Джон Болл - Phase Three Alert

The organization was remarkable. The advance planning had been brief, but thorough. As the best-qualified member of the team, Sergeant Holcomb was in charge of engineering. He had a list on a clipboard; as each piece of equipment was delivered and put into position, he carefully checked it off. He had to face only one disappointment — a meticulous search of the base library and all available records that might in any way supply the necessary data had failed to turn up any information at all concerning the structure of the B-17 bomber. All he had to work with were superficial facts: the wingspan was 103 feet, 9½ inches; the length was 74 feet, 4 inches; the height 19 feet, 1 inch; and the total gross weight, fully loaded, was 54,926 pounds. After making some careful calculations he had come up with an empty weight of 34,000 pounds, but that could not be considered more than an informed guess.

Another small truck arrived with some specialized tools that had been borrowed from the BMEWS installation. Andy checked them in and then noticed an item on his list that had not been crossed off. “Penetrating oil,” he called out. “Anybody got it?”

“Coming,” someone answered.

He turned to find Lieutenant Ferguson at his elbow. “Andy, if you take all of this stuff, there won’t be any room left to bring anything back.”

“It’s not all coming back, not on this trip. We’re going to leave some of the stands out there this time. They won’t be needed here; we have plenty more.”

“How many ACM’s are coming with us?”

Holcomb referred to his list. “We have twelve additional crew members and one deadhead — Major Valen, the chaplain.”

“Deadhead my ass,” Ferguson retorted. “If he comes, he works.”

“Don’t worry, sir, he will. He already has.”

“Why the sledges?”

“To drive out driftpins. We’re not certain, but they may be needed to get the wings off.”

Perry Feinberg, immense in his parka, appeared. “The last of the gear is here,” he advised. “Bill Stovers wants to start loading ASAP.”

“Begin now,” Holcomb authorized. He turned to Ferguson. “Sir, it would help like hell if we could have the Herc backed up to the main door so that we could go right up the rear ramp. We’ve got a lot of stuff to secure.”

“As of now,” Ferguson answered, and headed for the door. The whole spirit of the thing had his emotional batteries fully charged. Within ten minutes he had the powerful airlifter backed into position ready to receive her cargo. As the hangar door was opened enough to permit all of the equipment to be moved out, there were at least twenty men on hand to help with the work. Only the fact that it was Saturday made that many willing hands available.

The loading was half-completed when a staff car drew up. For a sick moment Ferguson thought it was the colonel, then he remembered that the base commander had a red light atop his own vehicle. The base Information Officer climbed out carrying a large bag of camera gear. He slung the strap across his shoulder and then came over to Ferguson.

“Morning,” he said. “I’m Tilton, the 10. We met at the mess hall.”

“Yes, of course,” Ferguson acknowledged.

“You know the motto of the information branch — Last to Know, First to Go. I only got wind of this last night. Good God, Scott, this is the biggest story we’ve had since the B-52 crash; you should have told me.”

“We’ve been trying to keep it quiet,” Ferguson admitted. “Nothing personal, Frank.”

“Forget it; you can’t. Anyway, you’ve got to have some pictures. I checked with the photo lab and found that no one had been assigned. So here I am.”

“No one is assigned to anything,” Ferguson explained, “not officially. This is a spare-time activity — call it a recreation project.”

“All right, but how about adding an ACM? You can’t leave me out of this one.”

Ferguson saw an opening. “Will you help cover for us if it becomes necessary?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then tell Perry Feinberg that you’re on the list; he’s handling personnel.”

The maintenance stands were being moved rapidly into the Hercules. The crane operator fired up his vehicle, preparatory to driving it on board. Because of the close fit, it would be the last thing to be loaded.

The crane went on six minutes later. Sergeant Stovers supervised its careful progress up the rear ramp and then had it come forward, almost literally inch by inch, until it was in position. Chains were waiting to secure it solidly, an operation that took an additional five minutes. Then, at last, everything was loaded and ready to go. Perry Feinberg checked the selected personnel on board and waved his thanks to others, all of whom held a first priority on the next trip. Stovers operated the controls that raised and sealed the rear ramp.

The APU was already splitting the morning air with its blasting shrillness. On the bridge Ferguson was going through the checklist with the aid of Corbin, his copilot. Lieutenant Jenkins spread out a chart and spun his computer to determine a climb-out heading.

“Weight and balance?” Ferguson queried when that item came up on the checklist.

“Satisfactory. Way under max gross; less than twelve thousand pounds.”

“All cargo and ACM’s secured?”

“Secured and briefing given.”

Four minutes later the first of the four powerful turbine engines began to rotate; as it gained speed the next one came to life. Presently the third started to whirl and the APU was shut down. The fourth propeller began to turn and then as the fire was lit it accelerated and became a visual disc. Corbin pressed the switch on his yoke and called the tower. In response he was given clearance to taxi and take position at the end of the runway. Ferguson released the brakes and the C-130 began to move forward across the ramp.

Corbin made the takeoff. He did a smooth job of it and climbed out steadily until he had enough altitude, then he set up a standard left turn toward the ice cap.

Captain Tilton loaded his cameras and prepared them for action. They were especially equipped with arctic batteries and were taped over wherever possible to avoid any contact between bare metal and the hands of the operator. Major Valen stood between Ferguson’s left seat and the side of the fuselage, looking ahead at the spectacle of the ice cap. Ferguson was flying then, with the autopilot disconnected. As his fingers gripped the yoke, he seemed to feel through them the life of the aircraft he commanded.

Corbin spoke over the intercom. “Do you think the colonel knows about this?”

Ferguson had thought about the same subject. “If he doesn’t he will shortly — that’s for sure. But he may not know officially. ”

“In other words, we don’t mention it to him unless he asks.”

“Right! If he orders me not to fly out here any more…” He left the sentence unfinished.

The remarkable visibility from the cockpit of the Hercules offered a panorama of the ice cap that no camera ever devised could capture. As far as the eye could see, over an arc of more than 180 degrees, the vast whiteness extended unbroken — a desert devoid of any form of life for more than 1,500 miles of stark grandeur. Ferguson had seen it many times, but like a schoolboy experiencing his first wonderful discovery of Sherlock Holmes, it held at that moment an almost hypnotic fascination. And it was going to be made to give up something that it had unlawfully seized and had held for more than a generation.

Or perhaps the ice cap was not to blame. Viewed another way, it had provided a haven — a resting place almost two miles up in the sky where a distressed aircraft had found sanctuary of a kind and her crew the opportunity for survival. Without the ice cap, it could have had a different ending. Perhaps, far underneath, there was jagged, hostile terrain that would destroy any aircraft that tried to find a place where it could get onto the ground. At some other part of the globe, in a jungle somewhere, the gallant old B-17 would have been destroyed by a hundred natural enemies within a few weeks or months. Only on the ice cap had she had a chance.