Firefox Down mg-2

by Craig Thomas

  THREE:

  In Flight

  'There!' Aubrey announced immediately he located the coded map reference Eastoe had supplied, his finger tapping at the large-scale map of Finland, which lapped down over the edges of the foldaway table. 'There — in a lake, gentlemen. In a lake.' There was a note of triumph in his voice.

  'The lake would have been frozen — that's why he might have thought he could land safely,' Buckholz speculated quietly, tugging at his lower lip and glancing towards Curtin for confirmation. The USN Officer nodded.

  'He must have gone straight through — or otherwise the Russians would have spotted the Firefox,' Curtin murmured, his brow furrowed. It was evident he was considering Gant's chances of survival.

  'Agreed. But it's there.'

  'The homing device is there,' Giles Pyott offered. He was still wearing his uniform greatcoat, his brown gloves were held in his right hand. They tapped at the map in a soft rhythm. 'But what else, mm? My guess would be wreckage. Gant must have ejected.'

  'Then why is there no trace of Gant's PSB?' Curtin asked gloomily. 'Where is he Colonel Pyott, if he's alive?'

  'Mm. Tricky.'

  'Maybe he switched it off-or destroyed it,' Buckholz suggested. 'He wouldn't want to get himself picked up by the other side… they're a lot closer than we are, and there are a hell of a lot more of them.' Despite the offer of such qualified optimism, Buckholz shook his head. 'But, maybe he isn't alive. We have to face that possibility.'

  'But the Firefox — !' Aubrey protested impatiently.

  'It could be in two pieces, two hundred, or two million,' Curtin answered him. Aubrey's face wrinkled in irritation. 'This location is twenty miles from the point where the Foxbat impacted,' Curtin continued. 'That was up here…' He, in turn, tapped the map. It was as if the contoured sheet had become a talisman for them as they gathered around it. Pyott's military cap rested over northern Norway, his gloves now beside it, fingers reaching into the Barents Sea.

  'So, it was damaged,' Buckholz said. 'Maybe on fire — twenty miles is nothing. There's no hope down that road, my friends.'

  'We really must know.' Aubrey snapped in utter exasperation. 'We must have a look' As he uttered the words, he was staring up into Pyott's face, like a child expecting assured parental activity.

  Giles Pyott smiled thinly. 'Kenneth, my dear chap — let's take this one step at a time. In the ten minutes since I got here from MoD, I've taken over his flying station from poor Bradnum, all in the name of this project of yours…what else would you have me do?'

  'Eastoe must overfly — '

  'The lake? What about diplomatic noises from the Finns?' Giles Pyott drew a folding chair to him, flicked it open with a movement of his wrist, and sat down. He placed his hands on his thighs, and waited. Three more chairs were lifted from a dozen or more stacked against one wall of the Scampton Ops. Room, and arranged in a semi-circle in front of Pyott. Aubrey seemed content, for the moment, to become the soldier's subordinate. Buckholz was surprised, until he realised that Aubrey was simply playing a waiting game. He expected good things from Pyott, if the colonel from MoD's StratAn Intelligence Committee was given the impression of command, of superior authority.

  As if he read the American's thoughts, Pyott smiled and said, 'You're flattering me with your undivided attention, Kenneth… nevertheless, there are things to be done.' Pyott's eyes roamed the Ops. Room. His curled forefinger now rubbed at his small auburn-grey moustache. Scampton was, to all intents and purposes, at their disposal. But, what to do with its resources? Where to begin? 'I agree that Eastoe might make a single overflight. I wonder, however, whether photographs will give us enough information? It's getting pretty dark up there by now.' Aubrey's face, Pyott noticed, wore an intense, abstracted air, like that of a child furiously engaged in building a sandcastle in utter ignorance of the behaviour of tides. Aubrey was preparing himself to bully, to plead — to ignore the diplomatic in favour of the covert. And yet, his priorities might be the only really important ones in this case…

  'We need someone to take a really close look,' Aubrey remarked quietly.

  'Mm. Director Buckholz — Charles — what is your honest feeling? What do we have up there, at this moment?'

  'I side with your Squadron Leader Eastoe, Colonel. Gant was picked up visually, pursued, and shot down. We've got wreckage up there, is my best guess.' Pyott turned to Curtin who merely nodded in support.

