by Craig Thomas
Buckholz pressed an R/T handset to the side of his face, watching Brooke as he did so. 'OK, diving party. Let's start clearing that ice.'
Brooke's SBS divers moved down to the shore. Two of them entered the clear water, walking like penguins down the MO-MAT, then drifting out towards the edge of the ice. They reached the crucifix's tip, and immediately began sawing at the new, thin ice, working outwards from each other around the cross. Two more SBS men moved onto the ice itself, armed with steel spikes and hammers. White light reached out towards them as one of the powerful lamps was adjusted.
Even through the deadened, snow-filled air, he could hear the hammering of steel spikes into the ice. To these, lines would be attached so that sawn-off sections of ice could be towed to the shore. His divers were furiously at work cutting away chunks as the steel spikes were hammered in. He glanced at his watch. Twelve-fifteen. On schedule.
Two plates of ice were dragged by lines across the widening patch of clear water to the shore, then manhandled onto the thicker ice. Twelve-thirty. Lengths of timber floated in clear water now. The cross was losing shape. The sawing and hammering continued.
They had left the ice intact for as long as possible for reasons of security. A Dayglo crucifix, too, would signal their presence, even in bad visibility, to any low-flying aircraft or helicopter. Two hours earlier, they had had cause to consider the delay a wise one. Helicopters had been reported by Eastoe, heading north-west into Finland. Agreed, they were well to the south of them at first and later north-east as they cruised the area of the lake where Gant had been captured for almost an hour. Then they had retraced the route he had taken to that lake.
Buckholz's party had waited in darkness and silence for their approach. It never came. The weather had worsened and the helicopters, picked up with difficulty by Eastoe's most sophisticated radar, had changed course and headed south-east to re-cross the border. Immediately, the lights had been switched on and the crucifix laid out on the ice to represent the fuselage and wings of the Firefox. Since then, Eastoe had reported no activity along the border. Presumably the Russians had decided against further helicopter reconnaissance in the weather conditions that now prevailed. It indicated that they did not know where to look, were ignorant of the location of the aircraft.
More plates of ice were dragged out of the water, which now receded to the edge of visibility. Then the scene was further obscured by a curtain of snow. The corporal had thrust a mug of coffee into Brooke's hand which he had accepted almost without noticing. He sipped at it now. Twelve-thirty.
He turned his head. Royal Engineers were checking the nylon lines with the same kind of obsessiveness he had shown in relation to the undercarriage of the Firefox. Some abrasive surfaces were padded with logs of felled timber. The three trees which held the chain-lever winches were not equidistant, nor were they in a straight line. Therefore, the winching operation would be complex, and slow, in order to prevent snagging and rubbing against the undercarriage doors and ensure that the airframe ascended the ramp of the MO-MAT in as straight a line as possible. The officer in charge of the party would be required to monitor the speed and progress of each winch and line - constantly.
Out on the ice, his divers had handed over the task of driving in the remaining steel pins to RAF engineers. They dropped into the dark water, to make a thorough final check for underwater obstacles - they had spent hours clearing rocks and rubble that afternoon - and to take up their monitoring positions. They would be watching the undercarriage for signs of strain or weakness, the ropes for the same - and both for the first movements.
Twelve-forty. Brooke's coffee was cold in the mug, and he threw it away with a flick of his wrist. It dyed the trampled snow at the edge of the MO-MAT's carpet. Two of the shore party were brushing at the waffle-like surface, keeping it as free of snow as possible.
Brooke watched Moresby, the squadron-leader from the Field Recovery Unit at Abingdon and their Senior Engineering Officer, ambling towards them. He nodded to Buckholz and Waterford, taking up the stance of a spectator immediately, hands thrust into his pockets, parlca hood pulled around his face, shoulders hunched.
'As soon as we reach the level,' he announced as if he had been engaged in a conversation for some time and was-now answering one of a series of questions. 'I'd expect her stopped - oh, here,' he added, waving his arms to indicate the area just behind them where the slope of the shore all but disappeared. 'I've had a word with the engineers and they're fairly certain we can hold her on the winches. In fact, I'd like to have a look inside the cockpit as soon as she clears the water.'
