“Yes, Lieutenant, I do.” A slight touch of discomfort tinged his words.
“How did you propose to con me?”
Sergeant Feinberg very nearly blushed. “Well, sir, you know how it is; an artist doesn’t always like to talk about his work.”
“I want to know.”
“Very well, if that’s an order. Precisely the way I did do it: wait until the last moment and then protest that there isn’t time to engage in any discussions. That was how I had it planned from the beginning.”
Ferguson nodded. “That’s a good point to know,” he said.
The colonel raised a toast. “Although some of the junior officers may not agree, I have for a long time maintained that a woman never attains her maximum charm until she has reached thirty. With that thought in mind, I give you one who fits that description, The Passionate Penguin.”
After the toast had been drunk, Tom Collins rose. “I now give you the Twin Otter,” he said. “That will be a vastly easier job, of course. Then, I have noted from the charts, there is in Aero Commander on the ice cap, quite nearby, that is reported to be intact.”
“There’s also a B-29,” Captain Tilton contributed.
“Forget it,” the general advised. “It burns too much gas.”
“How many planes are actually out there?” Major Valen asked.
“Over forty,” Major Mulder answered, “but about half of them were destroyed on impact. Ten or twelve, of various types and kinds, are known to be substantially undamaged.”
That called for another round and it was drunk with enthusiasm.
In the morning, General Miller made a call to the Pentagon from Colonel Kleckner’s office. He asked for, and got, the general who headed the Air Force Office of Information, a sometimes harrowing assignment that carried more weight than is generally appreciated.
“Charlie,” Miller said. “You know about the B-17 they’ve rebuilt up here.”
“Of course. As a matter of fact, it’s your old airplane, isn’t it?”
“Precisely, so I’ve got an idea. What if I were to fly her back after all these years — could you get any mileage out of that?”
“Hell, yes — the visual appeal would be great. The TV networks will love it. What’s the bird’s actual status?”
“She’s officially back in commission. All the maintenance requirements have been met, and by the book, that’s all it took.”
“Great. Send me a crew list as soon as you can. I’ll have bios ready for the press, pictures, all that. Is Tilton in on this?”
“Absolutely — he’s already prepared most of the material. There’s a C-141 coming down to McGuire in the morning; everything you will need from here will be on board.”
“Look, perhaps Tilton could come with you, as IO for the aircraft. I can send a replacement up on the rotator to cover the bases while he’s on TDY.”
“That’s a good idea, Charlie. While you’re at it, send up a C-130 crew, ski-qualified if possible, but that isn’t essential. Ev Pritchard’s office will handle it.”
“Bill, since we’re talking, can you bring with you any of the people who actually were in on that rebuilding job? That would be outstanding.” The man in the Pentagon was rapidly making notes.
General Miller smiled. “You’ve just filled an inside straight,” he said. “My copilot will be the man who actually found her on the ice cap. He won’t take the credit; he insists it was his crew. However, I expect to bring them all with me.”
“Absolutely superior. I’ll call all of the top media people. Bless you!”
“One more thing,” Miller said. “Do me a favor. Call Princeton and get hold of Professor Mafusky in the department of mathematics. Invite him to be present when we come in. Since he was part of my original crew, I think he’d like to be there.”
Thule Operations showed Air Force three-six-zero due out at 0830 hours, bound for Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland. The crew met an hour earlier in Operations to take care of the necessary paperwork, pre-flight briefings, and the other formalities of departure. When the routine chores had been done, and the weather maps had been examined, General Miller reached into his pocket and extracted a coin. He flipped it into the air. “Call,” he said.
“Heads,” Ferguson responded.
The general looked. “Heads it is.” He addressed the NCOIC. “The pilot will be Lieutenant Ferguson. I’ll fly copilot. You have the rest.”
“Yes, sir, the crew list is ready for signature.”
Ferguson stepped up and put his name on the bottom of the form. As he finished, Sergeant Feinberg came in. “The bird is ready,” he reported. Presently, he spoke to Ferguson privately. “Did you win the toss, sir?” he asked.
“Now look, Perry, there’s no way you could have fixed that!”
The impressive sergeant gave a confident gesture. “Of course not, Lieutenant, no way at all. But I did take the liberty of mentioning to the general the sporting idea of letting the fates decide, as it were. That at least would give you a fifty percent chance. The general is well known as a sportsman and I suspected that he might go for it.”
The operations clerk was lettering Ferguson’s name on the board in the column marked PILOT. Lieutenant Jenkins handed in his flight plan; Andy Holcomb was right behind him with the weight-and-balance sheet, which already bore Sergeant Stover’s signature.
“Since we’ve got some headwinds along the route,” General Miller said, “let’s go as soon as we’re ready.”
“We’re ready now,” Ferguson answered.
The Penguin stood on the ramp just outside. The ground-support personnel were ready with the fire extinguisher, battery cart, and other required equipment. It took ten minutes to get everyone settled in and the pre-engine-start checklist run through. All was well. With practiced efficiency Ferguson fired up and waited while the engines settled in. Then he called ground control and got clearance to the run-up area. He taxied slowly and carefully until he was in position, then he set the brake firmly and went through the routine of checking all four engines and propellers and all eight magnetos. With that behind him he called the tower and advised that he was ready for takeoff.
The tower came back with immediate clearance and supplied the latest altimeter setting. There had been no change since they had left the ramp.
Ferguson advanced the throttles and guided the four-engined Boeing bomber into position on the end of the runway. Before her was 10,000 feet of runway and the unlimited sky overhead. He pressed the intercom button. “Your takeoff, sir,” he said.
Miller flashed him an appreciative smile. “I’ll try to keep her off the ice cap this time,” he said.
The engines picked up in tempo and then combined into a respectable roar. The plane began to roll forward, gaining speed. After only a short distance, the tail came off the ground and the weight rested on the main gear. The speed continued to build as the 2,000-foot marker went past. Then, gracefully as always, The Passionate Penguin lifted off the ground apparently of her own will. As she climbed up, her landing gear slowly disappeared and the wing flaps came up. Ferguson called departure control as the general turned the aircraft southward.
She climbed upward at a steady pace, her engines running smoothly, until those who were watching from the ground could no longer hear the sound, and the plane herself was little more than a diminishing speck in the sky.