  'I'm not disinclined to agree with you…' Aubrey made an impatient noise, but remained silent. Pyott continued: 'You all know the delicate political situation. Finland agreed — largely because of personal links between Kenneth and the DG of Finnish Intelligence — to this covert overflight by the MiG-31, if its capture was successful. Perhaps they know, or suspect, what has happened. I would expect them to take a very negative line… unless you, Charles, can convince your government, as I must convince mine, that pressure should be brought to bear?' Pyott shrugged. 'I am suggesting that we hold our fire until we are ordered to proceed by our respective governments. In other words, you and I, Charles, must be very convincing. Now, are we prepared to say, hands on hearts, that the Firefox might still be intact and the pilot alive?' He paused, looked at each of them intently. Almost willing them to answer, Aubrey felt. Then he added: 'Well? Time to consider, gentlemen?'

  'Not for me,' Aubrey declared firmly. 'It may very well be true. I, for one, must know for certain.' Aubrey glared at Charles Buckholz. 'Charles?'

  'I don't know — look, you could be right. I hope to God you are. But — it just doesn't look that way to us.'

  'Will you say that it does — just for the moment?'

  'I don't know

  'We can't just write the whole thing off, Charles — !' Aubrey cried, standing up. His chair collapsed behind him, making a disproportionate noise in the Ops. Room. 'There has been too much expenditure of planning, time, and lives involved. You must want to be certain, surely? The Russians will want to be, and we may already be behind them in a race we didn't even know we'd entered!'

  Buckholz's face was puzzled atid a little fearful as he looked up at Aubrey, bent intently over him like a bully. 'I — ' he began, but Aubrey seized upon his hesitation.

  'Once they've seen the pictures they took of the crash site, they'll find the Firefox's remains are missing. We know the plane isn't there. Once they know — and they may know it already — they'll be looking for it. And, if it is intact…' He left the threat unelaborated.

  Pyott stroked his moustache. 'I think Kenneth has a point, Charles,' he murmured.

  'Maybe,' Buckholz replied reluctantly.

  Curtin was nodding. 'I think we have to, Mr. Buckholz — we have to follow this thing through.'

  Buckholz shrugged heavily. 'Very well. For the moment, I'll lie my head off to Washington. And you'll do the same for London, uh?'

  Pyott nodded. 'We will.'

  'We must get our political masters to order us to go ahead,' Aubrey instructed in a dark, Machiavellian voice, his face at first sombre but breaking into a mischievous smile as he finished speaking.

  'OK.'

  'Let's not waste time. There are secure telephones in the Briefing Room. You can call Grosvenor Square at once, Charles. We'll wait until you've finished your call before we make ours.'

  Buckholz felt himself dismissed, but not slighted. He motioned to Curtin. 'Come on. Gene — let's agree our story before anyone makes a call.'

  The two Americans disappeared into the Briefing Room, the door of which led off the main Ops. Room. Giles Pyott and Aubrey watched it close behind them.

  'Can we do it?' Aubrey asked quickly.

  Instead of answering, Pyott stood up and moved to the huge plot-table in the centre of the underground room. He brooded over the models and tapes and markings on its surface. 'Damn bad show,' he murmured, turning to Aubrey, who now stood alongside him. The crash site was represented on the plot-table by a model of a MiG-25 and the black, futuristic model of the MiG-31. In deadly, fatal co
njunction. Deliberately, Aubrey picked up one of the cuelike rods the plotters used to alter the position of symbols on the table. Awkwardly, he reached out with it and shunted the model of the Firefox southwards, letting it come to rest on the blue spot of a lake. For a moment. Aubrey's movements reminded Pyott of a short, bald croupier.

  'There!' he said with intense triumph.

  'You're convinced it's in one piece?'

  'I'm not convinced it's in a million pieces, Giles — besides, we could still learn a great deal from whatever is left of it — from Gant, were he alive. To know, we must have someone under the ice, so to speak.'

  Pyott rubbed his moustache with a quicker, stronger rhythm. When he faced Aubrey again, he said, 'I know what you want of me, Kenneth. There are some people who would suit, up in the Varahgerfjord at the moment. Some of our Special Boat Service marines… practising landing on an enemy coast from a hunter-killer submarine, that sort of training. Routine stuff. Under the supervision of an old friend of yours — Major Alan Waterford of 22 SAS. Perhaps that seems like the workings of an auspicious fate to you, mm?'