Buckholz, unabashed, nodded. 'OK, Squadron-Leader. Any auto-destruct mechanism is entirely your baby. We'll order the winches to stop just as soon as she's clear of the water.'
'Splendid. The anti-radar capability and the thought-guidance systems must be protected by some kind of auto-destruct. Since the bang-seat wasn't used, they may not be armed. But they could, just could, be armed by immersion in water - some of these devices are. So, I think I'd better find out before the aircraft dries off.' He smiled perfunctorily, saluted quickly, and ambled off once more.
'It won't be much of a bang,' Waterford commented. 'They won't have rigged the whole airframe to blow up, much too dangerous. Russian pilots are very thick. Might kill the squadron-leader, of course, and give Aubrey a heart attack when he hears he's lost all the best stuff on board…'
'Thank you, Major,' Buckholz retorted.
Out on the ice, the last plates were being manhandled onto the firmer ice. The channel of clear water stretched away into the darkness beyond the lights. Bits of luminous wood floated randomly. The cross had gone. The shore party had begun to return, and his divers were walking out of the water up the slope of the temporary roadway. They were grinning as they removed their facemasks. Brooke nodded, and one of the divers turned and slipped back into the water to take up a monitoring station. Brooke watched the beam of his lamp flicker palely, like the track of some glowing fish, as it moved away towards one of the wings of the submerged Firefox.
'Tell me, Major,' Buckholz began, 'did Aubrey call this operation "Nessie" because he thought he wouldn't get the airframe out of the water?' He was smiling as he asked the question.
Waterford tossed his head. 'Aubrey's idea of a joke, Mr. Buckholz - just his idea of a joke.' He smiled briefly, then added: 'Time for me to check with the Apaches out there. Excuse me.'
Waterford's huge, solid calm had acted like a barrier, but now that he had moved away Brooke could sense the electricity of the scene, the tension felt by each man. The ice was clear, the lines checked, the divers on-station. Moresby was standing with the party of Royal Engineers at the rear of the scene, upstage. They were checking drills, and walkie-talkies. Then he scoured the ground around each of the trees selected to take one of the winches, checking anchorages and knots. Eventually, he waved a hand towards Buckholz and moved back towards Brooke and the American.
Brooke could smell soup on the snowy air. And coffee. It would be served when - if - their first attempt proved successful and they got the airframe to move. Then, safe in the knowledge that it was possible to move the plane, they would be given a ten-minute break for food and drink. The winching would take much of the night.
Buckholz's head swivelled inside the fur-edged hood of his white parka as he checked with each section of the operation by walkie-talkie and hand-signals. Then he turned to Brooke. His grin was nervous, his face pale with cold and excitement. Brooke grinned and gestured him to begin.
'OK, everyone - let's catch "Nessie", shall we?' he announced, and immediately turned to watch the winches take up the first of the slack in the nylon ropes.
Buckholz turned his back on the lake and looked towards the three teams manning the winches. As the two men on each winch levered back and forth easily and rhythmically, the nylon ropes tautened. The teams slowed almost immediately at a command from the Royal Engineer officer. The central pair stopped winching altogether at his ha
nd signal only moments later; quickly followed by the pair to the left. The RE captain allowed the right-hand winch to continue as he moved forward to check the relative tension of each rope. A few seconds later, he made a chopping motion with his hand, and the third winch stopped.
Moresby, joining him, spoke briefly, then nodded.
Buckholz heard the captain call: 'Numbers One, Two, Three - haul away,' and the ropes stretched, creaking slightly in the silence. Buckholz noticed the science only then, at the first renewed sound of winching. He was aware, too, of the stillness of everyone there, except the six men at the bases of the trees which anchored the winches. Buckholz could sense their effort now; both men on each winch were straining. 'All stop?' the captain called out. The lines had lifted from the surface of the MO-MAT. To Buckholz, they appeared overstretched, ready to break. Then he felt the silence again and realised he had thrust his hands into his pockets because they were trembling.
One of the SBS divers slipped into the cleared dark water and swam to the lines in turn, tying an orange marker to each one at the point where it emerged from the water. Moresby, like some parody of a keen-eyed, grasping factory owner, had walked down to the shore and was studying the diver, as if about to sack or reprimand him. Hands behind his back, head craned forward, back slightly bent.
