“Sir, I’m listening intently.”
“Then hear this: I have been following closely every step of the work you have been doing on that B-17, ever since you came back with the first engine. A prop I could understand, but when you brought in an engine, with all of the work that that must have involved out on the ice cap under severe conditions, I understood what was up. Frankly, I didn’t think you could do it or even come close — I’ll admit privately that you took me on that one.”
He paused, but Feinberg said nothing.
“Perry, I’ve personally inspected the work as it’s gone forward and I know the records of the men who have been handling the technical requirements. The reconstruction job has been uncompromising and that airplane, in my opinion, is going to be entirely airworthy and safe.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Now all I have to do is to convince certain other people of that fact. So here’s what I want you to do: you may leak the fact, very cautiously, that all may not be lost as yet. Then I want you to withdraw your retirement papers. I’m not ordering you to do that-I can’t — but I’m requesting it. I need a con artist now of unqualified capability and I don’t have to look very far to find him.”
“And then, sir?”
“I want you to do your best to get the troops to complete the job they started. There’s one more engine to be installed and run in, new avionics to be installed and tested, and some instrument work to be gone over. How about the wiring and other connections behind the instrument panel?”
“Every bit of it has been overhauled, Colonel, and replaced if the slightest doubt existed.”
“Did you complete the fuel-cell tests?”
“Yes, sir, they checked out one hundred percent. It was a new airplane, you know, when it was ditched on the ice cap. She had only a few hours on her.”
“I want the job finished — and I’m not going to look too critically at the work records for the next two or three weeks, in case someone happens to be in Hangar Eight instead of somewhere else.”
“That won’t be necessary, sir.”
“Can you con them into doing it?”
“With your assurance, sir, that I’m not selling them down the river, I can.”
“Then do it. You are at liberty to make it known, discreetly, that I am taking a personal interest and plan to do what I can to have the curse lifted. I have a leave coming up; I may take part of it paying a visit to Norton.”
Eleven days later, at 2035 hours, Lieutenant Scott Ferguson stood alone in Hangar 8. The overhead lights were reflected brilliantly by the surfaces of the apparently brand-new B-17 that stood in proud glory on the concrete flooring. She was no longer consigned to the depressed area, she occupied the best spot the hangar had to offer. That afternoon Ferguson had had the airplane out on the ramp and, with the help of Corbin, Holcomb, Jenkins, and Stovers, he had checked her out completely. All of the engines had been run, all of the instruments had been tested, all of the avionics had been verified as far as had been possible on the ground. He had taxied her up and down the field several times and twice he had had her on the runway, trying her out just under flying speed. She hadn’t had the power and the sophistication of the C-130 Hercules, of course, but she had proven one thing to his satisfaction: she was an airplane worthy of any sky that the world had to offer.
He looked at her now, rested his hand against the side of her fuselage, and then looked up at the brilliantly repainted insignia. “And fuck the whole goddamn air-safety branch too,” he said aloud. “Until they get their thumbs out of their asses and learn what the score is.”
He felt better after that. He did not yet know that Colonel Kleckner had, within the past hour, had a final answer to his well-supported request for reconsideration of the decision concerning the B-17. Norton had said “No” with force and clarity. Furthermore, it was made completely clear that the subject was closed. It was suggested that the revived bomber be shipped out on a convenient vessel to a supply depot. There it would be considered as a possible exhibit for the Air Force museum at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base. Disassembly was recommended.
Colonel Kleckner sat in his office with his counterpart, Colonel Jason of the United States Army. The door was again closed and the discussion was private. “Now that’s the situation,” Colonel Kleckner said. “For the moment I’m sitting on Norton’s final decision; if I let that one out of the bag, then morale all over this base is going to hit rock bottom — which is about where I am right now on this whole thing.”
“How can I help?” Jason asked.
“By creating a diversion. You see, Jack, within the next sixty days a good forty percent of the personnel who worked on restoring the B-17 will be rotated back stateside to other assignments. Once they are out of here, and replaced with new people who had no stake in the job, the tension will be proportionately less. So every week that goes by without an explosion is an added period of grace.”
“Who know about this?”
“The two or three communications people who handled the message from Norton; I have the lid on them. I also notified the chaplains for obvious reasons. Now, it would help immensely if you and your crew at Camp Century could manage to kick up a storm — to require a lot of support and keep my hands fully occupied.”
“As a matter of fact, Jim, I’ve been deliberately going the other route — keeping a low profile so as not to upset you and your operation too much. There is a great deal we could ask for, and to our benefit.”
“Then start asking. Bring people in and out; create some action. If anyone has so much as a sore throat, call for a medevac. How do you read me?”
“I read you five-square, Jim, on the same frequency. To start with, I would like to rotate my people back here for R and R — for a good base exchange, for some different food, for a chance to see some daylight. Perhaps you could lay on some recreational trips in the vicinity and delegate people to take our guys out to see the sights.”
“Rest and recreation at Thule is something new, I must admit — but we can do it, as of now. Just give my people something to do, and something else to think about.”
“We wilclass="underline" I’ll have my PE officer get up some teams to challenge Thule in every sport we can think of.”
“Excellent! That’s what I need, Jack. I can’t sit on this forever, but I want the blow to be as easy as I can make it.”
“Is there any chance of your air-safety people changing their minds?”
“None whatever — I asked to have a senior engineering officer come up here to inspect the B-17 himself and see what a phenomenal job our people did on it, but they wouldn’t go along.”
Jason got up. “We’ll start making waves as of tomorrow,” he promised. “I’ll keep it up until you say ‘when.’ ”
“God bless you,” Colonel Kleckner concluded.
In a matter of days the activity at Thule was redoubled. The base swarmed with Army men who were there on a variety of different assignments. An Army chaplain preached the morning Protestant sermon to an increased congregation. Several hiking parties were organized to go up Mount Dundas. Captain Tilton, who did not directly know the reason for all this, but who could make a shrewd guess, increased the publication frequency of Thule Times to weekly and added more pages to cover the Army activities. An interservice sports tournament drew a good number of participants. While all of this was going on, each week the rotator brought fresh personnel and took back some of the old hands who had been engaged in Operation Penguin.
During this time the days began to grow darker at midnight and the temperatures that had been reaching the mid-fifties were sinking steadily. A mild Phase Alert occurred, giving warning that before long Thule would again be in the fierce grip of the Arctic, with its bitter, savage winds and the blackness of unrelieved night.