by Craig Thomas
'Please continue, Squadron-Leader. All this is most interesting. Over.'
Moresby sighed at the sarcasm in Aubrey's voice. Buckholz watched the three orange flags dancing like great butterflies above the dark, soupy water as the ropes strained.
'Engines next, then. Drying out - then you have problems with igniters, lubrication, barometric controls, engine ancillaries, and fuel, of course. Number three - hydraulics and pneumatics. They could be OK, after such a short immersion, but everything, repeat everything, would have to be thoroughly checked otherwise you could end up without undercarriage, airbrakes, flaps. Four - the electrics. It would depend on what level of operation would be acceptable. Again, everything would have to be thoroughly checked, and any damage would have to be made good. You do have a private pipeline into the Mikoyan production line, so that we have easy access to Russian spares, I suppose?' Moresby snorted; a noise not much like laughter but which Buckholz assumed was the air force officer's means of expressing amusement. 'Five - instruments… the air-driven ones may be OK, since the water may not have got into the instrument heads - but, the electrically-driven gyro ones - I wouldn't even like to speculate on that. Over.'
Buckholz sensed that Moresby had flung a great douche of cold water in Aubrey's direction and expected his ploy to work. He imagined Curtin scribbling furiously, shaking his head almost without pause. When he heard Aubrey's voice, however, he realised that he was undaunted.
'What about armaments? Over.'
'For Heaven's sake, Aubrey!' Moresby exclaimed. 'You'd have to talk to my armourer, but my guess is that you're on to a hiding to nothing on that tack.'
'I see. But, thus far, apart from things mechanical and electronic, I would need experts in airframes, engines, hydraulics, control systems, electrics, avionics, instruments and weapons… in other words, a full ground-crew who would be experienced in servicing military aircraft. That doesn't seem too tall an order… Over?'
'Don't forget the runway, fuel, oxygen, a set of jacks, tools that fit - I simply cannot see any way in which it is feasible. Impossible in less than twenty-four hours, which is what we have. Impossible in three days or more, even at Abingdon - never mind Lapland!'
'Get off the guy's back, Aubrey!' Buckholz snapped. 'You haven't got a chance with this. You couldn't even get the stuff he needs here, never mind the men. Forget it. Arrange for that Chinook to pick us up at dusk tomorrow. Jesus - !'
'What's the matter! Over.'
'She - she's on her way up, Aubrey - she's on her way up!'
He had noticed the silence. Now, cheering filled it. The winches paused, the orange marker flags danced. Pearls of water dropped from the taut nylon lines. Cheering.
The nose of the Firefox had slipped above the water, black and snoutlike, ugly and still threatening. Above it, like eyes, the perspex of the cockpit canopy stared at them. It was a sea creature, Aubrey's Nessie. Watching them, waiting for them to be foolish enough to enter the water.
'Is she- ?' he heard Aubrey ask in a quiet voice.
'Beautiful,' Buckholz said. 'Dangerous and beautiful. My God, when Gant first saw that -'
'Now tell me not to try. Over,' Aubrey replied sardonically.
'It's still impossible,' Moresby interrupted. The winches began again. Inch by inch, the snout and cockpit slipped higher out of the water, sometimes lost in the flurries of snow, sometimes clearer and more deadly in appearance.
'The weather, Kenneth?'
'At dawn, something of a lull is anticipated… enough for a Hercules to make a low-level drop. One drop, of everything you need. Then the weather will close in again.'
'So no one gets out of here?'
'The Met reports anticipate another such lull, late in the afternoon. The fronts will allow two windows in the weather, at dawn and around dusk. Over.'
'That means less than twelve hours, Aubrey - '
'I realise that, Squadron-Leader. However, you could have everything you need dropped on the lake at first light. If it doesn't work, I promise you will have my reluctant permission to utterly destroy the aircraft. Over.'
Involuntarily, Buckholz's head flicked round so that he was looking at the Firefox. The leading edges of its huge wings were beginning to emerge. Now, it looked like something captured, caught in a net and dragged from its own element into the snowy air; a great manta ray rather than an aircraft. It mounted the slope, moving slowly, very slowly out of the water. Menaced. Yes, Buckholz thought, it already exuded menace, even though there was no possibility it could ever fly again.
