“Sir, my compliments,” the chief master sergeant said “Allow me to inquire if you have an opening in your crew.”
“Just get the landing-gear fitting; that’s an assignment worthy of your genius.”
Feinberg stood up and became immense. “It will be done, sir,” he promised.
The road to J Site was displaying its usual spring roughness after the long deep freeze of winter. As Sergeant Feinberg drove the vehicle that he had successfully scrounged for his own use, he took in every aspect of the short but spectacular drive.
Not far from the roadway the base of the ice cap took over command of the terrain. From that point it rose onward and upward toward the incredibly blue sky of the High Arctic. The most extraordinary sight from the roadway was not the beginning of the ice cap, but the four enormous radar antennae of J Site itself. When the region had first been surveyed, the promontory on which they now stood had been designated J Site as a convenient means of reference. After the vast BMEWS installation had been built, the name had stuck. It was J Site to everyone at Thule and was seldom referred to in any other way.
The antennae themselves were each much larger than a football field. They were permanently fixed in position at varying angles to each other, but for practical purposes all of them were aimed toward the most likely source of a possible missile attack against the United States — the Soviet Union. Twenty-four hours of every day, every day of every year, the powerful beams from BMEWS swept the sky and the space far above the atmosphere in a continuing, unbroken watchfulness. Seen from the outside BMEWS was static; a series of covered passageways led from one building to another, offering no protection from the temperatures, but at least keeping most of the frequent snowstorms from interfering with local traffic. There was also a huge radome that housed an eighty-five-foot dish able to turn with high precision and considerable speed toward any target above the horizon, or in outer space. The need to maintain unceasing vigilance was the reason for the existence of J Site and for the presence at that extremely remote location of a staff of several hundred men and two women who worked in unbroken shifts to guard the ramparts of Canada and the United States. The support of J Site was the reason for the existence of Thule Air Base and gave it its principal mission.
Sergeant Feinberg parked his truck and went to one of the few entrances into the BMEWS complex. Despite the utter isolation of the site, an armed guard was stationed immediately inside. Feinberg was required to produce his identification, sign in, and state the exact nature of his business. BMEWS took no chances; the colonel in command was acutely aware of the fact that the construction of the very sophisticated and elaborate facility in the extreme Arctic had been something of an industrial miracle and that the cost had been proportionately high. If for any reason the complex was forced to shut down, a whole flank of the North American continent would be left open without its usual safeguards.
Sergeant Feinberg carried a mailing tube in his hand as he turned down one of the tunnels and by means of it made his way to a large maintenance building that, like everything else at BMEWS, had been built to withstand the worst weather extremes that the Arctic could produce. Equipment and supplies were everywhere — every thing likely to be needed at any time had to be kept on hand and at the ready. Most of the vital vehicles were kept inside where they would be protected from the merciless elements outside. Trackmasters were cocked and ready; an ambulance stood directly before the door; a command car with full radio equipment and special tires was poised beside it.
From one end of BMEWS to the other was a considerable distance measured in part by the four immense antennae, but everywhere the spare equipment was stowed in almost perfect order. Sergeant Feinberg paused before a storage room that was rich with the odor of stacked wood. There was a substantial supply in each of the standard sizes, from lath to great timbers, and adjacent to the racks stood all of the woodworking equipment that might be required to make almost anything. Past a fire-alarm point was the entrance to the machine shop.
He went inside without the usual wide smile on his face. His demeanor was serious, as befitted the place where he was. Nothing was ever taken for granted at BMEWS; the whole vast complex had been put there and maintained for years just to catch the one blip that might appear at any moment on one of its scopes. If that were to happen, then data gathered in fractions of a second would be fed to computers and communications established instantly (on an always-open hotline) to NORAD, the North American Air Defense Command inside Cheyenne Mountain near Colorado Springs.
At NORAD the information from BMEWS, plus any supporting information from the other sites — at Clear, Alaska, and in England — would be evaluated as rapidly as trained and whetted human minds could do it. Then, almost at once, the commanding general or his deputy on duty would have to make an awesome decision. He would make it knowing that something was in the air aimed at the United States or Canada, what its trajectory was, its predicted point of impact, and its probable nature. The first incoming shot might be in the form of a salvo, in which case his decision would be easier, but regardless, he would have to commit the nation, notify the President, and do many other things all within the space of a very few minutes. BMEWS could not afford to make even the first mistake.
Inside the machine shop there was an impressive amount of equipment — astonishing to find in northern Greenland. Everything was as well maintained as the rest of the giant facility; even the floor was spotless. As Feinberg came in, a man twice his size came to meet him. He appeared to weigh at least three hundred pounds, but he moved with good coordination and with the air of someone who thoroughly knows his business.
Perry Feinberg was not used to talking to men who were notably larger than himself, but he was entirely comfortable because he knew the quality of the man he had come to see. For once he came right to the point, because that was the way the man he was addressing wanted it. “You’ve heard about the B-17 that we’re rebuilding down the hill.”
The huge man spoke in a rich baritone. “Everyone knows about it. There are bets out all over the place.”
That was a setback, but Sergeant Feinberg met it squarely. “Are you in on any of them?” he asked.
“Not so you’d notice it. Not yet, anyway.”
Feinberg let out a long sigh of relief. “I want to ask a question,” he said. “If you had to make a particular part for that airplane here, would you be able to do it?”
His host eyed him. “Bring in the blueprints and we’ll make the whole damn thing. We’ve got all the aluminum here, and the tools. Obviously something’s busted — what is it?”
“A main landing-gear fitting.”
“Have you got the drawings?”
“No, but out in my truck I’ve got the part itself. It’s cracked.”
The huge man rested his weight on a bench. “Bring it in, together with a work order signed by the colonel, and we’ll duplicate it for you. Is it heat treated?”
“From the general look of it I would say no. Remember that it was originally made more than thirty years ago; they weren’t quite as sophisticated then.”
“All right, I’ll examine it and see which way to go.”
“You have the stock on hand?”
“We’ve got everything; we have to have.”
Feinberg waved his hand. “And the equipment,” he noted.
“Yes, and one thing you forget: we know what the hell we’re doing.”
Perry Feinberg looked around before he continued. “Our colonel has given us his tacit blessing so there’s no sweat about that. But I don’t have a work order.”
“Then get one; simple as that.”