Firefox mg-1

by Craig Thomas

  He dropped the undercarriage, and the lights glowed, registered the wheels 'locked'. He slowed his speed to 220 knots, and levelled the wings. The floe was ahead, with the dark cigar of the submarine embedded in it, a lizard half-emerged from its shell, its streamer of orange smoke in line with his course.

  He checked back on the stick, and read his altitude as one thousand feet. He dropped his speed to 180 knots, and stabilised there. His rate of descent was now 350 feet per minute. The grey, wrinkled waves, seemed to speed up, to reach up at him hungrily. He eased back the throttles, and the speed dropped to 175 knots. He was almost dazzled now by the glare of the ice-floe, yet through the dazzle, the surface still looked good.

  He chopped the throttles, and the Firefox suddenly seemed to sag tiredly in the air, began to sink. He checked back on the stick into the flare-out position. On full flap, the Firefox seemed to drop for a moment, then the plane jolted viciously as the wheels bit into the surface snow, and the nose-wheel slammed down. Visibility disappeared for a moment as the snow spewed around the nose, and it was a second or more before the de-mister coped. The forward screen cleared. Even as Gant wondered whether the engine would flame out because of snow in the air-intakes, he saw that his visibility had disappeared. He was rushing across a surface of ice and snow, enveloped in a thick, rolling grey fog.

  Nine

  PRESSURE

  Gant understood what had happened — dewpoint; the formation of a thick, rolling blanket of fog along his rushing track had been almost instantaneous. The knowledge did not lessen the rising unease he felt, could not counteract the explosion of adrenalin in his system. The engines had not flamed out, and the snow flung up around the cockpit by the nose-wheel had slid from the screen — yet he could see nothing. He was helpless — the snow on the surface of the floe was slowing the aircraft as swiftly as any reverse thrust from the engines and yet he was slipping across an ice surface, down the north-south axis of a floe, towards the icy grey waters of the Barents Sea. If the size of the floe were too small, inadequate, if he had miscalculated.

  The Firefox slowed to walking pace, trundling more unevenly now, jolted by the indentations and scabs of the surface ice beneath the thin blanket of snow. And the fog was already thinning, as the turbulence of his passage became less; it was spreading, thinning to a grey, damp mist. He looked over his shoulder, shifting in the couch for perhaps the first time in an hour. He could not see the orange balloon, nor could he see the line of the streamer of smoke, which would give him some indication of the direction of the sub. He turned the aircraft to port, through one hundred and eighty degrees, and taxied back up the line of his landing, crawling forward, his eyes searching for figures moving in the mist, lights or signals which might direct him. He felt the unease and the adrenalin drain from him. He was down.

  He thought he saw a lumping, shapeless figure moving to port of him, but could not be sure. The mist seemed to have thickened again. The figure had not been carrying a light. He pressed the button, and raised the cockpit cover. The sudden change of temperature as the heated air of the cabin rushed out and was replaced by the Arctic air above the floe seemed to knife through the protection of the anti-G suit as if it had been made of thin summerweight cotton. He was chilled to the bone in a moment, his teeth chattering uncontrollably behind the tinted facemask of his flying helmet. His hands on the controls seemed to tremble, as if registering the groundshock of an explosion. He unlocked the helmet and tugged it up and away from his head. His cropped head seemed to prickle with a cold fire. Ignoring the noise of his teeth, he craned his head, listening and looking in the direction from which he had glimpsed the figure in the mist.

  He thought, twice, in swift succession, that he heard voices away to his left, that he was paralleling the path of men searching for him — but he couldn't be certain. The voices, like the cries of alien birds, seemed to distort in the thick mist, and he couldn't be sure of the direction from which they came. Then he realised that the men would be heading to what they would have assumed was the point of his halt, behind him now — they would not, perhaps, have expected him automatically to make a 180 degree turn, and cover his tracks.

