Джон Болл - Phase Three Alert

“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.

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.