Firefox Down (10 page)

'Twenty-four kilometres from the crash site - right on course.'

'No transmission, skipper.'

'ETA - fifteen seconds.'

Eastoe dipped the Nimrod's nose. 'I'm taking her down slowly to avoid creating
any
suspicion - then we'll turn and come back over the crash site. Everyone ready with their Brownies, please.'

The cloud layer rose up to meet the nose of the Nimrod, almost touching it.

'That's it!'

'Christ, what-?'

'The carrier wave. We're locked on now, transmission steady. It's her all right!'

'I'll alter course for the fix.'

The clouds slid around the Nimrod, darkening the flight deck.

'No, it's almost due south of us now - I've got the line… first fix, skipper. Just keep on course - don't alter a bloody thing.'

'South?' Eastoe remarked, genuinely surprised. 'Not at the crash site. Christ, then he didn't go down…?'

'Wait till you find the distance - it could have been thrown upwards of a mile,' the co-pilot offered.

'Jeremiah. Come on, John…'

'Give me time, skipper - fifty, fifty-one, two, three

'Do it now - I'll come back for another run if you need it - ' Eastoe ordered impatiently.

'Right. Got it.' Eastoe hummed tunelessly in the silence. His ears buzzed with anticipation. The tactical navigator would now be drawing his lines on the map, out towards the point where they would intersect and establish the precise position of the homing device. Then they'd know how far away it was - exactly
where
it was.

'It's almost forty kilometres south of us. On what looks like a lake.'

'His PSB-anything?'

'Nothing.'

'If he's in the plane, he'd have it working. So, where the hell is he?'

Gant awoke. Some part of his mind became immediately and completely alert, but he sensed the rest of himself, his thought-processes, his whole personality; struggling to throw off the deep sleep into which he had fallen the moment he climbed into the sleeping bag. Something had woken him - something…

He groaned, then clamped his hand over his mouth. Something, something that could already be as close as the Arctic hare had been when he had shot it -

His hand scrabbled within the sleeping bag, emerging with the Makarov pistol. It was almost completely dark. He could see little more than the glimmer of the snow, the boles of the nearest small trees like fence-posts. He listened, the remainder of his mind and senses becoming alert, shaking off sleep.

He pressed the cold barrel of the Makarov against his face, leaning against the gun as if for support.

Distantly he could hear the noise of helicopter rotors, the whisper that had penetrated his sleep. He had no doubt that the sound was approaching from the east and moving in his direction. Russians… Lights, troops, even dogs…

He kicked the sleeping bag from his legs and began to fold it untidily then thrust it into the survival pack. He hoisted the harness, slipping it over his shoulders even as he began running.

'There!' Aubrey announced immediately he located the coded map reference Eastoe had supplied, his finger tapping at the large-scale map of Finland, which lapped down over the edges of the foldaway table. 'There - in a lake, gentlemen. In a
lake
.' There was a note of triumph in his voice.

'The lake would have been frozen - that's why he might have thought he could land safely,' Buckholz speculated quietly, tugging at his lower lip and glancing towards Curtin for confirmation. The USN Officer nodded.

'He must have gone straight through - or otherwise the Russians would have spotted the Firefox,' Curtin murmured, his brow furrowed. It was evident he was considering Gant's chances of survival.

'Agreed. But it's there.'

'The homing device is there,' Giles Pyott offered. He was still wearing his uniform greatcoat, his brown gloves were held in his right hand. They tapped at the map in a soft rhythm. 'But what else, mm? My guess would be wreckage. Gant must have ejected.'

'Then why is there no trace of Gant's PSB?' Curtin asked gloomily. 'Where is he Colonel Pyott, if he's alive?'

'Mm. Tricky.'

'Maybe he switched it off-or destroyed it,' Buckholz suggested. 'He wouldn't want to get himself picked up by the other side… they're a lot closer than we are, and there are a hell of a lot more of them.' Despite the offer of such qualified optimism, Buckholz shook his head. 'But, maybe he isn't alive. We have to face that possibility.'

'But the Firefox - !' Aubrey protested impatiently.

'It could be in two pieces, two hundred, or two million,' Curtin answered him. Aubrey's face wrinkled in irritation. 'This location is twenty miles from the point where the Foxbat impacted,' Curtin continued. 'That was up here…' He, in turn, tapped the map. It was as if the contoured sheet had become a talisman for them as they gathered around it. Pyott's military cap rested over northern Norway, his gloves now beside it, fingers reaching into the Barents Sea.

