Sergeant Stovers saw to every detail of that. He had a freight pallet waiting on the 463L tracks that were fitted into the floor of the Hercules. At very slow speed, and with extreme care, the fuselage half was pushed on board, a wooden plank cushioning the contact between the tractor and the fuselage itself. It took an hour to do it and to fasten the section down, but when the job had been completed, despite his temperament Bill Stovers wanted to cheer. They had been bringing back bits and pieces; now they were bringing back an airplane.
The right landing gear went in on a sled; the remaining engine came down off the nacelle that had held it so long and was carefully rested on another sled that was waiting to receive it. The nose section of the old bomber remained exactly where it had been except for the tilt of its wing; the snow packed underneath its center section was enough to hold it in place.
There was a break for lunch aboard the C-130, then the other main landing gear was recovered. “I wonder about the tires,” Atwater said to Andy Holcomb. “Those we haven’t got in Supply, of course, and I don’t know where to get any more.”
“Somebody must stock them,” Andy replied. “I’ve been reading up — did you know that there are several B-17’s flying in California right now? They use them to drop retardants onto forest fires. That means lots of landings and takeoffs, which means they have to have a source for tires.”
“It sounds logical,” Atwater agreed. “I’ll start nosing around.”
The toughest part of the work was separating the wing root sections from the main fuselage forward section, which was all that remained. The heavy tapered pins were rammed home so securely that repeated attacks with a powerful sledge did not seem to budge them a bit. Heat was applied, and more penetrating oil, but the stubborn pins would not let go. Everything else was ready; the service lines into the wing had been uncoupled and only the driftpins stood in the way of progress.
Still they refused to yield. “No wonder the B-17 was so tough,” Ferguson said to Perry Feinberg. “Even the right way, it’s almost impossible to get it apart.”
The massive chief master sergeant smiled. “It is obviously now time,” he declared, “for me to get into the act. We should have brought Angelo from the weather service; he’s a weight lifter and a muscle man. But since he is not here, I shall have to attend to it personally.”
In his heavy arctic boots and other equipment, Feinberg climbed up into position, took off his two outer pairs of gloves, and fitted a smaller leather pair into position. Then he hefted the sledge, calculated his stance, adjusted his position minutely, drew a deep breath, and swung the sledge in a mighty arc through the air. The whole remaining aircraft shuddered from the impact, but the pin did not visibly move. On the sixth swing it did; it shot out of its socket and was very nearly lost in the snow.
After the first victory the rest seemed easier; it had been proven that it could be done. Two hours and twenty minutes later, which was a longer time than Ferguson had intended to spend on the ice cap by a considerable margin, the last pin on the left side let go. The wings were off. The tractor pulled them a little to one side. As the sun threw the last of its light into the sky, all that remained of The Passionate Penguin on the ice cap was half a fuselage section and the two huge wing root sections. The back of the massive job had been broken.
Thirty-five minutes out of Thule, at 16,000 feet, Ferguson received notification of a Phase Alert. Although he had not spent much time at Thule, he had been thoroughly briefed on the intense Arctic storms that occurred there during eight months of the year. They were highly dangerous, so much so that going out under Phase Two or Phase Three conditions, except in pairs and on specifically authorized missions, was a court-martial offense. He radioed back at once, giving his position and ETA, and asking for further advice, if any.
Thule reported that Phase Alert was in effect, but that he could continue his approach at best possible speed. Phase One, the first drastic level of the expected storm, was estimated to be an hour away. Ferguson began an immediate letdown at close to red-line speed; at the same time he asked Jenkins to work out immediate headings for Sondrestrom, in case he would have to divert there, and for Alert, the Canadian military facility at the extreme northern tip of Ellesmere Island, some 420 miles from the geographic North Pole — a place he was eager to see. This northernmost permanently occupied point on the globe had a landing strip that could handle a C-130; he knew that because the Canadians passed through Thule with their C-130’s on their way up to the ultra-isolated station. Normally Alert was closed to all visitors, but a United States Air Force transport forced to fly there, and with only military personnel on board, would probably be accepted. Meanwhile, as Jenkins worked out the headings, he continued his approach to Thule and communicated with the ground people there every few minutes.
When he was fifteen minutes out, he was advised that Phase One was definitely coming, but it was likely he would be able to get in all right before it hit. He was cautioned to watch out for strong and possibly rapidly shifting winds.
Ferguson put out of his mind the thought that he was carrying a considerable portion of the Penguin’s fuselage in the cargo hold; he passed back the word that an emergency landing might be in the cards and ordered all personnel to fasten seat belts. Sergeant Stovers made another thorough check — as he had twice before — of the lines securing the cargo and equipment on board. When he was satisfied, he seated himself once more and pulled his seat belt as tight as he was able. He knew what a phase was.
As the C-130 came down from over the ice cap, Ferguson did not waste moments by setting up a conservative formal approach; instead he asked for clearance, got it, and then racked his aircraft around in a steep turn that pointed his right wing almost directly at the ground. Gear and flaps down, he swung over the end of the runway, chopped the power, and put the Hercules on, halfway down the strip. He had 10,000 feet to work with and half of that was more than adequate under emergency conditions. He encountered a sharp gust just as he touched down, but reacted quickly and successfully. He was clear of the runway in seconds, and headed for the shelter of Hangar 8. The ground people raised the door so that it was fully open just as he arrived on the ramp outside. Ferguson fed in a little power and taxied directly inside. By the time that the props had stopped turning, the door was closed and sealed.
The extreme High Arctic base of the United States Air Force was located in northern Greenland by permission of the Danish government. Since Greenland is a county of Denmark proper, very close cooperation between Denmark and the United States is both a pleasant fact and an absolute necessity. Thule Air Base is owned and used by the United States, but the physical operation of the facility is a Danish responsibility. All of the Danes who work there are required to be able to speak English. It is a voluntary, civilian service suitable only for men who enjoy the very high Arctic and who can adjust without difficulty to that demanding environment. Some of the Danish civilian personnel have been on the job for many years. A few actually find comfort in the solitude that Thule provides, and they empathize with its wild and stark scenery during the daylight months.
After two years at Thule, Danish citizens are excused from paying the very substantial income tax imposed by their country. For as long as they choose to remain, they continue to enjoy tax-free status — it is one of the major inducements to serve in the Arctic.