Two minutes after that the chaplain came in with the mailing tube in his hand. As the men gathered around, he opened it with loving care. He knew that its contents were valuable and he was not about to let any slip of his pocket knife deface what it contained. He opened both ends and then carefully removed what was rolled up inside.
It was not a glossy print; it was something on heavy coated paper much larger than he had expected. Silently he weighted down one edge with salt and pepper shakers, then he opened it out.
Even to the little group of men who were more than acclimated to Thule and its decor, it was a startling picture. Beyond any doubt it was Monica Lee; the lovely face that was known to millions smiled with utterly winning charm. She was looking directly at the camera — at the person who was in turn looking at her.
There was quite a bit to see. Both the photographer and his exquisite model had disdained even the thin gauze covering that some of the Thule pinups had seemed to find necessary. For the first time Monica Lee revealed to her vast army of fans an unexpectedly spectacular pair of breasts. Without artificial aid they thrust out, firm and erect, from her body. Their dimensions were impressive and their molding sublime. If that were not enough, they were tipped at the end by upraised nipples that would have fired Praxiteles with the fervent desire to exceed himself.
But they were no more than the rest of her nude figure — it was totally revealed down to her knees. There were many many other nudes at Thule, but this one possessed a symmetry that was unbeatable. The chaplain looked at it and quoted Samuel Finley Breese Morse. “What hath God wrought,” he said.
“Oh man!” Ferguson answered.
“Hardly that,” Holcomb commented.
“That is absolutely the most woman that I have ever seen in my life.” Sergeant Feinberg spoke in hushed tones. “And that is not a statement to be lightly dismissed.”
“It is autographed,” Bill Stovers noted.
Indeed it was. It had been signed with a brush pen and in elegant style:
To Sergeant Mike Murphy
My loyal, valued fan.
From all of me.
Monica Lee
An awed hush fell over the assembled men. The chaplain was the first to recover; he explored the inside of the tube and found a note addressed to himself. It was from his friend in Hollywood conveying the news that this was a unique item indeed. In a desire to break her too-constraining image as Miss Purity, Monica Lee had accepted an urgent invitation to become the pinup of the month in an internationally popular men’s magazine. The photographic results, in the form of an advance color proof, were enclosed.
Unfortunately, Miss Lee’s agent had had a fit upon finding out about the startling picture and had frantically phoned a large covey of lawyers in a desperate effort to kill the deal. The pinup would not appear — hence the extraordinary value of the enclosed proof, the only one that Miss Lee had consented to autograph. She had done so after much persuasion and a plea for special consideration for Our Boys in Uniform.
That was all and that was enough.
Quiet fell once more after the reading of the letter. All eyes remained fixed on the spectacular picture, but no one dared to speak.
Finally Sergeant Stovers did. “What I’d like to know now,” he said, “is who in the hell we’re going to be able to get to fix the damn radios.”
Corbin agreed. “It’s fate, gentlemen: a picture like that, autographed — and addressed to the only man in the Air Force too square to appreciate it.”
After that, no one said anything. No one could.
CHAPTER TEN
When Scott Ferguson got out of his warm bed shortly before five in the morning, he was infused with the feeling that this was to be the most momentous day of his life. As he went through the mechanical motions of shaving and showering, oblivious to the pitch darkness outside, he was acutely aware that before nightfall the ultimate fate of The Passionate Penguin would be decided. She had been pulled to pieces on the ice cap until very little was left out there, but what was by far the most difficult part of the whole recovery operation lay directly ahead.
As he dressed he knew that the men from Det. 4 would be getting up too. Because they were a rescue outfit, they were used to hitting the deck at all hours of the day and night — with or without advance warning. He had a silent, unexpressed blessing for them, because if all went well during the next several hours, they were going to pull off a rescue that was probably unduplicated in flying history.
When he was almost ready he called a taxi and then went down to the center entrance, where he found both Jenkins and Corbin already there. “Is the mess hall open yet?” he asked.
“I think so,” Jenkins answered. “Tom Collins said something about the Danes opening up early — especially for us.”
A six-pack truck pulled up outside; as he climbed in, Ferguson asked the driver if he had seen any of the helicopter crewmen as yet.
“Yes,” the Dane answered, “they are all in the messen. I hope you all have good luck today.”
“Thank you,” Ferguson answered, meaning it.
He was first inside the mess hall, where he was hit by a sudden sharp uplift. The whole of Det. 4 was there; gathered around one long table he saw Major Kimsey and Major Mulder, who would undoubtedly command the two Jollies, and the rest of the flying team: Tiny Heneveld, Bob Seligman, Tom Collins, Ron Cunningham, John Schoen, Sergeant Prevost, and Mike Turner. As he picked up a tray and went for his food, Ferguson felt a vast confidence in Det. 4 and what it could do; he fully realized that they had laid this whole thing on for the sake of the Penguin. When he joined them, he made a major concession. “Do you give helicopter lessons?” he asked.
“We’re prepared to show you how it’s done,” Schoen answered.
Major Mulder was more practical. “If you don’t mind,” he said, “I’d like to have Tiny and Bob fly out with you to the site of the pickup. I want them to look over the debris before we attempt to pick it up.”
“Yes, sir,” Ferguson responded. He was prepared to give them anything they wanted. His only fear was that somehow, at the last minute, something would go wrong.
When he reached the flight line, everything seemed to be in good order. Sergeant Feinberg was on the job, presiding expansively over the preparation of equipment and personnel. This time there were no maintenance stands or tools to be loaded — only the little snow tug that was standing by, with its youthful operator as confident as ever. As soon as Feinberg saw Ferguson, he came over. “I want to bring a lot of hands this time,” he said. “There may be quite a bit of muscle work needed to get that nose section loaded. And the whirly boys will want some help with the slings.”
“How many?” Ferguson asked.
“Nineteen want to go, sir, and every one of them has earned the trip.”
“All right,” Ferguson agreed. He felt as though he was walking on egg shells; he didn’t dare to do anything that might upset this final, critical stage of the recovery operation.
Feinberg checked with Sergeant Stovers, the loadmaster. “We have a little additional radio gear to load,” he announced. “Principally a device to help the Det. Four boys locate us. Sergeant Murphy will handle that end.”
“How did you…?”