'So, it was damaged,' Buckholz said. 'Maybe on fire - twenty miles is nothing. There's no hope down that road, my friends.'

'We really must
know.
' Aubrey snapped in utter exasperation. 'We must have a
look
' As he uttered the words, he was staring up into Pyott's face, like a child expecting assured parental activity.

Giles Pyott smiled thinly. 'Kenneth, my dear chap - let's take this one step at a time. In the ten minutes since I got here from MoD, I've taken over his flying station from poor Bradnum, all in the name of this project of yours…what else would you have me do?'

'Eastoe must overfly - '

'The lake? What about diplomatic noises from the Finns?' Giles Pyott drew a folding chair to him, flicked it open with a movement of his wrist, and sat down. He placed his hands on his thighs, and waited. Three more chairs were lifted from a dozen or more stacked against one wall of the Scampton Ops. Room, and arranged in a semi-circle in front of Pyott. Aubrey seemed content, for the moment, to become the soldier's subordinate. Buckholz was surprised, until he realised that Aubrey was simply playing a waiting game. He expected good things from Pyott, if the colonel from MoD's StratAn Intelligence Committee was given the impression of command, of superior authority.

As if he read the American's thoughts, Pyott smiled and said, 'You're flattering me with your undivided attention, Kenneth… nevertheless, there are things to be done.' Pyott's eyes roamed the Ops. Room. His curled forefinger now rubbed at his small auburn-grey moustache. Scampton was, to all intents and purposes, at their disposal. But, what to do with its resources? Where to begin? 'I agree that Eastoe might make a single overflight. I wonder, however, whether photographs will give us enough information? It's getting pretty dark up there by now.' Aubrey's face, Pyott noticed, wore an intense, abstracted air, like that of a child furiously engaged in building a sandcastle in utter ignorance of the behaviour of tides. Aubrey was preparing himself to bully, to plead - to ignore the diplomatic in favour of the covert. And yet, his priorities might be the only really important ones in this case…

'We need someone to take a really close look,' Aubrey remarked quietly.

'Mm. Director Buckholz - Charles - what is your honest feeling? What do we have up there, at this moment?'

'I side with your Squadron Leader Eastoe, Colonel. Gant was picked up visually, pursued, and shot down. We've got wreckage up there, is my best guess.' Pyott turned to Curtin who merely nodded in support.

'I'm not disinclined to agree with you…' Aubrey made an impatient noise, but remained silent. Pyott continued: 'You all know the delicate political situation. Finland agreed - largely because of personal links between Kenneth and the DG of Finnish Intelligence - to this covert overflight by the MiG-31, if its capture was successful. Perhaps they know, or suspect, what has happened. I would expect them to take a very negative line… unless you, Charles, can convince your government, as I must convince mine, that pressure should be brought to bear?' Pyott shrugged. 'I am suggesting that we hold our fire until we are ordered to proceed by our respective governments. In other words, you and I, Charles, must be very convincing.
Now
, are we prepared to say, hands on hearts, that the Firefox might still be intact and the pilot alive?' He paused, looked at each of them intently. Almost willing them to answer, Aubrey felt. Then he added: 'Well? Time to consider, gentlemen?'

'Not for me,' Aubrey declared firmly. 'It may very well be true. I, for one, must know for certain.' Aubrey glared at Charles Buckholz. 'Charles?'

'I don't know - look, you could be right. I hope to God you are. But - it just doesn't look that way to us.'

'Will you say that it does - just for the moment?'

'I don't know

'We can't just write the whole thing off, Charles - !' Aubrey cried, standing up. His chair collapsed behind him, making a disproportionate noise in the Ops. Room. 'There has been too much expenditure of planning, time, and lives involved. You must want to be certain, surely? The Russians will want to be, and we may already be behind them in a race we didn't even know we'd entered!'

Buckholz's face was puzzled atid a little fearful as he looked up at Aubrey, bent intently over him like a bully. 'I - ' he began, but Aubrey seized upon his hesitation.

'Once they've seen the pictures they took of the crash site, they'll find the Firefox's remains are missing. We know the plane isn't there. Once they know - and they may know it already - they'll be looking for it. And, if it is intact…' He left the threat unelaborated.

Pyott stroked his moustache. 'I think Kenneth has a point, Charles,' he murmured.

