Firefox

by Craig Thomas

  He broke the seal on the malt whisky, and poured the pale gold liquid into four tumblers in generous measures. Then, deferentially, he handed the drinks round on a small silver tray, brought from his own flat, in readiness.

  Aubrey raised his glass, smiled benignly, and said: ‘Gentlemen - to the Firefox … and. of course, to Gant.’

  ‘Gant - and the Firefox,’ the four men chanted in a rough unison. Aubrey watched, with mild distaste, as Buckholz threw his drink into the back of his throat, swallowed the precious liquid in one. Really, he thought the man has absolutely no taste - none at all.

  As he sipped at his own drink, it seemed more than ever merely a matter of time. He glanced at the telephone. In a few minutes, no more, it would be time to order the car to transport them to RAF Scampton - if Gant were not to arrive before themselves, which would not do at all.

  He smiled at the thought.

  Peck was standing in front of Gant and Seerbacker, looming over them both. Sweat rimed the fur of his hood in crystals of ice, and ice stood out stiffly on his moustache. His face was pale, drained by effort.

  ‘Well?’ Seerbacker said, his hand still on the sail-ladder of the Pequod.

  ‘It’s done, sir,’ Peck said. Then he looked at Gant, and his voice hardened. ‘We’ve cleared your damn runway, Mr. Gant!’

  ‘Peck!’ Seerbacker warned.

  For a moment, Gant thought the huge Chief Engineer was intending to strike him, and he flinched physically. Then he said: ‘I’m sorry. Peck.’

  Peck seemed nonplussed by his reply. He scrutinised Gant’s face, as if suspecting some trick, nodded as he appeared satisfied, and then seemed to feel that some explanation was required of him. He said: ‘Sorry - Major…’ Gant’s eyes opened in surprise. It was the first time anyone had used his old rank. Peck meant it as a mark of respect. ‘We - it’s just the feeling, sir. Working out there on that damn pressureridge, the men and me - well, we just kept thinking how we could have been getting out of this place, instead of breaking our backs.’ The big man’s voice tailed off, and he looked steadily down at his feet.

  Gant said: ‘It’s O.K., Peck - and thanks. Now, tell me where we are, what stage have you reached.’

  Peck became business-like, immediately formal. ‘We’ve got a thirty-feet gap hacked out of the ridge. Now we run the hoses from the turbine on a direct-feed - we need a lot of pipe. Major - it’ll take time.’

  Gant nodded.

  ‘Get to it. Peck - the sooner you’ve done, the sooner you can get going. When you’ve finished smoothing down the surface of the floe - and make it as smooth as possible, ‘cos I don’t want to hit a bump at a hundred-and-fifty knots -1 want you to spray steam on the ice, down the length of the runway, starting as near the northern edge of the floe as you can, running down to the Firefox - if you have the time.’

  Peck looked puzzled. ‘Why, Major?’

  ‘Clear the surface snow. Peck - that’s what it’ll do. I don’t need to be held back by the surface-resistance…’

  ‘Get to it. Peck,’ Seerbacker said. ‘I’ve just got to check on the decoy procedure, and then I’m coming to take a look at your night-school efforts!’

  Peck grinned, nodded, and moved away down the length of the Pequod, forward to the hatch above the turbines, where two members of the engineering crew were feeding down great serpent-loops of hose into the belly of the submarine.

  ‘You want to see “Harmless”?’ Seerbacker said. ‘Come take a look.’

  ‘Harmless’ was hurried, crude, and brilliant, Gant was forced to admit. The feverish activity of those members of the sub’s crew not working on the pressureridge at first seemed to obey no overall strategy, tend towards no definable object. Then he realised what was happening.

  The submarine was being transformed into the headquarters of an Arctic weather-station. Over the transmitter in his pocket, Seerbacker snapped out orders that the torpedotubes and forward crew-quarters were to be flushed out with sea water, the evidence of the paraffin to be removed. This would be followed by faked evidence of hull damage to explain the presence of residual water in both compartments. On the ice, a hut had been assembled from its components, and crude wooden furniture carried inside. Maps and charts covered the newly erected walls, Gant saw as he peered through one of the windows. Impressive lists of figure-filled notepads and sheets attached to clipboards. Two masts had been erected, one twenty feet high, the other reaching to thirty feet. The taller of the pair was a radio mast, while an anemometer revolved on the top of the other one, and below this a vane swung, indicating direction of the measured wind.

