Джон Болл - Phase Three Alert

“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.