Authors: Craig Thomas
But now, but now, his thoughts repeated. Where was Gant? Did they have him? He had to
know
.
He was deeply afraid. He had to talk to Vitsula, he had to have a report of Gant's arrival at the border, his crossing-if he arrived,
if
he crossed…
He had to. He needed news of Gant much as he might have needed a tranquilliser. Had to have news, had to - at once…
'Yes, Peter - I understand. I must talk to Helsinki. Message ends.'
He turned away from the console, rubbing his cheeks vigorously with his hands. He realised his palms were damp with nervous perspiration. Curtin had moved on to the subject of air transportable fuel cells and the number required. At Bardufoss, with the Royal Norwegian Air Force's Tactical Supply Squadron, things we're still happening. Everything was happening. The Hercules was already being loaded. Met. reports indicated that the dawn window in the appalling weather would occur, and the Slrop could take place on schedule. Hydraulic and lubricating oils now, and oxygen cylinders…
Madness, Aubrey could not help pronouncing to himself. He had taken leave of his senses. To have ever
conceived
of such a scheme -!
The radio operator had signalled Helsinki. Director-General Vitsula of Finnish Intelligence might already be seated before a console, awaiting his message. He must talk to him -
Aubrey knew there was nothing Vitsula could do. The Finns could not, would not cross the border. Gant was on his own until he crossed into Finland.
If he was still alive -
He must talk to Helsinki, must pretend, for his own sake, that there was something that could be done, that there were reassurances that might yet be gained. Mere talk. Filling the accusing silence.
The nose of the Firefox lowered, seemed to droop like the beak of some huge, black, drinking bird, as it moved over the crown of the slope onto the level stretch of the MO-MAT. Buckholz, who had been waiting for a sign of eventual success, felt relief begin to invade his chilled body. The winches creaked. He sensed the huge weight of the aircraft as he watched the nosewheel inching forward along the portable runway, dragging the long, streaming fuselage behind it. The nylon lines quivered with strain, and he realised that the three anchor trees that held the chain-winches must be under the same strain. They seemed to protest, sounding like the amplified noises of aching muscles.
Yet he felt relieved; close to success, Moresby's head and shoulders above the cockpit sill were another sign; an imitation pilot, making the Firefox appear to be an aircraft once more. Half an hour ago, it had been different. The undercarriage had become threatened by rocks and rubble on the lake bed. Brooke and his divers had had to inflate huge black buoyancy bags beneath the aircraft's wings to lift the undercarriage clear before it suffered structural damage. Then, when the rocks had been left behind, or removed, the divers had had to carefully deflate the bags once more and lower the undercarriage - main wheels first, very slowly and steadily - back to the lake bed. Though everyone had emphasised that it was no more than a hitch, it had affected Buckholz. Once winching had recommenced, he had obsessively watched the nosewheel, measured its progress - waited for it to reach and surmount the crown of the slope.
He turned to look at the winching teams, at the taut ropes and the quivering trees. Then back to the fuselage of the aircraft. Then the winching teams once more; knowing that he was ignoring the real drama of the scene. Moresby was securing the ejector seat, to which any ordinary auto-destruct system would be rigged. He was ensuring that no accident could trigger it. Then he could begin to search the cockpit for any other mechanical or electrical system designed to ensure the destruction of the most secret equipment aboard the aircraft. Buckholz, as a layman, could not believe in the drama of the auto-destruct. For him, it was easier to imagine a rope breaking, a tree giving way, an undercarriage leg buckling, even snapping under the strain imposed by the winches. And Moresby was doing nothing; there was no atmosphere of tension generated from the cockpit. Expertise disguised danger. A bobbing head in a woollen cap, framed by the thrown-back hood of a white parka. Buckholz could not believe that the Firefox would explode.
The tree holding the winch attached to the port undercarriage leg appeared to quiver as he turned once more to look at it. The men on the winch, backs bent, suggested nothing was wrong by their continued, rhythmical movements. The Royal Engineer captain had his back to the tree, hands on his hips, watching the Firefox labour towards him. The nose of the aircraft was fully level now, the two remaining undercarriage wheels poised to roll over the crown of the slope.
