“Perhaps I have something else.”
“There is no something else, Perry, you know that. The boss wants things done right, and so do I.”
“Look, I’m not very sure that I can get a work order — a formal one, that is, but Colonel Kleckner carries weight.”
“He sure does — get him to ask for it.”
“If I have to, I will, but I do have another thought.” He unrolled the picture and laid it out on a workbench.
The powerful man bent over and studied it. “That sure in hell is something,” he admitted, “but Mike Murphy might not appreciate it. He’s pretty square, you know.”
“I do, and he’s going out on the next rotator. He hasn’t seen this; he doesn’t know that it exists.”
“Is that autograph genuine?”
“I’ll cover all bets; a friend of Major Valen’s got it in Hollywood for us.”
“You probably wanted a radio fixed.”
“Right on — but if he saw this, he’d have kittens on the spot.”
“He sure would. And he’s bound to; these will be out in the millions in a little while. It’s a damn good shot and Monica Lee is very popular. He can’t miss it.”
Sergeant Feinberg had the conversation at the critical point and he knew it; everything now depended on how well he presented the next piece of information. “He’s going to miss it,” he said, “because it’s never going to be published. Monica Lee wants to change her image, but her agent will see her dead first. There’s a very strict morality clause in her contract because of the type of roles she usually plays. This clearly would violate it, so her agent unleashed the legal eagles and they bought it back. This is an advance proof that got away. It may be the only one that ever will.”
The man in overalls was thoughtful. “Next to Diahann Carroll, she’s the best-looking woman I’ve ever seen in my life.”
“Damn right,” Sergeant Feinberg agreed, slightly altering his choice of words. “I brought it to show you because I know that you’re a connoisseur and a major collector of the species.”
“There is nothing that equals the beauty of a lovely woman. In this particular instance, there is no vulgarity. No distorted pose, no ultrasuggestive covering-up with a coyly held hand.”
“A very significant point,” Feinberg agreed. “Now, if you can think of any way to turn out that part for us, say in your spare time, and avoid the embarrassment of having to get a work order for something that we can’t prove is a military requirement, it would be an enormous help to us.”
“How about the cost of the stock?”
“We’ll pay for that.”
“I might possibly be able to find a spoiled piece that will do, but don’t count on it; we don’t spoil very much around here.”
“I’m well aware of that. And if you can see your way clear to bend things a little in our direction, then we will express our gratitude with the token gift of this picture for your collection. It is autographed, but the salient point is its rarity. In years to come, you may well possess the one-and-only color photograph of Monica Lee’s cunt in existence.”
It fell silent in the shop. Seconds passed as invisible radar beams of great power noiselessly swept the sky; then the master sergeant in charge of the machine shop made his decision. “It will take some time, perhaps a week.”
By means of a delicately sensitive gesture, Sergeant Feinberg indicated that what could not be helped must be endured.
“It depends on how much time I have,” the massive machinist relented.
Sergeant Feinberg replied to that by very carefully rolling up the striking photograph. “Here is your picture,” he said, with a hairline emphasis on the possessive. “I wouldn’t suggest leaving it lying around.”
“Nothing lies around in this place — anywhere. I have a vehicle; we can ride back to where your car is.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
To the men of Thule the near gift of a World War II B-17 to rebuild represented almost a godsend — it was something to do, a substantial challenge to be met, and an event unique in their lives. To them the long-derelict bomber was a great deal more than an accumulation of parts that might eventually become a working machine; it was a flying machine with a definite personality, a name, and a soul. To the men of Thule the Penguin was a living thing — or would be when they got through with her.
When Chief Master Sergeant Feinberg announced that he had found a source for the broken landing-gear fitting, and that a new one would be forthcoming soon, the restoration work resumed immediately. Wing panels that had withstood weathering for three decades were gone over until they shone like new. Internal structures were inspected and tested until their integrity was proven. New control cables were installed with meticulous care; every pulley over which they passed was examined, serviced, tested, and verified.
When the burly sergeant arrived in his truck, bringing with him the desperately needed new component, he was noticeably reluctant to disclose where and how it had been obtained. It was apparent to everyone who saw it that it was brand-new, but two planes had recently come in with tons of freight and either one could have brought it.
The nose of the B-17 rested on a cradle that held it two feet higher than it would have been if it had been resting on its own landing gear; that made working on the underside easy. Laid out on the floor there was a full-sized pattern of the original name insignia that had once been painted on the nose. Perched on a maintenance stand almost sixteen feet above the floor, Viggo Skov, the Danish artist, was repainting the tail number precisely as it had been. A small crew of men was busy reinstalling the left aileron, which had been fully overhauled, re-covered, and doped the proper aluminum color. When it was finally in place and fastened, they tried the control cables by hand and found that everything worked exactly as it should.
On the long benches two of the power plants had been completely torn down, with hundreds of individual parts laid out in a systematic pattern. Engines number three and four, mounted on stands, were awaiting their turn. On another long bench two of the propellers had been disassembled for overhaul. One set of blades had been reburnished and they were almost brilliant in their apparent newness.
On what had been the flight deck of the bomber so many things had been pulled out that what remained was a skeleton and no more. Not a single instrument was left on the panel, almost all of the control handles were gone, and the switches had been demounted. The pilots’ seats had been removed and the bare floor that remained had been prepared for repainting.
A forklift bearing a sizable crate came into the hangar from the ramp. The operator ran his machine up to the supply area next to where the main work was being done and asked, “Where do you want this?”
Andy Holcomb, the acknowledged engineer in charge, came over. “What is it?” he asked.
“I don’t know, Sergeant, it came up on that last C-141, marked for delivery to Hangar Eight.”
“Then leave it right there until we get it open and find out what it is. Are you sure there’s no name on it?”
“Nope — just ‘Hangar 8’ and that’s all.”
With the help of a Danish worker, Andy pulled the lid open; as he did so, the strong odor of fresh rubber was freed. He worked feverishly to get all of the lumber out of the way and the inner wrappings open. When he had gone far enough to be sure, he let out a shout that brought Ferguson and many of the others almost on the run. The last of the heavy packing paper was torn away to reveal a wooden pallet and on it three brand-new tires — two large ones for the main gear and a much smaller one for the tail wheel.
A calling card was taped to the side of one of the main tires; Ferguson pulled it off and read: To The Passionate Penguin — bappy landings.