  A white chest, a Stephenson Screen, containing thermometers and hygrometers, stood beneath the smaller mast, and the disguising of the floe as a weather-station was completed by holes drilled into the ice, in some cases through to the sea beneath, into which thermometers had been lowered.

  As Gant watched Peck and his men unroll the lengths of hose, slip the sections together, he saw a bright orange weather-balloon float up into the sky. Still clinging to the surface of the floe were shredding, rolling embers of mist, but above it, the cloud base began at thirteen thousand feet. A second balloon hovered a hundred feet above the Pequod, attached by a nylon line. The balloons would explain the earlier release of a signal balloon when he landed.

  It took a little more than fifteen minutes to transform the surface of the floe into the appearance of a U.S. weather-station studying the movements and characteristics of a large icefloe in its southward path to immolation. The fact that the Pequod was operating in the northern Barents Sea, rather than east of Greenland, was the only weakness as far as Gant could see.

  As Seerbacker said, as he joined Gant near the bridge-ladder of the submarine: ‘They can’t prove a thing, Gant - as long as you’re long gone from here before that Russian boat climbs all over us!’

  Gant glanced reflectively down at the ice, and then said: ‘What about the exhaust - they’ll be keeping infrared watch on this floe. They must have tumbled something?’

  ‘Roll, Gant - I don’t give a cuss for your heat-trail, Just get that bird out of here, and leave me to do the worrying, will you?’

  Gant smiled at the mock ferocity of Seerbacker’s answer. The man was frightened, knew he was treading a fine edge of ground steel. He nodded. ‘Sure. I’ll get out of here, just as soon as I can.’

  ‘Good.’ Seerbacker plucked the radio-transmitter from the pocket of his parka, pressed it to his cheek, and flicked the switch. ‘This is the Captain - you there, Fleischer?’

  ‘Sir.’ From the radio, Fleischer’s voice had a quality of unreality, one that impressed upon Gant the whole situation - the tiny floe, the bitter wastes of the Barents Sea, the approach of the Russian hunterkiller submarine.

  ‘What’s the news on our friend?’

  There was a pause, then the Exec. said: ‘We’re getting a computer-prediction now, sir. Subject to a seven-per-cent error in the sonarcontact…’

  ‘Yeah. Tell me the bad news.’

  ‘The ETA for the sub is seventeen minutes.’

  ‘Jesus!’

  ‘Course and speed appear to be exactly the same, sir. She’s coming straight for us.’

  Seerbacker wore a strained look on his face for moment, then he grinned at Gant. ‘You hear that?’ Gant nodded. ‘O.K. Fleischer - I’m leaving this set receive from now on -1 want you to call it to me every minute, understand?’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘When the sub comes up on close-range sonar, call me the exact speed and distance every thirty seconds.’

  ‘Sir ‘

  Seerbacker clipped the handset to the breast pocket of his parka, tugged at it to ensure that it wouldn’t come adrift, nodded to Gant, and headed away from the submarine in the direction indicated by the two hoses which trailed like endless black snakes away into the mist. Following him, the ridge still out of sight, the violent hiss of steam hardly audible, Gant was once more possessed by a sense of the precariousness of his position.
The hunched, loping figure of Seerbacker seemed slight, almost unsubstantial, certainly not a presence capable of supporting the weight of his escape. The firm ice beneath his feet, the glimpse of the Firefox in the mist as he turned his head to glance at it - they did not reassure him. The Russian submarine was homing on the floe and the Pequod. They had sixteen minutes, give or take a little.

  Two men manned each nozzle, directing a jet of superheated steam onto the ugly, unfinished plasterwork of the hole in the ridge. It was supposed to be thirty feet across. Gant’s brain measured it - to his imagination it looked small, too small. The steam played over the rough surface of the floe, over the hacked, torn edges of the gap - smoothing it out. It took them only a couple of minutes to give the gap smooth edges, a smooth, gleaming floor.

