Authors: Craig Thomas
Priabin appeared to be about to speak, but then he slumped back against the window blind, his eyes staring at Gant.
Gant said quietly, 'Come with me to the border, Anna - get me out, and I promise they'll let you go. If you let him kill me, they'll turn you over to his people. His plan won't work because the Company won't let it work. My way, you have a chance - his way, you have none.'
'You'll be his hostage, Anna.'
'Sure she will. But, there's a way out at the end of it. All you'd do for her is to put her in the bag for the rest of her life - do you want that?
Really
want it?'
Priabin blinked slowly, heavily. His features expressed confusion, indecision. 'I can't let you go,' he said. Gant thought that he was speaking to Anna, but the remark was addressed to himself. 'I can't do that.'
Must be no more than three or four minutes, Gant told himself. Stay with this.
'You could go home, resign from the ministry, take a job where you're no use to them. They'll be angry, but they won't be able to stop you. And they won't turn you over just for the hell of it.' His voice was soft, the syllables like careful footsteps through a minefield. She looked up at him, attentive, almost beginning to hope. Gant squashed a sense that he might be lying to her, that the Company might indeed turn against her and betray her to the KGB.
'I'll help,' he said. 'Get me to Finland - keep this guy off my back until we reach the border, and I promise you'll walk away free. Come to Helsinki with me - ' he added urgently. Two minutes, was the train already beginning to slow - ? 'Talk to the Company-talk to Charlie Buckholz or to Aubrey…' The names confused her, but he pressed on: 'Aubrey would be on your side. It wouldn't take long, don't come unless you want to. Just get me over the border alive. That way you have a chance - his way, there isn't a hope in hell you can get away free!'
The train was slowing -
Priabin stared at Gant, then at Anna. When his gaze returned to the American, there was a deep, unsatisfied hatred in his eyes. The pistol was still aimed at the centre of Gant's chest, and the man was still intent upon using it. It depended on Anna. Now they were silent and watching him once more, he had no chance of jumping from the door of the slowing train.
The lights of a small town through the snow. White fields. The green splash of a signal light at the trackside.
'Well?' he asked.
Anna looked up. She reached for Priabin's hand, and clutched it. Still looking at Gant, she said: 'I must do it, Dmitri. I must do as he suggests - '
'No!'
'My darling, I
must
. You've wanted only to help me - we kept it from each other, but all you wanted to do was help me.
Now, please
help me. Help me, my darling. Let him go, and let me go with him. Don't follow us, don't stop us… I'll come back, I swear. You know I will. But let him get away, and we can both be free. They
will do
it, won't they?' she asked Gant.
He nodded. 'The people I know - they'll let you go. I swear they will.'
Station lights, rushing at first, then slowing to walking pace as they passed the window.
'Quickly, Anna,' he said, looking at Priabin. The gun was cradled in his lap. His face was miserable, angry and defeated and fearful for her safety.
'Dmitri -'
He nodded, just as the train sighed to a complete stop. 'Yes,' he said, then added to Gant: 'It had better work, American. It had better work!'
'It will. I swear - '
'Then get your coats and luggage. I'll escort you - '
'No,' Gant said.
'Yes. Your excuse for leaving the train here is flimsy, suspicious. With me, you will be asked no questions.'
'And afterwards ?'
'I'll wait for the next train. I'll wait for you in Leningrad, Anna - '
She rushed into his arms while Gant gathered the coats and luggage. He felt the ache of their passion, the intensity of their relationship. He had walked through the minefield, but until now he had never realised quite how dangerous it had been. And, deep inside himself, he felt something he could only describe as envy.
He owed her. He would, at least, try on her behalf -
'Come on,' he said, turning to them, interrupting their kiss, almost embarrassed by it. 'Hurry - '
Brooke shone his lamp on the nosewheel strut of the Firefox for what might have been the tenth or twelfth time. He could not help his reaction, avoid the jumpy tension in his body. It reminded him vividly of that period of childhood when he had avoided walking on the cracks in paving stones, always followed the borders of rugs and carpets, always checked and checked again that the light was properly switched off - at first it had needed four checks, then six, then eight… He had thought he was mad, until he discovered that half his classmates engaged in the same obsessive routines. Checking the ropes around the three undercarriage legs was now the same kind of thing. He felt almost obsessional. They had to be right. The raising of the aircraft was about to begin, everything depended on these three nylon ropes, on his checking them…
He bobbed beside the nosewheel strut. The rope passed several times around it, wound over heavy padding to avoid damage to the undercarriage leg. For that reason, too, the rope was high on the leg. He tugged, quite unnecessarily, at the nylon rope once more, ran the beam of his lamp along it as it stretched away towards the shore.
Yes, he thought, nodding his head - yes.
He turned his back on the aircraft, his lamp's beam running Over the MO-MAT that reached down from the shore to the nosewheel. The portable roadway was of fibreglass-reinforced plastic and lay over the mud and rubble of the lake bed, the incline of the shore itself and the trampled snow of the cleared site beyond that. The Firefox would be winched along its non-skid surface, moving easily and smoothly, in theory, up onto dry land. The light bounced and wobbled over the waffle-like appearance of the MO-MAT, then Brooke's head bobbed out of the water and he began walking easily up the lessened incline of the shore. As he removed his facemask, he saw Waterford and Buckholz, dressed in white parkas, silhouetted against the lights suspended from the perimeter trees. They were standing together on the MO-MAT, waiting for him.
Snow flew across the glow of the lights as Buckholz waved his hand in Brooke's direction. The SBS lieutenant returned the wave. It was all right - they could begin.
'Yes,' he said, nodding. He turned to look at the frozen lake, just as the American and Waterford were doing. 'Anything in the latest report from the Nimrod?' he asked. An SBS corporal took his air tanks and facemask, and Brooke climbed into the parka. He did not feel cold.
'Sod all,' Waterford replied. 'Nothing.'
'They still don't have Gant - he's on his way to Leningrad,' Buckholz said. 'He didn't tell them.'
Through the curtains of snow that seemed dragged across the scene at irregular intervals, Brooke located a lump of timber floating in the patch of clear water. It was wrapped in Dayglo tape, and was attached by a thin line to the nose of the Firefox. Beyond it, more difficult to make out but spectrally visible, a huge crucifix of planks and logs, similarly wrapped with luminous tape, represented the position of the aircraft under the ice. He and his divers had measured that outline. Now, all that remained was for the ice marked by the cross to be broken where it had thinly reformed after the plane had sunk. Then the winching operation could begin.
Brooke sensed the excitement in the American beside him. It matched his own. Waterford looked grim, but the expression was habitual. Brooke could not deduce any meaning from it.
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.