Джон Болл - Phase Three Alert

Ferguson recognized that his redheaded junior had spoken the truth. “Then we’ll have to get another one,” he said.

It was a good, bravura speech, but it did not impress the disillusioned men.

In the few seconds of silence that followed his pronouncement, Ferguson saw it all clearly in his mind. The utter remoteness and desolation of Thule was something that seeped into the bones and marrow of the men who served there. The monotony was like a slow poison that took away energy and ambition and left only discouragement in its place. Despite bowling leagues, a good gym, the library, the theater, and all that, nothing could wipe away the ever-present awareness of the High Arctic — its unyielding hostility and the sudden violent death that, at times, was only a few breaths away.

Under such conditions, boredom was all-pervading and the routine nature of the work regularly done was in itself stifling. The Penguin project had come like a rescue flare in the Arctic night sky. It had promised something new — a great challenge combined with a massive work commitment, but one that had injected new life throughout every corner of the Thule facility. The Penguin herself had become a symbol and she had been blessed by the dedication of the men who labored gladly to restore her. They had chosen to attempt the virtually impossible, and they had found excitement in the process.

Corbin was speaking again. “Even Sergeant Stovers can’t suggest any place we can look. God knows where any replacement parts would be now.”

Ferguson fought back against the thing that fate had done to him with the desperation of a man facing an avalanche. “Boeing might have one, or even Douglas — they built B-17’s too.”

“After thirty years?” Corbin shook his head. “You know what the chances are of that. We could advertise, but that would tell the whole world, and the Pentagon, what’s going on up here.”

Ferguson thought. “I guess this is what I’ve been afraid of since we began,” he admitted. “The time when we’d run into something that we couldn’t either fix or replace. And, oh God, a main landing-gear fitting!”

Jenkins came over, still heavy, but almost ten pounds lighter since the work on the airplane had begun. “We’re all going to see if we can’t come up with something,” he offered. “A lot of the guys on this base have got connections.”

Ferguson let it all spill out. “Yes, but we need a complicated main structural component, and there haven’t been any of those parts available for several aircraft generations.”

When no one had anything to say in reply to that, he turned toward the door and went back outside.

That night he was hit by the wild idea that there were at least seven other known B-17’s out on the ice cap. One of them might still have the vital part intact, but he knew, at the same moment that that idea crossed his mind, he would never be able to go out and get it. It would take a crane to lift the aircraft up and hold the load while the part was removed. And because of what it was, it would take many hours of labor to get it off under the best of conditions. He would need permission, a satisfactory landing area, and too many other things to make it possible. No dice — and he could not convince himself otherwise.

He turned over in bed and tried once more to get to sleep.

The Thule grapevine was apparently down for maintenance, because it was past 1000 hours the following morning before Chief Master Sergeant Perry Feinberg learned about the disastrous discovery in Hangar 8. At once he knew that it was a matter so grave he would have to give it his fullest personal attention. As he dealt with the pile of work that was part of his daily responsibility, he kept coming back to the problem and exposing it to the searching investigation of his resourceful mind. As soon as he got off at noon, he called a cab and went immediately to see things for himself. When he had done that he repaired to the mess hall where there was now a long table more or less reserved for the B-17 project personnel.

Most of the prime movers were there, including Ferguson, who looked like a man three-quarters of the way through a summer hike across Death Valley. No one was doing very much talking. As Feinberg unloaded his amply filled tray, Andy Holcomb ventured a remark. “I don’t know how many of you guys have been in South America, but it is supposed to be a place where every aircraft part ever made can be found. At least it’s worth a try.”

As soon as he was comfortably installed, Sergeant Feinberg took over. “Gentlemen,” he began, “we have certain alternatives and we should know clearly what they are. First, we can try to moonlight-requisition the necessary part from a B-17 somewhere or have it done for us. Forget the ones on the ice cap; the odds are too high against success.”

“Agreed,” Ferguson said.

“Secondly, we can try to locate a new part on the shelf somewhere in the world; it could still possibly be. We could also try to have one made. Lastly, we can admit that this breaks us and forget the whole thing.”

“Over my dead body,” Ferguson retorted.

“I didn’t propose it,” Feinberg replied, “I only stated it as a mathematical possibility. Actually, if we were to stop now, and it became known that I had been associated with the project, my reputation would suffer a massive setback. Therefore we must think of something else.”

“Any suggestions?” Corbin asked.

“Just possibly. First, a question: does anybody know the status of Sergeant Murphy, the electronics whiz?”

“He’s going out on the next rotator,” Tom Collins answered. “You’d have to announce that Jesus was going to preach in person from the summit of Mount Dundas to keep him here.”

“Did anyone give him the picture?”

A bearded Dane at the table shook his head. “The picture I have,” he announced. “If he saw that, he would not be able to leave — he would be in the coronary care unit at the hospital.”

“Another good idea gone down the tube,” Feinberg said. “But men are known by the obstacles they overcome.”

Ferguson was sitting very still, hardly listening to what was going on. He recognized that he was confronted by defeat, but he refused to accept it. Somehow, some way, they would get out of the predicament. At that moment he had no idea how, but it would have to be done. If only Thule weren’t so desperately isolated; stateside he might have a chance.

He caught the fact that he was beginning to think negatively and he determined to correct it. He looked up and for the moment purged the problem from his mind. “Who is the best musician on the base?” he asked.

“Tony Agretti in Supply,” Captain Tilton answered. “He plays several instruments and is good at everything.”

“Then we’ve got a job for him,” Ferguson continued. “We’re going to have to have a suitable celebration when the Penguin is finished.”

In a flash Tilton understood, and played along. “Of course. We’ll make the Air Force Times, and have a good shot at Newsweek and Time. Not to mention Flying and all of the other aviation media.”

“To do it properly, we’ll ask the colonel to give a brief speech. The contribution of Det. Four will have to be stressed. Then the band will play.”

“What band?” Stovers asked.

“Tony Agretti’s band; he sounds as though he could organize one. Then the wife of the Danish commander, who is the most prominent of the ladies up here, will be introduced. After that we’ll push the Penguin out of the hangar. Mrs. Kure will rechristen it properly with a bottle of champagne. Frank will have pictures taken; the crowd will cheer.