Джон Болл - Phase Three Alert

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.”