Firefox Down mg-2

by Craig Thomas

  The three Russian interceptors followed, but they were slowly dropping back. They might have been MiG-25s, or even MiG-27s. They were not the Firefox. They were confused by ground-clutter, they had to trail him at an altitude above the mountains, they had to employ their manual skills. With each change of course, he gained upon them. He glanced at the map strapped to the thigh of his suit. His finger traced his course. Over the mountains east of the Lyngenfjord — flicking through that valley there, wings trembling as the aircraft banked and banked again through the turbulent air, following the valley's turns and twists…

  A hundred miles from Bardufoss

  The Firefox banked steeply, almost turning into a roll, then changed course again to follow a valley before lifting over an unseen ridge and then dropping lower into another fold of the land. Rock faces on either side crowded upon the slim black fuselage. He could not avoid imagining the landscape or tracing his course on the map. He knew it was reaction; reaction to everything — the MiGs that were dropping further and further behind him, the MiL helicopter that had filled the whole of his vision, the steep climb, even the hours before the take-off.

  And it was Bardufoss. If the weather closed in, clamped down with high winds and nil visibility — a blizzard, close to white-out — he would never be able to land.

  The thoughts unrolled like the images flicking upon the TFR screen; the blurs and lumps and flashing glimpses of radar-imaged mountains, rock faces, valleys -

  The TFR screen went black. Grey. Empty. The aircraft was halfway into a steep turn, following -

  No time! Much too late, a row of warning lights had rippled across the autopilot panel. No time -

  The Firefox seemed to hang. Grey screen, grey beyond the perspex of the cockpit. Without instructions from the autopilot, the column did not move, the engine note did not change, the angle of bank remained. The two Turmanskys were driving him towards a terrain he could not see. Into it -

  He sensed the storm outside the aircraft more vividly. The fuselage seemed to shudder, as if anticipating impact. He imagined the noise of the wind, felt he would be tumbled from the cockpit when the aircraft struck and would hear the wind — before…

  Still his hands hesitated, clenched almost into claws. Choose — He couldn't. The Firefox maintained the steep change of course the autopilot had initiated on the instructions of the TFR. Where-?

  Valley! Lift-

  He levelled the aircraft, pushed the throttles forward, cancelled the autopilot by pressing the button on the column, then pulled it towards him. Grey ahead of him, nothing, nothing, nothing…

  The nose came up, the Firefox climbed. Four thousand feet. Four-and-a-half, five -

  He was above the mountains. Sweat ran from beneath his arms. His facemask was fogged. On the radar, the MiGs seemed to have surged forward, away from the bottom of the screen towards its centre. They could see him clearly now; a target upon which to home. Gant shuddered uncontrollably, gripping the column as he levelled the aircraft at six thousand feet. He forced himself to look at the map on his knee, at the tiny printed heights of the peaks. Then he pulled back on the stick once more, lifting to eight thousand feet as quickly as he could. Now he was above them; the mountains no longer threatened him.

  The MiGs closed. He demanded a read-out from the computer. Contact time, fourteen seconds. He pushed the throttles forward, forcing the Mach-meter past Mach 2; flying blind.

  He flicked on the UHF set. He would be over Bardufoss in minutes now. He had to know.

  'Bardufoss Approach — this is Firefox. Over.' He listened. Checked the frequency. Listened. The UHF set was on, it should be working. 'Bardufoss Approach — come in, Bardufoss. This is Firefox. Over.'

  The MiGs seemed to have halted, dropped back to near the bottom of the screen. He knew they would be listening. It was not a high-security channel. They were waiting. He shivered. They were waiting until he made hisapproach, slowed down, presented himself to them helplessly as he went in to land.

  The UHF set crackled. A distant voice with a Scandinavian accent spoke to him. His hands jumped on the column, as if it had been a Russian voice. But he recognised the word 'Bardufoss'.

  'Repeat, Bardufoss. Say again your message. I wish for landing instructions. Over.'

  He waited, the aircraft at Mach 2. His positional read-out from the inertial navigator showed him sixty miles from Bardufoss. He was aware of the turbulence outside the aircraft, almost as if it was a warning.

  '… is closed, repeat closed,' he heard. 'Estimated ceiling fifty feet in heavy snow. Runway visual range twenty yards with eighty-degree crosswind gusting to forty-five knots.' Then, in something of a more human tone. 'I am sorry, Firefox, but a landing at Bardufoss is impossible. We have blizzard conditions.'

  And they would have heard.

