Firefox Down mg-2

by Craig Thomas

  Somewhere along the valley floor, just — there…

  A finger was tracing contours; the twisting course of the valley. A helicopter would bank, turn-

  He ran. Ice glittered on a bush, and he brushed savagely against the obstacle. The rifle pumped against his thigh, against the heavy waterproof trousers. His chest hurt with the temperature of the.air he was inhaling. The survival pack bumped and strained and dragged at his back. He glanced behind once more -

  Lights.

  Noise — ahead-

  Men had been dropped out of earshot, ahead of him, and were working their way back down the valley from the northwest towards him. Pincer.

  He stopped running, bent double. He listened. A thin breeze had carried the noises. Shuffling, the clinking of metal, the slither of cross-country skis. The barking of a single dog. Behind him, more dogs, more men, and wobbling flashlight beams. No rotor noise. Nothing. Surprise.

  The two groups of Russians were no more than a few hundred yards apart. He began to struggle up the slope, out of the valley. Icy rock betrayed him, a hollow trapped his leg with soft, deep snow. His chest heaved, his back bent under the weight of the survival pack so that his face was inches from the glittering snow. He climbed, feet sinking, body elongating so that he threatened to become stretched out, flat on his stomach. His legs refused to push him faster or further. He used his hands, the .22 clogging with snow as he used it as a stick.

  Crest. Dark sky above white snow like a close horizon.

  He staggered, pushed up from all-fours to try to stand upright. He gasped for breath, saw the legs, saw the Arctic camouflage, shook his head in weary disbelief, saw the next man perhaps fifty yards away, already turning in his direction, saw, saw -

  He cried out in a wild yell of protest and used the rifle like a club, striking at the white form on the crest of the slope. The Russian fell away with a grunt, rolling down the steeper slope on the other side. Gant staggered after the rolling body, as if to strike again, then leapt tiredly over it and charged on down the steep slope.

  Trees. A patch of black forest, then the flatness of what might be a frozen lake beyond. The ground levelling out. The trees offering cover, the barrel of his rifle clogged with snow -

  He careered on, just keeping his balance. Whistles and the noise of dogs behind him, but no shooting. He ran on, floundering with huge strides towards the trees.

  FOUR:

  Recovery

  The Westland Lynx Mk 86 helicopter, its Royal Norwegian Air Force markings concealed, dropped towards the arrowlike shape of the lake. Alan Waterford, sitting in the co-pilot's seat, watched intently as the ghostly ice moved up towards him, and the surface snow became distressed from the downdraught of the rotors. He ignored the noises from the main fuselage as the four-man Royal Marine SBS team prepared to leave the helicopter. Instead, he watched the ice.

  'Hold it there,' he ordered the pilot The downdraught was winnowing the surface snow, but there was no billowing effect. Waterford did not want the surface obscured, the snow boiling around the cockpit like steam, as it would if they dropped any lower. Even so, a few crystals were melting on the perspex. Beyond the smear they made, the ice looked unbroken and innocent as it narrowed towards the neck of the lake where Eastoe's infra-red pictures had revealed a patch of dark, exposed water.

  The Lynx steadied at its altitude and began to drift slowly over the ice, the faintest of shadows towed behind it like a cloth. Waterford craned ahead and to one side, searching the surface. As with the photographs, he could see no evidence that an airframe had broken up over the lake. There appeared to be only the one patch of clear water and jostling, broken ice right at the end of the lake.

  No undercarriage tracks, but he could not count on them. There could have been a light snow shower, or the wind could have covered them as effectively as fresh snow. Had he landed the plane, or ejected before it ever reached the lake? And if he'd landed, how efficient in saving the airframe and the electronics and the rest of the MiG-31's secrets had the American been in his terror of drowning? Or had he left the cockpit before the plane began to break through the ice?

  Behind him, the SBS men, all trained divers, were preparing to discover the answers to his questions. It was too late and too dark to assess fire-damage to the trees on the shore. Gant had to be alive — the Russian activity confirmed that — but had he ejected or landed?

  The Lynx moved towards the trees. The patch of dull black water was visible now; ominous. Waterford removed his headset and stood in a crouch. His bulk seemed to fill the cockpit like a malevolent shadow. The pilot, a Norwegian lieutenant, glanced up at him.

