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Tom Sanders had tried to fix the set but got nothing for his troubles except some singed fingertips. They were one hundred miles past Iceland, flying northwest, and suddenly the plane was without communications. The crew then had several trouble-free hours until an electrical fault had sparked in the radios, shorting out the entire system. He also said he wanted the head of whoever was responsible for tying down cargo when he returned. He had reported the incident back to the controllers and had them inform the isolated Air Force base at Thule, Greenland, that their supply plane would be coming in late. Delaney was forced to keep firm pressure on the wheel so the plane maintained an even keel. It was not a mortal problem it merely caused the C-97 to fly out of trim. It had started an hour out of England when they were rocked by a sudden wind gust that shifted an improperly secured cargo pallet in the hold of the giant aircraft. This time fate was dealing him one problem after another, and there wasn’t much the major could do. Now, however, his luck might have finally run out. He’d had a few close scrapes during his command of a B-29, but Delaney had never lost a man. Except, he thought darkly, during the war when flak or a Japanese Zero came out of nowhere.
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“I’d say we’re about forty miles from the Greenland coast.”ĭelaney’s experience was that it took a series of small mishaps to lead to the catastrophe of a crash. “That’s what I was afraid of,” the pilot grunted. “Closer to Greenland than Iceland if that’s what you’re wondering.” Tom Sanders, the navigator, was seated at his tiny desk behind the cockpit, a chart spread before him and a worried frown on his face.
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Despite the heat blasting into the pressurized cabin, the major felt a chill race across his skin like sheet lightning. Glancing at Winger, he saw his own concern reflected in the younger man’s eyes. “Yeah, Jer, we might just be,” Delaney finally replied. Only a few stringers of high cirrus clouds smeared the air high above the plane, but Delaney didn’t know how much longer his aircraft would remain aloft. It resembled the cockpit of the venerable B-29, on which the Stratofreighter was based.Įighteen thousand feet below the Military Air Transport Service cargo plane, the desolate north Atlantic was as dark as the slag heaps in Delaney’s native West Virginia. He looked out the windshield, known as the “greenhouse” throughout the Air Force because it was made up of nineteen individual panes of Plexiglas. Most likely poorly maintained tanker trucks had contaminated the fuel. The remaining engines were running hot, making him think that the problem wasn’t with the plane, but with the fuel they’d taken on in England. Every instinct told him that they hadn’t seen the last of whatever had affected the power plant. “We’re in a world of hurt, aren’t we, Major?” asked his copilot, Lieutenant Jerry Winger.ĭelaney didn’t respond as he studied the gauges for the three working engines. He reduced the drag by feathering the prop so the blades cut the slipstream edgewise, but the plane still felt sluggish in his hands. This time was much worse than before and rather than risk his plane becoming too unstable, Major Jack Delaney shut down the twenty-eight-cylinder Pratt and Whitney Wasp. The entire length of the Air Force C-97 Stratofreighter shuddered as the port-side outboard engine began misfiring again. Series: Mercer Pandora's curse Jack DuBrul
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