'Haul away, One, Two and Three!' he called out as the diver turned and swam towards him. The levers of the winches pumped evenly. More quickly, rhythmically, Buckholz felt, as if-
He watched the flags on the lines, almost mocking Moresby's intent, craning stance. Buckholz understood only what he was looking at, hardly considered what it would mean if -
He grinned, and exhaled, seeming to hear a communal sigh in the windy, snow-flown clearing. Moresby straightened up, hands still clasped behind his back, chest and stomach a little thrust out as if continuing to portray the factory-owner whose school history-book image would not desert Buckholz's thoughts.
The orange marker flags, all three of them, had moved off the surface of the water. The Firefox had moved. A facemasked head bobbed above the surface, gave a thumbs-up signal, and disappeared. The Firefox had rolled forward, perhaps no more than a few inches, but the undercarriage had withstood the initial strain of moving.
'One, Two and Three - haul away!' Moresby called over his shoulder, and the captain hand-signalled his three teams to begin in unison. The even rhythm of the levers was barely audible above the wind. Buckholz felt his heart racing, and grinned to himself.
His walkie-talkie bleeped.
'Yes?'
'Mr. Aubrey, sir - sorry, sir, it's Squadron-Leader Moresby he wants… sorry, Mr. Buckholz.'
'OK, son.'
Curiosity made him follow Moresby towards the windbreak which half-concealed the commpack and its operator. The RAF officer detoured to nod his congratulations to the three teams on the winches. The men were bent and heated now, creating the impression of labour as much as speed, effort more than achievement. They would be relieved within ten minutes by fresh teams. Moresby had already picked up the microphone. The look on his face puzzled Buckholz. Something like outrage. Again, he could not help but picture the British factory-owner, this time faced with the prospect of a strike or a Luddite wrecking his machines. He smiled, but the expression vanished a moment later.
'You want to ask me about what?' Moresby asked, his face expressing disbelief now that he had spoken. 'Are you serious? Correction - you cannot be serious! Over.' He looked up and saw Buckholz, and immediately waved him into the tiny enclave of the windbreak. The radio operator's glance was vivid with humour and the prospect of a quarrel.
'What is it?' Buckholz asked, and was waved to silence by Moresby, who was once more listening to Aubrey in Kirkenes.
Immediately Aubrey finished speaking, Moresby replied, his face flushed despite the cold. Within the hood of his grey-white parka, he appeared almost apoplectic. 'I can't even begin to answer your question, Mr. Aubrey. I have not worked with you on previous occasions, and I don't understand your sense of humour. What you propose is preposterous! Over.'
'What the hell's going on?' Buckholz growled.
'He wants me - ' Moresby began, then swallowed before he added ' - to tell him whether the aircraft could be prepared to fly again… to fly from here, to be exact! Absolutely out of the question - '
'You realise what this means?' Buckholz snapped. 'He doesn't ask idle questions. It means the Sikorsky isn't coming, old boy, old buddy - he's just found out and he's clutching at straws. Give me the mike, Squadron-Leader.' Buckholz pressed one earpiece against the side of his head, and said, 'Kenneth, this is Charles. Are you certain the Skyhook won't make it? Over.'
Immediately, Aubrey replied, 'I'm sorry, Charles, but - yes, I'm afraid so. There is no possibility of it arriving before the deadline - until it is well past, in fact. Over.'
'So, where did you get this craiy idea from, Kenneth? The squadron-leader here doesn't think much of it.'
'Absolute rubbish!,' Moresby foamed.
'I realise that,' Aubrey snapped. 'Very tiresome. Over.'
'I think you're as crazy as he does, in case you're interested. Over.'
'Charles, there is simply no time to waste. I need a shopping list Curtin can transmit to Bardufoss - if they haven't got what is required, then we may be in trouble. Please put Moresby back on. You listen if you want to…' There was the faintest tinge of a dry laughter in Aubrey's tone. It surprised and even angered Buckholz. It made the depth of his reaction to the first movement of the aircraft seem somehow exaggerated and adolescent.