  'I can't put down this side of the trees — I'm not risking the ice. Tell them they'll have to walk.' He grinned.

  'They're used to it,' Waterford grunted and clambered back into the main cabin of the helicopter. Four men in Arctic camouflage looked up at him. Beneath the white, loose tunics and trousers, they were wearing their wetsuits. Oxygen tanks, cutting equipment, lamps, rifles lay near the closed main door. 'You're going to have to walk it,' Waterford announced to a concerted groan. 'You know what they want, Brooke — evidence that the airframe is intact — don't give it to the buggers unless it's absolutely true. Any damage — any at all — has to be spotted. And don't forget the pictures for Auntie Aubrey's album, to go alongside the pressed flowers…' He grinned, but it seemed a mirthless exercise of his lips. 'Keep your heads down — you are not, repeat not, to be detected under any circumstances. And,' he looked at his watch, 'Gunnar tells me we have no more than an hour to look for our American friend — even if we don't run into trouble — so that's all the time you've got. And, sergeant?'

  'Sir?'

  'Make sure you conceal that commpack properly — we won't be the last of our side in and out of here, I'm sure of that, and they'll all want to talk to London as quickly as possible.' Waterford indicated one of the packs near the sergeant's feet. 'This'll give them satellite direct-don't leave it where a reindeer can piss on it and fuse the bloody thing.'

  'Certainly not, sir,' the sergeant replied. 'Commpack not to be left where reindeer may piss on it — sir. One question, sir?'

  'Yes, sergeant?'

  'Does the Major know the exact-height to which a reindeer can piss, sir?'

  The Lynx drifted slowly downwards. Waterford, smiling at the tension-releasing laughter in the cabin, glanced at the window in the main door. Snow surrounded them like steam. They were almost down. As he observed the fact, the Lynx touched, bounced as if rubber, settled. Immediately, the rotors began to wind down, their noise more throaty, ugly. The sergeant slid back the main cabin door.

  'Out you get-quick as you can,' the lieutenant ordered, nodding at Waterford. Packs and equipment were flung out of the door. Through his camouflage parka, the night temperature chilled Waterford. He felt the tip of his nose harden with the cold. When they had dropped to the ground, he moved to the cabin door.

  'Good luck. One hour — and I'm counting.' He waved, almost dismissively, and slammed the sliding door closed, locking it. Then he climbed back into the cockpit and regained his seat, rubbing his hands. He slipped on the inertia-reel belt, then his headset. 'OK, Gunnar-let's see if we can find this lost American chap, shall we?'

  The Lynx jumped into the air almost at once, the rotors whining up, the blades becoming a dish that caught the moonlight. The four SBS men were already trudging briskly into the trees, laden with their equipment. The helicopter banked out over the lake, and headed north-west. The ice diminished behind them.

  * * *

  There was no nightsight on the folding .22 rifle. There were six rounds, each to be fed separately into the breech. It was a weapon of survival — for Arctic hares for the solid tablet stove or any fire he might have been able to light — but not for defence. Never for offence. Gant had no idea how much stopping-power the slim, toylike rifle possessed, and he hesitated to find out. The nearest of the Russians, white-tunicked, white-legginged, Kalashnikov AKM ca
rried across his chest, was moving with great caution from fir-bole to low bush to fir-bole. The dogs had been kept back, still leashed; perhaps moving with the remainder of the unit to encircle the clump of trees in which they knew he was hiding.

  Time had run out. His only advantage was that they wanted him alive. They would have definite, incontrovertible orders not to kill him. Maim him they might, but he would be alive when they reached Murmansk or Moscow or wherever.

  The frozen lake was behind him, as clean and smooth as white paper, almost phosphorescent in the moonlight. His breath smoked around him like a scarf; he wondered that the approaching Russian had not yet caught sight of it, not heard the noise of his breathing. Forty yards, he guessed. A glimpse of another white shape, flattening itself behind a fir, farther off. The noise of the dogs.

