Or perhaps the ice cap was not to blame. Viewed another way, it had provided a haven — a resting place almost two miles up in the sky where a distressed aircraft had found sanctuary of a kind and her crew the opportunity for survival. Without the ice cap, it could have had a different ending. Perhaps, far underneath, there was jagged, hostile terrain that would destroy any aircraft that tried to find a place where it could get onto the ground. At some other part of the globe, in a jungle somewhere, the gallant old B-17 would have been destroyed by a hundred natural enemies within a few weeks or months. Only on the ice cap had she had a chance.
He flew on, a strange tingling running the length of his spine. He was insensitive to the passage of time.
“Dead ahead.”
Ferguson came to abruptly; he had been wool gathering more than he had realized. He scanned through the windshield and saw the B-17, little more than a tiny dot, a mile or two directly in front of him. “Pre-landing checklist,” he ordered.
He was alert as he planned his final approach. By rights it was Corbin’s turn, but he did not want to risk even the slightest mishap, good as he knew Corbin was. Tilton leaned over his shoulder to snap a picture. To accommodate the information officer he circled the wreck once, then put the skis down and set up his approach once more. With the power reduced he crept closer to the surface of the covering snow until the runway markers swept back underneath; then he eased the throttles back still farther and lifted the nose into a landing attitude. The Hercules slid onto the ice cap with hardly a quiver of the airframe.
With delicate skill Ferguson guided his aircraft to a position within a few feet of the right wingtip of the abandoned hulk and then stopped when the rear ramp was at a minimum distance from the nose of the World War II bomber. Well satisfied, he shut down and secured the flight controls and systems.
The rear ramp opened up and within two minutes the crane backed out. It’s huge tires sank a little into the hardened snow, but it was quite able to maneuver. As the first of the maintenance stands was being unloaded, Andy Holcomb began a detailed inspection of the B-17’s structure.
It was cold on the ice cap; a fair wind was blowing and the chill factor had to be somewhere around thirty below. That did not deter Holcomb, principally he was concerned with the work that had to be done.
In front of the nose of the bomber a large canvas was spread, on it a wide assortment of tools was laid out. Stands were placed around the number three engine and two men fired up a small heating unit to thaw out the propeller hub fastenings. Similar attention was being given to the other remaining propeller. Three more men equipped with another of the portable heating units spread a second canvas near to the tail and set up stands to reach the high rudder and vertical stabilizer. After five minutes of careful inspection, one of them called to Holcomb.
“Andy,” he reported. “Good news — it comes off. I was afraid that the fin was an integral part of the fuselage.”
“Need any help?” Holcomb asked.
“One more man would be welcome.” In response, Major Valen climbed up from where he had been standing on the snow. “I’m not a mechanic,” he said, “but I’ll lend a hand.”
Perry Feinberg started one of the big heating units and fed the large-diameter hose up into the fuselage. The ice cap came comfortably alive with noise.
Captain Tilton circulated, taking photographs as rapidly as he could get himself into position. He snapped one of Ferguson as the young aircraft commander stood near to the hull of the B-17 and then paused for a moment. “I want to record all this,” he declared. “It’s the first project of its kind I ever heard of. Whenever you need an extra hand, I’m available.”
“We’ll let you know,” Ferguson promised.
Stands were being placed around the number one engine and the remaining heater unit was spotted on top. All four engines would have to come off, but that should be no problem since one of them was already safely stored back in Hangar 8 and now there was the crane to help.
When the last of the gear had been removed from the C-130, Sergeant Stovers rigged a substantial canvas curtain to close off the front twenty feet of the hold. That done, he set out some of the food he had obtained from the mess hall and connected a good-sized coffee maker. He also laid out a kit of first-aid supplies in case of accident. Five minutes after he had finished, the crane moved into position to take the propeller from the number three engine as soon as it was freed.
Inside the fuselage of the B-17 Andy Holcomb was making a careful inspection; Ferguson was with him. “Hot damn!” the sergeant said. “Look, skipper, the fuselage breaks here, right behind the trailing edge of the wing. That should make it possible to bring her in in two approximately equal sections. What I’m saying is: neither section can be much more than forty feet long, which means that they will fit inside the C-130.”
“That’s great,” Ferguson replied. “Terrific — if the wings come off at the root. That’s the big question.”
“I know,” Holcomb answered. “There are fillets that will have to come off; we may have to drill out the rivets, but there are worse jobs.”
“Oh, sure.” Ferguson was checking the control cables that ran down the inside of the fuselage. “Andy, these appear to be in duplicate, but there are turnbuckles — they can be opened right up.”
“Boeing sure in hell knew what they were doing when they designed this baby. Simple and easy maintenance. That’s what you need for a war bird like her.”
“Let’s get all of this snow out of here,” Ferguson suggested. “Then we ought to be able to take up the flooring without too much trouble.”
“Do you feel strong, sir?”
“OK, I’ll do it.”
Holcomb dropped through the crew door opening down onto the snow and moments later passed up a broom. There was hardly room inside the cramped quarters of the B-17 to use it. “Let’s have a shovel,” Ferguson said.
As soon as he had the tool he wanted, Scott Ferguson set to work. The interior was growing warmer from the heater and he took off his parka. He worked willingly, pushing the snow up to the crew door and then shoving it down out of the aircraft. Because it was an aircraft and at the moment, it was his aircraft.
It was a tight fit in the center of the fuselage, between the wings. From in back he pitched the snow up onto the narrow walkway; when he had a sufficient pile, he climbed over it and cleared it off from the other side. When he had finished to his satisfaction, it was quite warm inside the old hull and he was mildly sweating. He knew the danger of that in the Arctic and stopped to let his metabolism return to normal.
Outside he heard the crane laboring; he looked through the part of the windshield that had partially defrosted and saw that the number one engine had just been detached and that the crane was backing away from the nacelle with it in a sling. Then the crane turned and headed toward the C-130.
A visual check told him that both of the remaining propellers had been removed. He was missing too much; he had to see what was going on. Forgetting the fact that his pores were still open, he dropped down onto the mound of snow he had made and walked out from under the belly of the aircraft.