Джон Болл: Phase Three Alert

He was still thinking about that as he guided her down the approach path to Goose Bay, flared just short of the runway, hung her wheels an inch or two above the surface, and let her settle on. When she had found the ground, he slowed her up and let the tail wheel settle on with hardly a bump. The first leg was behind him and he had enjoyed every minute of it.

As soon as everything had been secured to his satisfaction, and the classified cargo had been properly cared for, he headed for the crew ladder and climbed down into the sub-Arctic cold of Labrador. The impacted snow crunched hard under his feet as he walked out from under the nose of his aircraft, remembering as he did so that he was scheduled for an 0800 departure. Getting everything started up, warmed, and ready to go in the morning would be a difficult task after what promised to be a long and frigid night. That thought was fully occupying his mind as he led his small crew across the hardstand toward the operations building.

By 0730 everything was in shape; Mafusky’s flight plan showed five hours and forty minutes for the slightly more than 1,000 miles they had to go. It would be the longest leg and in some respects the most hazardous. Bluie West 8 was at Söndre Strömfjord, well up on the west coast of Greenland, and had only one runway. It had to be approached by flying at low altitude up a fjord and the go-around, in case of a missed landing, was reportedly one of the worst in the world. Also, departing traffic would be coming down the same narrow fjord in the opposite direction, which was a mental hazard if nothing else.

Those were some of the difficulties he had heard about. He also knew that German submarines had been sending out false navigational signals. They had caused a number of planes to fly off course and some of them had crash-landed on the dreaded ice cap as a consequence. He considered these things carefully, but he was not afraid of them. He simply was cautious, as befitted a pilot, no matter how experienced, who was about to take his aircraft and his crew into a difficult situation he had never faced before. By knowing what lay ahead of him, he would be able to deal with whatever problems arose. He had great confidence in his B-17 and that was by far the most important factor in his planning.

The weather briefing had been generally good. The forecaster had seemed confident as he had laid out the expected winds at the altitude and anticipated conditions at Bluie 8. Nevertheless, Miller had ordered full tanks on the sound theory that you can never have too much gas when you are flying into a possibly uncertain situation. The Penguin was an E-model, which meant that she had more than four times the range necessary to reach her next destination, if you discounted the need for holding reserves. In a pinch, she would be able to go straight on through to Reykjavik, Iceland, another 847 miles across Greenland and the hostile North Atlantic. He didn’t fancy that, particularly since it would mean an unfamiliar night landing after ten or eleven hours in the cockpit, but he was prepared to do it if he had to.

At 0755 he called the tower and asked for taxi instructions. Although he tried not to let it show, he took a genuine pride in the fact that his crew was on time to the minute; it was doing things right that won wars. His satisfaction grew as the Penguin rolled slowly over the hardened snow toward the end of the business runway. At that moment he loved every rivet in her. She was a living thing to him, and she was going to bomb the hell out of Hitler’s Germany.

At the end of the taxiway he turned into position and ran up all four engines, making sure that everything checked out properly. That completed, he called the tower and reported the Penguin ready for takeoff.

Despite her eight tons of fuel load, she did not take too long to get off. The cold air suited her wings and its increased density helped her. As she bored steadily upward, her wheels tucked up for the next several hours, she was more than ready to accept the challenge of the High Arctic. Mafusky passed up a heading that Pat Ryan, the copilot, clipped in place where they could both see it clearly. Miller glanced at his twenty-four-year-old second-in-command and read out that he too was taking pride in their bird and what she was doing.

Fifty minutes out of Bluie West 8, the base reported deteriorating weather conditions and advised all aircraft in the vicinity to stand by for further data. Miller checked that the whole crew had heard the transmission, then he spoke into the intercom. “Don’t any of you forget that German subs have been active up here sending out false weather and navigational information. This could be our first contact with the enemy.”

He glanced around and received back a series of approving nods; no one was visibly nervous. He turned his attention back to the sky ahead and watched for any signs of changing weather.

Ten minutes later the radio operator sent in Mafusky’s position report and ETA. Bluie West 8 came back with a further advisory that the weather was worsening and to expect possible holding.

“Keep a careful watch out,” Miller ordered. “I want to know as soon as you see anything.”

As he flew on, he glanced at the instruments only occasionally, keeping his major attention on the sector of sky visible through the windshield.

Three minutes later he caught a change in the visibility. It was dead ahead and a trifle ominous. At almost the same moment the radio crackled and Bluie 8 advised all aircraft in the vicinity to be on the ground within fifteen minutes. Miller knew without asking that the Penguin could never make that deadline; he picked up the intercom and told his navigator to repeat their arrival time to the base and to ask for instructions. He looked again at the sky directly ahead and studied the visible evidence of possible trouble. For the first time he accepted the weather transmission as genuine.

His opinion was reenforced by the radio operator, who advised that the signals were coming from the right direction.

Greenland was in sight by then, an apparent vast mountain of unbroken snow and ice. He knew he was seeing the edge of the ice cap, the incredible phenomenon that covered almost all of Greenland. An enormous monolith of incalculable weight, it soared to 10,000 feet and went on for hundreds of miles. Despite the weather problem facing him, Miller took time to look and to think about what he was seeing. Tomorrow they would fly across it, if the weather had cleared up enough to permit a takeoff, and he would see it closeup in detail. It was one of the most astonishing sights in the world and he wanted to enjoy it while he could.

His thoughts were interrupted by another radio call: Bluie 8 reported that the field was closing and would remain closed for an indefinite period due to an Arctic storm. Miller called back for instructions.

Bluie advised him to proceed, but to make all possible speed. In response he began an immediate letdown, inching the throttles forward instead of easing them normally back. The Penguin dropped her nose and the airspeed began to build up rapidly.

Ten minutes later, while the aircraft was passing through altitude 4,000 feet, the air suddenly became rough. Trusting the structural integrity of the big Boeing, Miller kept his throttles where they were for another minute and a half, but by the end of that time the Penguin was bucking so badly he was forced to ease off. As he did so, he checked behind him and saw that the radio operator was reaching for the urp bucket, which was a bad sign. Miller glanced at Ryan to see if he was all right; his copilot was holding himself in, but the turbulence was beginning to get to him and he might not last another two minutes.