  And, omnipresent and above the trees, the rotors of two of the helicopters. He had glimpsed one of them, its outline clear for a moment before he had been blinded by the searching belly-light. Slim, long-tailed MiL-4s. Frost glittered on the dark trunk of the fir at the fuzzy edge of his vision. He had now recovered his night vision after the searchlight, except for a small, bright spot at the centre of the Russian's chest as he sighted along the seemingly inadequate barrel of the rifle. The man bulked large around the retinal image of the searchlight. Gant could not miss at that range.

  Still he hesitated, sensing the moment at the eye of the storm; sensing that any move he now made would be his last. Capture was inevitable. So why kill — ?

  Then he squeezed the trigger, knowing the true futility of the attack. A sharp little crack like a twig broken, and the white-dressed Russian flung up his arms and fell slowly backwards. Snow drifted down, disturbed by the downdraught, onto Gant's head and shoulders. Beyond the body, which did not move, did not begin to scrabble towards the nearest cover, another white form whisked behind a dark trunk. Gant turned towards the lake, regretting, loathing the gesture of the kill. Through the trees, the shore appeared empty.

  Orders shouted, the crackle of a radio somewhere, the din of the dogs. His head turned back towards the body, then once more to the lake. A light was creeping across the ice. Above it, as if walking hesitantly on the beam, a MiL-4 came into view. The ice glared. He heard the noise of dogs released — released, unleashed, loose…

  He began to run, even though some part of him knew they would be trained not to harm him if he remained still. He could not help himself. He had to run. The dogs were loose.

  Yowling behind him, a shot high over his head. Small, low branches whipping at his face, depositing snow in his eyes and mouth and nostrils. He held on to the rifle with both hands, almost heaving the air aside as he ran out of the trees, across the snow-covered, slippery stones of the shore, out onto the surface snow that made the ice tactile, sure-footed. The MiL-4 turned its baleful black face of a cockpit in his direction, and the beam of the searchlight licked across the ice towards him.

  No more trees, no more cover, his mind kept repeating, attuned to the frantic beating of his ears, but he could not regret the sky. The trees had hemmed him, formed a prison before he was, indeed, captured. The MiL slipped over him like a huge, moving blanket, whirling up the snow around him, cleaning the ice and making it suddenly treacherous. He staggered, then whirled round.

  The leading Alsatian was out of the trees, hardly hesitating as it met the stones on the shore and then the smoother ice. He raised the .22 and fired. The dog skidded, sliding on towards him, mouth gaping. He looked up. A face appeared at the open cabin door of the helicopter. It was grinning, savagely. Gant fumblingly ejected the cartridge, thrust a new round into the breech, raised the gun — two more dogs, now on the ice, but he could no longer care even about dogs — and fired. The head ducked back inside the helicopter, but Gant knew he had not hurt it.

  He ran on, skating, slipping, then hurrying through patches of undisturbed snow. Then, the MiL slid towards him again, pinning him in the searchlight beam. Whistles, men on the shore…

  He reloaded the .22, but the dog was on him, its leap driving him backwards, struggling to keep balance. He was winded, but as he doubled over he struck the dog across the head with the rifle. The Alsatian twisted away, yelping. The other dog watched, suddenly more wary. Gant stood his ground, watching the men approach behind the dogs, caught for their benefit in the glare of the searchlight. The rotors above him hammered, drowning thought.

  He knew he would not move now. It was finished. He was defeated. Or perhaps satisfied at having protested, struggled enough. He had made his gesture. Energy drained away, as if drawn out of him by the light. Both dogs now crouched on the ice, growling, only yards from him. The first troops were forty yards away.

  Then the crackling of a loudspeaker from the MiL above him:

  'Major Gant — please put down your weapons. Major Gant — put down your weapons.'

  The dogs seemed more alert now. The men had hesitated. He held up the rifle slowly, then threw it aside. He drew the Makarov with his left hand, butt first, and dropped it. The white-clad troops hurried towards him. Beyond them, the second and third MiL-4s slid over the trees and out onto the lake. He hunched his shoulders, thrusting his hands into the pockets of the check jacket. He might have been waiting for a bus. One of the two approaching MiLs settled onto the ice and its rotors slowed.

  Ten yards. Seven…

  The dogs were quiet, tongues lolling, suspicious and forgiving.

