Джон Болл - Phase Three Alert

Sergeant Holcomb went to Supply to see if he could get some new and unused control cable. The old cables seemed to be perfectly all right, but Lieutenant Ferguson had decreed that they must all be replaced in the interests of maximum safety. At the Supply window, where he was by now the most familiar face on Thule Air Base, he asked if there was any cable available.

“There may be some,” the supply man said. “I believe I ran across it the other day. But this we can’t declare surplus; if you want any, you’ll have to pay for it.”

Andy Holcomb stood still while he calculated. All of the control cable systems of the B-17 were in duplicate; by the time that several pairs of cables were run from the cockpit far back to the empennage, and more sets were run all of the way out through the wings, the total length required would be over a thousand feet. “How much is it?” he asked.

“Fifteen cents a foot, as I recall.”

Andy winced, but he did not complain — he did not dare to. Already a considerable quantity of materiel had turned up on the diposable list just when it was needed by the workers in Hangar 8. True, all of it had been unquestionably outdated, but control cable was another matter.

“Ten feet ought to do it,” the supply man said.

“Why ten feet—” Andy began, and then came to his senses.

“Let me give you ten feet, Sergeant, and then you can come back for however much more you need — if we have it. Just a minute.”

When he returned, he was pushing a hand dolly on which a large spool of wire was fastened with a reefer strap. “There ought to be ten feet here,” he declared. “I can measure it if you’d like, or you can take it as is.”

“Don’t bother to measure,” Andy answered. “I trust you.”

“That’s good. A buck fifty, please, and I’ll get someone to help you with that dolly. It’s pretty heavy.”

Andy dug into his pocket. “That’s all right, I can manage it. Two guys taking out ten feet of cable would look kind of silly, I think. By the way, how are you fixed for metal polish?”

“We have the right gunk for cleaning up aluminum, a hundred-pound drum’s on hand. It’s not fresh, because they don’t use it on the Jollies.”

“We’ll take it anyway. I’ll be back.”

“Bring a couple of bucks — you may need them. We’ve got to keep people honest around here.”

Lieutenant Ferguson, in the best uniform that he could muster for the occasion, presented himself at the colonel’s office and checked in with the Executive Officer. A minute or two later he was ushered into Colonel Kleckner’s presence, where he observed the formalities. Then he was invited to sit down.

“Lieutenant, I sent for you to pass on some information. The next rotator is bringing up another C-130 crew; the A/C is a Captain Boyd. Do you happen to know him, by any chance?”

“No, sir, I believe not.”

“Boyd and his crew will be here while the Army is carrying on its project at Camp Century. They will fly their share of the trips so that you won’t have to make them all.”

Ferguson was relieved; he had been terribly afraid that he was being replaced and would have to leave Thule and the Penguin behind him.

“That’s fine, sir,” he said.

“I’m not sure that this new crew is ski qualified, so you may have to check them out.”

“No problem, sir.”

“Fine, speaking of projects, how are you coming along with your B-17?”

It was the first time that the colonel had ever mentioned the subject.

“Better than we had dared to hope, sir. We have her all back here, as I’m sure you know, and the quality of work that’s going into her you wouldn’t believe. Yesterday they finished the overhaul of the tail-wheel mechanism. The first time that they hooked up a battery and tried it, it worked perfectly.”

Colonel Kleckner flashed one of his quick smiles. “That’s interesting. I must say, bringing the whole airplane back, one of that size, was quite a feat.”

“We couldn’t have done it, sir, without Det. Four. This is heresy, sir, but those helicopters are marvelous and the guys that fly them are out of this world. They did the impossible.”

The colonel turned his chair a few degrees and made himself more comfortable. “It was valuable training, I’m sure; running back and forth to Kanak isn’t too much of a challenge. I suspect that that’s why Major Kimsey laid on the exercise, which was, in a way, fortunate for you.”

“Extremely fortunate, sir.”

Colonel Kleckner waved a hand. “I want all of my units, and every man at this base to improve himself while he’s here. The United States Air Force doesn’t take a back seat to anyone.”

“No, sir, never!”

“How are you financing your reconstruction job?”

“Well, sir, we’re going on the assumption that that bird is going to fly again before too long—”

He stopped when he saw a frown cross the colonel’s face. But when the base commander said nothing, Ferguson continued. “So we have a little game going. Every rated man, and that includes all ranks that hold a commercial license or better, Danish or American, puts a buck in the kitty, along with his name, whenever he feels like it. When the time comes, we’ll have a drawing. The man whose name is pulled gets to fly.”

“That sounds logical — and fair. You plan to draw only one name? You said ‘the man’ whose name comes up.”

“Yes, sir, I did. He gets to fly copilot.” Ferguson let down his guard; he could not help himself. “That’s my airplane, sir, and I’m going to fly it!”

The colonel pushed his lips together for a moment. “Before you set a date, please check with me — just in case.”

“Yes, sir, absolutely.” Ferguson knew that the interview was over. He stood up, saluted, and exited, in a suitable manner.

It was already much warmer outside, and the days were rapidly getting longer. In a few weeks there would be twenty-four hour summer daylight and the harbor would unfreeze enough to permit waterborne traffic — what there might be of it. Few ships ever dared to venture so far north.

He jumped into a taxi and asked the driver to take him to Hangar 8; it would be more than an hour before mess call and an enormous amount of work remained to be done. As he pushed open the personnel door, he was inspired by the knowledge that the colonel had given the whole project at least a conditional blessing. He had hopefully assumed that; but having it confirmed was the best news he had had since he had seen the second of the wing root sections coming down from off the ice cap.

He walked briskly inside, ready to take on whatever task he would be given to do. He was halfway to the working area before he was suddenly aware that something was seriously wrong. He looked quickly about and saw that although there were several other men in the hangar, they were gathered about one spot and most of them were standing still.

Fighting against the ominous atmosphere that was already surrounding him, he forced himself to walk over to them calmly and then asked, “What is it?”

Corbin, his copilot, answered him. He was a strong, well-controlled young man, but at that moment he fought to keep his voice normal as he answered.

“About an hour ago we started work on the right main landing gear. That’s the next thing and it has to be put in shape before we can assemble any further. We were giving all of the components a Class-A inspection when… we found that the main structural fitting that holds the gear struts to the wing frame is cracked wide open.”

“How badly? Can it be welded?”

Corbin shook his head. “Negative. It’s an intricate basic part that has to take high stress on landing. It’s got to be in one solid piece and no fix could be acceptable. I wouldn’t buy it, and I know you won’t either.”