  Then he saw a dull glow, lighting a misshapen, lumbering figure, a lamp held low in a swinging hand. He heard his own name being called, loudly, yet seeming faint, unsubstantial. He did not reply, and the figure called again. Gant felt a curious reluctance to speak, despite the cold, despite the sudden, rushing sense of loneliness, of the interminable time of his journey from Bilyarsk — and before that, from London. The voice was American. He smiled, in spite of his detachment — that was it, he recognised, it was detachment he felt, a sense of removal from this figure cautiously approaching. It was so, so ordinary, a lumping shadow with a New York accent — nothing really to do with him, and the Firefox, and what he had done.

  He shrugged off the feeling. The wind gusted to perhaps twelve knots, and the blast of it struck him in the face, reviving him to the present, to his physical cold and discomfort. He raised his hand to his face, cupped it and yelled. His own voice sounded thin, almost unreal. 'Over here — the plane's over here, man!'

  'That you, Gant?' the voice replied. Gant realised only as he began to cast about that his own eyesight was vastly superior to that of the figure to his left. He turned the Firefox in the mist, very slowly, and saw the figure straighten, and become certain of his whereabouts. 'Jesus — I must need glasses, for Chrissake!' the figure said.

  Gant had no need to apply the brakes; slowed by the surface snow, the aircraft rolled to a halt. The great turbojets made only an impatient murmur behind him. He could hear the figure, which now seemed tall and thin, only given a tent-like shape by the parka it was wearing, talking into an R/T handset.

  'O.K., you men — I found him. Get over here, on the double!' Then the figure moved forward. A mittened hand slapped against the fuselage and Gant, leaning out of the cockpit, stared down into an ascetic, lined face. He could see the gold leafing on the peak of a Navy cap beneath the fur trimming of the parka hood. Gant smiled, foolishly, feeling there was nothing to say. A great wave of relief surged in him, almost nauseous, and he began to shiver with emotion rather than the cold.

  'Hi, fella,' Seerbacker said.

  'Hi,' Gant said, in a choking voice. He saw other figures moving in the mist, and the round globes, furred and dim, of lamps.

  'Hey, skipper — you want us to line up now?' a voice called.

  Seerbacker, seemingly distracted from a perusal of Gant's features, turned his head, and yelled over his shoulder. 'Yeah — let's get this bird over to his mother — it's dying of thirst!' He turned back to Gant, and added, in a low voice: 'You don't look like anything special, mister — but I guess you must be — uh?'

  'Right now — you're pretty special yourself, Captain!' Gant said.

  Seerbacker nodded, and lifted the handset to his face. He said:

  'O.K. this is the captain. Call it for me.'

  He listened intently as men began to call in, as at a roll-call. When there was a silence once more, he looked at Gant, and said: 'I've got half of my crew standing on this goddam ice, mister, in two nice straight lines, all the way to the ship. Think you can ride down the middle?'

  'Like the freeway,' Gant said.

  'Seerbacker raised his hand, gripped the spring-loaded hand and toe holds and hoisted himself clear of the ground.

  'Mind if I hitch a ride?'

  'They're pretty rough on freeloaders on this railroad.'

  'I'll take my chances,' Seerbacker said with a grin. 'O.K., let's roll.'

  Gant eased off the brakes, and the Firefox slid forward. He saw the first two men, then: lights haloed, bright, and then other lights, a tunnel in the mist. He straightened the nose down the centre of the tunnel, and the lights began to roll slowly past on either side, only just visible in the mist. He heard Seerbacker giving an order.

  'O.K., you guys, move in, dammit! This bird won't bite — it's one of ours, for Chrissak
e!'

  The lights ahead wobbled, narrowed, became brighter, more helpful to him.

  'Thanks,' he said to the invisible Seerbacker below him.

  'O.K., mister. They're only here to help — even if they don't like it.' There was an edge to his voice as he ended his sentence. Gant sensed, beneath the surface, the resentment that had emerged along with relief at his arrival — the resentment of men stuck in the middle of an enemy sea for day after day, tracking the drifting floe.

  'I'm sorry,' he said, involuntarily.

  'What?' Seerbacker began, then added: 'Oh, yeah. It's just orders, mister — don't give a mind to it.' Gant saw a long low shape, sail atop, ahead of him through the mist. There she is,' Seerbacker said unnecessarily, and Gant felt the pride in his voice. It was the pride of a commanding officer in his ship.

  'Yeah — I see it,' he said.

