. She had been pulled to pieces on the ice cap until very little was left out there, but what was by far the most difficult part of the whole recovery operation lay directly ahead.

As he dressed he knew that the men from Det. 4 would be getting up too. Because they were a rescue outfit, they were used to hitting the deck at all hours of the day and night — with or without advance warning. He had a silent, unexpressed blessing for them, because if all went well during the next several hours, they were going to pull off a rescue that was probably unduplicated in flying history.

When he was almost ready he called a taxi and then went down to the center entrance, where he found both Jenkins and Corbin already there. “Is the mess hall open yet?” he asked.

“I think so,” Jenkins answered. “Tom Collins said something about the Danes opening up early — especially for us.”

A six-pack truck pulled up outside; as he climbed in, Ferguson asked the driver if he had seen any of the helicopter crewmen as yet.

“Yes,” the Dane answered, “they are all in the messen. I hope you all have good luck today.”

“Thank you,” Ferguson answered, meaning it.

He was first inside the mess hall, where he was hit by a sudden sharp uplift. The whole of Det. 4 was there; gathered around one long table he saw Major Kimsey and Major Mulder, who would undoubtedly command the two Jollies, and the rest of the flying team: Tiny Heneveld, Bob Seligman, Tom Collins, Ron Cunningham, John Schoen, Sergeant Prevost, and Mike Turner. As he picked up a tray and went for his food, Ferguson felt a vast confidence in Det. 4 and what it could do; he fully realized that they had laid this whole thing on for the sake of the Penguin. When he joined them, he made a major concession. “Do you give helicopter lessons?” he asked.

“We’re prepared to show you how it’s done,” Schoen answered.

Major Mulder was more practical. “If you don’t mind,” he said, “I’d like to have Tiny and Bob fly out with you to the site of the pickup. I want them to look over the debris before we attempt to pick it up.”

“Yes, sir,” Ferguson responded. He was prepared to give them anything they wanted. His only fear was that somehow, at the last minute, something would go wrong.

When he reached the flight line, everything seemed to be in good order. Sergeant Feinberg was on the job, presiding expansively over the preparation of equipment and personnel. This time there were no maintenance stands or tools to be loaded — only the little snow tug that was standing by, with its youthful operator as confident as ever. As soon as Feinberg saw Ferguson, he came over. “I want to bring a lot of hands this time,” he said. “There may be quite a bit of muscle work needed to get that nose section loaded. And the whirly boys will want some help with the slings.”

“How many?” Ferguson asked.

“Nineteen want to go, sir, and every one of them has earned the trip.”

“All right,” Ferguson agreed. He felt as though he was walking on egg shells; he didn’t dare to do anything that might upset this final, critical stage of the recovery operation.

Feinberg checked with Sergeant Stovers, the loadmaster. “We have a little additional radio gear to load,” he announced. “Principally a device to help the Det. Four boys locate us. Sergeant Murphy will handle that end.”

“How did you…?”

Sergeant Feinberg created a magnificent gesture. “No problem at all; the usually reliable Murphy was guilty of a serious error of judgment concerning a possible outside straight. He is prepared to do penance.”

“Did somebody cut the cards?” Stovers asked.

“That insignificant detail escapes me at the moment; I only recall that I was dealing. However, his spirits were lifted shortly after he agreed to cooperate: he held three jacks and they were good.” Feinberg turned away, he was much too busy to deal with trivia.

In front of the Det. 4 hangar a turbine engine fired up. Presently two of them were howling and the main rotor of the big Jolly started to turn. As Ferguson watched, he began to understand how men must have felt in Vietnam when they were down and desperate and then saw a Jolly coming after them.

He watched intently as the big HH-3 taxied out to the end of the runway — an absurd thing for a helicopter to do, he thought — and then sat there while more checklists were completed. Then the roar of the twin turbines increased, the rotor spun faster, and with stately dignity the helicopter lifted off the ground. It hovered where it was for almost a full minute while still more checks were made, then it began to move forward and climb with increasing speed. Seconds later it turned southeast toward the ice cap.

“Beautiful, isn’t it,” Seligman said.

“Damn right it is,” Ferguson agreed.

He was in his own cockpit during the pre-engine-start checklist when the second Det. 4 Jolly Green Giant taxied past. He saw Mike Turner in the left-hand seat with Major Mulder on his right. Sergeant Prevost was framed in the open doorway.

Three minutes later the Hercules airlifter was fully alive, hurling its own song of power across the field. The second HH-3 lifted off the end of the runway, poised a few feet off the ground, and then began a stiff climb toward the ice cap, turning as it went.

