Джон Болл - Phase Three Alert

There is a closed and restricted room, which becomes an immediate command post in the event of Phase Two weather. During Phase Alert and Phase One it is not activated, but if Phase Two conditions are declared, the command post goes into action. One of its major functions is to account for every person on the base, Danish or American. Since phase weather can be swiftly fatal without the fullest protection, the head count is vital. Widely known at Thule is a powerful Dane, a bearded giant of a man who, some years before The Passionate Penguin was rediscovered, was caught out of doors in a Phase Three and survived. Only indomitable will, tremendous physical toughness, and fantastic luck had made it possible.

During Phase Alert, all preparations for severe weather are made, time permitting. All loose equipment or materials outside must be secured.

During Phase One, indoor activities may continue, but outdoor pedestrian travel is by the buddy system only. Trips to the great BMEWS installation that is commonly referred to as J Site may be made only if authorized.

If Phase Two is declared, all personnel must remain in whatever building they are in. Those outdoors must seek immediate shelter in the nearest possible place. Vehicle traffic is limited to authorized emergency equipment only. The buddy system is mandatory.

Phase Three requires every person on base to report his whereabouts. Outdoor travel of any kind is forbidden — with the sole exception of authorized rescue efforts. For this purpose the Trackmasters, which resemble tanks as much as anything else, are called into use. Designed to operate under the most violent of Arctic conditions, they can maneuver on and off roads with their very wide, multilevel tracks. They are low to the ground and can go almost anywhere to seek and, if possible, rescue personnel caught stranded in conventional vehicles or out in the open.

Phases can last a few minutes or several days. They can come with very little warning and great violence. Along the road between Thule proper and J Site, there is a series of phase shacks built to give emergency shelter and to withstand whatever the Arctic can throw at them. Phase shack number seven was equipped with an anemometer until the instrument finally blew off the roof — but not before recording a wind velocity of 207 miles per hour, the second highest wind speed ever measured on earth. How much higher the wind got after that no one knows.

Lieutenant Ferguson and his crew members, regular and added, were still in the hanger securing the C-130 when Phase One was declared. As the loudspeaker repeated the news, Andy Holcomb rushed to the phone and requested three cabs for the trip from Hanger 8 to the mess hall. None of the men had eaten, and if Phase Two were to come, the mess hall was as good a place to be trapped as any.

The dispatcher could not promise immediate service. At that point Chief Master Sergeant Feinberg made his presence known over the line and suggested urgency. The cabs, in the form of six-pack pickups, arrived within five minutes.

The wind was vicious as the men climbed inside the sturdy vehicles. The weather was already unflyable; sharp gusts picked up clouds of loose snow and flung them wildly against the sides of the hangars, against the trucks, and against the parka-clad men as they scrambled to get inside the cabs. When the taxis started out, they had to go slowly because of the drastically reduced visibility.

The air was sharp and biting when the men got out and covered the fifty feet from the roadway to the first of the triple doors that led inside. Within the brightly lit hall that served all comers, a massive meal was waiting. As Ferguson spooned up the first of his hot soup, he offered a half-prayer that Phase Two, if it was coming, would hold off until after they had eaten and made their way to quarters. He remembered the weather outside and the cruelties that it inflicted on the Archies and the huskies that remained in the open all of their lives. It would be even worse far up on the ice cap, almost two miles above where he sat, where what remained of The Passionate Penguin was totally exposed.

He finished his soup and tied into a huge portion of meat loaf. The Danes made it their own way, but no one complained that it wasn’t good. There was even some Thule ice cream and reconstituted milk that was a vast improvement over the mixtures that had been served during World War II.

Because they had been working together all day on a joint project where rank had had little meaning, the men sat in groups of four around the tables ignoring the slightly more comfortable section that had been set up for ranking civilians and officers.

“I tell you, Det. Four can do it,” Andy Holcomb declared with some heat. “Bill was down there and checked their lifting capability. The damn things can set down almost anywhere on the ice cap to refuel. On the way out, they can set up their own caches. And another thing — when they start bringing the sections back, if they’re mounted properly in the slings, they can carry their own weight. They’ll fly.”

“I don’t think they want them to,” Ferguson answered. “It would raise hell with their weight and balance. Suppose one of the wing sections lifted itself right out of the sling, or up against the bottom of the chopper. My guess is that they’ll fly them endwise.”

A phase announcement came over the PA system. It was still Phase One, but a worsening of the storm was expected. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” Ferguson said. “I want a night’s sleep.”

Taxis were summoned. The men climbed into their parkas one more time, stuffed their hands into their liners and mittens, and then into their arctic gloves. Sergeant Stovers pulled a wool knit cap over his head. When the taxis came, the men were ready. Ferguson was the last to leave; just before he pushed open the first of the doors, the PA system began: “Attention all personnel, this is a phase announcement. .”

To keep his conscience clear, he ran outside before he could hear what was going to be said. As it was, the taxi ride was a nightmare. Visibility was hardly more than five feet; the truck crept slowly, finding its way by the reflective phase markers that lined both sides of every Thule roadway. Somehow the driver found Building 708 and pulled up directly in front of the center door. Ferguson got safely inside and closed the massive outer door. After he had fixed the heavy bar that held it shut, he paused for a minute and gave thanks — not in a formal prayer, but remembering that if he had delayed even a little longer on the ice cap, he could have ended up anywhere. Perhaps even forced down as the Penguin had been, thirty years before.

But it had been worth it, nonetheless. One more trip would bring in the rest of the fuselage; that left only the wing root sections that Det. 4 would somehow have to be persuaded to airlift. Then, by God, the ice cap would have been stripped of its prey and the job of restoration could begin.

The brass couldn’t stop that; there would be no reasonable way. One more trip, two chopper missions — those were the only hurdles. And after that. .

Tired as he was, he climbed the steps to his quarters two at a time in full arctic gear. As he passed the open door of the command post, he saw that twelve or fifteen men were on duty at their stations, verifying and adding up the head count.

His mind was full of the airplane and it kept him awake long after he had hoped to be asleep.

There was little work done at Thule the following day. The Phase Two storm kept up its unabated fury so that the base personnel could only be grateful that at least it wasn’t getting any worse. No one was able to go anywhere, not even to the mess hall. The emergency phase rations were broken out, overdue letters were written, and books that had been waiting weeks to be read were picked up at last.