“Jolly One.” He watched and saw the Sikorsky lift off and then climb upward, doing what would have been considered impossible when the first B-17 had been rolled out.
As soon as the helicopter was clear of the pattern, the C-130 called in. “Thule tower, Here ready to go.”
“Here cleared for takeoff, procedure departure.”
The turbines of the C-130 hurled shock waves of power across the field as the airlifter moved forward, gained speed, held its heading on the runway, and then rotated. It came off like the great bird that it was, climbing up into the sky with mighty authority.
The colonel used his microphone. “Thule tower, Penguin ready for takeoff.”
That was like an electric shock to Ferguson: Penguin ready for takeoff!
“Penguin cleared to position and hold.”
In reply Ferguson released the brake, added power, and taxied onto the end of the runway. He looked down 10,000 feet of 150-foot-wide white pavement and knew that the moment of truth was at hand.
“Penguin, cleared for takeoff.”
Ferguson nodded his head, fitted his hand underneath the throttle handles and pushed. As the bomber began to move, he continued to push until all four engines were wide open. The power plants roared and the propellers bit into the air.
The speed began to build; Ferguson held the yoke forward with his left hand and the tail lifted off the ground. The plane rode on her main landing gear as she accelerated, not as fast as the C-130, but fast enough. He felt her begin to lighten, the tires skipped slightly on the uneven surface of the runway.
Then, by that wonderful empathy that can exist between man and machine, he knew that she was ready. With both hands he eased back on the yoke and with magnificent smoothness, despite the gusting air, The Passionate Penguin lifted off the ground.
The runway fell away. She caught a bump but it did not disconcert her — she climbed steadily, boring upward. Ferguson’s hands locked around the yoke and in an instantaneous flashback he remember the time he had stood on the ice cap, had looked at her in her frozen, lifeless immobility, and had dreamed that he was flying her out of her prison. Now, in a sense, he was. As a machine, the Penguin was working beautifully, like a brand-new piece of equipment fresh from the factory test-pilot’s hands. The impact of the whole thing generated a powerful emotion in him — a feeling of strangeness combined with profound triumph. His spirit soared, and he knew that the all-but-impossible had been done and that now he was holding the yoke in his hands and living through an experience that no man had ever known before. The power of the engines accompanied his thoughts. Neil Armstrong could not have felt more exhilaration when he first set foot on the surface of the moon.
When he reached the nondirectional beacon, he checked his altitude and then turned her left, toward the ice cap that now held another aircraft that might or might not be in desperate need of help. The Passionate Penguin climbed higher into the troubled sky, responding to — but ignoring — the gusts that forced her to deviate from her established course. Ferguson flew her carefully, feeling her out, experiencing the solidness with which she pulled herself through the air.
He looked down at the immense ocean of ice that lay below him and then pressed the intercom. “Start visual scanning search,” he ordered. “I want both sides covered at all times, from now on.”
“Yes, sir.” Stovers responded.
Against the stark blue of the Arctic sky, where it became visible, The Passionate Penguin flew on, a magnificent machine that responded to every command from her pilot.
With a nod Ferguson turned her over to Colonel Kleckner and then sat back, searching the immense ice cap, and letting the richness of life fill him. On the surface below, the winds were still treacherous, but here in the sky aboard his fine and wonderful aircraft, he heard the song of the angels.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Brigadier General Everett Pritchard carried out his Pentagon assignment with distinction, but much of the time he wished strongly that he was back out in a field command. Technically he was no longer on flying status, but he still wore his command-pilot’s wings atop the impressive display of ribbons on his uniform. Having made it his business to visit the various units over which he had jurisdiction as often as he was reasonably able, he had scheduled himself up to Thule and was planning his departure when he received word that that whole area was socked in by a more or less unexpected Arctic storm.
Armed with that information, he put in a call to his old friend Colonel James Kleckner to set up a new time for his visit. At Thule the call was transferred to Operations, where the NCOIC answered the telephone. He told the general’s aide that a full-scale rescue effort was underway and that the colonel was personally taking part.
The line was held open while the general was informed. Immediately thereafter, the general picked up the phone himself to learn the details. When he had been given the story, he asked without hesitating, “Is there anything we can do from here to help?”
“I doubt it, sir,” the Thule operations man answered. “Sondrestrom is closed and they report the whole area as unflyable. Hopefully, before any additional equipment could get up here, we’ll have the job done.”
“How many aircraft do you have out on search, Sergeant?”
“Four, sir.”
“And what are they?”
The man at Thule had anticipated that possible question. “Two Jollies, sir, from Det. Four, a Hercules, and the Penguin. ”
“Thank you very much, Sergeant. I would like to be notified personally as soon as there is definite news.”
“I’ll pass that word, sir.”
“Good-bye.” The general hung up. A few seconds after he had done so, he turned to his aide, a resourceful young captain who had caught his eye some months before. “Sam,” the general asked, “what is a penguin?”
“A penguin, sir?”
“A penguin.”
The captain flushed slightly. “It’s the Antarctic bird, of course, but could you give me a clue as to what kind of penguin we’re talking about?”
“It’s something that nies — military I presume, but it could be civilian.”
“I’ll check, sir, immediately.” The captain left the office.
He was back a few minutes later. “Sir, the Penguin is a Norwegian ship-to-ship tactical missile. Do you need the specs?”
General Pritchard thought briefly. “That was pretty quick,” he said. “Where did you get that information?”
“From the Defense / Aerospace Code Name Handbook. It’s also listed in Taylor’s Missiles of the World; I double-checked, sir.”
“Nice work, but that isn’t the penguin that I mean. There’s another one, an airplane. The most likely bets are either Canadian or Danish, but I admit that I haven’t heard of it — not that I recall.”
“That’s two of us, sir, but I’ll see what I can find out.”
The captain was gone for some time. When he did return he was slightly flustered. “Were you able to find it?” the general asked.
“Yes, sir, the library was able to dig it out. It took a little time because it’s very obscure.”
“I know, otherwise I would probably know of it. Anyhow, that’s what’s flying over the Greenland Ice Cap right now.”
The captain shook his head. “No, sir, it isn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because it couldn’t fly.”
The general looked at him. “Didn’t you say that it’s an airplane?” he asked. “Or imply it?”