  'Thank you, Bardufoss — '

  'Good — ' He cut off the hope, turning at once to the Soviet Tac-channel. Immediately, he heard the Russian chatter, the almost-glee, the agreement, the request for instructions, the decision, the tactics -

  The MiGs surged towards the centre of the screen. He stared numbly at their advance upon him. They were at more than Mach 2, closing rapidly.

  He was locked out by the storm. Already, other pursuing Soviet fighters were at the lower edge of his scope. But these three, closing so quickly — missile launch time, seven seconds — knew he was locked out. They were closing for the kill. He hesitated, expecting the leap of bright infra-red dots towards him as they fired their first missiles. No -

  He moved his hands slowly, almost finding, finding.

  He groaned aloud. As he lifted his head, he drew the column towards him and thrust the throttles forward. The nose of the Firefox lifted, wobbling in the increasing turbulence. He had ignored it, ignored the weather worsening around him, because he had not wanted to understand, had not wished to admit that Bardufoss would be closed down.

  The Mach-meter passed 2, then 2.2, 3, 7… The altimeter mounted through fifteen, then seventeen thousand. The MiGs below him altered course, striving to catch him. The Firefox raced up wards.

  He broke out of the turbulent, snow-filled clouds at twenty-six thousand feet, into a searing eye-hurting blue sky. In the mirror, the cloud was massed and unbroken beneath him. The sun was low to the west. He climbed through forty thousand feet. Fifty-

  The first of the Soviet fighters broke out of the cloud, a gleaming dot far below; a white blip at the lower edge of the scope. Then another gleaming spot joined it in the mirror, then a lagging third.

  Gant levelled the Firefox at seventy thousand feet, and accelerated. The Mach-meter passed 4.5. The gleaming dots faded from the scope. The cloud lay unbroken over the Lofoten Islands. He crossed the Arctic Circle. Almost idly, he listened to the last fading chatter from the UHF. Within minutes, he would change the frequency to the principal NATO secure Tac-channel, so that he could identify himself to RAF Strike Command and obtain clearance to land at Scampton, his original destination. He altered course in order to gain a visual sighting over Shetland, still five hundred miles to the south — eight minutes' flying time. He grinned. He was a blur, a meteor, travelling a thousand miles an hour faster than any other aircraft in the world. He would have crossed the North Sea in another seven minutes; he would be over Shetland. Mach 5.1. Almost four thousand miles an hour.

  It was over. He felt exhilarated. The radio chatter faded. He heard — what was it? Rostock? Whatever that meant… It didn't matter. Radar clear. Empty. He was alone. The Soviet exchanges faded and were gone.

  Anna -

  No. He put her carefully aside. The others were paler ghosts. They no longer troubled him. He was alive. He was in the Firefox. He had done it -

  He looked down through a tear in the cloud. He was high over the North Sea. He was too high to see the flares burning off on the rigs. More gaps in the cloud. He was suspended above the flat, calm-looking sea. Elite; alone. Alone he had meant to think — alone. Not elite, alone…

  He wou
ld be over Shetland in no more than three minutes.

  Time to open the Tac-channel. It wouldn't be much of an ending, getting shot down…

  Rostock? Who was Rostock…?

  Fuel-flow, check. Altimeter, radar Mach-meter -

  Radar — nothing…

  He felt light-headed. He reached forward to retune the UHF. He was alone; elitely alone. Drifting at four thousand miles an hour.

  Rostock — ?

  Radar — nothing… Glow — ?

  He leaned forward. He felt even more light-headed; almost delirious. He screwed up his eyes, trying to focus. Flickering glow on the — panel — ? He was floating. The nose of the Firefox dipped and the aircraft began to dive. He leaned forward against the control column, gripping the wheel but unaware of the pressure of his body pushing the column forward. He couldn't see clearly, and leaned further towards the panel. His eyesight was misty. He clutched the control column to his chest like a drunken man seeking support. As the nose of the Firefox dipped, the steepness of the dive was controlled only by his one-armed grip on the column and the straps restraining the forward movement of his body beyond a certain point.

  Rostock — ?

  Vladimirov asked him what it meant. He was being beaten, but he felt nothing. Only numb. Warmly numb. Drugged… he remembered his father, shambling into the house on the, the — Mira Prospekt? Yes, yes, Mira Prospekt…

  He heard voices, speaking Russian. Change channels. He did not understand — who was Rostock?

  Glow on the — panel? Glow-?

  He did not understand. The Firefox began to fall out of the sky. Unnoticed, the altimeter unrolled with increasing speed as he slumped towards the panel. The throttles were still set at high cruise power.

  He saw dots — blips not glows. Right and left of the screen, converging on him. Rostock — ? His helmet was almost against the panel, and his hanging face opposite the scope. White blips, rushing at him.

