CHAPTER 51
Jack slept better than expected, zipped tightly into the cold-weather-prepared, mummy-style sleeping bag. He glanced at his watch. He’d slept six hours, two more than planned. He dragged his sore body out of the bag and did the regular post-sleep rituaclass="underline" crawling through the tent’s opening and looking for a change in the weather. He pulled the sleeve of his jacket up, and checked the time on his watch. Nearly 5am. Never too early to enjoy a day on the ice….
The skies remained blue, although the winds had increased. Jack slithered back into the vestibule and began melting snow for drinking water. Once that was started, he picked up the two-way radio.
“Hey, Al, you guys copy?”
The radio cracked with static for a moment before Paulson’s voice boomed through the small speaker. “Did you sleepyheads finally get out of the rack?”
“How is it going with the Las Tortugas?”
“We’re doing an inspection now. We’re got a big job of inspecting the engines and it appears they’re leaking oil. The Russians have done a decent job of jacking the aircraft off the ice and replacing the tires and patching up the aluminum skin. Perez is checking the fabric they laid on the tail and Angus is checking the electrical and fuel system. Mac’s going to install a new diaphragm seal in the auxiliary power unit in the rear of the aircraft. We’re going to need the APU to start the engines and we don’t want to suffer the same fate as the Kee Bird. How are you guys doing?”
“We’re beginning the climb toward the base of Thor’s Hammer. Have you heard from the Caribou?”
“Yeah — they froze their asses off inside the fuselage.”
Jack hooked the radio to his jacket and added more ice to the steaming pot. He was filling the second water bottle as Leah crawled through the vestibule, still wrapped in her sleeping bag.
She pushed tangled hair away from her face. “Not bad, Climber; you did a good job in selecting the sleeping bags.”
“If Paulson ever finds out what I paid for those, I’ll be out of a job.”
“How’s the weather?”
“About ten below and the winds have picked up. The sooner you two get moving, the sooner we’ll be on our way to the base of Thor’s Hammer.”
“I’m already up,” said a disembodied voice. “I’m just waiting for someone to serve up breakfast in bed.”
“Get your butt over here, Marko,” ordered Leah.
Two minutes later the shaggy climber crawled into the tent, already dressed in climbing bibs.
“I’m leaving for Thor’s Hammer in twenty minutes,” Jack said. “I want you two chowing down and then dressed for climbing.”
“If I wanted the drill-sergeant treatment, I’d be helping Paulson get that piece of shit off the ground,” Leah replied.
“There’s still time to send you over.”
“Fat chance.” She leaned back into the pile of expedition gear Jack used as a back-rest/pillow. “What’s for breakfast?”
He handed her a steaming cup of instant cocoa. She wrapped her hands around the cup for warmth and sipped.
“How dangerous is the climb?”
Jack stopped mixing hot cereal. “This is serious business. That mountain of ice could tumble and it wouldn’t be the first time.
CHAPTER 52
Paulson and his crew of mechanics examined the Las Tortugas for three straight hours, covering nearly every inch of the old bomber. The original propellers lay scattered about in sections, twisted into pretzel-like shapes from the impact of the crash landing.
Ridley pointed up toward the wing and engine cowling. “Those sneaky Russian bastards yanked the original Wright Cyclones, shipped them out, and had them rebuilt. That’s the best news I’ve had ever since this fiasco started. I’d rather try walking across the South Atlantic rather than fly off the ice with Russian Shvetsovs.”
“Why is that?” Garrett asked.
“The TU-4 bomber was the Russian rip-off of the Boeing B-29 that they reverse-engineered and copied during World War II. Their copy of the Wright 3350 Cyclone engine was called the Shvetsov ASh-73TK, and it was just as likely to burn up as get you home. The Wrights are damn good engines.” Ridley glanced over at Angus Lyon, who smoked a cigarette as he admired the old bomber. “What do you say?”
The red-bearded Scotsman took a deep drag off the cigarette before responding. “Knowing those Russian mechanics, I’d rather stand outside a pub in Glasgow in my underwear for the whole bloody winter than risk my arse in that bucket of bolts. I think we have our work cut out, Wright engines or no.”
Ridley walked over to where Orlando Perez examined the recently replaced aluminum skin running the full length of the bottom of the fuselage. “How does it look?”
The Colombian shrugged. “Is a poor job, but I think it will hold until Chile.” He pointed back toward the fabric-lined tail. “The fabric on the tail, it is torn.”
“Can you patch it?”
Perez nodded.
Ridley pointed toward the black oil sprayed on the ice. “If we can’t get the oil leaks fixed…”
“Yeah, I know,” Paulson said. “Our Antarctic vacation was a wasted trip.”
“Just as long as you understand,” Ridley cautioned.
“How are we fixed for fuel?”
Ridley turned around and surveyed a mountain of fifty-gallon fuel drums, many of them clearly empty. “Looks like the Russians have enough for the maximum ferry range of 5,000 miles. If they pumped in as much fuel as I see in those empty barrels, we’re probably close to what we need to limp 2,000 nautical miles to Punta Arenas.”
“What can I do, Al?” Garrett asked.
Paulson looked over at Ridley and grinned. “He’s the boss.”
“I’ve got a list about a mile long.” Ridley nodded toward the ice runway. “We’ll have to pull the old girl through the sastrugi. We need that tractor running.”
“I already got a good look at it. All the instructions are in Russian.”
Ridley wiped grease from his hands and then stuck them in his pockets before they froze. “Never saw a machine in any language that refused to start without a shot of Quick-Start in the carburetors, a hot battery, and fresh gas in the tank.” He looked at Lyon, and nodded in the direction of the radial engines.
“What the hell,” Lyon said with a belly laugh. “Let’s see if we can get one of those Wright’s fired up.”
Ridley grinned. “Check and see if you can get fuel to engine number two and pull the pre-heater over here and let’s get the portable APU out of the Caribou.”
Ridley paused and then spun around and pointed at Paulson. “Wait a minute! Al, you drag the preheater over.” He nodded toward one of the overloaded sleds being pulled by a snow machine. “It’s on that sled.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Paulson.
Thirty minutes later, Ridley yelled over the roar of the preheater blowing hot air into the engine. “We need to spin through the prop.” Garrett and Paulson jogged over and pushed on one of the massive blades. As the huge propeller came around, Ridley, Perez, and Garrett and grabbed the next blade and pushed it through.
“Okay, that should do it,” Ridley said.
Lyon winked and then climbed into the belly of the aircraft and slid into the flight engineer’s station. It was the heart of the old bomber and contained all the instruments and throttles necessary to start and monitor the B-29’s engines. He scanned the complicated instrument panel and set the throttles to start position.
Paulson climbed into the cockpit and opened the side window. “Clear!” he yelled, letting the mechanics know he was prepared for ignition.
Garrett gunned the APU connected to the aircraft through a plug near the nose gear. Ridley waved his hand in a circle outside the left side cockpit window.