Джон Болл - Phase Three Alert

As he got out of his seat, Ferguson visualized a variety of troubles over the ice cap: the sections were too heavy and the choppers, although able to lift them, had not been able to carry them all of the way; fuel supplies had not been adequate for that much weight and bulk; refueling had run into difficulties and the wing sections had had to be jettisoned.

Trying to put potential disasters out of his mind, he left the flight deck and went outside. The rear ramp had been opened and he walked around the back to see for himself. As he did so, a major in flight gear extracted himself from a small group of spectators and came over. He looked inside and said, “Well I’ll be damned!” Then he turned to Ferguson. “Is this your airplane?” he asked.

“Which one?”

The major laughed. “We just got here, but we’ve already heard that you were bringing a B-17 in off the ice cap. I didn’t believe it; now I do.”

“It isn’t all here yet,” Ferguson told him. “And if you don’t mind, we’d like to keep a low profile on this if we can.”

“Got you — we won’t say anything stateside. By the way, we’re a reserve crew out of McGuire.” He held out his hand. “Fred Steinhammer.”

“Scott Ferguson.” The two men shook hands.

“Now that you’ve got it, what are you going to do with it?” Steinhammer asked.

“Fly it,” Ferguson answered. “It needs a hundred-hour check, of course.”

“I’d say a bit more than that. How about the tires? You’ll need new ones, I would think.”

Despite all of his planning, Ferguson hadn’t been able to solve that. Rubber that had been out in all that weather, for that length of time, might be worthless — or seriously dangerous, which was worse.

“We may have to scare up some new ones,” he admitted. “Somebody must make them.”

“Possibly.” The major sounded doubtful. “May I see what else you’ve got?”

Ferguson waved toward Hangar 8. “Be my guest,” he invited. There was no point in being secretive anymore — the colonel had to know. He was badly upset that the acute problem of the tires hadn’t been resolved. No one could be expected to be making B-17 tires now. Some might be available somewhere, or possibly there was a current size that could be substituted. But even if they were found, they would cost money and how in hell could he get them shipped all the way up to Thule?

His spirits did not improve even when a motorized crane backed up to lend a helping lift. Bill Stovers was totally involved in preparing to remove the fuselage section, which looked much bigger now than it had on the ice cap. He went into the hangar and again inspected the tires — all three of them. They seemed to be in surprisingly good shape; under the weight of his foot the rubber flexed and appeared to be strong. One thing was clear: they had been all but new when the pilot, whoever he had been, had made his emergency landing on them three decades ago.

He spotted Sergeant Feinberg and walked over to him. “Perry,” he said, “I’m concerned about the tires.”

“So was I, sir, but we checked them over and they seem to be OK.”

“I want a little more than that. See what you can find out. Try calling Akron; one of the big rubber companies there may be able to give us a clue. Their engineers should know something.”

Feinberg nodded. “I’ll do that, sir, but remember that a lot of airplanes are tied down outside in all kinds of weather for years and the tires seem to be able to take it.”

That added a little hope. Ferguson went into Operations and asked if any word had come in from Det. 4. “Both birds are out on a training mission,” the duty NCOIC told him. “So far, there’s no ETA on either one.”

“No trouble reported?”

“No, sir, nothing at all.”

“Thank you.” He went back to watch the unloading process. The portable crane was making things vastly easier. In less than a third of the time it had taken to get it stowed inside, the long nose section was unloaded. Once it was out, the crane carried it easily into the hangar and set it down gently into a set of cradles that had been built to hold it. Ferguson saw that operation concluded and then went outside with his hands clenched despite his heavy gloves. He was sweating out the helicopters with all his being — everything was so close now! The temperature was well below zero, but he was oblivious to it. In fact he felt warm and he threw back the hood of his parka.

He saw Andy Holcomb squinting toward the southeast; he turned quickly and looked in the same direction. For a moment or two he couldn’t be sure, then over the snow heights just visible to him he saw something in the sky.

Standing rock still to aid his vision, he caught the glint of a main rotor, made out the shape of the incoming helicopter, and praise to Almighty God, there was something substantial suspended underneath its fuselage!

He could have yelled out of sheer joy and relief, but he did nothing except stand still and watch the helicopter grow larger as it followed a steady descent path toward the field.

Everyone knew; all remaining hands had come out of the hangar. “Get something out here for them to put it on,” he shouted in his excitement. For once, nothing had been prepared.

“Blankets,” Bill Stovers called out, and ran for the C-130.

“No!” Sergeant Feinberg shouted after him. “They’ll blow away. Rubber life raft!”

Six men hauled one out of the C-130 and inflated it in record time. Meanwhile, disregarding the normal approach patterns, the helicopter crossed over the runway and pulled up into a hover. Holcomb signaled toward the life raft and the airborne crew understood; the aircraft came down very slowly and set the huge wing section squarely on the raft with apparent ease. It’s work completed, the HH-3 hover-taxied back to its own hangar and there settled onto the ground.

The crane was summoned and the sling was hooked onto its hanging cable. It lifted the new load easily and rolled into the hangar with two men steadying the wing section to keep it from rotating.

Ferguson was confident then; he knew it could be done. Det. 4 had proven that they could do it, and all praise to them. But it wasn’t over yet.

The ordeal continued for some twenty minutes — then the second of the powerful Sikorsky’s came sliding down an invisible sky pathway, bearing the other huge wing root section. The downblast from the main rotor sent snow swirling madly as the helicopter hovered and then set down its load so gently it was difficult to tell the moment that it finally rested on the raft. The sling released and Major Mulder lifted a hand in greeting from the cockpit.

Stage one of his impossible project was all but over; what stage two would bring, Ferguson did not dare to guess.

In three weeks’ time a near miracle took place inside the wide expanse of Hangar 8. Once the rebuilding project got fairly underway, Americans and Danes combined their labors and their skills to bring The Passionate Penguin back to respectability, if not to life. The two halves of the fuselage were reunited and bolted securely together. The control surfaces were stripped of their old fabric and expertly recovered with new material — new in the sense that it had never previously been used. Actually it had been occupying shelf space in Supply for some years with very little likelihood of its ever being withdrawn. There was even some aluminum-colored dope on hand so that the job could be properly finished in exactly the original color.

The odor of drying dope produced some fond memories on the part of those Air Force men who had been associated with aircraft in an earlier day, and a Danish worker who happened to hold an advanced pilot’s license in his own country was almost ecstatic. “It can be done,” he mumured to himself at frequent intervals. “It can be done!”