'Listen,' he snapped, 'we have no one to fly the damn thing!' Then he added waspishly, as if formality was a further element of the ridiculous: 'Over!'
'Gant and Source Burgoyne should be crossing the border into Finland within an hour or two. Gant will fly the aircraft.' Aubrey sounded self-congratulatory. Buckholz understood why Giles Pyott, out of Aubrey's hearing, referred to him as a gifted, restless, hyperactive child. He was brilliant - a brilliant pain in the ass for much of the time.
'You mean you got an airplane that's still at the bottom of a lake and a pilot who's still inside Russia, and that's the groundplan for your idea? You're crazy if you think that will work!'
Moresby snatched at the headset. The radio operator plugged in a second headset and offered it to Buckholz with a grin. 'Top ratings for this phone-in show, sir,' he murmured. Buckholz snorted. It was the laughter he could not comprehend. From Aubrey in particular…
Laughter in the dark. Game-playing. And yet people like Aubrey, even Pyott, made him feel heavy-footed and stolid, somehow colonial and gauche. All of it angered him.
Before Moresby could speak, he snapped, 'Get off the air, Kenneth. You're an asshole for ever suggesting such a crazy scheme! If the Skyhook can't make it, we'll dismantle what we can. You get a Chinook from Bardufoss to take us out before the deadline expires. Over.'
'Sorry, Charles - I said you could listen. Is Moresby still there?'
'I'm here!'
'Good. Now, Squadron-Leader, perhaps you'll be so good as to try to answer my question. Could the aircraft be prepared for a flight of, say - fifteen to twenty minutes duration, at sub-sonic speed, of course? A distance of a couple of hundred miles? Please think very carefully.'
Both Moresby and Buckholz had, by some unspoken common assent, turned their backs on the commpack and its operator, and shuffled to the extent of their headset leads; as if to remove themselves from the communicable lunacy of Kenneth Aubrey. Both of them watched the fresh teams at the winches slip quickly into the easy, regular rythm of the levering. The ropes, at the edge of clear vision out on the dark water, shook off silver drops of light. The marker flags were perhaps a few feet nearer the shore.
A diver's head popped above the water. He removed his facemask and mouthpiece, and they heard him shout: 'Port wheels are almost on top of a rock. Stop winching and give me a crowbar!'
'One, Two, and Three - stop winching!'
Brook
e, the skirts of his park gathered up around his body, waded out into the water, which moved sluggishly around his legs, and handed the crowbar to his diver. Their conversation was brief. The diver disappeared.
Moresby seemed to recollect Aubrey. 'I've already told you that it's impossible, Mr. Aubrey. Please forgive my outburst - didn't mean to sound raped.'
'You were, buddy - or you will be,' Buckholz growled beside him.
'But it is impossible. I'm concentrating on what kind of auto-destruct may or may not be attached to the thought-guidance systems, the on-board computer and the anti-radar. If we don't locate the auto-destruct assuming there is one, you won't have anything left that's worth the time and effort already spent. Over.'
'I realise that, Moresby. But, please, simply tell me - Captain Curtin is listening, pen poised - what would be needed if the Firefox were to fly again - from that lake?'
The diver's head popped above the surface again. Brooke had waited for him, and took the crowbar. Both of them gave the thumbs-up, and the engineer captain immediately ordered the three teams to recommence winching. Moresby sighed, then with an angry reluctance returned his attention to Aubrey. Buckholz willed him to utterly refute the Englishman as he felt the impact of the news concerning the Skyhook helicopter spread through him. They couldn't get the Firefox out. As simple as that. They were winching it out of the lake only to be unable to do any more than steal a few of its systems and instruments and samples of its airframe materials… and photographs. Countless photographs.
Buckholz understood Aubrey's refusal to surrender to the inevitable. But he could not share the man's new, impossible scheme. Which, he reminded himself, Aubrey was conjuring out of thin air just because he left himself without any fall back plan!
'Hot air blowers,' Moresby snapped as if the information was being extracted by physical pain. 'Undercover job, drying the airframe. That takes care of the airframe. Now you have a dry lump of metal. Do you wish me to go on? Over.'