Джон Болл - Phase Three Alert

In his own quarters, the colonel found it hard to sit still. He had a pile of work with him, but none of it was urgent. Thule was his command and he was responsible for it in every respect that dealt with the United States Air Force, but he was still grateful that he would not have to go through another year facing the grimness and the isolation of the extreme Arctic.

He thought about the immense amount of work that had gone into Operation Penguin and the acute disappointment that had been handed down to the men who had given so much of themselves to accomplish the near impossible. He would have enjoyed his tour a great deal more if it had not been for that.

He called Weather and asked Angelo for an indication as to the duration of the storm. The reply he got was not encouraging: Phase Three would be in effect for at least another eight hours and very likely much longer than that. It was highly doubtful that the rotator would be able to come in on time or take out the relieved personnel on schedule. Thule, J Site, P Mountain, and certainly Alert, more than four hundred miles still farther north, were all catching hell and the end was not in sight.

In the morning the phase rations were broken out. In Building 708 the food was not too bad since most of the men had refrigerators in their rooms and usually a hot plate or small grill of some kind. Coffee, hot cocoa, fried-ham sandwiches, and a good many other things were to be had. Everything was shared and the enforced day off was made as livable as possible. Det. 4 had its usual poker game going; Frank Tilton was busy at the typewriter putting together something he did not choose to discuss; Major Valen was preparing his sermon for the following Sunday. After an impromptu meal of phase rations was finished, the evening broke down into an assortment of minor personal activities. Most of the men went to bed early and thought about home.

Shortly before 1200 hours the following day, five of the men of Det. 4 tapped on the door of the colonel’s quarters. Invited to enter and sit down, they made themselves as comfortable as possible on what chairs there were, and on the edges of the few pieces of furniture.

“Colonel,” Tom Collins began. “We’ve been waiting a helluva long time to hear some further news about the Penguin. Norton turned us down again, is that right?”

“Yes,” Colonel Kleckner admitted, “and they won’t reconsider the matter. I tried everything I could think of, and got in touch with some pretty good personal friends, but I couldn’t move them. The bird is grounded.”

“Permanently, we take it.”

“I’m afraid so. They’ve recommended that we disassemble her and ship her out by sea to Wright-Pat for inclusion in the Air Force museum.”

“How long ago, sir?”

“Actually, quite some time. But no convenient vessel seemed to put into port when the water was open. At least not after I got the final message.”

“Then we’re busted.”

“Yes.”

“Does Scotty Ferguson know this?” Ron Cunningham asked.

The colonel shook his head. “I haven’t told him so directly.”

John Schoen was grim. “It’s going to tear him up,” he said. “I’m sure he’s guessed, but… damn it to hell.”

“I agree,” the colonel responded. “It’s like that sometimes.”

Bob Seligman spoke up. “Colonel, we pretty much concluded that this was the case. When this storm is over, we’re going to throw one hell of a party in honor of the Penguin anyway. At the club. Will you come?”

“Positively. At least we can unveil the painting and hang it properly.”

“That’s what we had in mind,” Seligman said.

By mid-afternoon of the following day the storm was stepped down to Phase Two. That in itself offered very little additional liberty, but it was an indication that the mess hall might be open that night. The colonel called Weather once more and was told that he could expect a downgrade to Phase One sometime around 1800 hours. As soon as he had that information, he called Commander Kure and relayed it; the commander in turn advised that if the forecast held up, a hot meal would be prepared for all hands as soon as the storm had abated to Phase One intensity.

The forecast was good; Phase One was declared at 1815 and very shortly thereafter Thule once more began to show signs of external life. The storm was still powerful, but vehicles were able to crawl cautiously down the roads and the mess hall was ablaze with bright lights.

Because time was getting short for many of the people concerned, the junior officers’ party at the NCO Club in honor of The Passionate Penguin was laid on without delay. It was announced that the theme would be the Fifties, with all appropriate costumes, music, and song. Obviously the resources for any kind of special dress were extremely limited at Thule, but there was a faint air of desperation about the whole thing that simply ignored any restrictions. By the end of the week everything had been prepared and the long, narrow private dining room at the club had been set up with the best that the facility had to offer. At one end of the room the painting of the Penguin had been placed on a easel and then covered with an appropriate drape. Red napkins carefully folded into cylinders stood at each place; the silverware was sparkling clean. For a dinner arrangement several hundred miles north of the Arctic Circle, it was an impressive display.

The participants and guests began to arrive a little after 1800 hours and took their ease at the bar. Uniforms were conspicuously absent; striped shirts had been broken out, loud ties had been unearthed, and work pants had been used to create a costume effect. The PA system poured out the music of Chuck Berry and the two bartenders produced concoctions to suit the rapidly growing trade. A new cocktail named “the Penguin’s Playmate” had been created for the occasion and was tried out with ironic frequency. By 1900 hours the mood of most of those present had been softened somewhat, but Det. 4 had not yet put in an appearance.

Dinner was announced and the men filed in. The carefully prepared room was admired as the place cards were read. As the men began to seat themselves, sounds were heard from the lobby; presently Det. 4 came streaming in, loudly and boisterously, almost the perfect epitome of a street gang. They had all turned their flying jackets inside out so that the international orange liners became flashy jackets. On the back of each was a bold patch that read PHARAOHS. Their pants were as outlandish an assortment as the Far Arctic could produce; their hair was slicked back and their faces were smeared with grime. They shouted and pushed, they snarled at each other and anyone who got in their way, they upset chairs as they went.

One man grabbed a bottle of wine and spilled it as others tried to take it away amid curses and shouts. An unattended drink was snatched up and consumed. Someone shouted from the lobby and a moment later two more gang members burst into the room and tossed onto the table the four hubcaps from the colonel’s staff car.

The entrance was a smashing success; laughs came tumbling on top of one another — jeers were thrown across the table and feigned insults brought pretended threats of instant violence. The tensions that had been building for weeks spilled out into the open and the accumulated bitterness was let loose. Toasts to all sorts of fanciful subjects were raised and downed. Steaks and salads were brought in, but little attention was paid to the food. It was an uninhibited bash, and every man present threw himself into the mood of abandonment.

They ate when they were able, but the noise level remained high and unrestrained. “Get some women up here!” someone shouted. “Get some go-go girls to take off their pants and dance!” That brought a fresh spasm of loud clapping and cheers. There were no go-go dancers, but that mattered little — they created them. Someone raised a glass and proposed a toast to the health of the Director of Air Safety — he was shouted down in a chorus of boos. The Pharaohs rose to attack; someone emptied a half-filled glass of beer over the toaster’s head. The colonel laughed until there were tears in his eyes.