Джон Болл - Phase Three Alert

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.

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.