  Peck had turned once, acknowledged the presence of Gant and the captain, and then ignored them. As soon as the sap was smoothed to his satisfaction, he bawled at his team: ‘All right, you guys - get this runway smoothed off!’

  ‘What for, chief?’

  ‘Because I’m telling you to do it - you’ll enjoy it, Clemens!’

  The hoses snaked away into the mist, unwillingly following the men dragging at them. They snaked past Gant’s feet, slowly, far too slowly. He looked at his watch, just as Fleischer’s voice squawked from near Seerbacker’s shoulder.

  ‘The sub’s transferred to close-range screen, sir.’

  Seerbacker leant his head like a bird attending to ruffled feathers, and said: ‘Tell me the worst.’

  ‘Computer-identification: Russian, type hunterkiller submarine, range four-point-six miles, ETA nine minutes…’

  ‘What?’ Seerbacker bawled.

  ‘Sorry, sir - the sonar-error must have been larger than we thought…’

  ‘Now you tell me!’ Seerbacker was silent for an instant, then he said: ‘Get off the air - Peck!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You heard that. Chief?’

  ‘Yes, sir - we’ll never get this runway cleared, not thirty-yard width all the way down the floe.’

  Seerbacker looked at Gant. ‘What the hell do you want?’ he said.

  ‘I - a hundred yards this side of the floe,’ Gant replied, pointing beyond the gap in the ridge, to the north. ‘Just give me that, and a clear runway this side of the gap.’ He waved his hand towards the Firefox.

  Seerbacker repeated his instructions. Peck sounded dubious that he could complete the work, but affirmed that he would try. Gant stared into the mist, saw the huddled, squat shapes of men moving closer, straining as they dragged the unwilling hoses back on their tracks. He heard the recommencement of the spraying, smoothing out his runway, blasting the loose, powdery surface snow clear. If he was to reach the take-off speed he required, it had to be done. And he had to wait until it was done.

  Seerbacker was speaking again. ‘Give me a status report on “Harmless” - and this is the last time anyone refers to anything except the weather - understand?’ He listened intently, almost leaning forward on the balls of his feet. When the voice at the other end had finished, he nodded in apparent satisfaction. Then he looked at Gant. ‘It’s O.K. - we’re covered, as long as we get you airborne.’

  ‘ETA seven minutes.’ Fleischer’s voice was infected by something that sounded dangerously like panic. ‘When he contacts you - give him the low-down, like on the script - O.K., Dick?’ Seerbacker’s voice was soothing.

  ‘Sir.’

  Gant watched the steam skid across the snow. Blasts of powder lifted into the misty air. The hoses snaked nearer, the men straining at them, joined now by other, anonymous figures who passed Gant, summoned by Peck’s call over the handset. Around the men, the selfinflicted blizzard raged, until Gant himself was enveloped in the blinding white smoke.

  ‘ETA six minutes … still no radio contact, sir.’

  Gant heard Fleischer’s voice coming squeakly from the settling storm, saw the thin figure of Seerbacker outlined once more as the hoses passed away down the floe towards the plane. He wiped the snow from his stubbled face with the back of a mitten.

  Seerbacker remained silent for a long time, his back to Gant as he watched Peck’s party clearing the runway. To him, they appeared to be moving slowly, far too slowly. Unable to bear the tension or the silence any longer, he turned to Gant, and said:

  ‘Are they going to make it?’

  Gant nodded. ‘A minute to spare,’ he said.

  ‘Can you get out of here in that time?’

  ‘So far away, you wouldn’t believe!’ Gant said, with a grim smile.

  ‘You better be right, mister - you just better be!’

  ‘The contact is, confirmed. First Secretary!’ Vladimirov said, his hand slamming down on the map-table, so that the lights joggled and blurred for a moment. The man in front of him seemed unmoved, perhaps still even contemptuous of the military man’s urgency Vladimirov knew that he was risking everything now, that there was no time for the niceties of career, and politics. He had known that it was an American submarine, and he had known its purpose. The silence had told on him. He was white and strained, and there was sweat on his forehead. He sensed that, alone in the room, only the old man, Kutuzov, supported him. Even he was silent.

  ‘Vladimirov, calm yourself!’ the First Secretary growled.

