Det. 4 was gathered around one of the long tables when they went inside, but Eastcott spotted Bowditch attacking a plate of ham and eggs and went to him immediately. “How’s your patient, Bob?” he asked.
Bowditch stopped eating to reply. “She’s Herb’s patient; he’s with her now. She’s immobilized, probably unconscious, and no significant change. So far the small respirator is doing the job, but it can’t hold out indefinitely.”
“If it goes, what then?”
“Then Herb will have to bring her out of it fast. That will allow the spasms to start in again; after that it’s only a question of time.”
“Terminal, then.”
Bowditch nodded. “If that happens, no way. It would be kinder to keep her under and just let her stop breathing. I can’t suggest that, of course…”
“I understand.” Eastcott went to the serving line and got his own food. Twenty minutes later, when both he and Boyd had finished eating, they took the truck to the flight line and entered the hangar where the C-130 was kept. There they found Ferguson and his whole crew busy getting everything ready. They had food packs and survival equipment to be dropped, portable radios, an extra load of blankets, a heater unit, and everything else that both Sergeant Stovers and Sergeant Holcomb had been able to think of that might be needed.
“I see you guys got here first,” Eastcott said.
“We’ve been here since daybreak,” Ferguson answered. “We mapped it all out last night. But you guys are welcome; we’re going to need all the eyes we can carry, and relief pilots. That’s you. We’ve already got full tanks and the bird is cocked.”
“How about the rest of my crew?” Boyd asked. “They’re coming down.”
“We can probably use them, but we’re going the moment that Ops gives the green light. Jenkins is down there now sitting on their necks.”
The phone rang and Ferguson picked it up. “Get your ass down here on the double,” Jenkins almost shouted. “Now!”
Ferguson grabbed the nearest parka, not caring whose it was, and dashed out the door. He had never heard Jenkins talk like that before and it put fire into his bloodstream. He almost burst into Operations to find his navigator holding a teletype in his shaking fingers. “From the Pentagon. Immediate orders to mount a maximum search with all available aircraft the moment the weather permits takeoffs. Scotty, all available aircraft!”
It took Scott Ferguson a second or two; he had painstakingly built a solid wall in his mind and he had to crash through it. “The colonel,” he said.
“I’ve got a vehicle.”
“Go.”
Ferguson jumped into the pickup while Jenkins, moving with amazing speed for his weight, hopped into the driver’s seat and hit the starter. Despite the hostility of the still savage weather, they made it to the administration building with total disregard of the high hazard on the roadways. Once inside, both men shucked their parkas and then consumed minimum seconds in presenting themselves at the outer office of the commander’s suite. “Lieutenants Ferguson and Jenkins to see the colonel,” Scott said to the duty sergeant. “Urgent.”
“How urgent, sir? He’s on the telephone.”
“ASAP.”
The sergeant disappeared inside and was back in fifteen seconds. He gestured them in. Ferguson forced himself to enter the inner office with decorum; Jenkins was so close behind him they almost collided. Colonel Kleckner, who was still on the line, smiled and waved them to chairs. Ferguson sat down on the edge of his.
For more than another full minute the colonel talked on. Neither of his visitors wanted to listen, but they got the gist of it anyway. McGuire had no better weather information to offer and all flights into northeastern Canada had been cancelled. McGuire had located another Bennett, but it was in use and could not possibly be spared. The search for an available unit was continuing. At last the colonel hung up.
“What’s happened, gentlemen?” he asked.
Ferguson could not help himself; the forced delay had caused emotions to boil up within him that were beyond control. They had been too long suppressed and they almost erupted through his brain. “Sir,” he said. “Read this!” He handed over the message.
Colonel Kleckner scanned it quickly. “I’ve already seen it,” he responded. “I also know you’ve got your aircraft cocked and ready. And Det. Four is all set too.”
“That isn’t it, sir. Look again. It says all available aircraft!”
The colonel made his decision within three seconds. “Sorry, Scotty, I can’t let you do it. You understand…”
Ferguson’s, eyes blazed. “God dammit, sir, we’ve got to! You know the score: you’ve got five people at least stranded somewhere out on the ice cap and one more here dying in the hospital if she doesn’t get that respirator. The B-17 is low and slow if she wants to be and she’s got the range-more than four thousand miles. That’s twenty hours plus! Det. Four can’t touch that. Sir, you can bust my ass if you want to, but you’ve got to let us go!”
The colonel didn’t answer; instead he got to his feet. He led the way out of his office, said “Operations” to his sergeant, and paused in the lobby to get into his parka. “Have you got anything new from Weather?” he asked.
“Not yet, sir, any minute — we hope.”
The colonel led the way to his staff car. There was no conversation as the three men got in and none as the colonel made the short drive to the operations building. He parked directly next to the door in the slot that was permanently reserved for him, then went inside.
Fortunately Angelo was bent over the operations counter. The colonel tapped him on the back. “How soon?” he asked.
“Still not good, but substantial improvement in two to three hours, sir — possibly even less. Det. Four wants to go now.”
“Negative. Where’s Major Eastcott?”
“In the C-130 hangar, sir.”
“I’ll be there.”
It still being officially Phase One, the colonel elected to walk the short distance. He entered the hangar and satisfied himself within one minute that every possible preparation had been made. Then he turned to Ferguson. “How long ago since you were in Hangar Eight?” he asked.
That was the fearful question that Ferguson had anticipated — because no one had been in the hangar for weeks, except for a few of the new people who had gone out of curiosity. He stretched the truth as far as he dared. “Not too long ago,” he answered.
Colonel Kleckner gave him a careful look; then he said, “Let’s go and see.”
The three men went outside once more and battled the very stiff wind that was almost roaring down the flight line. Ferguson reached the personnel door of the hangar first and held it open. The colonel stepped inside, closely followed by Jenkins and Ferguson.
The overhead lights were on. In stately dignity the silent form of The Passionate Penguin stood with her wings widespread in the center of the concrete floor. Surrounding her there were at least a dozen men hard at work. One, with a flashlight, was checking the landing-gear wells. Four more were up on the wing checking gas caps and the upper cowl fasteners. As Colonel Kleckner approached the busy scene, Sergeant Feinberg, a confident smile on his massive face, came to meet him.
“Good morning, sir! The emergency supplies are en route; we’ll be loading them within the next five minutes.” He called loudly over his shoulder. “How’s the cockpit check coming?”
“AOK,” someone shouted in reply.
In the long, sometimes brilliant, military career of Colonel James Kleckner there had been many memorable moments, some happy, some not. He had them all impressed on his memory, but none of them had ever matched what confronted him then. He stood still, and he thought.