Ferguson released the brakes and began to taxi. As the C-130 rolled slowly down the ramp, his hands gripping the yoke, he wished that he had the power to tell the Penguin that they were all coming.

His own takeoff was a thing of beauty that would have brought joy to the heart of Orville Wright. Then it was up to Lieutenant Jenkins: he had to find what was left of the Penguin on the ice cap, and the last phase storm might have completely covered it with loose snow.

Jenkins delivered; he missed his ETA by less than two minutes and his final heading was almost exactly dead on. Ferguson circled the landing area once to be sure that all was well, then he put the skis down, set up an approach, and watched the snow come closer. The markers had been obliterated, but they were not needed. He raised the nose of the Hercules a few degrees and slid it onto the ice cap at something around a hundred knots with absolute ease.

He was taxiing when Sergeant Feinberg appeared on the bridge. It was a breach of proper discipline, but Ferguson understood that there would be a valid reason.

“Sir,” Feinberg made himself heard, “if you could possibly turn her ninety degrees when you’re spotted, it will make the loading job a helluva lot easier.”

“Right,” Ferguson agreed. Two hundred feet farther on he revved up the starboard engines and swung the turboprop around in a quarter circle. When he stopped, the rear loading ramp was facing squarely toward the remains of the derelict bomber. He shut down the power and secured the flight deck. As he climbed into his parka and arctic gloves, he was glad for the moment that he hadn’t been chosen as an astronaut after all.

When he reached the main hold, he saw that the rear ramp was already open; the driver of the snow tug was about to start up his machine. For the last time Ferguson went outside and began to walk across the ice cap toward what remained of the old B-17. The forward fuselage section concerned him most; it contained all of the essential controls and was by far the most intricate and essential component of the original airplane. It was its heart and being. It was about to be loaded into his C-130 and he wanted to take part in that operation.

It began almost at once. Sergeant Feinberg, who was in clear command of the first stage, signaled the snow tug into position just in front of the open hole that had been left when the fuselage had been divided into its forward and aft sections. Ropes were run inside and secured to the heavy structural members just above the center section of the wing. The job was made slightly more difficult because a considerable quantity of snow had been blown inside; since the whole forward section was almost half full, it made the entire recovery job look more hopeless than it had at any time in the past.

Even the cockpit had a full foot of snow; when Ferguson went up there to check it out his heart sank — the frigid, frozen controls all but mocked him with their immobility. He understood the terrible toll that three decades of ruthless exposure must have inflicted on delicate instruments and other moving parts.

He recognized the temptation of the Devil and purged it from his mind. The B-17 was a fine, beautiful airplane — the only thing wrong was that it needed some maintenance.

He felt the deck begin to rock gently under his feet; he turned and began to wade through the snow back toward the open end so that he could witness and participate in everything that was going on. The ropes had been attached to the snow tug and were already pulled taut preparatory to movement. As Ferguson came out he saw that some ten men were on each side of the fuselage sections ready to add muscle power as soon as it was needed.

Feinberg checked the ropes and then issued a directive. “Rock it about fifteen degrees each way for half a minute; that’ll make sure that it’s loose and will form a trough for it to slide in.” In response, carefully controlled force was applied first to one side and then to the other; The Passionate Penguin stirred in her long sleep.

“Now!” Feinberg shouted and pointed vigorously toward the snow-tug operator. The tracks of the powerful little vehicle bit more deeply into the snow, the ropes came tighter still, and the heavy fuselage section began to slide slowly backwards. When it had built up a speed of two miles an hour, the tug driver began a slow turn.

With massive dignity the nose section of the Penguin started to describe a slow arc around the horizon. Ferguson ran forward and joined the long row of men who were helping to push and to guide. Within five minutes the fuselage section was precisely lined up with the rear loading ramp of the C-130. At that moment, without visible sign, the control of the operation passed to Sergeant Stovers, the loadmaster.

He knew precisely what he was going to do. “I need a twenty-degree tilt,” he ordered. “It’s going to have to go in diagonally to get enough clearance. Otherwise I’ll be two inches shy.”

In response to his instructions the section was rocked once again until it was sufficiently over on its side. Ferguson reached up and patted the almost obliterated design that had once adorned the bomber’s nose. “Hang in there, baby,” he said very softly. “You’re going home.”

The snow tug dropped the lines and pulled to one side. As it did so, Stovers raised the loading ramp of the airlifter until it was in an exactly level position. “Now build me a snow bridge,” he told the tug driver. “I’m going to need at least thirty level feet.”