  'Can we-?'

  Pyott shook his head. 'Not until we have clearance — a direct order to do something. Washington and Number Ten must give that order. You know that, Kenneth.'

  'Unfortunately, yes.'

  'The Finns gave us permission for the covert overflight of their country, and certain reluctant back-up facilities. They are unlikely, without pressure from our masters, to involve themselves any further in this affair. I must argue, from StratAn's point of view, you from that of SIS. JIC and the Chiefs of Staff will, in all likelihood, have to persuade Number Ten to continue with the affair. It really depends on Washington's attitude.'

  Pyott's attention moved from Aubrey to an approaching RAF officer. He had come quickly down the metal steps from the glass-fronted gallery which contained the communications equipment. All that could be seen from the floor of the Ops. Room was a row of bent heads. The Pilot Officer hurried towards them.

  'Mr. Aubrey — Colonel Pyott, I think you'd better come quickly. Squadron Leader Eastoe wants to speak to Mr. Aibrey urgently.'

  'What is it?'

  'I don't know, sir — the Squadron Leader just said it was very urgent and to get you to the mike at once.'

  Pyott strode after the RAF officer as soon as the young man turned away. Aubrey scuttled after them both, his eye glancing across a litter of paper cups, bent backs in blue uniform shirts, scribbled blackboards and weather charts, before he concentrated his gaze on the metal steps as he clattered up them behind Pyott. Eastoe was waiting for him behind the glass, pausing on tape for a scrambled spit of sound that would be Aubrey's speeded-up reply.

  Aubrey thrust past Pyott and said to the Operator, 'Play it for me.'

  'Mr. Aubrey had better be told at once,' Eastoe began, 'even through the ground-clutter and the intermittent snow we're picking up signs of helicopter activity, moving west and southwest. Our best guess is three of them, and that they're troop-carriers. They're not interested in our lake, as far as we can tell — their course would take them north-west of it. Our ETA for the lake is four minutes two. If you want us to go, that is. Over.'

  The tape stopped. Aubrey rubbed his cheeks furiously. It couldn't be — they couldn't have picked up the carrier wave from the homing device, only Eastoe could do that aboard the Nimrod. What, then?

  'Eastoe, keep track of them if you can. Do whatever you have to…' He merely glanced up at Pyott, whose face was impassive. Aubrey hesitated for a moment, then said firmly, "I'm ordering you to overfly the lake — deceive them as to your object — and obtain the best photographic record you can under the circumstances. And, when you've done that, I want you to take a look at those helicopters. I want to know what they're doing- dammit!' The tape continued to run. Aubrey finally added: 'Good luck. Over and out.' Only then he did return his gaze to Pyott, whose face was gloomy. His eyes were glazed and inward-looking. Evidently, he was weighing the consequences of Aubrey's precipitation. 'I had to,' Aubrey explained. 'Things are beginning to outrun us. I had to have better information, whatever the fuss.'

  'I agree,' Pyott said. 'Even though I don't much like it. Well, we'd better talk to JIC and the Chiefs of Staff — I may have to get down there myself…' He crossed to the door of the communications gallery, then turned to Aubrey. 'I do hope our American friends are obtaining the most hopeful noises from their President, Kenneth — for all our sakes.'

  * * *

  The icicles were like transparent, colourless gloves worn over the dead twigs of the bush behind which Gant crouched. Below him, the noise and movement belonged to a wild hunt: an image of his own pursuit, probably no more than a mile behind him now.

  He had heard the noise of dogs. The helicopters — three he was almost certain — had cast about for signs of him, often appearing as they drove westwards above him or close to one of his hiding places. It was as if they knew his position, and were herding him ahead of or between them. He knew one of the helicopters was west or north-west of him now, its troops probably working back towards him…

  Towards this village, too, this collection of wooden huts below him, beyond which a group of Lapps were penning reindeer. One short, brightly-clothed man was dragged on his stomach behind a galloping bull reindeer, his hands still gripping the lasso. He disappeared within a flurry of hooves and upflung snow, then rolled clear. The images seemed almost to come from within him, as they stirred memory. A rodeo, but now performed by people as alien to him as the Vietnamese. Short, olive-skinned, some dressed traditionally even to the long-bobbled woollen caps and heel-less shoes, others affecting blue denims and sheepskin jackets.

