The minutes passed and slowly chained themselves into a half hour. The radio calls continued without response. Weather data was put out blind, together with all other available information. By now transmitter failure was almost a certainty, but it was entirely possible that the Twin Otter could still receive. At literally any moment the missing aircraft could appear over the edge of the ice cap. The field lights were turned on at maximum intensity.
At fifty minutes past the estimated arrival time, Colonel Kleckner spoke to the operations NCOIC. “Raise Sondrestrom. Get the fuel load on the Otter, the cruising speed, and the rate of consumption if they have it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sondrestrom had most of the figures readily available; another Otter pilot was keeping a news watch on their operations and he, of course, was fully familiar with the aircraft. He reported that the pilot had left with full tanks and that he had already computed the maximum duration time in the air: at 1827 hours the Twin Otter would be out of fuel.
The radio calls continued. J Site reported that still no radar echo had been received. No one thought of dinner. It was very quiet until the phone broke the silence. Dr. Markley was on the line. He was extremely anxious; he had his patient immobilized, and she could not stay alive without the Bennett respirator for many more hours.
The colonel checked once more with Weather. There were no new data to report.
Many times before in his career the colonel had stood by, awaiting an incoming aircraft that was long overdue. In combat situations that happened all the time, and to a degree he was hardened to it. This was a different matter, and fighting men who took their chances by choice were not involved. He walked up and down, thinking his own thoughts, until someone put a cup of coffee into his hand. He drank it without being aware of what he was doing.
At 1800 hours the quiet was like a thick, inert gas that filled the room. The transportation people were still standing by; Lieutenant Kane remained in the chair where he had been waiting for the past two hours. A new crew came on duty at the operations desk, but the men who had been relieved chose to remain. The colonel picked up the phone to communicate with J Site and put it down again; he knew perfectly well that they would call within seconds if they had anything at all.
The PA system came on with the announcement that Phase Two was in effect. The colonel was notified that all persons on the base had been accounted for. Two Trackmasters were standing by the Det. 4 hangar for possible airlift onto the ice cap.
Silently, the colonel watched the clock, as did every man in the crowded terminal building; 1827 hours occurred when the sweep second hand reached the top of the dial and continued inexorably onward. It took no notice whatever — its function was to measure off the astronomical units called minutes and it did so tirelessly and without emotion.
The colonel knew that it was up to him to say what everyone knew. He gave it another five minutes and then made the announcement. “It can only be one thing,” he said into the heavy silence. “Somewhere they’re down on the ice cap.”
There appeared to be nothing that could be effectively done at that moment except to maintain a listening watch on all likely channels. The weather was all but unflyable, even under emergency conditions. The colonel actually considered the possibility of an immediate search; nothing would be visible on the ice cap in the all-but-total darkness, but it might be possible to sight a flare — if someone was lucky enough to be fairly close to where the Twin Otter was down — or to pick up a radio signal too weak to have been heard at either Thule or Sondrestrom.
Colonel Kleckner — allowed to do so because he was the commander — donned his parka and stepped outside for a minute or two to survey the weather personally, with the eyes of a long-experienced pilot. He came back in, went to the operations counter, and said, “Get some Trackmasters down here to move these men to their quarters. There’s enough visibility for that.”
The NCOIC picked up a phone and passed the word. As he did so, the colonel was considering another possibility. The Otter was ski-equipped and the pilot was widely known for his ability. In the face of severe weather warnings, he could very well have elected an intentional landing on the ice cap to wait for better conditions. As soon as they came, he would take off once more and complete the remainder of his flight to Thule. So it was entirely possible that once the weather lifted, the Otter might be inbound any time thereafter.
He very much hoped that was the case, for the sake of the little Eskimo girl more than anything else.
He called the tower and gave instructions to keep up a constant alert watch. The man on duty advised the colonel that he was doing just that. The phone rang and Major Mulder was on the line. He reported that Det. 4 was standing by on alert-status, ready to fly. Both birds were fully gassed and cocked; they could be off the ground minutes after the bell rang.
Angelo came in from Weather holding a fresh map he had just finished. Without unnecessary comment, he spread it out for the colonel to read. “It’s too early to tell anything definite,” he said, “but there’s a possibility of an improvement by zero-six-hundred. Not too much of a one.”
“When might we be down below Phase Alert?”
Angelo ran powerful fingers through his black hair. “I’d hate to say, sir, it might be twenty-four hours — or even more. Possibily less. I know I’m not being definite, but I honestly don’t know.”
The colonel respected him for that answer. “Are you going to stay on watch?”
“Yes, sir, I’m not going anyplace.”
“Good. If I’m not here, raise me at my quarters the moment you have anything more to go on.”
“Understood, sir. From this minute on.”
The colonel went back to the operations counter. “Get me the commander at Sondrestrom,” he directed. “Colonel Olsen.”
The man on the communications desk raised a hand in the air. He continued to listen for almost a full minute, then he turned to speak. “Colonel Olsen was just on the horn to the Pentagon, sir; their operator patched me in so we would know what was going on. Sondrestrom reported that they had lost contact with the Otter, what its mission was, and that it was down on the ice cap. Colonel Olsen advised that they are going to mount a full blower search beginning at daybreak, or as soon after that as the weather allows. At present the field is closed and conditions are totally unflyable. None of the weather stations in the area saw this one coming — it just popped up out of nowhere.”
“Cancel my request,” the colonel answered, “that’s all I need to know.”
A Trackmaster rumbled up outside and the driver gave a blast on the horn. In response the colonel donned his parka once more and this time drew on his gloves. “I’ll be at the hospital,” he advised.
Shortly after 0700 hours the following morning, weather was downgraded to Phase One. Major Eastcott, who had been keeping very close watch, decided to his own satisfaction that the change had not been fully justified; it probably had been done to make the mess hall once more available. The major went down the hall and picked up Captain Boyd. “Let’s go,” he said.
“Right.” The two men left together, unplugged the major’s vehicle, and set out for a hearty breakfast. They might well need it before the day was over. The weather on the way to the mess hall was fierce and the winds rocked even the pickup truck as it made its way slowly down the partly obscured roadway.