The tug operator flipped his gloved hand in the air to indicate how simple it would be and pulled a lever. The blade of his machine scraped up a heavy roll of snow and pushed it into position just under the edge of the raised ramp. Then the driver backed to begin another pass.

Ferguson watched him place one more load and then walked away; it would be at least half an hour before anything else could be done. When he had covered a hundred yards he stopped and let the stillness of the ice cap prevail. The sounds of the working tug were already well in the background. Measured against the immensity of the thing on which he stood the tiny bit of activity he had just left was infinitesimal.

When he had experienced his fill he went slowly back, deliberately letting the minutes pass. The snow tug was still snorting away, but the snow ramp was close to completed. The driver was running his machine across the top of his forty-foot-long creation, making sure that there were no soft spots that might give way. The snow ramp was precisely lined up with the back of the C-130 and just a little higher than the ramp proper, making it possible to get the long fuselage section straight into the waiting hold of the airlifter that could just barely accommodate it.

Lines were passed inside and through pulleys that Stovers had already rigged close to the forward bulkhead. When they came back out again, they were secured to the tug that was now positioned just beside the snow bridge. To Ferguson the progress after that was agonizingly slow, like watching a great aircraft carrier warp into its dock. Inch by careful inch, the tug backed on signal, tightening the ropes and drawing the nose section of the bomber cautiously forward. It took a full ten minutes to position the section entirely on the snow bridge with its open end less than two feet from the entrance ramp of the C-130.

At that point Stovers stopped everything while he checked still one more time to be sure that no mistake had been made. As he did so, a dozen men spread a snow blanket on the deck of the cargo hold to serve as a sliding base.

What had been slow before now became cautious to the point of exasperation; the tug moved only on signal from Stovers and then only inches at a time. Ferguson could not stand to watch it any longer, and there was nothing he could do. He continued to search the sky and to listen. He glanced at the portable beacon that Sergeant Murphy had put into operation and then focused his eyes toward the distant horizon once more. He saw a tiny black speck approaching in the sky.

He could have yelled for joy, but instead he stood still and watched the speck grow until he could catch the movement of its main rotor. It was approaching rapidly and presently he could detect the sound of its engines. Hardly a minute later the big Sikorsky arrived overhead, hovered for a moment, and then settled down onto the snow.

Major Kimsey emerged in his arctic clothing to find Ferguson waiting to greet him. “We made our fuel drop without incident,” the major reported. “How are you making out?”

“This is the hardest load,” Ferguson answered, “but we’re well along with the job.”

“It looks that way. A pretty tight fit.”

“We’re having to put it in on an angle; we can just make it that way. Stovers knows his business.”

“How about a look at those wing sections,” the major said. He gathered the rest of his crew and the two Det. 4 pilots who had flown out on the C-130, and then walked over to the nearest of the two massive components. There was no denying its size.

“It looks awfully heavy to us,” Lieutenant Seligman ventured.

The major walked around it, peered inside at the open ends, and measured it by visual inspection. “All right,” he said finally, “we’ll take on some fuel and then give it a try. It’s so big it’s going to be aerodynamic anyway, so we might as well rig the sling so that the leading edge will be forward. In that way, it can take a good deal of the load off the rotor system. It’s a little risky, but the sling will act as a partial spoiler and we can’t go very fast with that thing to haul in any event.”

“In other words, the wing section will fly itself,” Heneveld commented.

“If we do everything right, yes.”

There were enough men to spare to help with the rigging of the sling, but it was still rigorous work. It took a full half hour to get it adjusted to the major’s satisfaction. They were still hard at it when the second helicopter arrived overhead and settled down close to the C-130.

By the time the fuel had been transferred, the tip of the nose of the still-frozen bomber was disappearing inside the turboprop airlifter. The moment of truth was at hand. The crew of Major Kimsey’s HH-3 fired up their bird and shortly thereafter lifted off. As its main rotor blasted air downward in a small gale, the rescue Jolly maneuvered over the wing section and two of the Det. 4 men attached the sling from underneath. Ferguson held his breath; this was it and the next few seconds would decide.

The engines of the hovering helicopter surged, the rotor seemed to spin even faster as the lines came tight. For five long seconds there was no visible movement, then, almost as if it were easy, the Jolly Green Giant picked up the cumbersome wing section, turned, and began to move away.

Ferguson watched, hypnotized, as the helicopter climbed some two hundred feet, its massive load dangling below it, and then started to head back toward Thule.

