Ferguson went willingly and ignoring the matter of rank joined Jenkins and Corbin in helping on the ropes that had been expertly slung around the power plant. He estimated quickly: the engine delivered 1,200 horsepower and therefore it would weigh something like 2,400 pounds. A careful look at the block and tackle hung from the A-frame satisfied him that the ratio was right, three men would be able to do it.
Sergeants Holcomb and Stovers climbed into position and took off the last set of nuts as Perry Feinberg kept a critical eye on the job and served as ground anchor man. With enough men to do the job it was comparatively easy; at the right moment the A-frame took the strain and then it was a relatively simple matter to lower the cumbersome piston engine down onto the sled that had been placed to receive it. The sled itself was piled with blankets to reduce damage to a minimum.
After all hands had pushed and hauled the engine to the rear of the Hercules and had muscled it up the ramp, Ferguson had the feeling that things had gone about far enough. He returned to the ancient B-17, whose crew door would never be frozen shut again, and tried once more to move the most accessible of the wooden crates. It yielded to his reasonable persuasion and he slid it over to the crew door opening without undue difficulty. Waiting for him there was Sergeant Feinberg and one of his men; the senior NCO relieved him of it without a word.
When the last of the wooden boxes had been retrieved, he checked the now comfortably warm cabin of the bomber and satisfied himself that there were no more crates on board. Then, with reluctant steps, he returned to his own living aircraft and suggested that it was about time to return to Thule.
As he had anticipated, Sergeant Feinberg asked for a brief dispensation to allow a small piece of work that was under way to be finished. The small piece of work proved to be the number one propeller which was hauled on board to join the number four that had already been secured by Sergeant Stovers.
Just in time, Ferguson remembered the seat cushion he had decided to appropriate for himself. Trying not to look conspicuous, he returned to the B-17, went back up inside, and shortly reappeared with his modest prize. The skiers who had checked the landing area had long since completed their job. The last of the maintenance equipment was being stowed under Sergeant Stovers’s direction. Within the next minute the hydraulic actuators lifted up the rear ramp and moved the upper section down to form the rear seal. Everything was on board and everyone seemed quite happy.
As soon as Andy Holcomb had the outrageously noisy APU going, the C-130 pulsed with life. The airscrews began to rotate and then whirled into discs as the turbines took hold. When the checklists had been completed, Ferguson moved her out into the center of the newly marked runway area and then headed into a takeoff run down the long snow path. Even with all her power, the mighty bird was a little slow to come off because of the altitude and the friction of her skis. She broke loose at last and climbed up into the sky while the whine of her power plants echoed over the endless empty vastness of the ice cap.
Inside the C-130 the parts of the old aircraft began to give out thin trickles of water as the ice within them melted slightly in the heat of the cargo hold. The men themselves were tired and lay sprawled on the horizontal canvas benches along the sides of the fuselage. Even Sergeant Feinberg set aside his dignity and let his bulk overflow the narrow pallet while he slept.
As airmen do everywhere, they awoke in time to buckle down for the landing. Once again Ferguson slid the Hercules expertly onto the white-painted Thule runway. At the tower’s instruction he parked a little past Operations, a somewhat superfluous gesture since there were no other aircraft anywhere on the ramp.
Half an hour later Ferguson was still aboard his command. In spite of the cold, he had elected to remain to attend to the necessary paper work and to make sure that the wooden crates he had brought in would not be removed without his knowledge. When he had finished his work, he climbed down onto the cargo floor as a six-pack truck drew up outside. Moments later Sergeant Feinberg entered the aircraft, closely followed by Sergeant Stovers, the loadmaster.
“Colonel Kleckner is aware that we’re back, sir,” Feinberg reported. “We’re instructed to put the crates in this truck; Sergeant Ragan, the head of base security, will take over from there.”
“Thank you very much.”
“Also, sir, the commander is in his office and I believe that he’s expecting you. A taxi will be here momentarily.”
“Good.” Ferguson paused, wondering if he should ask the question that was on his mind. “Sergeant,” he began finally, “now that you have them, what are you going to do with all of the parts from the B-17?”
At that moment Sergeant Stovers found it necessary to check something on the outside of the aircraft; he left without a word.
Perry Feinberg paused himself before replying, which was a rare thing. “I think you have already guessed, sir,” he said when he was ready. “Forgive me, but I saw you when you were standing in front of the nose of that abandoned old bomber, and I believe I know what you were thinking.”
Feinberg paused and carefully read out the reaction to his words. When he was satisfied, he went on. “We’re going to clean them up and put them in good order. We have quite a bit of time on our hands up here, sir, and sometimes without too much to do. It may take a while, but I think, and the others agree, that we can bring that old bird in, piece by piece, and put her back together again.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Colonel James Kleckner put down the telephone by means of which he had been talking with the Pentagon and gave his attention to the NCO who had appeared in the doorway of his office. “Lieutenant Ferguson is here, sir,” the man reported.
“Ask him to come in.”
Since he had not yet met Ferguson, the colonel got to his feet to receive his newest junior officer. The colonel was a tall, well-built man who wore a suitably impressive array of ribbons on his uniform, and atop them, the wings of a command pilot. His features showed that he was used to carrying responsibility, but like most good commanders he was, under normal circumstances, an affable man with a quick smile and a relaxed manner.
Ferguson came in, offered his salute, and then took the hand that was extended to him. “Sit down, Lieutenant,” the colonel invited.
“Thank you, sir.” Ferguson took his place with a proper amount of dignity.
The colonel sat down behind his desk. “Welcome to the top of the world,” he said. “I understand that you’ve been to Thule before.”
“I’ve passed through several times, sir, but we’ve never been on the ground here more than an hour or so.”
“Have you and your crew had the Thule briefing?”
“No, sir.”
“Then I’ll attend to that. There’s no place on earth like this, Lieutenant. For example, even during the very coldest days in the middle of winter, we have a heavy requirement for air conditioning.”
“For what reason, sir? The hospital, perhaps?”
“No; as a matter of fact, it’s outdoors.”
The colonel paused as two cups of coffee were brought in. “You see, Lieutenant, this whole base is built on the permafrost. There is a comparatively thin layer of soil that thaws somewhat during the summer, but below that the ground is permanently frozen like a solid block of steel that may go down a half mile or more. It makes an excellent foundation and it will bear enormous weight as long as it remains frozen. But when you put a building on it and then heat the building, the next time you look the building may be five or ten feet lower. So the buildings here are all well above the ground and we use air-conditioning units to prevent the permafrost from melting underneath them.”