Джон Болл - Phase Three Alert

There appeared to be nothing that could be effectively done at that moment except to maintain a listening watch on all likely channels. The weather was all but unflyable, even under emergency conditions. The colonel actually considered the possibility of an immediate search; nothing would be visible on the ice cap in the all-but-total darkness, but it might be possible to sight a flare — if someone was lucky enough to be fairly close to where the Twin Otter was down — or to pick up a radio signal too weak to have been heard at either Thule or Sondrestrom.

Colonel Kleckner — allowed to do so because he was the commander — donned his parka and stepped outside for a minute or two to survey the weather personally, with the eyes of a long-experienced pilot. He came back in, went to the operations counter, and said, “Get some Trackmasters down here to move these men to their quarters. There’s enough visibility for that.”

The NCOIC picked up a phone and passed the word. As he did so, the colonel was considering another possibility. The Otter was ski-equipped and the pilot was widely known for his ability. In the face of severe weather warnings, he could very well have elected an intentional landing on the ice cap to wait for better conditions. As soon as they came, he would take off once more and complete the remainder of his flight to Thule. So it was entirely possible that once the weather lifted, the Otter might be inbound any time thereafter.

He very much hoped that was the case, for the sake of the little Eskimo girl more than anything else.

He called the tower and gave instructions to keep up a constant alert watch. The man on duty advised the colonel that he was doing just that. The phone rang and Major Mulder was on the line. He reported that Det. 4 was standing by on alert-status, ready to fly. Both birds were fully gassed and cocked; they could be off the ground minutes after the bell rang.

Angelo came in from Weather holding a fresh map he had just finished. Without unnecessary comment, he spread it out for the colonel to read. “It’s too early to tell anything definite,” he said, “but there’s a possibility of an improvement by zero-six-hundred. Not too much of a one.”

“When might we be down below Phase Alert?”

Angelo ran powerful fingers through his black hair. “I’d hate to say, sir, it might be twenty-four hours — or even more. Possibily less. I know I’m not being definite, but I honestly don’t know.”

The colonel respected him for that answer. “Are you going to stay on watch?”

“Yes, sir, I’m not going anyplace.”

“Good. If I’m not here, raise me at my quarters the moment you have anything more to go on.”

“Understood, sir. From this minute on.”

The colonel went back to the operations counter. “Get me the commander at Sondrestrom,” he directed. “Colonel Olsen.”

The man on the communications desk raised a hand in the air. He continued to listen for almost a full minute, then he turned to speak. “Colonel Olsen was just on the horn to the Pentagon, sir; their operator patched me in so we would know what was going on. Sondrestrom reported that they had lost contact with the Otter, what its mission was, and that it was down on the ice cap. Colonel Olsen advised that they are going to mount a full blower search beginning at daybreak, or as soon after that as the weather allows. At present the field is closed and conditions are totally unflyable. None of the weather stations in the area saw this one coming — it just popped up out of nowhere.”

“Cancel my request,” the colonel answered, “that’s all I need to know.”

A Trackmaster rumbled up outside and the driver gave a blast on the horn. In response the colonel donned his parka once more and this time drew on his gloves. “I’ll be at the hospital,” he advised.

Shortly after 0700 hours the following morning, weather was downgraded to Phase One. Major Eastcott, who had been keeping very close watch, decided to his own satisfaction that the change had not been fully justified; it probably had been done to make the mess hall once more available. The major went down the hall and picked up Captain Boyd. “Let’s go,” he said.

“Right.” The two men left together, unplugged the major’s vehicle, and set out for a hearty breakfast. They might well need it before the day was over. The weather on the way to the mess hall was fierce and the winds rocked even the pickup truck as it made its way slowly down the partly obscured roadway.

Det. 4 was gathered around one of the long tables when they went inside, but Eastcott spotted Bowditch attacking a plate of ham and eggs and went to him immediately. “How’s your patient, Bob?” he asked.

Bowditch stopped eating to reply. “She’s Herb’s patient; he’s with her now. She’s immobilized, probably unconscious, and no significant change. So far the small respirator is doing the job, but it can’t hold out indefinitely.”

“If it goes, what then?”

“Then Herb will have to bring her out of it fast. That will allow the spasms to start in again; after that it’s only a question of time.”

“Terminal, then.”

Bowditch nodded. “If that happens, no way. It would be kinder to keep her under and just let her stop breathing. I can’t suggest that, of course…”

“I understand.” Eastcott went to the serving line and got his own food. Twenty minutes later, when both he and Boyd had finished eating, they took the truck to the flight line and entered the hangar where the C-130 was kept. There they found Ferguson and his whole crew busy getting everything ready. They had food packs and survival equipment to be dropped, portable radios, an extra load of blankets, a heater unit, and everything else that both Sergeant Stovers and Sergeant Holcomb had been able to think of that might be needed.

“I see you guys got here first,” Eastcott said.

“We’ve been here since daybreak,” Ferguson answered. “We mapped it all out last night. But you guys are welcome; we’re going to need all the eyes we can carry, and relief pilots. That’s you. We’ve already got full tanks and the bird is cocked.”

“How about the rest of my crew?” Boyd asked. “They’re coming down.”

“We can probably use them, but we’re going the moment that Ops gives the green light. Jenkins is down there now sitting on their necks.”

The phone rang and Ferguson picked it up. “Get your ass down here on the double,” Jenkins almost shouted. “Now!”

Ferguson grabbed the nearest parka, not caring whose it was, and dashed out the door. He had never heard Jenkins talk like that before and it put fire into his bloodstream. He almost burst into Operations to find his navigator holding a teletype in his shaking fingers. “From the Pentagon. Immediate orders to mount a maximum search with all available aircraft the moment the weather permits takeoffs. Scotty, all available aircraft!”

It took Scott Ferguson a second or two; he had painstakingly built a solid wall in his mind and he had to crash through it. “The colonel,” he said.

“I’ve got a vehicle.”

“Go.”

Ferguson jumped into the pickup while Jenkins, moving with amazing speed for his weight, hopped into the driver’s seat and hit the starter. Despite the hostility of the still savage weather, they made it to the administration building with total disregard of the high hazard on the roadways. Once inside, both men shucked their parkas and then consumed minimum seconds in presenting themselves at the outer office of the commander’s suite. “Lieutenants Ferguson and Jenkins to see the colonel,” Scott said to the duty sergeant. “Urgent.”