As though it had been a touchdown in a traditional high school football game, there was a spontaneous cheer. At that moment everyone knew that all of the work that had so far gone into the recovery of the ancient four-engined bomber was viable. Ferguson turned to help as much as he could with the refueling of the second helicopter. The tug crossed the snow bridge for the last time and stopped on the loading ramp of the airlifter.

While the fuel was being metered, willing hands rigged the second sling around the remaining wing section under the careful direction of a Det. 4 flight mechanic. In much less time than it had taken previously, Major Mulder found everything ready to his satisfaction. The Jolly he commanded was airborne within five minutes and the second pickup went off perfectly. As the powerful helicopter beat its way higher into the sky, with the last component of the B-17 suspended underneath, Ferguson turned for one last time and surveyed the ice cap where the World War II bomber had stood in deadly isolation for thirty long years. Only the trampled and scraped snow marked the spot where the abandoned airplane had been; there was nothing whatever left. And there was no reason to ever return to this place again.

He turned and almost ran back to his own aircraft. “Let’s get the hell out of here!” he shouted.

With a glorious euphoria he stripped off his arctic gloves, his mittens and liners, shed his parka, and climbed into his left-hand seat. Corbin was ready to begin the precise business of the checklist. When he came to “Cabin report,” Sergeant Stovers responded on the intercom.

“All pax, cargo, and gear secured. Cabin ready.”

Ferguson double-checked the indicator on the panel that showed the rear ramp to be closed and sealed; the confirmation sent a wave of satisfaction through his body.

In sequential order the four engines of the Hercules came to life; the props cut their great discs in the air. Corbin announced, “Checklist complete.”

Ferguson altered the pitch and the C-130 responded by sliding forward on its skis. He added more power as he turned onto the marked runway and began his takeoff. He watched the speed grow with primitive delight; the snow rushed backward faster and faster until Corbin called, “Rotate.” Ferguson pulled back on the yoke — the nose of the Hercules rose and she came off the ice into the air where she belonged, carrying the massive nose section of the B-17 in her hold.

Within four minutes silence returned to the place the airlifter had left. Within a few days the winds would erase every trace of what had once been there. The only clue that remained was the four runway markers. Perhaps in years to come some pilot might spot them from the air and wonder for what conceivable reason they had been set out in such a totally remote region. And if, perhaps, someone were to guess that the ice cap concealed some sort of frozen buried treasure, and went searching for it with some as yet unimagined sounding device, there would be nothing whatever for him to find.

Ferguson turned to Corbin. “Do you want to bring her home, Red?” he asked.

The long-suffering copilot was more than ready and prepared; he took over the controls without delay. When he was close enough to Thule, he set up an instrument approach in wide-open weather, came down the glide path with ground radar assistance, and flared onto the runway with such precision that he wished he could have saved that landing to frame and hang on the wall of his room.

The tower directed them to Hangar 8 without being asked. As the C-130 taxied onto her designated spot she had company: a mighty C-141 jet airlifter was parked in front of number seven. “More stuff for the Army,” Corbin commented as Ferguson slowly turned in response to the signals from the ramp man. When he received the hand across the throat signal, he hit the brakes and then went into the cockpit securing routine. Now if the colonel wanted to order him not to make any more nonessential flights out over the ice cap, he could go right ahead — the job had been done.

All that remained to be sure was the arrival of the wing root sections. He had a foreboding that they actually weighed much more than Holcomb had estimated. Until those sections were in, nothing was certain.

As he got out of his seat, Ferguson visualized a variety of troubles over the ice cap: the sections were too heavy and the choppers, although able to lift them, had not been able to carry them all of the way; fuel supplies had not been adequate for that much weight and bulk; refueling had run into difficulties and the wing sections had had to be jettisoned.

Trying to put potential disasters out of his mind, he left the flight deck and went outside. The rear ramp had been opened and he walked around the back to see for himself. As he did so, a major in flight gear extracted himself from a small group of spectators and came over. He looked inside and said, “Well I’ll be damned!” Then he turned to Ferguson. “Is this your airplane?” he asked.

“Which one?”

The major laughed. “We just got here, but we’ve already heard that you were bringing a B-17 in off the ice cap. I didn’t believe it; now I do.”

“It isn’t all here yet,” Ferguson told him. “And if you don’t mind, we’d like to keep a low profile on this if we can.”

“Got you — we won’t say anything stateside. By the way, we’re a reserve crew out of McGuire.” He held out his hand. “Fred Steinhammer.”

“Scott Ferguson.” The two men shook hands.

“Now that you’ve got it, what are you going to do with it?” Steinhammer asked.

