Sergeant Feinberg caught it and motioned to Ferguson. “May I see you a moment, sir?” he asked. He led the way over to the B-17 and stood under the wing. “My God,” he said, “why didn’t you tip me off! I didn’t get the word until you were practically in the HQ building, and I had to set this up faster than anything I’ve ever done in my life. Actually four of the troops aren’t even mechanics. We had the show going for all of fifteen seconds before the colonel came through the door.”
“Is any of it real?” Ferguson asked.
“Of course it’s real — all but the deadheads. I told them to go up and inspect the gas caps. We’ll redo that, of course.”
“You saw the message?”
“Sir, let’s not waste time with childish questions. The colonel looks about ripe, let’s hit him now.” He strode across the floor. “Sir,” he said to the colonel, “the moment we saw that message ordering all available aircraft to respond, we knew what that meant. Here are the emergency supplies now.” Several more men came in as the door opened enough to admit a pickup truck piled with blankets and other equipment.
The colonel was not impressed; instead he walked over to the B-17 and began to make his own detailed inspection. He spent a full ten minutes. He smelled the fresh oil, checked the inflation of the tires by visual examination, and went over the flying surfaces in detail. By the time that he had finished, a small group of some ten or twelve qualified pilots, three of them civilian Danes, were gathered — watching.
Colonel Kleckner asked for a rag and wiped his hands. Then, quite calmly and in a normal voice, he addressed the men who were waiting breathlessly. “All right,” he said. “In view of the all-important fact that a number of lives are on the line, it’s my opinion that the new order we have received supersedes the old one from Norton. If it doesn’t, they can argue about if afterwards.”
He stopped and looked again at the venerable, yet new, bomber that had been so miraculously resurrected despite its thirty desolate years on the pitiless ice cap. “I see that you have added United States Air Force properly on the sides. That’s important, because I’m sticking my neck out a mile and I know it. Ferguson, can you handle her all right?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Then Boyd will fly the C-130; he and his crew are down there now with Major Eastcott.”
“Yes, sir — we know.”
Sergeant Feinberg cleared his throat. “Captain Boyd is already aware, sir, that he will be taking out the C-130. I understand that Major Eastcott is going with him, as copilot.”
“Speaking of copilots,” Jenkins said, “we’re honor bound to have a drawing. A lot of guys threw dollars into the pot when we needed the money for supplies. Some of them aren’t here any more, but about ten of them are on hand right now.”
“I’m more interested in who’s qualified,” the colonel said.
“Nobody was allowed to contribute who wasn’t,” Jenkins told him. “They wouldn’t take my money, although I have a private license. It had to be commercial or better, with an absolute minimum of six hundred hours. And every man knows the airplane down to the last rivet.”
Although he didn’t say so, the colonel was perfectly aware that the B-17 had been designed with the knowledge that most of the pilots destined to fly it would be green and inexperienced. It had been made as simple as possible as a result. Few of the aircraft commanders who were assigned to them had a total of 600 hours when they first took over in the left-hand seat. “Go ahead and draw,” he said.
Sergeant Feinberg did the honors. He produced the cardboard box that held the names and shook it vigorously. “Gentlemen,” he declared, “it is now time for me to reveal that I happen to hold an FAA commercial pilot’s license and I have well in excess of a thousand hours. So my name is in here a good many times.” He beamed at the colonel. “Sir,” he asked, “will you do the honors?”
“I would prefer to be kept out of it,” the colonel said.
Sergeant Feinberg caught sight of Bill Stovers, who was just coming out of the fuselage after having checked everything there. “Pull a name, Bill,” he invited.
Sergeant Stovers reached in an extracted a piece of paper. Since no one seemed anxious to take it from him, he opened it and read aloud. “Colonel James Kleckner,” he announced.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
While waiting for weather clearance, Major Eastcott laid out the search patterns to be followed the moment that conditions permitted takeoffs. Sondrestrom, at least for some time, would not be able to help; the field there was firmly closed down and the weather section at the scene held out no hope of improved conditions for at least twelve hours. With luck, the Thule rescue craft would be airborne long before that.
Of the four aircraft available, three could actually land on the ice cap: both of the helicopters and the ski-equipped C-130. The major was not at all sure that the B-17 would be permitted to fly, but he entertained no doubt that it could. In laying out the search patterns, he plotted the relatively short-ranged Sikorskys to cover the nearby areas. They were high probability sectors on his layout and if either helicopter made the find, it could set down and pick up the survivors immediately. He had plotted rescue efforts many times before, so the word “survivors” came automatically into his mind. But he did not for a moment forget the vital Bennett respirator.
The C-130 he scheduled to fly at a higher altitude, searching for a possible flare and keeping a constant listening watch in the hope of picking up even a very faint radio signal.
The B-17 — which had long-range capability and could maintain a safe slow speed-he assigned to an advancing line search back and forth across the ice cap at low altitude. That would be almost entirely a visual operation. He was glad that he had the old bomber to put to work; it was vitally needed. He knew without checking that there was nothing up at Alert that could come down to help out.
When he had his charts completed, the major called for a conference of the aircraft commanders. In response majors Kimsey and Mulder came up from Det. 4, Captain Boyd checked in for the C-130 crew, and Scott Ferguson came with Colonel Kleckner. In ten minutes Major Eastcott laid the whole picture out and made certain that each crew commander understood his individual responsibilities. Although the tensions inherent in combat situations are great, a coordinated rescue effort can reach even higher levels of emotion, and the air was charged with it. When Eastcott finished, he asked for a final status check. As he had expected, every man and every aircraft was ready and waiting; only the weather was holding things back.
A six-pack arrived from the mess hall with hot food for everyone. That was a welcome interruption, particularly since none of the aircraft commanders or crewmen had even contemplated leaving their duty stations to eat. The word also came that a supply of box lunches was being prepared and would be delivered to the flight line shortly.
By the time that the meal was over, it seemed to Colonel Kleckner that the weather had definitely abated a little. Everyone else was constantly checking too, anxiously awaiting wind conditions that would be down enough to permit safe takeoffs. Det. 4 once more wanted to go immediately and once more the colonel refused permission. He had one urgent rescue situation on his hands and he most emphatically didn’t want any more.
At 1350 Weather called to say that operations might be possible in another one to two hours. That was regarded as definite and the tension in the terminal increased even more. Major Eastcott called the hospital and assured Captain Bowditch, who answered, that the air search would be launched shortly, and at the earliest possible moment.