“Yes, sir, I did.”
“Are you trying to tell me that there’s an airplane that can’t fly?”
The captain swallowed. “Yes, sir, I am.”
Then the general understood. “It was never operational — is that what you mean?”
“No, sir, it was fully operational. But it couldn’t fly.”
“Sam, has it occurred to you that you’re not making sense?”
“Sir, let me explain. The Penguin was built by Bleriot during World War One.”
“You mean ‘Two.’ ”
“No, sir, ‘One.’ It definitely was an airplane, but its wings were intentionally clipped so that it couldn’t get off the ground. It was used to teach student pilots the feel of the controls at high speed. By that they meant forty-five miles per hour. So, sir, I doubt like hell if that kind of penguin is flying over the Greenland Ice Cap, and according to the best that the library has, that’s positively the only airplane called ‘a penguin’ that was ever built.”
General Pritchard thought briefly once more. “Get me Thule Ops,” he said.
When the call came through it was a little hard to hear at the northern end because one of the Det. 4 Jollies was back for fuel and was making a considerable noise just outside on the ramp. “This is General Pritchard.”
“Yes, sir!”
“First, is there any news concerning your rescue effort?”
“Not yet, sir, but everyone is going forward full bore. Everything possible has been laid on, sir.”
“Good. Now you reported that one of the aircraft on the mission is ‘a penguin,’ is that correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We don’t seem to have a record of that aircraft here. First of all, who’s flying it?”
“Lieutenant Ferguson and Colonel Kleckner, sir, and there’s a relief pilot on board also — Lieutenant Corbin.”
“And precisely what is it?”
That was it and the NCOIC was cornered. “The Penguin, sir, is a Boeing B-17E. She has more than a four-thousand-mile range and departed here on the mission with full tanks.”
“Sergeant, did you say a B-17?”
“That is affirmative, sir.”
“where in hell did they get that?”
“It was in Hangar Eight, sir.”
“In what kind of condition?”
“In perfect condition, sir. Zero time on everything when she took off, just out of a complete overhaul.”
“And you said that Colonel Kleckner is flying her?”
“He’s definitely on board, yes, sir.”
“Thank you very much, Sergeant.”
“You’re welcome, sir.”
As he leaned back in his chair, General Everett Pritchard was a little puzzled while he ran things quickly through his mind. The picture made no sense whatever, because if there had been a B-17 parked somewhere up at Thule for a period of years, he couldn’t possibly have failed to be aware of it.
He picked up a telephone. “Get me General Miller,” he directed.
Within a few moments his colleague was on the line. “Bill,” Pritchard said, “I’ve got an odd one I’d like to ask you about.” He sketched the situation at Thule and explained the emergency rescue attempt. “Now comes the strange part,” he concluded. “When I asked them for a fuller ID on that ‘penguin,’ they reported back that it was a B-17. Repeat, a B-17, apparently named ‘Penguin.” Just as a starter, to the best of my knowledge no B-17’s were ever at Thule. Do you know anything about this?”
It was quiet on the line for several seconds before General Miller answered. When he did, his words came slowly and carefully. “I might, except for one thing — which makes what I have in mind utterly impossible.”
What remained of the Arctic daylight was rapidly fading from the sky. Now well south of Thule, maintaining her systematic advancing line search of the ice cap, The Passionate Penguin was flying through increasingly rough air. Although his own mind was already made up, Ferguson called a council of war via the intercom. “We have a choice,” he said. “We can return home and resume at daybreak, presumably in better weather. Or we can keep on going; there’s plenty of fuel and we have the box lunches. However, at night the flying will be more hazardous and we won’t have enough visibility to pick up anything on the ice cap.”
“Sir.” Ferguson recognized the voice of Sergeant Feinberg.
“Go ahead.”
“We’ve already discussed that back here, and we’re unanimous to continue. In the morning could be too late.”
Ferguson looked at the colonel. “You, sir?”
“You’re the A/C.”
Ferguson raised Thule on the VHF. “Air Force three-six-zero,” he reported. “Results negative to date. We will continue mission. Over.”
“Three-six-zero, roger. All others continuing also.”
“Any report from the hospital?”
“Nothing encouraging, sir.”
“Thank you.”
Ferguson got up and Corbin replaced him. He went back into the surprisingly small fuselage and used a relief tube. The heater was working full blast, but it was still cold inside the aircraft. There was no insulation of any kind and the temperature outside at more than 10,000 feet was frigid. The men who had been keeping a continuous lookout were uncomfortable, but were not complaining. Sergeant Stovers was posted on the port side, looking out the large window that had been intended to be replaced by a gun position. Opposite him there was a crew member Ferguson hadn’t realized was on board — Atwater from Supply. “How about some coffee?” Ferguson inquired.
Andy Holcomb answered him. “I’m afraid it’s all gone, sir, but we have drinking water. We brought plenty of that. Actually, there is some hot coffee, but we’re saving it.”
“I understand.”
Ferguson broke open a lunch box, wrote his name on the cover, and extracted a piece of fried chicken. The cold food tasted good; he hadn’t realized how hungry he was.
“Sir,” Holcomb said. “She flies better than I had thought possible. She’s a great airplane.”
“Damn right,” Ferguson responded. He looked out of the window, down onto the darkening ice cap, and tried to estimate their chances. “It’s a helluva big area,” he said, half to himself. “Immense. The Penguin was out in plain sight for thirty years and no one that we know of saw her.”
They all knew that and no one commented. The wings began to bank as another systematic line search was concluded; slowly the aircraft turned ninety degrees, went further south for two minutes, then turned again another ninety degrees to resume the search pattern. The two lookouts got up and were immediately replaced. To keep outside vision as clear as possible, no lights were being used inside the plane except for the concentrated one above the navigator’s desk. With his chart spread out before him, Jenkins kept careful, minute-by-minute track of the Penguin’s position. He had no LORAN receiver, but he did not need it; the newly installed TACAN was enough.
Ferguson looked over the shoulder of Sergeant Feinberg, who had taken up the watch on the starboard side. “Thanks for all you’re doing,” he said, making it a general comment.
“This is nothing,” Feinberg answered him. “Think of J Site; if they can keep going on five different scopes more than eight thousand hours a year, who are we to complain?”
There was nothing to be added to that. Ferguson found a sandwich in his lunch box and bit into it. It was thickly cut ham. As he chewed, he wondered if the people stranded on the ice cap had any rations at all.
When he had eaten all that he wanted, and had drunk some water, he returned to the flight deck and relieved the colonel. He sat on the right-hand side, letting Corbin keep the command seat. The four engines were running smoothly, their combined thunder subdued because they had been pulled back into long-range cruise. The propellers were synchronized and despite the frequent moderate turbulence, they stayed that way. Idly, Ferguson wondered if they had crossed the spot where the B-17 had first been rediscovered. He could have found out by asking Jenkins, but he preferred not to know.