Джон Болл - Phase Three Alert

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.