“Fly it,” Ferguson answered. “It needs a hundred-hour check, of course.”

“I’d say a bit more than that. How about the tires? You’ll need new ones, I would think.”

Despite all of his planning, Ferguson hadn’t been able to solve that. Rubber that had been out in all that weather, for that length of time, might be worthless — or seriously dangerous, which was worse.

“We may have to scare up some new ones,” he admitted. “Somebody must make them.”

“Possibly.” The major sounded doubtful. “May I see what else you’ve got?”

Ferguson waved toward Hangar 8. “Be my guest,” he invited. There was no point in being secretive anymore — the colonel had to know. He was badly upset that the acute problem of the tires hadn’t been resolved. No one could be expected to be making B-17 tires now. Some might be available somewhere, or possibly there was a current size that could be substituted. But even if they were found, they would cost money and how in hell could he get them shipped all the way up to Thule?

His spirits did not improve even when a motorized crane backed up to lend a helping lift. Bill Stovers was totally involved in preparing to remove the fuselage section, which looked much bigger now than it had on the ice cap. He went into the hangar and again inspected the tires — all three of them. They seemed to be in surprisingly good shape; under the weight of his foot the rubber flexed and appeared to be strong. One thing was clear: they had been all but new when the pilot, whoever he had been, had made his emergency landing on them three decades ago.

He spotted Sergeant Feinberg and walked over to him. “Perry,” he said, “I’m concerned about the tires.”

“So was I, sir, but we checked them over and they seem to be OK.”

“I want a little more than that. See what you can find out. Try calling Akron; one of the big rubber companies there may be able to give us a clue. Their engineers should know something.”

Feinberg nodded. “I’ll do that, sir, but remember that a lot of airplanes are tied down outside in all kinds of weather for years and the tires seem to be able to take it.”

That added a little hope. Ferguson went into Operations and asked if any word had come in from Det. 4. “Both birds are out on a training mission,” the duty NCOIC told him. “So far, there’s no ETA on either one.”

“No trouble reported?”

“No, sir, nothing at all.”

“Thank you.” He went back to watch the unloading process. The portable crane was making things vastly easier. In less than a third of the time it had taken to get it stowed inside, the long nose section was unloaded. Once it was out, the crane carried it easily into the hangar and set it down gently into a set of cradles that had been built to hold it. Ferguson saw that operation concluded and then went outside with his hands clenched despite his heavy gloves. He was sweating out the helicopters with all his being — everything was so close now! The temperature was well below zero, but he was oblivious to it. In fact he felt warm and he threw back the hood of his parka.

He saw Andy Holcomb squinting toward the southeast; he turned quickly and looked in the same direction. For a moment or two he couldn’t be sure, then over the snow heights just visible to him he saw something in the sky.

Standing rock still to aid his vision, he caught the glint of a main rotor, made out the shape of the incoming helicopter, and praise to Almighty God, there was something substantial suspended underneath its fuselage!

He could have yelled out of sheer joy and relief, but he did nothing except stand still and watch the helicopter grow larger as it followed a steady descent path toward the field.

Everyone knew; all remaining hands had come out of the hangar. “Get something out here for them to put it on,” he shouted in his excitement. For once, nothing had been prepared.

“Blankets,” Bill Stovers called out, and ran for the C-130.

“No!” Sergeant Feinberg shouted after him. “They’ll blow away. Rubber life raft!”

Six men hauled one out of the C-130 and inflated it in record time. Meanwhile, disregarding the normal approach patterns, the helicopter crossed over the runway and pulled up into a hover. Holcomb signaled toward the life raft and the airborne crew understood; the aircraft came down very slowly and set the huge wing section squarely on the raft with apparent ease. It’s work completed, the HH-3 hover-taxied back to its own hangar and there settled onto the ground.

The crane was summoned and the sling was hooked onto its hanging cable. It lifted the new load easily and rolled into the hangar with two men steadying the wing section to keep it from rotating.

Ferguson was confident then; he knew it could be done. Det. 4 had proven that they could do it, and all praise to them. But it wasn’t over yet.

The ordeal continued for some twenty minutes — then the second of the powerful Sikorsky’s came sliding down an invisible sky pathway, bearing the other huge wing root section. The downblast from the main rotor sent snow swirling madly as the helicopter hovered and then set down its load so gently it was difficult to tell the moment that it finally rested on the raft. The sling released and Major Mulder lifted a hand in greeting from the cockpit.

Stage one of his impossible project was all but over; what stage two would bring, Ferguson did not dare to guess.