'I see,' Moresby replied.
'It doesn't have a runway and we don't have any way of putting it back on the ice,' Buckholz said quickly, aghast at the clear sound of disappointment in his voice. 'Over.'
'Tractor tug and a great deal more MO-MAT,' Moresby snapped. 'Over.'
'Gentlemen,' Aubrey said calmly, all trace of satisfaction carefully excluded from his voice. 'How long before the aircraft is ashore? Over.'
'Two hours at least. Over.'
'Then we have two hours, Squadron-Leader, Charles. I suggest we begin talking in true earnest, don't you? Over.'
Before he replied, Buckholz glanced at the Firefox. And felt Aubrey's stupidity in having no fall-back, and his illogical, desperate brilliance in daring to assume the airplane could fly out of Lapland. And, he admitted, he too wanted her to fly again. She had to fly -
He glanced at Moresby, who shrugged. Then the air force officer nodded, even smiled. A tight little movement of his lips beneath his clipped moustache. 'Very well,' he breathed in the tone of an indulgent parent. 'Very well.'
'OK, Kenneth. Give us a few minutes to round up some people whose opinions we need - then we'll throw it on the porch and see if the cat laps it up!' Buckholz felt a strange, almost boyish exhilaration. In front of him, the wings continued to emerge from the water. The black snout seemed to seek him, the cockpit to stare at him.
Menace.
'Just make sure you don't lose Superpilot at the last fence, uh, Kenneth?'
Vladimirov yawned. It was an exhalation of his tension rather than an expression of weariness. He quickly stifled it. The room was small and cramped, the tape-recorder on the folding table almost its only furniture apart from a number of chairs stacked against one wall. The bare room accommodated himself, Andropov, and the senior interrogator from the KGB Unit on the Mira Prospekt. All three of them leaned their elbows on the table in the attitude of weary gamblers. A sheaf of pages - hurriedly typed and corrected and now overlain with the interrogator's scribble - lay near the recorder. Vladimirov had a pad and a ball-point pen in front of him. He was no longer concerned to disguise the fact that he doodled occasionally. There were few words on his pad, and little meaning. Andropov's pad was clean, unmarked.
Vladimirov had lost his eagerness to hear Gant's sufferings under drugs, his hallucinations and illusions, his terror at dying and his attempts to persuade them that he was not. He had listened to the two interrogations several times in that cramped and almost foetid room, and he loathed something in himself that had actually anticipated the experience. When they had first arrived he had wanted to hear them. Now, he did not.
The tape continued in silence. Gant had hit his head on the floor, silencing himself. Nothing -
Vladimirov had learned nothing from re-hearing Gant screaming for them to listen to him. Even with the volume turned down, it was horrid. He had helped to torture Gant. It was his shame that was being replayed in front of the Chairman of the KGB.
Slowly, he looked up, and shrugged, 'Nothing,' he murmured.
'Mm. Your opinion?' Andropov snapped at the interrogator, who flinched before he replied deferentially.
'Comrade Chairman-' he began. Andropov appeared to be impatient, but could not quite bring himself to wave the deference aside. Instead, he merely pursed his mouth and nodded the man along. 'I - I am not familiar with the kind of information the general is seeking.'
'Was the American about to reveal something or
not?'
'You mean-'
'From his condition, from the frenzy in his voice and manner at the end of the tape, was he trying to tell you something?' Andropov had begun to doodle on his pad as he talked. Strong bold curves which vanished beneath heavy geometric shapes.
'Yes, Comrade Chairman.'
'Then, what was it?'
'I-that I cannot say.' The senior interrogator shrugged, brushed his hand through his hair, stared at his notes, shuffled them, looked up once more. He spread his hands. 'I - he believed in me as an American general, and he believed that the man he could not see was Aubrey, the British - '
'I know who Aubrey is,' Andropov interrupted icily.