  'Pull up alongside,' Seerbacker said. 'You want to eat in the car, or come on inside?' Gant swung the Firefox parallel with the fattened cigar of the ship, half-buried in ice, like something reptilian emerging from a white shell. He cut the motors, and the plane died. In the absolute silence of the next moment, Gant felt a fierce affection for the aircraft. It was not something he had stolen, a freight for the CIA — it was what had brought him from the heart of Russia, helped him to escape, taken on a missile-cruiser, taken on… Seerbacker interrupted the flood of his fierce, cold, mechanical love for another machine.

  'Welcome to "Joe's Diner". The cabaret isn't much good, but the hamburgers are a delight to the weary traveller! Step down, Mister Gant — step down, and welcome.'

  Gant unstrapped himself from the webbing of the couch. As he stood up, his muscles and joints protested as he moved. The wind seemed to gust at him, the freezing cold from the Pole search through his suit, eat at him. He shuddered.

  'Thanks,' he said. 'Thanks.' He stepped out of the cockpit, no longer reluctant, down onto the ice.

  * * *

  'Call them out,' Vladimirov said. 'A report from every Polar Search Squadron now!'

  It took four minutes for the report to be completed, time which the First Secretary seemed not to consider wasted, wherever Gant was, and whatever he was doing. Vladimirov loathed the political game that was being played and in which he had joined, his silence giving assent, his cowardice dictating his silence. When the last search-plane had reported on its findings in its designated area, it was clear that there had been no attempt by the Americans to establish any kind of fuel-dump on the ice, no attempt to mark out or clear any kind of runway. Vladimirov, his belief shaken but not destroyed, felt his bemusement hum in his head like a maddening insect. He had the answer, somewhere at the back of his mind, he was sure of it…!

  The cold eyes of the First Secretary, and the glint of the strip-light on Andropov's glasses, made him bury his reflections.

  'Now,' the Soviet leader said, 'order all available units into the North Cape area — everything you have!'

  Vladimirov nodded.

  'Scramble "Wolfpack" squadrons in the North Cape sector through to Archangelsk sector,' he snapped. 'Staggered Sector Scramble for all units.' He did not glance at the map-table, did not ask for the map to be changed. He was oblivious to it, seeing in his mind with absolute clarity, the dispositions of all surface, sub-surface and aerial units that might be employed.

  'Order the Otlintnyi and the Slavny to alter course at once for North Cape — order them to proceed at utmost speed.'

  'Sir!'

  'Order all submarines on the Barents Sea map to alter course, and to proceed to the Cape area at top speed.'

  'Sir!'

  'Order the Riga to alter course, together with her escorts, and to put up her helicopters at once — they are to proceed at top speed to the Cape.'

  'Sir!'

  It was futile, he knew — the bellowing challenge of a coward after the bully is out of earshot, the simulated fury of the defeated. Yet he became caught up in its frenetic, useless energy. He was intoxicated by the power he possessed.

  Like a child he had once seen building on the sands at Odessa a long time ago, he made himself oblivious to the sea of truth creeping up behind him, and threw all his energies into the task of making his fragile, impermanent structure of sand. He flung everything into the air, changed the course of every surface and sub-surface vessel in the Barents Sea.

  The map on the table was now showing the western sector of the Barents Sea — its operator had bled in the map reflecting Vladimirov's countless orders. Vladimirov realised he was sweating. His legs suddenly weak, unable to support him any longer. He lowered himself into a chair, looked up and found the First Secretary smiling complacently at him.

  'Well, my dear Vladimirov — that wasn't so bad, after all — eh?' He laughed. Behind him, like an echo, Andropov smiled thinly. Vladimirov shook his head, smiled foolishly, like a rewarded child. 'You seem to enjoy it — eh? Power… you understand, eh?' The man was leaning towards him. Vladimirov could do nothing but continue grinning foolishly, and nod his head.

  A voice cut into his vacuous confrontation with the Soviet leader. 'Tretsov reports the Mig-31 crossing the coast on the line of longitude 50 degrees, near Indiga.'

