Chapter 61
Summit Station Airfield, Greenland
Start number one,” Lieutenant Colonel Driscoll ordered.
The plane was already pointed down the frozen runway, which Driscoll had walked in its entirety twenty minutes earlier.
He had seen few imperfections, the surface having been groomed by machines and checked for loose ice to ensure a smooth takeoff roll.
The next runway he would encounter, if all went as planned, would have none of those guarantees.
He looked out the window and saw clear sky above the Greenland ice shelf. “Hope we get some of this at our destination,” he said.
Harrison chuckled. “That’s not the forecast. If we can get a look at what we’re landing on before touchdown, I’ll be happy.”
“Is our takeoff data still valid?”
“Numbers are good,” Harrison replied. “Temperature holding steady at negative twenty-two Fahrenheit.”
Driscoll didn’t even flinch. All of Greenland was cold due to its latitude, most of its landmass being above the Arctic Circle. Summit Station, however, had the unfortunate additive of high altitude. Its 10,000-foot elevation subtracted 35 degrees from the temperatures on the coastal lowlands.
“It’s going to feel downright balmy up at the North Pole.”
The loadmaster, Staff Sergeant Robert Carruthers, poked his head into the flight deck. “Doors and cargo bay are secure, Colonel. All equipment outside is clear.”
“Sounds good. Grab your seat for takeoff.”
The sergeant disappeared into the cargo bay.
Carruthers was an old hand in the squadron, a part-timer who was an Albany cop in his day job.
Driscoll couldn’t think of anyone he’d rather have riding in back today.
Carruthers was the only other crewmember on board.
A second loadmaster and a crew chief had been on the original manifest for the flight home, but headquarters insisted on using a bare-minimum complement for this mission.
Driscoll didn’t know if that was for the sake of simplicity or something more ominous, but he’d decided not to dwell on it.
“Any last-minute revisions?” he asked. They had received the green light for the mission half an hour earlier, but also been told to check for updates before takeoff.
Harrison referenced the communications log. “Nothing new. We’re good to go.”
Driscoll gave a mock frown. “I was kind of hoping they’d scrub us at the last minute.”
Harrison grinned. Dark humor was going to rule the day.
The aircraft commander added power, and the big transport began sliding forward on the ice.
He lined up carefully on the runway. The surface had been swept one last time after he’d walked it, and the edges were marked by a long line of banners mounted on fiberglass poles.
They stood out as well as the painted lines on any conventional airstrip.
Driscoll shoved the throttles forward and the four big turboprops bit into the cold air.
He felt the familiar push, heard the deepening thrum.
Clouds of snow washed back in their wake, a maelstrom that enveloped a cluster of the station’s outbuildings in a fleeting blizzard.
The ride was bumpy but the acceleration smooth as they raced down the runway.
They were airborne quickly, and Harrison retracted the skis, which clamped tight to the hull for better aerodynamics.
He then extended and retracted the skis a second time to knock off residual snow and ice.
The climb-out was smooth, and all systems were operating normally—not always a given after the brutal conditions of Summit Station.
“Time to IP?” Driscoll asked, the “initial point” being their intended landing zone.
“Three hours and forty-six minutes.”
“Okay. Let’s send a report that we’re airborne.”
As Harrison busied himself with that task, Driscoll wondered what he’d forgotten.
He was headed out on a mission that, until today, had never been attempted: landing a heavy transport on a high Arctic ice floe.
He had pored over every available map for the landing zone’s ice condition, and the predictive weather maps were all but stamped in his mind.
They had removed all nonessential equipment from the aircraft to minimize weight, and Harrison had run the numbers for takeoff and landing with a dozen different variables.
On paper, there was no reason a landing and subsequent takeoff shouldn’t be feasible.
But he didn’t see paper now. He saw cold sky out the forward windshield and a steady fuel flow on the gauges in front of him. The risks were high, so he wasn’t undertaking them lightly. He had done all the necessary planning, taken every precaution, and with good reason. Lives were on the line.
Driscoll adjusted course slightly, turned on the autopilot, and settled back in his seat. Established on its northerly course, the LC-130 blended swiftly into the dim polar night.