'Yes, of course. He - he was attempting to assure us that he was not dying - '
'Because he knew he hadn't burned in the explosion you pretended had occurred on the MiG-31-yes, yes. We all understand that much. Now, what was he going to tell you? Vladimirov, surely there are some clues in what he said, what he couldn't help letting out?' Andropov's pale eyes gleamed behind his gold-rimmed spectacles. Vladimirov felt pressed. The Chairman's perspective was a larger one than his own. He wanted an answer so that he could avoid the First Secretary's censure, because if it was used against him, he might remain no more than a minor figure on the Politburo. However, his desire for an answer was no more urgent than Vladimirov's own. He wanted the MiG-31 more than ever. His insurance would be the recovery of the aircraft.
'Perhaps, but I can't see it. He does not talk - anywhere - about landing the aircraft.'
'And yet he must have landed it?'
'Of course he did!' Vladimirov snapped testily. 'Do you think he jumped out without using his parachute?' Almost immediately, he signalled a silent apology. 'Yes, he landed it,' he said more softly. Then he looked at the interrogator. 'Very well. Rewind the tape to the point - oh, where he first claims he wasn't burned… find that.'
The interrogator looked at his rough transcript and then rewound the tape. He followed the numbers flicking back on the counter, checking it with the column of numerals at the edge of each page. Then he stabbed his finger down on the Stop button. He looked at Andropov, who nodded. The tape began to play.
The mimic playing the part of Aubrey cried out immediately: 'He's not dying!' Vladimirov leaned forward, head cocked, intent upon the charade, trying to hear something through the illusion, through the familiarity of the dialogue; through his recurring shame. The interrogator in his guise as the American general murmured that Gant was, indeed, dying. Vladimirov remembered, and could clearly envisage Gant's hand clawing as if with a life of its own up the uniform worn by the interrogator. He had pulled out the earpiece through which the interrogator was receiving reports from those monitoring the television cameras focused on the bed. Gant had tried to pull the interrogator towards him…
'Not burned, not burned…' he had heard the American repeating. He seemed pressed to tell something, to explain, to correct their mistake. Vladimirov could not prevent the pluck of tension and excitement he felt in his tight chest. Not burned, not burned . . . What had been happening in his drugged, confused, disorientated head at that moment? What had he wanted to say so desperately?
Andropov's fingers tapped silently on the edge of the table, as if accompanying the words with appropriate music. The interrogator was merely performing a charade of concentration. He did not know what to look for. He had not been a pilot.
'Not burned… drowning… drowning - on fire, but water, water…' Gant continued on the tape, his voice mounting, losing control, trying to convince them that their diagnosis was wrong, that he was not dying of burns. 'Not burned… landed -'
'Stop it!' Vladimirov shouted. The interrogator jumped, then pressed the button. 'Very well - you heard that? He said that he landed-'
'And where does that get us?' Andropov asked with withering sarcasm. 'You already knew that, didn't you?' He smiled thinly. 'Now, where did he land? Which one of your roads or tracks?'
Vladimirov shrugged. 'Begin - again,' he said.
'… not burned-water…' Gant said immediately, then there was nothing but the noises of rustling clothes, hesitant footsteps. Vladimirov remembered, then. Gant had slumped back on the bed at that point. A little later, he was to sit up once more, and scream out listen and explain!
But he had never explained, though they had listened. In his frenzy, his legs had become entangled in the bedclothes and he had toppled out of bed, striking his head and knocking himself unconscious. End of the affair -
Footsteps on the tape - or was it Andropov's drumming fingers? Breathing, murmurs that were indistinct, someone cursing, fumbling with something. Everyone waiting for the moment that never arrived.
Not burned… Gant was not burned. He knew that. Vladimirov looked down at his pad. Almost unnoticed, he had torn off the sheet of doodles and had virtually carved words onto the sheet beneath.
He counted. Gant refuted his having been burned five times. He mentioned fire, though - just once. Vladimirov realised he had scribbled each of the words separately, each time they were spoken. Taking Ganfs fevered dictation. He had written water, too. Gant had said that, apparently, three times. And, drowning - twice…
Burning, drowning, water, fire, landed…
Vladimirov realised how much depended upon the tapes, the solution, the moment. He had to find the answer - !