  It was like a single stone dropping into the flat silence of a pond. All of them around that table were suddenly reminded of the awesome potentiality, the enormous power, of the thing that had been stolen. It was little more than twenty-five minutes since Tretsov had taken off. The coast was approximately 1250 miles due north from Bilyarsk, and the Mig-31 had already reached it, passed over it, heading for its rendezvous over the Barents Sea with a tanker aircraft.

  Vladimirov looked at the first Secretary, saw the momentary hesitation in the eyes.

  'Shall I order Tretsov to alter course, First Secretary?' he asked tiredly.

  The big man shook his head, still smiling. 'Not for the moment — let Tretsov make his rendezvous with the tanker first. When we have a sighting, we will point him like an arrow at the American — eh, like an arrow, Vladinurov?'

  The First Secretary laughed. Vladinurov derived no comfort from the sound, from the over-confidence it betrayed.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes after he had landed, Gant was back on the surface of the floe, checking the progress of the refuelling. Despite the bitter, freezing cold, the raw wind that swirled the thick mist around him, whipped the smoking breath away from his numbed lips, Gant stood on the ice near the Firefox, as if unwilling to surrender the aircraft entirely to the attentions of Seerbacker's crew. The frost had already begun to rime the fur of his borrowed parka, which did not seem to warm him, and he stood, a hunched figure, his hands thrust into his pockets, staring into the grey, formless world of the floe, seeing shadowy, labouring figures on the ice. The two hoses, each four inches in diameter, snaked across the floe towards the plane. The crew worked like men at the scene of some desperate, frozen fire. A trolley-pump had been wheeled out across the ice, having been lowered from the forward hatch by a winch, and then a smaller hatch in the forward deck had been opened. Gant's nostrils had been assailed by the sudden, bitter-sweet smell of the paraffin. A heavy-duty hose disappeared into the hatch above the forward crew's quarters.

  It would take, Gant knew, perhaps another twenty minutes to refuel. Unlike the huge pressure-pumps available at an airbase in the front line, which could transfer as much as three thousand gallons of paraffin a minute to the thirsty tanks of a warplane, this trolley-pump was an aged, short-breathed thing.

  There had been a delay, while Gant devoured a plate of chili in Seerbacker's quarters, before the pump had begun to operate. The bonding wire running from the sub, which was required to earth the Firefox to prevent the danger of a spark from the static electricity in the fuselage igniting any spillage, had been too short. The sub's crew had spliced in another length of wire, and the huge crocodile clip had been fastened to the nose-wheel strut Only then had the refuelling begun.

  When the two civilians carried by the Pequod — an e
ngineer and an electronics expert — had begun work on the plane, Gant agreed to return to Seerbacker's cabin.

  Once there, he sat in silence except when, after looking at his watch, he murmured, 'Ten minutes.'

  A minute or two later, there was a knock at the door. 'Yeah?'

  The Exec., Fleischer, stuck his head into the room. 'Weather report, sir,' he said.

  Gant suddenly seemed to come awake. His eyes fixed on Fleischer's face, the intensity of the gaze making the young man falter.

  'What is it?' Gant said.

  'The wind's getting up, sir — gusting to fifteen knots at times.' Fleischer spoke to Seerbacker, quite deliberately. 'The fog seems to be lifting.'

  Seerbacker nodded. Gant had relaxed. Fifteen-knot gusts were no real threat to take-off.

  'What about the shore-party?'

  'Almost through, sir — another seven or eight minutes, by Peck's reckoning.' Seerbacker nodded. Peck, the Pequod's chief engineer, would not be much out in his reckoning. He would have bullied the men into utmost effort, whatever his private considerations concerning Gant and the safety of the ship.

  Fleischer withdrew his head, and Gant made to rise from his chair. The next thing he knew was the huge jolt of the deck moving beneath him, and he was flung head-first across the table. He had a brief glimpse of Seerbacker catapulting off his bunk, and then his left shoulder struck the bulkhead with a jarring blow. The ship's lights winked out, and then returned, glowing brightly again. He felt the numbness of his shoulder and side, and the weight of Seerbacker's body lying winded across his chest. He heard a clatter from the companion-way, presumably Fleischer's body being thrown to the ground. He shifted his body, and saw Seerbacker's stunned, frightened face staring up at him.