  ‘Calm - calm myself?’ Vladimirov’s voice was highpitched, out of control. He had committed himself now, he knew. Yet he could not stand by, even though he had schooled himself to do so, tried to quell the pendular motion of self-interest and duty that had plagued him throughout the morning. He had been unable to eat lunch, there had been such tightness in his stomach, such a knot of fear. Perhaps, he sensed, it was that he was afraid, the appalling knowledge that | he was a coward, that had driven him to do his duty.

  ‘Yes - calm yourself!’

  ‘How can I be calm - when your stupidity - stupidity, is losing that aircraft to the Americans? You have read the file - you know what this man Gant is. He could land that aircraft on an icefloe, and take off again. Listen to me - before it’s too late!’

  Like a frozen hare, Vladimirov watched the emotions chase each other across the face of the First Secretary. The initial hot rage at the insult was controlled in an instant, becoming once more the cold contempt of habit; a sense of sadistic pleasure seemed present to Vladimirov - lastly, he saw the emotion for which he searched - doubt.

  Vladimirov pressed on, knowing that, even as he ruined himself, that the First Secretary was afraid to ignore him any longer. The Soviet leader was unable to hold Vladimirov’s gaze, and turned to look over his shoulder at Andropov. The Chairman’s face was inscrutable.

  ‘You must act. First Secretary - it is too late for politics.’

  The big man seemed as if poised to spring at the O.C. ‘Wolfpack’, then he summoned a smile to his face, lightness to his voice: ‘Very well, Vladimirov. very well, if it means that much to you… ‘ The voice hardened. ‘If you are so ready to - spoil things by your behaviour - I can do no more than humour you.’ He waved his hand in a generous gesture. ‘What is it you require?’

  ‘The immediate recall of the second Mig from the North Cape rendezvous.’

  Vladimirov felt his voice tighten in his throat. His energy drained away. Now there was nothing left but fear, the sense of lost honours, of power thrown away. His victory was a bitter, icy moment in time. The First Secretary nodded, once. It did not matter about the remainder of the massive forces misdirected to the Cape. Not now. Only the second Mig-31 and Tretsov could affect the outcome this late. And, as if in recompense for his career sacrifice, he wanted Gant dead now, wanted Tretsov to finish him.

  As he crossed to the console to issue orders to Tretsov, he glanced in the direction of Kutuzov. He thought for a moment, that he saw a kindly, even admiring, wisdom in the rheumy eyes, coupled with a profound compassion. Then he received the impression that the old man was detached, unaware of what was going on. He felt very alone, unable to decide which impression was the trut
h.

  He snapped out his orders - possibly the last orders he would issue as O.C. ‘Wolfpack’, he reflected grimly - in a calm, level voice, aware of the eyes behind him, watching him. The room was still with tension.

  As Tretsov acknowledged, and the second Mig altered course for the icefloe using its top speed of over four thousand miles an hour, Vladimirov grasped at this last chance that Tretsov would kill Gant.

  ‘They’re calling, sir - want identification immediately sir.’ Fleischer’s voice creaked out of the handset still clipped to Seerbacker’s top pocket.

  ‘The hell they do. You know the routine, it’s written down. Do it.’

  The Russian wants to speak to you sir.’

  ‘Tell him I’ll be along - I’m engaged in goddam experiments at the other end of the floe! Tell him I’ll be along.’

  ‘Sir. ETA three minutes and fourteen seconds.’ The conversation had gone on somewhere outside Gant, at a great distance. He and Seerbacker, waiting now by the aircraft, watching the snail-like approach of the men and the hoses, were miles apart in reality. Gant knew, almost to the second, how much time was left, and how much time they needed. They had precisely one minute to spare.

  Seerbacker was visibly on edge. The voice of Fleischer acted on his lanky form like a twitch of the puppeteer’s strings, pulling him taut. He could not, as the Russian closed on the Pequod, any longer believe that the crude hut, the bogus charts, and the thermometers and the masts, would save him. Gant, however, was like a passenger whose train has arrived, calmly collecting the luggage of his thoughts prior to departure. He was no longer what Seerbacker had privately thought him, a man without a past on his way to no discernible future. He was in transit, and the figures on the landscape of mist and ice had little or nothing to do with him.