Джон Болл: Phase Three Alert

The colonel jumped to his feet, but General Lippincott waved him down again. “What have you got for me?” he asked.

The colonel picked a waiting folder off his desk and handed it to his superior. “This should fill the bill, sir.”

Lippincott dropped into a chair and crossed his legs. “Give it to me verbally,” he directed. “Have you any coffee around this place?”

The colonel raised his voice. “Hank!”

A side door popped open. “Yes, sir.”

“Two coffees, please. The general likes his black, a little sugar.”

“Right away, sir.”

Lippincott knew that the coffee would be terrible, but it would be welcome, just as poor visibility was better than no visibility at all.

The colonel spoke clearly, with the air of a man who is sure of his subject. “The crew commander is a Captain Miller. He’s a professional and was in the Air Corps well before Pearl Harbor. He was in the top tenth of his class at flying school; his personal record is also very good. Married, an infant son. Close to an ideal career officer with over twelve hundred flying hours without accident. He has a reputation for being cool in the face of emergency: he’s had a couple and handled them well.”

“Of his own making?”

“The reports said not.”

“Good. Get him in here.”

“He’s standing by; I told him to wait for possible special orders.”

The sergeant who had taken the coffee order came in, two steaming mugs in his hands. He served the general, set the second mug in front of the colonel and then asked, “Anything else, sir?”

“Yes, I have a Captain Miller standing by in the crew section. I want to see him immediately.”

“Yes, sir.” The sergeant left quickly and closed the door behind him.

“How about the rest of the crew?” General Lippincott asked.

“Copilot and radio operator a little better than average. The navigator isn’t a pro, but Miller has a good opinion of him.”

“When a pilot thinks well of his navigator, that’s a good sign. How’s that boy in the fighter crash?”

The colonel shook his head. “The prognosis isn’t good. If he does make it, he may be crippled.”

“His fault?”

“Partly — partly ours, I supposed, for not having given him more seasoning. He pulled up too sharply on takeoff and stalled out.”

The general also shook his head. “A man with ten flying hours should know better than that. I hope he makes it, but he probably was showing off — to himself.” He stopped talking in order to drink his coffee. The hot brew was overstrong and its acid bite hit his stomach with a reminder that he had had no breakfast. He had not had time to eat — there had been too much to do.

A knock sounded on the door. The colonel barked, “Come in,” and waited.

The young captain who responded was precisely the sort of person Lippincott wanted to see. He was perhaps twenty-seven and had about him the air of a professional who has found his career and is proud of it. He stood a shade under six feet and as he saluted, Lippincott noted that he mercifully lacked the brand-new brightness that characterized so many of the freshly commissioned officers who passed through Presque Isle in a steady flow.

“You sent for me, sir,” he said.

“Yes., Captain. General Lippincott would like to speak to you.”

In the presence of the general the young captain stiffened a little more. Lippincott was used to it and with little egotism on his own part, he approved of it.

“I understand that you are scheduled out at fourteen hundred hours over the North Atlantic.”

“That’s correct, sir.”

“Off the record, how competent is your crew?”

“The best, sir. My copilot is relatively new, but he’s capable. Our radio man was a ham operator before the war.”

“How about your navigator?”

“Exceptional, sir. Lieutenant Mafusky taught high school math before he joined up. He went into navigation by his own choice — he isn’t a pilot washout. At his experience level, I doubt if there’s a better man in the Air Corps.”

“Have any of you any over-ocean experience?”

“No, sir, but we’ll all have some shortly.”

Lippincott was satisfied. “Captain, I understand that you are a career man.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Captain, what is the condition of your aircraft? Any squawks?”

“None, sir. She’s a more or less brand-new B-17, but she’s well rigged and the power plants are fine.”

“Have you named her yet?”

“Yes, sir. The Passionate Penguin.”

Lippincott smiled to himself; the names became more fanciful every day. He suspected that there would be a fairly graphic illustration painted on the plane’s nose, but that didn’t concern him at the moment.

“Captain Miller, there is a piece of highly classified cargo that has to be delivered to Prestwick as soon as possible. I mean it when I tell you that if it fails to reach England promptly, our entire war effort might be affected. But more than that, under no circumstances, regardless of any risks or sacrifices that may be involved, must it be allowed to fall into enemy hands. That would be disastrous.”

“I understand, sir.”

“I’m planning to have this piece of highly sensitive cargo put on your aircraft for delivery in England. On your arrival, it will be picked up personally by General Falkenberg; you are to give it to no one else.”

“Right, sir.” The tightness was back, which was good.

The general handed over a photograph. “This is General Falkenberg. Also, don’t hesitate to ask him for his ID.”

“Thank you, sir. I would have done that anyway.”

“Good.” The crate contains an explosive device that will operate if an unauthorized person attempts to open it. However, it is not hazardous unless the crate is dropped or otherwise badly mishandled.”

“Could you give me the weight, sir?”

“Eighty-six pounds.”

The captain was relieved. “Then it won’t figure on our weight and balance.”

“It shouldn’t. There will also be two or three other crates, as decoys. Stow them somewhere up front. I’ll arrange security for your aircraft at Goose and the other stops. You’re going via Bluie West Eight?”

“Correct, sir.”

“That’s all, Captain, except for the fact that you will tell your crew as little as possible about the cargo. It was something you were asked to take and you have no idea what it is. Which is true. Your guess is that it is an urgently needed part that ran out of stock overseas — a part for an experimental aircraft somewhere in England.”

“From now on, sir,” Captain Miller said carefully, “that is precisely what it is.”

“Excellent, Captain. The crates will be color-coded; the sensitive one is yellow.”

“We’ll take it there, sir.”

Lippincott stood up and shook hands. “Have a nice flight, Captain.”

The youthful aircraft commander saluted, turned on his heel, and left.

The departure of the B-17 at 1400 hours was without visible incident. With four small crates stowed aboard she ran down the runway, her ailerons properly into the wind, and lifted off precisely when she should. She had a good solid feel about her and as she climbed upward to her cruising altitude, her crew sensed her strength and stability. Although she was a new aircraft, Miller felt a real affection for her as she answered his commands and bored her way through the sky with her great wings reaching out over a hundred feet and her four engines sounding a unison chorus of almost perfectly synchronized power.

As Miller flew her on, he saw her not as a war bird, but as the prototype of some future great airliner that would be able to carry 50 or more passengers at speeds approaching three hundred miles per hour. With perhaps 40 passengers and a greater fuel load, transcontinental nonstop flights were a definite possibility. Give her the same wing and engines, but a different fuselage, and she could handle twelve rows of seats — 48 passengers as contrasted to the 21 carried by the ubiquitous DC-3, the pride and joy of Douglas Aircraft.