  Alien. People he did not know, whose language he did not speak, therefore could not trust. Reindeer barked and hooted. Men whisked among them like matadors. Great snouted heads tossed. The sight of the round-up chilled him. He had followed the noises, stumbling upon the village, and had become rapt by a sense of the familiar. Then this parody of something American so far north of the Arctic Circle had quickly alienated him.

  Torches flickered, lamps gleamed. The lights of a truck and the headlight of a motorized sledge were focused on the corral. Shadows galloped and tossed in the beams. They would be finishing soon, when darkness came. Gant could smell cooking. The Russians, too, would be here soon. It was time for him to move.

  He climbed into a stooping crouch. The flying suit creaked with ice. His body was stiff and slow. He needed something warm to wear; a jacket or cloak or tunic, it did not matter. He would steal whatever he found.

  In his right hand he held the folding .22 rifle, loaded with the single bullet it would hold. He had buried his parachute, but still wore his life jacket because he needed its harness to hold his survival pack. The Makarov pistol was easy to hand. He moved cautiously down the slope towards the nearest wooden huts. Behind the buildings, the noises of the round-up quietened, becoming no more than a confused babble and a drumming through the frozen earth. He hurried to the wall of the hut, pressing himself against it, reclaiming his breath before moving slowly along the wall to the steamy window from which a flickering lamplight spilled onto the snow. The black holes of his descending footprints were visible in the light. He listened. He could hear nothing except the sounds of the round-up. The Russians could be no more than half a mile behind him now. He shivered with a new awareness of the cold. He had to be warm. He would not be able to spend the night moving unless he was dressed more warmly.

  He stood on tiptoe, looking into the long, low room. A huge black stove in the centre, bright rugs scattered, armchairs, a plain wooden table, places laid upon it. Time -

  He listened for the noise of helicopters, but heard nothing. He tested the window. Locked. He moved around the angle of the wall towards what he assumed was the rear of the hut. One window locked, another, another…

  He eased it open. The smell of cooking was strong. There was no one in the small kitchen. On an old cooker, a huge pot was s
immering. The smell was coming from it. Meat. Hot meat in some kind of stew. He dragged his leg tiredly over the sill, sat astride for a moment — where was the cook? — then dropped into the room, dragging the rifle from his shoulder, aiming it towards the door into the main room. He could hear someone now, moving about, the noises of cutlery quite distinct and recognisable. He sidled across the kitchen towards the stove, moving with exaggerated stealth. There was a ladle in the pot. He reached out with his left hand, eyes still on the doorway, and touched the ladle,then removed it, tasting the stew like a chef. The meat's flavour was strong — reindeer, he presumed — but his stomach craved it. He leaned heavily, his head against a clouded mirror, all the time watching the doorway, the ladle moving as silent as he could manage from the pot to his mouth — pot to mouth, pot to mouth…

  He swallowed greedily again and again, his stomach churning with the sudden, gulped feast. The warmth of it burned through him. He shivered. A pool of melted snow from his boots spread around him.

  Then she returned to the kitchen. Small, olive-skinned, a pear-shaped face with a black, surprised little round hole opening in the middle of it as she saw him and understood the rifle. Dark hair, plump figure. Check shirt and denims; again, the familiar-the log-cabin imagery — surprised him for a moment. Then he motioned her into the kitchen with the barrel of the rifle. She came slowly, silently.

  'I — mean you no harm,' Gant said slowly. 'No — harm. Do you understand?'

  'Yes,' she replied, staring at the rifle. Its barrel dropped as an expression of Gant's surprise.

  'You speak English?'

  'A little. I — was taught. Who are you?' She studied his flying suit, her face screwed into lines and folds as if she were trying to remember a similar costume.

  'My airplane — it crashed.'

  'Oh.' Her face showed she had identified his clothing.

  'I–I'm sorry about the food…' He gestured towards the stove. His stomach rumbled. The woman almost smiled. 'I–I'll leave you.'