“You won’t, sir.
“You seem proud of her.”
“I am, sir. She’s my airplane and I love every rivet in her.”
“No, Lieutenant — she’s mine.”
“I don’t follow you, sir.”
“All right, Lieutenant, I’ll spell it out for you. When you first spotted the Penguin on the ice cap, she was facing more or less west. And she was resting on her gear — the wheels had been put down.”
“That’s correct, sir.”
“You might like to know about those last few moments, Lieutenant. I can tell you, because I was flying her. I knew that the rule book said in all emergency crash landings the wheels are to be kept retracted and the aircraft is to be bellied in. That’s the safest way, but it kills the bird — nnaUy and completely in most instances. I couldn’t do that to her, and furthermore, I held on to the hope that the Arctic storm that had us hopelessly iced up would pass and that we would somehow get airborne again. We had crates on board and plenty of gasoline, so we might have been able to thaw her out in some way. You know that I was carrying a vital piece of cargo, and I wasn’t going to abandon it, no matter what. We did try to start fires, until we discovered that no one had any matches.”
“My respects, sir, and my admiration.” Ferguson had thought so many times about the pilot of the B-17, but it had never occurred to him that he might have been a career professional. Now he knew.
He looked out and saw that Sergeant Feinberg was standing beside the controls that operated the main hangar door — the man was a mind reader. Without invitation, Ferguson sat down next to the general, fastened his harness, and then reached for the set of checklist cards. Before him the huge door began to yawn open. Sergeant Holcomb stood in front of the nose, caught his attention, and gestured that the brakes were to be released.
Ferguson read from the top card in his hand. “Pre-engine-start checklist.”
The general reached over and fitted his hand on the throttles from the underside. “Dammit, I’d sure like to,” he said.
“Sir, correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t those two stars I see on your shoulder?”
“Three actually — I’ve just been confirmed for another one.”
“Then why are we sitting here?”
Holcomb motioned forward; from somewhere there were enough people to roll the Penguin toward the opening that led to the ramp. As the aircraft moved, Ferguson read off the first item on the list. The general checked and responded. He was well aware that rank has its privileges. Sergeant Stovers came aboard as Sergeant Holcomb continued to supervise the rolling of the stately bomber out onto the ramp.
Seventeen minutes later The Passionate Penguin lifted off the Thule runway, Major General William Miller at the controls. He flew her for almost an hour and during that time Ferguson sat still and kept his mouth shut. When the general finally elected to come in he made an instrument approach that was perfection itself. When the new tires had touched down so gently it could hardly be felt, and the Penguin had rolled to a halt, her engines idling, the general finally spoke across the console that separated the two pilots’ seats. “Thank you, Lieutenant,” he said.
“Thank you, sir. It’s your airplane. Sir, may I ask a question?”
“Go ahead.”
“Can you tell me what was in the crate we recovered?”
The general thought for a moment before he answered that. “I guess that I can — now. It was a highly classified new type of coding machine; fortunately there was a second prototype that got over there OK. It’s totally outdated now, of course, but there were certain components in it that are still being used.”
“I understand, sir. I won’t say a word.”
“Don’t.” The general taxied as though he was reluctant to see the flight end. “I haven’t decided,” he said. “The Air Force museum will want her, but that’s a graveyard. Now her promotional value should be enormous. We could send her everywhere.”
“Sergeant Feinberg has some ideas about that, sir. He feels that she could star in a motion picture. She could join the recruiting service. Rebuilding classic cars and airplanes is very big right now, all over the country and the world.”
The general turned the beautiful bomber — and she was beautiful — onto the spot that the ground man was indicating, and then cut the switches. He sat still, showing no inclination to get up. Ferguson stayed where he was, remaining silent.
Finally the general spoke. “Lieutenant, a thought has occurred to me. I think that the Penguin has a considerable future in the various areas we’ve just mentioned. And she’s airworthy, no doubt of that. We can let the maintenance types look her over if they feel that they must.”
“Yes, sir, why not.”
“A general officer under most circumstances is entitled to his own aircraft. And if he is fortunate enough to be chosen for three-star rank, then he can pretty much have the one he wants.”
“I hope that he can also select the crew.”
“Oh, yes. Which brings up a little matter that I had almost forgotten.” The general reached into his pocket and extracted a small blue box. “At the time I put the Penguin onto the ice cap, I was a captain. These are the original insignia I was wearing during the flight.” He opened the box to display the sets of twin bars. You’re due pretty soon, aren’t you?”
“Within the next two or three months I believe, sir.”
“Then when the time comes, I’d like to have you wear these. They go with the airplane.”
“I’ll treasure them, sir. When it’s appropriate, I’d be very proud if you’d put them on for me.”
“I’d be honored. Now let’s get out of here.”
Five minutes later the two men stood looking up at the insignia on the nose of The Passionate Penguin. “I’m glad that you didn’t change it,” the general said.
“Certainly not, sir. It was suggested, but immediately voted down.”
“Are you coming to the party tonight, Lieutenant?”
“Sir, only an emergency call to fly the Penguin could keep me away.”
The general took his departure. The remainder of the Penguin’s crew, with an instinctive understanding of the situation, had kept away from the airplane. The men were gathered, talking quietly together, in a corner of the hangar. As Ferguson walked over to join them, Sergeant Feinberg drew him aside. “May I suggest a little man-to-man discussion,” he proposed.
“Go ahead, Perry.”
“Several of us have noticed that the general is in a very warm and mellow mood. Also he seems very much attached to the Penguin. Now I seem to recall that the pilot who originally landed her on the ice cap was also named Miller. Of course that’s a very common name.”
“But an uncommon man, Perry. Your guess is right; he’s the one.”
Across Perry Feinberg’s wide face a cunning grin began to form. “Then certainly we should take advantage of the situation. I approve of generals, particularly when they can be useful. Considering all things, now might be the ideal time to hit him for some single sideband equipment and the weather radar. The Air Force can well afford it.”
Ferguson nodded. “Perry, maybe it’s being around you so much lately that’s done it, but I am beginning to acquire the technique. The same thought came to me. There is to be a small party this evening. I shall choose the right moment.”
“Then I consider that the matter is settled. I only regret that I won’t be here personally to supervise the installation.”
“While we’re on this general subject,” Ferguson said, “I have a question to ask you. Just before we took off in the Penguin, you said to me, ‘I can con you into it, but I don’t have the time.’ Do you recall that phrase?”