Water three times, drowning twice, landed once… His ballpoint pen almost surreptitiously linked the three circled words by trailing lines. Drowning and water were like balloons floating yet anchored above the word landed…
He remembered Andropov asking about the aircraft being landed on a frozen lake -
And then he knew
Landed - water - drowning.
He had broken the code. He knew what Gant had done. He had landed the MiG-31 on a frozen lake, and the ice had given way and he had almost drowned. And there was no trace of the aircraft because the water had frozen over it.
He had discounted the lakes in the designated area because there was no shelter for that black aircraft standing on white snow and ice. But, under the ice- !
His hand was shaking. He looked up, to find Andropov watching him intently. Vladimirov hardly heard Gant shouting for attention in the moment before he tumbled to the floor. Andropov gestured for the tape to be switched off, and Vladimirov announced in a quiet .hoarse voice:
'The MiG-31 is at present under the ice of a frozen lake, Comrade Chairman. I am certain of it.'
'Explain.' Vladimirov did so. Andropov stared at him, his face expressionless. Then, in the ensuing silence, which seemed endless, his features became intently reflective. Andropov was evidently weighing the consequences of his acceptance of the general's theory. Eventually, the Chairman spoke. 'I think we should consult the map. Perhaps you would lead on, General Vladimirov.' Then he turned to the senior interrogator. 'That will be all, Comrade Deputy Director. Thank you.' It was evident that the senior interrogator derived little comfort from the flat, non-committal tones.
Vladimirov reached the door. Andropov followed him into the huge underground room. Heads turned to them, then returned to appointed tasks, as they crossed the floor together and climbed the ladder onto the gallery. Expectant faces looked up as they entered the control room of the command centre. Yet no one joined them at the fibre-optic map. Finnish Lapland remained as they had left it, except for a dotted red line that had inched south-east during their absence.
'Well?' Andropov asked, surrendering the consequences to Vladimirov.
The general traced the dotted red line with his finger. The reconnaissance party had made good time, moving on a very narrow front, retracing Gant's journey… from a lake, he reminded himself. Where? His finger continued southeastward, moving swiftly over the roads and tracks he had at first nominated. How could he have been so stupid - ?
Two lakes, almost in a direct line with the route of the reconnaissance party; certainly within the tolerances which allowed for slight changes
of direction by the American. One of the lakes was rounded, the other longer and narrower. He recalled the scale. Either might have done…
And there was a third lake to the north of that pair, and a fourth to the east. Four lakes. The red dotted line was closest to the pair of lakes. His finger tapped the surface of the map.
'There,' he said, 'First priority - a reconnaissance of those two lakes.' He stared at Androppv.until the chairman silently nodded his head. Then he said, more loudly, 'Major, please check these co-ordinates, then transmit them to our reconnaissance party. At once!
A young major in the GRU hurried forward to join them at the map.
ELEVEN:
Crossing The Border
Harris stopped the hired car, switched off the engine, and turned in his seat. For a moment he appeared to study Gant and Anna with a cool objectivity, then he said, 'I'll just call in and check with my people in Leningrad. The border is ten miles up the road…' He pointed through a windscreen that was already smeared with snow now that the wipers had been switched off. 'I don't want us to get caught out by any alarm or increased security. The Finns are waiting for us. They'll have signalled Leningrad in case of trouble. We passed a telephone box on the edge of the village.' He smiled. 'Best not to park near it - if any one sees me now, they'll assume I'm a local. Just sit tight. I won't be long.'
Harris opened the door. Snow gusted in. He climbed out and slammed the door behind him. Gant turned his head and watched him trudge away, back towards the few scattered lights of the tiny hamlet through which they had passed a minute earlier. Harris had pulled the car off the main road, into a lay-by which was masked by tall bushes heavy with snow.
Harris disappeared from view. Gant turned to Anna.
'Check your papers again,' he instructed. He pulled his own documents from his breast pocket, unbuttoning his overcoat to do so. As he opened the travel documents and visas, he wondered once more about Anna. She had accepted the papers Harris had supplied, and the cover story. She had examined the documents periodically during their three-hour car journey from Kolpino, via the outskirts of Leningrad and the industrial city of Vyborg. Yet he sensed that she still in no way associated herself with them. They were like a novel she had picked out for the journey and in which she had little interest.