“They must be very complex machines.”
“That’s right, Bill, they are. They have all kinds of special systems and flying them isn’t that easy.”
Stovers began to lead into his subject. He looked carefully inside the cabin and counted the available seats. He measured the remaining cargo space with an experienced eye. Then he studied the size of the airframe and tried to relate the physical dimensions to the machine’s ability to lift. “I see that you can carry ten or twelve pax,” he commented.
“Yes, easily. Plus all their gear and baggage. We do that all the time when we go out to the Eskimo villages.”
“You carry a lot of semi-permanent gear.”
“Yes, that’s all rescue equipment. It has to be on board at all times. If we get a call when we’re going someplace, we can divert right then and there and we’ll have everything with us. About eight hundred pounds worth.”
“Isn’t it true,” Stovers asked, “that you can also carry things externally?”
“Absolutely, that’s one of the advantages of a helicopter. They use them, for instance, in erecting high tension towers. When they want to build a cross-country electrical trunk line, they assemble the tops of the towers on the ground, which is a lot easier. Then a helicopter picks them up, one after another, and puts them in place. A skyhook in other words.”
“These aircraft could do that?”
“Yes, the H-3 could, depending on the size of the towers of course.”
“Is there anything in particular that you carry?”
“Yes, Firebees for one thing. They’re pilotless drones that we recover and carry externally.”
“How big are they?”
“Almost twenty-three feet long, a little less than thirteen feet in span.”
“How much do they weigh?” he asked.
“Empty, about fourteen hundred and fifty pounds, but they can gross up to thirty-two hundred.”
A half an hour later Bill Stovers left the Det. 4 hangar and took a cab to Hangar 8. It was a short distance, but he had already been at Thule long enough to know that wandering around in severe sub-zero temperatures was definitely not recommended. That was one reason why the free taxi service had been set up.
The driver did not mind at all. He dropped Bill at the doorway and then asked casually, “What’s going on in there?”
“Some repair work,” Stovers answered.
Once inside he turned on the overhead lights and then spent ten minutes surveying all of the parts and components that had already been brought in. The wing panels had been laid out in their approximate positions on the floor. The four propellers were in a neat row. One engine had been mounted on a stand and two of the cylinders have been taken off.
When he had inspected everything to his satisfaction, he walked over to the workbenches that had been set up. On one of them he found the first real piece of aircraft structure that had been brought in — the left stabilizer. He examined it minutely, as though it had some special secret that it could reveal to him. When he was at last satisfied, he checked carefully to see what sort of tools were at hand.
From a hidden corner of Supply someone had unearthed aircraft cleaning compound. Placed next to it there was an electric buffer with several spare discs.
Sergeant Stovers took off his parka and folded his sleeves back above his elbows. Then he set to work. He tried a small test area first, carefully rubbing the cleaner by hand until the accumulated patina of soil had been loosened and partly wiped away. Then he switched on the electric buffer and guided it carefully over the metal. The results were satisfying. As soon as the test section had been thoroughly cleaned, he looked for polish, found some, and applied it to the same small area. When it had dried sufficiently he used the buffer once more. This time the aluminum brightened until it shone like new — each individual rivet head a tiny bright eye studding the surface of the Alclad.
That was all that he had to see. He worked on for more than three hours, carefully and systematically, until he was finished. Then he replaced the tools and threw the waste into a barrel. He knew why no one else had come to put in some spare time and he was glad for his own reasons that he had not been interrupted. When he had finished putting everything in order, he checked over his handiwork.
The left stabilizer shone more brilliantly than it probably had when it had been indeed brand-new. The transformation was phenomenal; no one looking at it would call it anything other than a fine aircraft part; even by the not too brilliant hangar lighting far over head it showed highlights on its almost dazzling surface.
Bill Stovers was satisfied. When the others saw it, they would get the message. He got back into his parka, called a cab, and then waited outside in order to let the icy air cool the fire in his brain.
It was almost an hour later when another vehicle pulled up before the door of Hangar 8. The tall man who got out was alone. After shutting the door of his staff car, he looked around to be sure that he was not observed. When he saw no one, he went inside and found the switch; once more the overhead lights came to life.
He did not bother to take off his parka, but he did walk around and look at the various parts that were laid out on the slightly concave floor. As he surveyed them and appraised their condition, he pressed his lips silently together and without realizing it, shook his head.
He was about to leave when he looked toward the workbenches and saw the bright reflections from the stabilizer. He walked over, at a slightly faster pace, and stared down at the polished aluminum. He ran a hand over the surface and examined it by touch as well as by sight. Then he lifted one end and sighted down the edge to be sure that it was straight and true. He checked the fittings and found them all to be in apparent good order.
Despite himself, he began to revise his thinking. He drew breath and spoke aloud, to himself. “Maybe they can do it,” he said. “Just possibly they can.”
Almost at once he discovered that his mood had improved. He definitely felt better as he snapped off the lights and emerged once again into the frigid Arctic night. As he walked toward his car, a small brown shadow shifted position on the snow. He stopped and watched the movements of the tiny Arctic fox.
“Hello, Archie,” he said, fully aloud this time. He felt in the pocket of his parka, but he had nothing to throw to the little animal.
It came a few steps toward him, hoping for food, but the man it was trying to approach backed away. He liked animals, but he knew that the Archies were almost all rabid, despite the fact that they showed none of the symptoms. Many of the husky sled dogs also carried the deadly disease, and had to be treated accordingly.
When Archie was convinced that his new-found friend had nothing to give to him, the little creature ran off into the night, its very thick fur making it possible for it to survive under the severe conditions that were all that it knew.
Regretting that he had had nothing to offer to the hopeful little animal, the colonel got back into his vehicle and drove away.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The visitor who enters the Non-Commissioned Officers’ Club at Thule will find the bar to his right, immediately after the checkroom, where he can leave his parka. To his left there is a dining room which offers an unexpected degree of elegance in the almost desperate isolation in the High Arctic. Straight ahead there is a large room, with a bandstand at the west end, which can serve many purposes. It was toward this room that Chief Master Sergeant Perry Feinberg made his impressive way.