'Maybe,' Buckholz replied reluctantly.

Curtin was nodding. 'I think we have to, Mr. Buckholz - we have to follow this thing through.'

Buckholz shrugged heavily. 'Very well. For the moment, I'll lie my head off to Washington. And you'll do the same for London, uh?'

Pyott nodded. 'We will.'

'We must get our political masters to
order
us to go ahead,' Aubrey instructed in a dark, Machiavellian voice, his face at first sombre but breaking into a mischievous smile as he finished speaking.

'OK.'

'Let's not waste time. There are secure telephones in the Briefing Room. You can call Grosvenor Square at once, Charles. We'll wait until you've finished your call before we make ours.'

Buckholz felt himself dismissed, but not slighted. He motioned to Curtin. 'Come on. Gene - let's agree our story before anyone makes a call.'

The two Americans disappeared into the Briefing Room, the door of which led off the main Ops. Room. Giles Pyott and Aubrey watched it close behind them.

'Can we do it?' Aubrey asked quickly.

Instead of answering, Pyott stood up and moved to the huge plot-table in the centre of the underground room. He brooded over the models and tapes and markings on its surface. 'Damn bad show,' he murmured, turning to Aubrey, who now stood alongside him. The crash site was represented on the plot-table by a model of a MiG-25 and the black, futuristic model of the MiG-31. In deadly, fatal conjunction. Deliberately, Aubrey picked up one of the cuelike rods the plotters used to alter the position of symbols on the table. Awkwardly, he reached out with it and shunted the model of the Firefox southwards, letting it come to rest on the blue spot of a lake. For a moment. Aubrey's movements reminded Pyott of a short, bald croupier.

'There!' he said with intense triumph.

'You're convinced it's in one piece?'

'I'm not convinced it's in a million pieces, Giles - besides, we could still learn a great deal from whatever is left of it - from Gant, were he alive. To know, we must have someone
under
the ice, so to speak.'

Pyott rubbed his moustache with a quicker, stronger rhythm. When he faced Aubrey again, he said, 'I know what you want of me, Kenneth. There are some people who would suit, up in the Varahgerfjord at the moment. Some of our Special Boat Service marines… practising landing on an enemy coast from a hunter-killer submarine, that sort of training. Routine stuff. Under the supervision of an old friend of yours - Major Alan Waterford of 22 SAS. Perhaps that seems like the workings of an auspicious fate to you, mm?'

'Can we- ?'

Pyott shook his head. 'Not until we have clearance - a direct
order
to do something. Washington and Number Ten must give that order. You know that, Kenneth.'

'Unfortunately, yes.'

'The Finns gave us permission for the covert overflight of their country, and certain reluctant back-up facilities. They are unlikely, without pressure from our masters, to involve themselves any further in this affair. I must argue, from StratAn's point of view, you from that of SIS. JIC and the Chiefs of Staff will, in all likelihood, have to persuade Number Ten to continue with the affair. It really depends on Washington's attitude.'

Pyott's attention moved from Aubrey to an approaching RAF officer. He had come quickly down the metal steps from the glass-fronted gallery which contained the communications equipment. All that could be seen from the floor of the Ops. Room was a row of bent heads. The Pilot Officer hurried towards them.

'Mr. Aubrey - Colonel Pyott, I think you'd better come quickly. Squadron Leader Eastoe wants to speak to Mr. Aibrey urgently.'

'What is it?'

'I don't know, sir - the Squadron Leader just said it was very urgent and to get you to the mike at once.'

Pyott strode after the RAF officer as soon as the young man turned away. Aubrey scuttled after them both, his eye glancing across a litter of paper cups, bent backs in blue uniform shirts, scribbled blackboards and weather charts, before he concentrated his gaze on the metal steps as he clattered up them behind Pyott. Eastoe was waiting for him behind the glass, pausing on tape for a scrambled spit of sound that would be Aubrey's speeded-up reply.

Aubrey thrust past Pyott and said to the Operator, 'Play it for me.'

'Mr. Aubrey had better be told at once,' Eastoe began, 'even through the ground-clutter and the intermittent snow we're picking up signs of helicopter activity, moving west and southwest. Our best guess is three of them, and that they're troop-carriers. They're not interested in our lake, as far as we can tell - their course would take them north-west of it. Our ETA for the lake is four minutes two. If you want us to go, that is. Over.'