Because time was getting short for many of the people concerned, the junior officers’ party at the NCO Club in honor of The Passionate Penguin was laid on without delay. It was announced that the theme would be the Fifties, with all appropriate costumes, music, and song. Obviously the resources for any kind of special dress were extremely limited at Thule, but there was a faint air of desperation about the whole thing that simply ignored any restrictions. By the end of the week everything had been prepared and the long, narrow private dining room at the club had been set up with the best that the facility had to offer. At one end of the room the painting of the Penguin had been placed on a easel and then covered with an appropriate drape. Red napkins carefully folded into cylinders stood at each place; the silverware was sparkling clean. For a dinner arrangement several hundred miles north of the Arctic Circle, it was an impressive display.
The participants and guests began to arrive a little after 1800 hours and took their ease at the bar. Uniforms were conspicuously absent; striped shirts had been broken out, loud ties had been unearthed, and work pants had been used to create a costume effect. The PA system poured out the music of Chuck Berry and the two bartenders produced concoctions to suit the rapidly growing trade. A new cocktail named “the Penguin’s Playmate” had been created for the occasion and was tried out with ironic frequency. By 1900 hours the mood of most of those present had been softened somewhat, but Det. 4 had not yet put in an appearance.
Dinner was announced and the men filed in. The carefully prepared room was admired as the place cards were read. As the men began to seat themselves, sounds were heard from the lobby; presently Det. 4 came streaming in, loudly and boisterously, almost the perfect epitome of a street gang. They had all turned their flying jackets inside out so that the international orange liners became flashy jackets. On the back of each was a bold patch that read PHARAOHS. Their pants were as outlandish an assortment as the Far Arctic could produce; their hair was slicked back and their faces were smeared with grime. They shouted and pushed, they snarled at each other and anyone who got in their way, they upset chairs as they went.
One man grabbed a bottle of wine and spilled it as others tried to take it away amid curses and shouts. An unattended drink was snatched up and consumed. Someone shouted from the lobby and a moment later two more gang members burst into the room and tossed onto the table the four hubcaps from the colonel’s staff car.
The entrance was a smashing success; laughs came tumbling on top of one another — jeers were thrown across the table and feigned insults brought pretended threats of instant violence. The tensions that had been building for weeks spilled out into the open and the accumulated bitterness was let loose. Toasts to all sorts of fanciful subjects were raised and downed. Steaks and salads were brought in, but little attention was paid to the food. It was an uninhibited bash, and every man present threw himself into the mood of abandonment.
They ate when they were able, but the noise level remained high and unrestrained. “Get some women up here!” someone shouted. “Get some go-go girls to take off their pants and dance!” That brought a fresh spasm of loud clapping and cheers. There were no go-go dancers, but that mattered little — they created them. Someone raised a glass and proposed a toast to the health of the Director of Air Safety — he was shouted down in a chorus of boos. The Pharaohs rose to attack; someone emptied a half-filled glass of beer over the toaster’s head. The colonel laughed until there were tears in his eyes.
Above the noise in the room the PA system came on. Enough quiet fell to hear what was said: another Phase Alert had been declared.
No one heeded it; more beer was called for. The waiters tried to clear away the plates and succeeded in part; as one of them bent across the table he was solidly goosed by a leering street character who roared at his discomfort. The waiter acted out his indignation, playing his part in the grand farce. The dessert was on a cart, ready to be brought in, but first attention was given to keeping the wine glasses full. Hardly anyone sat still in his chair; the abandonment seized hold of everyone and wild shouting again filled the room. Then one of the men picked up a hubcap, banged on it to be heard over the din, and when he had attracted everyone’s attention, he called on the colonel to unveil the portrait.
“Come on,” the speaker urged, “let’s see the best goddamned airplane that ever was! One of them brought my father back with six dead men along with him.”
“Was he alive?” someone shouted back.
“Well what the hell, I’m here!”
The club manager came in as the colonel rose to make his speech. The manager located Major Kimsey with some difficulty and bent over him for a few moments. Kimsey got up and left the room.
The colonel fought his way up to the end of the room, prepared to do his duty. At last he stood by the painting and waited for the room to quiet down enough so that he could speak. He had some quips that were well suited to the moment; as he stood by the covered picture he did so in anything but a military manner. A glass of wine was in his left hand.
“Gentlemen,” he shouted, “—if there’s anyone here who answers that description…”
A loud laugh echoed him; the Pharaohs jumped to their feet — insulted and outraged. The hubcap was banged again to restore order.
Major Kimsey came back into the room and, putting his fingers to his lips, gave a loud whistle. It cut through the other noise of the party and commanded attention. When he got it, he had dropped his role and was suddenly a field-grade officer. There was an abrupt silence.
“We have an emergency medevac,” he said. “Dr. Pedersen radioed from Kanak. He has a Greenlander girl who’s been attacked by dogs and needs hospitalization immediately. It’s marginal because we’ve got a Phase Alert on. Our only chance is to go now.”
With the abruptness of a thunderclap the party was over. The Pharaohs vanished and the pilots of Det. 4 hurried as quickly as they could from the room. Major Valen was with them; the medical officers were immediately behind.
In less than a minute the room was empty — the painting still covered on its easel, the desserts unserved.
Major Mulder was on the telephone, calling for transportation. Captain Bowditch, the surgeon, was on another line to the hospital. A wild idea hit Scott Ferguson; he grabbed Mike Turner and asked, “What kind of a landing strip do they have up there?”
“A helipad, that’s all. No runway.”
“The C-130 won’t help?”
“Can’t use it.”
In the lobby the flying jackets were being quickly reversed. A six-pack pulled up outside and it was filled almost immediately. Another was directly behind it. In a matter of seconds all of Det. 4 was gone; in the second truck, Scott Ferguson rode along, hoping that in some possible way he could help. The colonel offered to drop Captain Markley, the internist, and the surgeon at the hospital.
As the first of the six-packs unloaded at the Det. 4 hangar, another pulled up with a contingent of the NCO’s. No time was wasted in unnecessary conversation; Major Mulder went inside immediately and phoned Weather. “How bad is it now and how much time do we have?” he asked.
A staff car taxi pulled up and Major Linda Dashner, one of the three nurses at Thule, unloaded her flight gear and a medical kit. “I didn’t have time to dress,” she explained as soon as she was inside. “I’ll do it here.”
Woody Kimsey gave her a few seconds. “No dice. This is going to be very tough and we may not be able to get there at all if it gets any worse.”