Джон Болл - Phase Three Alert

Tom Collins continued. “So after deep and profound deliberation, we have decided to propose going after some large pieces of debris that are cluttering up the ice cap and bringing them in. Such a task will give our exercise a little actuality.”

“We talked to the Danish commander and he liked the idea,” Mike declared. “He said that it would improve the ecology of Greenland. Get that — the ecology of Greenland. We’ve got more ecology up here than anyone knows what the hell to do with. Anyhow, he approves. Now, from the limited viewpoint of a fixed-wing pilot, can you think of anything suitable that might take a bit of doing?” The grin he produced shamed the Cheshire cat.

Ferguson was almost unable to speak. “How soon?” he asked.

Tom Collins answered. “After the weather lifts. This forced inactivity has given us some time to do a little planning and work out some weight and balance figures. We’re estimating the wing sections at fifteen hundred pounds each. If they weigh a helluva lot more than that, then no dice.”

“Normally,” Mike continued, “whenever one of our airplanes goes out, the other remains here on standby in case anyone gets stewed and falls through the ice. But since all he would do in that event would be to hit still more ice, we think it would be reasonable to take both birds out on the exercise with the understanding that if we’re called, we jettison whatever we have immediately and hightail it back in a hurry. We get about one rescue call a month. Just before we go, we plan to check with the Danish doctor at Kanak to make sure that he doesn’t have any business coming up for us as far as he knows.”

“Just what is the range of a Jolly?” Scott asked.

“Over seven hundred miles with a partial load, but you’ll still have to haul some fuel out there for us. We’ll plant some more ourselves along the way and fix it so that we can find it again.”

“Would you like me to fly cover — just in case?” Ferguson asked.

“No, thanks,” Collins answered. “We’ll manage. If anything does go wrong, we’ve got good radios and we can yell ‘help’ as fast as anyone.”

The whole prospect was too good to be true; it had Ferguson a little dizzy. “I think,” he ventured, “that I’ll go down the hall and see Major Kimsey. He might appreciate a few words of thanks.”

“If you’ll allow me,” Turner retorted, “my advice to you is that now is a damn good time to keep your mouth shut.” He lifted his chin to improve the angle of his vision from under the edge of his supposed hat. “Just be sure to remember Det. Four when you say your prayers,” he added.

As soon as the storm passed and the weather returned to Arctic normal, a flurry of fresh activity began almost immediately at Thule Air Base. The first arrival on the field was a heavily laden C-141 carrying many tons of supplies earmarked for the use of Camp Century. Three-quarters of an hour behind it another of the heavy jet airlifters flared onto the runway with a full load of pallets bearing additional Army gear.

The great bird was hardly safely blocked on the ramp when there was a whistling overhead and the Eastern Air Lines contract rotator came down out of the sky. The Boeing 727 greased on and pulled up in front of an empty hangar where the reception committee was waiting.

First off was an Army full colonel who headed a party of some twenty other officers. Colonel Kleckner was there to welcome them all. So also were Commander Kure of the Danish Navy — the ranking representative of his government — and a considerable number of other Thule regulars. Captain Tilton, the Information Officer, was on hand with a photographer. This was news for the Thule Times, the newspaper that scooped the world on northern Greenland events each time that it appeared — which was every other week.

The rotator also brought some fifty men who were arriving to begin their one-year tours at the Arctic outpost.

In the morning, when the rotator would return to McGuire Air Force Base, it would carry a load of happy men who had at last completed their tours and could look forward to reassignment in warmer and far less hostile climates. In most cases they would be able to have their families with them, a blessing they were fully prepared to enjoy to the utmost.

The airline captain, whose accumulated experience totaled more than 32,000 flight hours, knew most of the Thule senior staff very well. He quickly spotted Major Valen and drew the chaplain aside at the first opportunity. “I have something for you,” he said. “It was handed to me by Jim Mock, a close friend of mine who flies for TWA. He brought it in from the Coast. He asked me to see that you got it personally.” He handed over a mailing tube that was carefully sealed at both ends.

“Do you happen to know where Captain Mock picked this up?” Valen asked, just to be sure.

“Not for certain, but he came out of Los Angeles the day he brought it to me.”

The major expressed his thanks while visions of perfectly functioning radios danced through his head. He was certain he knew what the tube contained. He was slightly jostled, and looked up to see Sergeant Feinberg there. “I beg your pardon, Major,” the sergeant said. “I wasn’t looking at what I was doing. Is that what I think it is?”

“I believe so,” the chaplain answered. He looked at the tube more carefully and then nodded quite calmly. “It has the right return address.”

“Sir, I am buying.”

“Perhaps Lieutenant Ferguson. .”

Feinberg beamed. “Shall we say at the club in forty-five minutes. The powwow should be over by then.”

Major Valen glanced at his watch. “I shall announce that you are buying,” he said.

Feinberg raised a hand. “Please pass that word with some restraint, sir,” he implored. “Otherwise the turnout will be more than the club can hold. We don’t want to be responsible for the first Arctic riot.”

“No, indeed. Only the regular team members.”

“Done,” Feinberg agreed.

The small party that gathered around a table in the otherwise deserted big dining room at the NCO Club was in a more than festive mood. The horrible problem of the massive wing root sections was about to be solved, no one doubted that, and the means of getting the complicated radios fixed was at last at hand. Andy Holcomb touched on that point while the rest of the group awaited Major Valen’s arrival. “The communications were a lot more involved than you might think,” he explained. “I got some dope on it out of the library. The B-17 had an intercom, of course, and in some cases it was redundant to protect against battle damage. Then there was a communications system to maintain contact with the rest of the formation — the ’17’s seldom flew alone. And, of course, there was all of the usual ground communications on top of that, both voice and CW. So there was quite a lot of electronics for that day. Sergeant Murphy should have a nice time with it all.”

Two minutes after that the chaplain came in with the mailing tube in his hand. As the men gathered around, he opened it with loving care. He knew that its contents were valuable and he was not about to let any slip of his pocket knife deface what it contained. He opened both ends and then carefully removed what was rolled up inside.

It was not a glossy print; it was something on heavy coated paper much larger than he had expected. Silently he weighted down one edge with salt and pepper shakers, then he opened it out.

Even to the little group of men who were more than acclimated to Thule and its decor, it was a startling picture. Beyond any doubt it was Monica Lee; the lovely face that was known to millions smiled with utterly winning charm. She was looking directly at the camera — at the person who was in turn looking at her.