“What went?”
“Blankets, hot coffee, food, and a medical kit.”
“Good. That should hold them until the Jolly gets here. Jenk, can you make a good guess as to the surface wind?”
The navigator came back promptly. “I can give you the exact wind. I’ve got a driftmeter and I took a double drift when I had the chance. Zero-six-zero at thirty-three knots.”
Ferguson climbed back up to 11,000 feet and then held steady, swinging in a fixed orbit around the downed Otter. He would have liked to have radioed back more information concerning the people it was carrying, but the HH-3 was due shortly. Less than five minutes later he picked up an approaching landing light in the sky.
He pressed to transmit. “Jolly Two, we have you in sight. Surface wind is zero-six-zero at thirty-three, heavy gusts. Advise if you want flare.” That done, he returned to 121.5 and transmitted. “Otter, if you read, Jolly Green Giant is in sight and will pick you up shortly. Set out a flare or something for her if you can.”
He listened for an acknowledgment, but he did not expect one and none came. He looked again at the incoming helicopter and saw that it was descending rapidly. In less than a minute it passed underneath, aiming for the center of his orbit. Apparently the Otter pilot heard enough of the sound to identify it as a helicopter; a red flare appeared on the surface of the snow and, a few seconds later, another one, a hundred feet from the first.
When he knew that it was safe to do so, Ferguson, descended a little and flew just to the right of the twin flares. By the landing lights of the helicopter he saw the swirling snow whipped up by its main rotor; as he flew past, Tom Collins’s voice came in with sharp clarity. “On the ground, no sweat. Stand by.”
For three minutes Ferguson flew The Passionate Penguin in a close spiral around the marking flares while he waited for further word. He did not realize that the C-130 had arrived overhead until he was almost blinded by the brilliant flare that it released in the sky. Then the whole thing was laid out with photographic clarity: the Otter with a crumpled wingtip, the big Sikorsky close by with its rotor still turning, and three people on the ice cap moving from the Otter toward the helicopter.
The C-130 called. “Jolly, do you have enough hands to move the respirator? If not, we can make a ski landing and assist.”
Major Mulder’s voice answered. “No problem; we have six aboard and it can’t be that big. But please stand by.”
“Will do.”
By the light of the flare Ferguson saw that there were now more people on the ice cap, but he could not distinguish much about them. Arctic gear was arctic gear on man or woman, and none of it was designed for style.
Presently Collins came on again. “Report on Otter crew and pax. Everyone OK. Pilot had complete electrical failure and instrument vacuum system went out. He put down blind to wait for weather lift and ground looped. The Otter was damaged enough to make it unflyable. We’re transferring the respirator and will be homeward bound in about ten minutes. You can start back anytime.”
“Thank you, Jolly, but we’ll stay right here until you’re airborne and on you way,” Ferguson responded.
“Damn right,” the colonel said over the intercom.
Twelve minutes later the twin-turbine Sikorsky rescue helicopter lifted off the ice cap, swung around, and set a course for Thule. Overhead the C-130 Hercules broke station and flew rapidly northward. Scott Ferguson turned The Passionate Penguin toward home and began a steady climb to a respectable altitude. He had been airborne for a good many hours and he was more than ready to call it a day. By now flying the B-17 was almost automatic with him and he felt as though he had been handling her for years.
He pressed the transmit button one more time and spoke to the helicopter that was now well below him. “Penguin to Jolly Two,” he said. “A nice pickup off the ice cap. Congratulations.”
Major Mulder replied. “Thank you, Penguin. We’ve had some valuable practice.”
The C-130, with its much greater speed, was the first to arrive back and swing into the Thule landing pattern. The weather situation had improved materially and phase conditions had passed. Jolly One put in an appearance five minutes later and settled down on the runway. Both aircraft received the same piece of news; it was at that moment touch and go at the hospital where the Bennett respirator was desperately needed; only the knowledge that that vital piece of equipment was being brought in as fast as the HH-3 could fly offered any encouragement at all. Lieutenant Kane had positioned the necessary ground vehicles well in advance of the ETA and Sergeant Ragan, of the Air Police, had provided an escort in the hope that it might save an additional two or three minutes.
As the HH-3 flew in with the medical personnel and the Bennett on board, Ferguson kept The Passionate Penguin above and behind her so that he could keep the lights of the helicopter constantly in view. If anything were to happen — which was extremely unlikely, but possible — he did not want to have to waste two minutes in reporting that fact and beginning another orbit.
Fortunately, the precaution was unnecessary. Jenkins did not quarrel with the heading being held, although he kept up his chart work like the professional that he was. The Thule beacon came in loud and clear and the ADF told him that he was on the right flight path. When the edge of the ice cap finally came, he could see the lights of Thule ahead and below.
Ferguson held his altitude to allow the Jolly to land first. It did so, cutting straight in across the field and settmg down almost directly in front of the operations building. The moment that the aircraft was firmly on the ground it was surrounded by people. The ambulance backed up, and there was frenzied activity.
Bringing up the rear, Ferguson flew toward the beacon and set up a proper instrument approach. He didn’t require the glide slope or any radar assistance; the runway was in plain sight, but he did everything according to the book. Gear and flaps down, he came in over the boundary lights, reminded himself once more that he was flying a tail-dragger, not a tricycle-geared aircraft, and held the Penguin off the runway as he slowed her down and let the tail sink into landing position. When she finally settled on, it was a picture-book landing and he knew it. After contacting ground control, he taxied up in front of Hangar 8, and at long last cut the switches. The Passionate Penguin came to rest and stood with stately dignity.
Colonel Kleckner got up a little stiffly. “I may catch hell,” he admitted. “If I do, it won’t hurt that we made the discovery. If we hadn’t…” He had no need to finish the sentence.
“Also, sir,” Ferguson added, “they might have some trouble proving that the Penguin can’t get off the ground. She flew through some pretty rough air today.”
“I’ve got a lot to do now,” the colonel said, and left the flight deck. The crew doorway was already open; through it he climbed down onto the ground.
At the hospital, the Bennett respirator was at that moment being delivered to the room where little Bebiane Jeremiassen lay immobilized, as still and silent as death itself. Ignoring his ordeal on the ice cap, Dr. Lindegaard connected the machine and checked it out. He had it ready in less than a minute. He wheeled it to the bedside and, with Markley’s help, switched the tiny patient onto the new and vastly more efficient machine. “How much longer would your portable unit have lasted?” the Danish doctor asked.
“We thought we were losing her twice within the hour before you got here. It was a matter of minutes.”
“I understand. Doctor, I wish to have you meet our nurses. They have been through quite a bit in the last many hours, but they are ready to begin work. Mrs. Toft will take the first shift. She is, I think, in a little better shape than Miss Morgensen or Mrs. Nielsen.”