Twenty minutes later, after his fifth trip outside since the weather announcement, Major Ramsey declared that the winds were off enough to permit helicopter takeoffs. Colonel Kleckner went outside with him to verify that, came back in, and said without dramatics, “I think we can get ready now.”
The Thule flight line erupted into action. The Det. 4 hangar was the first one open; within two minutes after that the howl of turbines began to override the constant noise of the wind. From a little farther up the field, the blast of the APU on the C-130 Hercules added a fresh voice. And the main door to Hangar 8 was activated to permit The Passionate Penguin to be pushed out onto the ramp.
As the four mighty turbine engines of the C-130 began to add their full-throated roar to the cacophony of sound, for just a moment or two Scott Ferguson wished that he had power like that at his command. He was used to it and he knew what it could do. Then he purged that sinful thought out of his mind the way that a Puritan would have condemned adultery, and remembered that almost 5,000 horsepower was all that he could possibly want or need.
Andy Holcomb was busy making a totally unnecessary final exterior inspection of the B-17; it was in perfect condition and he knew it. As he had many times before, particularly for the taxi tests he had made, Ferguson climbed up the crew ladder into the Boeing bomber, planted himself firmly in the left-hand seat, and secured the newly installed harness. It was familiar to him now, the whole flight bridge and cockpit: every control, every gauge, and every instrument. He moved the yoke backwards and forwards; then he turned the wheel and felt the balance of the movable surfaces.
Sergeant Stovers tapped him on the shoulder. “All set in the back,” he said. It was odd seeing his familiar face in a strange setting; then he forced himself to remember that Stovers, his loadmaster on the C-130, was just as fully qualified on this older, smaller, slower, but dependable piston-powered aircraft. Jenkins came up the ladder with a grin on his face. “Dammit, she’s beautiful!” he said.
A full sense of shame punished Ferguson for his heresy; he had asked for this, he had pleaded for it, and he had relinquished the C-130 to get it. He did not understand himself; he had wanted to fly this aircraft so badly. Then it came to him: the rescue was the thing — the all-important mission of saving human life. He had known too well that the Hercules was far better equipped, and that hammering thought had been plaguing the back of his mind. He wanted to make his utmost effort for the sake of the people somewhere out on the ice cap and for the helpless child he had last seen lying rigid in a coma in the hospital with an inadequate temporary respirator keeping her alive minute by minute. Out there somewhere there was a machine that might possibly be able to give her back her life.
God damn it, be bad an airplane to fly, get on with it! Boyd and his crew would milk the C-130 for everything she could give and they knew their business. He felt the airframe move and moments later Colonel Kleckner came into the cockpit. “The winds are definitely down,” he said quite cheerfully. “They’ve fallen off noticeably during the last fifteen minutes. How does she look?”
“Full tanks and ready to go,” Ferguson answered. “Andy Holcomb is making the final pre-flight; he’ll be through any minute.”
“Are there any checklists?”
“Yes, sir. We prepared a full set; you’ll find them on cards right there.” He pointed.
Ferguson looked out and saw Holcomb standing motionless, in front of the nose and a little to the left. Suddenly his whole world became the B-17 and he wanted to fly her more than any aircraft that had ever been launched.
“Pre-engine-start checklist,” he ordered.
In response Colonel Kleckner began to read off the neatly typed items, Ferguson responding to each one.
“Checklist complete,” the colonel said.
Ferguson showed Holcomb a thumbs-up sign through the windshield. In response the flight engineer looked quickly each way, then he whirled a hand in the “start-engines” signal. As he was replaced by Sergeant Feinberg, he ran around the wing, well out of range of the propellers, and climbed up the crew ladder. Moments later the first of the four piston engines barked into action. When it had blown back its thick burst of smoke and then settled down, Ferguson started number two. The power plant caught quickly and evenly.
Number three joined its voice to the mounting chorus. He started number four and the Penguin vibrated with life. “Pre-taxi checklist,” he directed.
The colonel read off the few items and then said, “Checklist complete.”
Ferguson fitted on his modern headset, adjusted the microphone in front of his lips, and called ground control. “Air Force three-six-zero, ready to taxi,” he reported.
“Air Force three-six-zero, follow the Here, please.”
Ferguson chafed, but the instruction was right and he knew it; the C-130 would climb out at more than twice the speed of the B-17 and the big, turbine-powered airlifter had no need to run up and check the mags, propeller controls, and all that. He bent over to verify the mixture on number three and when he looked up again, one of the HH-3’s was taxiing past. Since it wouldn’t have to fly the pattern at all, it would probably be the first aircraft off the ground.
On the airframe a door opened for a few seconds and then closed. Ferguson pressed the intercom. “What was that?” he asked.
Stovers answered in a surprisingly crisp manner for him. “Sergeant Feinberg coming aboard, sir.”
“Negative,” Ferguson said. “No riders.”
He expected Stovers to respond to that, but he didn’t. A few seconds later Sergeant Feinberg himself appeared behind Ferguson’s chair. The A/C moved one of his headphones so he could converse. “We didn’t provide for you,” he said. The moment the words were out he knew he had made a mistake.
“Yes, sir, you did — I saw to it myself.” Feinberg read the expression on Ferguson’s face and suddenly became forceful. “Look, sir, I can con you into it, but we don’t have the time. Please!”
At that moment Stovers’s voice came over the intercom again. “Feinberg is a scanner, sir — we need him.”
The thunder of the C-130 taxiing past, its great turbines howling, cut out further conversation and relieved Ferguson from having to make a decision. Then ground control was calling. “Three-six-zero.”
“Three-six-zero.”
“ ’Six-zero, Jolly Two will follow you. You are cleared to taxi behind the C-130. Runway three-four. Wind still gusting to forty knots, observe caution.”
“Wilco, ’six-zero.”
Ferguson pushed the throttles slowly forward and felt the engines respond. The Penguin began to roll and with her forward movement came a certain stately dignity.
Colonel Kleckner was watching out of the side window, performing the copilot’s duty. It had been a long time since he had occupied that position, but be knew every aspect of the flying business.
At the run-up area he had used before, Ferguson stopped, set the parking brake, and began his systematic check of the engines. He had no analyzers, so he did without them. He ran each engine individually up to 1,800 rpm and then checked the mags: left, both; right, both. After each runup he cycled the propeller and took great delight in the fact that every response was close to perfect; he knew that the colonel would miss none of it. The biggest mag drop he got was 75 rpm, which was well within limits. Not bad after thirty years on the ice cap!
He switched the VHF transceiver to 126.2 and called the tower. He was told to stand by. “Jolly One, cleared for takeoff.”