  Fourth MiL, rotors hammering, its fuselage slim and knifelike as it banked savagely. The searchlight blinked off him, loping away across the ice as the helicopter above moved as if startled. Gant looked up. Nose-on, closing and dropping swiftly. The Russian troops looked up, halted, uncertain. The dogs growled.

  MiL-4…

  Sharp-nosed, not round-nosed as it whipped into full silhouette. Concealed markings, not unmarked like the others. Sharp-nosed, and a white-clad form at the open cabin door, gesturing. The MiL that had hung above him sidled towards the newcomer, much as a dog might have investigated a bitch. The newcomer rose rapidly, hopping over the MiL and closing on his still figure on the ice. The form waved. The helicopter danced closer, then away, enticing him.

  The second and third MiLs wound up their rotors, both having landed. The airborne MiL-4 swung nose-on, closing. The form bellowed something. He did not know in what language, but it did not seem to be Russian.

  Sharp-nosed…

  Lynx -

  The language was English. He moved his feet, lifted his reluctant legs and began to run. The dogs were up, shaking themselves, moving more quickly than himself. The Lynx helicopter danced slowly away, tempting him to reach it, hovering only feet above the ice. The winch had been swung out of the main cabin and its rescue wire trailed like a black snake across the ice.

  He slipped, righted himself, plunged on, arms flailing. One of the dogs snapped at him, leaping at his side. He flung his arm at it, fist clenched. The dog rolled and skidded away. Twenty yards, fifteen -

  He kicked out at the second dog — the first was recovering, moving again — missed, kicked again, almost losing his balance. The dog watched for its opportunity. Ten yards. Only ten -

  Eight, seven, five… the wire was almost underfoot, the Lynx rising a little so that he could grasp it without bending, be heaved upwards immediately…

  The noise of the dogs. Something ripped at his calf, making him stagger. A yard, no more, the face of someone yelling and cursing, firing over his head. The dogs yelping, whining suddenly…

  He touched the wire -

  Then the helicopter was flung away from him. The ice came up, he was winded, the searchlight came back, something pressed down on him, almost smothering him. He smelt onions, felt hot breathing on his cold face. His head cracked against the ice. He groaned. More dogs, renewed barking, as if they expressed his howl of despair.

  He watched the Lynx lift away, the cabin door slam shut, the helicopter hop over the nearer of the two MiLs, skitter like a flung stone towards the trees
…

  The Russian soldier who had knocked him over in a flying tackle got slowly, heavily to his feet. Despite his efforts, he seemed satisfied. Other faces crowded around him, dipped into the glare of the searchlight. The light began to hurt, dazzling him as if it were being filtered through a diamond. He closed his eyes and lay back. His calf hurt where the dog had torn at it.

  He heard the distant noise of the fleeing Lynx and the rotors of a pursuing MiL. Then nothing except the rotors above him, the shudder of the downdraught, the cloud of snow around him, and the sense that he was dreaming…

  Dreaming of the Lynx, dreaming that he was being lifted, carried… dreaming…

  * * *

  Waterford slammed the main cabin door of the Lynx with a curse, heaving at it to expel his rage. He locked it furiously, as if breaking into the environment outside rather than making something secure. Then he staggered as the pilot flung the Lynx into a violent alteration of course. He grabbed a handhold and looked out of the cabin window. The lake streamed beneath them. Craning, he could catch the lights of one of the MiLs, a sullen wash upon the ice. Then they were over the trees, and Waterford clambered back into the cockpit, regained his seat and his headset, and strapped himself in. In the co-pilot's mirror, Waterford could see two of the MiLs dropping slowly behind them. The third would be loading Gant aboard and scrambling for home. The Lynx was approaching its top ground-level speed, perhaps forty miles an hour faster than the Russian helicopters.

  'We're in Norway,' Gunnar announced casually and without any slowing of the Lynx. 'They will not follow, I think.'

  They flashed over car headlights, glaring as they twisted along a north-south road, then the scattered, muffled lights of a small village.

  'More important things to do,' Waterford muttered, his hands clenched on his thighs as if gripping something tightly. He could hear himself grinding his teeth. To have missed him by a yard — a yard 'Oh, fuck it!' he raged.