  Thirty thousand feet, twenty-five, twenty-two… The altimeter unrolled unnoticed.

  Gant groggily lifted his head, and his hand. He felt along the panel. The Firefox bucked as he readjusted his hold on the column to gain more support. The nose came up slightly, but the stick resisted him fiercely. He believed in it as a solid, unmoving thing to which he could cling. He tried to focus. The radar was filled with closing blips which immediately became a blur. Flickering glow…? Rostock, Ro — stock…? What did it mean? Glow -

  He touched the flicker of light, and tried to count. Tried to remember. It was important, like Rostock. But he could answer this question — he was trained to do it -

  He clutched at a switch and threw it with a convulsive jerk of his body. Then he lolled wearily upright, still holding the column, aware now of the restraint of his straps. As his head came above the cockpit coaming, he could see that now the sea had huge, tossing waves. There were fires burning below and around him, flares warning of -

  He saw the Vietnamese girl swallowed by fire. He saw Anna with the blue hole in her forehead. His arms ached, seemed close to being pulled from their sockets with the effort required to hold onto the control column.

  The girl, Anna — himself…

  'No — you bastard — !'

  He fought the column, trying to heave it towards him with a fierce, sudden strength. He dragged the throttles back, then pulled further on the column. It moved more easily. His lungs gulped the emergency oxygen supply. The altimeter unrolled more slowly, the Mach-meter descended. The aircraft began to level out. He continued to fight the column, clutching it back against him. The horizon jolted, wobbled, the waves accelerated less than a thousand feet below. The flames from the oil-rigs rushed beneath him. His head was filled with noises, voices speaking in Russian -

  He reset the UHF feverishly. He heard it, then -

  Rostock. Spoken in English, an English accent. A babble of English voices.

  He raced over an oil-rig, then another, then a third. Snow flurried across the stormy, tossing water, but there were bright gaps in the cloud. Shreds of it struggled to envelop him, but the Firefox kept breaking free of them…

  His head cleared. He was travelling at less than four hundred miles an hour, at twelve thousand feet, across what remained of the North Sea; towards Shetland.

  He continued to gulp down the emergency oxygen supply.

  The airplane had tried to kill him again. Had betrayed him. The warning light had come on too late for him to recognise its signal. Lack of oxygen had already made him dizzy and lightheaded before he noticed it. His heart pounded, his pulse thudded in his ears. His helmet was filled with English voices, themselves full of congratulation. He flicked back to the Soviet channel.

  Rostock-they were calling Rostock Airbase, he remembered. It would have been the nearest front-line airbase on an interception course. East Germany. A couple of squadrons of MiG-25s had been despatched by the elite 16th Frontal Aviation Army to destroy him. The RAF had reached him first. He had been a sitting target. They might even have been just sitting back, watching him dive into the sea. The Firefox had been doing their work for them.

  He sat back in the couch. Bastard. On either side of him, aircraft appeared. They waggled their wings, coyly displaying their RAF roundels. One of the pilots, the one to starboard, signalled with his thumb. Success, congratulation — something like that. Beyond the Tornado fighter, Gant glimpsed the dark coastline of Shetland rising out of the sea.

  Wearily, he returned the UHF to the NATO secure tactical channel. The English voices gabbled for a moment, then one of them silenced the others and attempted to contact him. He glanced to starboard. The pilot of the Tornado was frantically signalling with his hand. He wanted him to answer, to use the radio -

  Gant did not care. He was alive. He was safe. There was time enough to answer them. His heartbeat and pulse settled, receding in his awareness. Bastard. The airplane was a bastard.

  It was over now.

  'Go ahead, flight leader,' he said eventually, sitting more upright in the couch. 'This is Firefox. Receiving you loud and clear. Go ahead. Over.'

  'Major Gant? Congratulations, Major — what happened, sir? What happened to you? Over.'

  'I lived,' Gant replied. 'Now, get me home.'

  At twelve hundred feet and at a speed of three hundred and eighty-six miles an hour, the MiG-31, NATO-codenamed the Firefox, drifted towards the Scottish coast escorted by six Tornado fighters of RAF Strike Command. They were the only aircraft registering on his radar.

  The grey, stormy sea flowed beneath the belly of the aircraft. A stray gleam of sunlight glowed on the cockpit. Gant, at last, allowed himself a smile of success.

  FB2 document info

  Document ID: 5c274234-b746-423c-b503-eb78e1df0800

  Document version: 1

  Document creation date: 5.1.2013

  Created using: calibre 0.9.13, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6 software

  Document authors :

  Craig Thomas

  Document history:

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