The port line was quivering more exaggeratedly than the other two. Its marker flag dancing. Buckholz turned his gaze to the anchor tree. One of the two winchmen had straightened and was about to turn towards his officer. The tree had begun to tilt forward. He glanced at the aircraft. Moresby's head and shoulders, the two rear undercarriage wheels poised to level the fuselage, the two other lines straining, the port line dancing, seeming to slacken…
He opened his mouth. His words were cut off by a rifle-like crack. The anchor tree filing down its weight of snow, shuddered again, then the cleaning was filled with the noise of tearing roots. Buckholz moved one pace. The engineer captain turned, raising his head as he moved to one side very slowly. The two winchmen abandoned the winch. Pistol-like cracks. The scene consisted, almost solely of sound. Hardly any movement. Monochrome - snow, trees, portable runway, the black aircraft like a creature attempting to return to the water. The roots snapped and broke in a succession of small explosions. The winchmen and the engineer captain flung themselves to either side of the tree as it lurched, then staggered as if entirely free of its roots, and began to fall.
It would miss the Firefox, miss the -
The thought became outdated in the next instant. The two remaining nylon lines began to dance and wave their marker flags as the first one had done. The aircraft was slewing to starboard, turning its nose towards Buckholz. He watched the port line slacken as the tree fell slowly into the clearing. Someone shouted, or perhaps cried out in pain. Everything was slow. Buckholz realised that the tree was moving faster than the men around it. Its dark branches enfolded a man who had hardly begun to run. Buckholz heard his muffled scream. The two lines danced wildly as the Firefox seemed to lurch backwards. He heard the winches groan, sensed the two remaining anchor trees quiver.
The nosewheel was still moving backwards, he was certain of it.
He saw Moresby's head and shoulders, then his upper torso as he stood up in the cockpit, gripping the sill with both mittened hands. Moresby's mouth opened. Some of the overhead netting, caught by the falling tree, ripped and floated downwards like part of a stage backcloth. Snow billowed and fell. Branches were dragged from neighbouring trees, more netting pursued that already torn. The slack line snaked out of the winch and whipped across the clearing. One man fell, another ducked beneath the whiplash. The nylon line slithered to rest across the MO-MAT.
Moresby shouted an order. Buckholz did not hear it. He was aware of Waterford at his shoulder and then the soldier moved towards the Firefox, yelling like Moresby, waving his arms as if to increase his circulation; the two remaining anchor trees shuddered, depositing snow. The engineers were already checking the winches, the trees, the lines; moving as if under water.
Monochrome -
Then terrible colour. Someone screamed, and the noise appeared to conjure up flame. On the far side of the clearing, the camouflage netting had fallen onto the stove that was supplying the relieved winching teams with hot drinks. The nose of the Firefox strained like the head of a roped bull. The nosewheel had slid sideways, but backwards too. The groaning anchor trees were slowly releasing the winches, which in turn released the ropes inch by inch. The fire roared up, catching the matting and setting it alight. A man burned, then doused the flames by rolling over and over in the snow, thrashing about in agony.
Only Waterford seemed to be moving towards the scene.
Then others. Other noises, other orders. The flames roared up in a fountain. Men rolled logs forward, behind the two undercarriage wheels, then behind the nosewheel. The undercarriage resisted the attempt to block its retreat to the water. The lines shuddered, their marker flags waving frenziedly. The anchor trees were almost bare of their weight of snow. Above the yelling, Buckholz listened for the first groan, the first pistol-shots of snapping roots. He knew the aircraft was destined to roll backwards into the lake.
Without realising he had moved forward into the chaos of the scene. Flame gouted, a tiny ineffectual spray of extinguisher foam reached towards it. Buckholz bent and rolled a log behind the starboard wheel. The nose of the Firefox had turned through perhaps thirty degrees, seeming to fight against the restraint of the remaining lines. The tyre began to mount the log - other logs were jammed against his own. The port wheel, too, was being blocked by logs.
'Get another line on the port leg!' he heard Moresby shouting somewhere above him. As he looked beneath the belly of the Firefox, he saw extinguisher foam arcing through the snowy air towards the fire. Then flame retaliated, licking upwards into the overhead netting that remained. Men ran towards the port side of the aircraft, unreeling a nylon line. He heard Moresby directing his men from the cockpit.
'Get that moved!' Waterford cried out. Buckholz could see the soldier outlined by flame, so close to the fire that he appeared to be burning himself. His body was bent, he was dragging a box-like container. Ammunition - the ammunition supplies were stored at the edge of the clearing. Buckholz could not move. He was kneeling beneath, the starboard wing, the tyre trying to surmount the jammed logs acting as chocks. He stared in horrified fascination as the ammunition boxes were slowly - so slowly - dragged clear of the flames. They were doused with foam, the fire was attacked with more foam. The line just above his head quivered, its dance now a shudder, something close to a climax -
He turned to look. The trees were quivering, but did not appear to be tilting forward into the clearing. The crackling of his R/T drew his attention to the babble of orders and responses and reports. The team secured the new line to the port undercarriage leg. The aircraft seemed to sense its imminent restraint, and lurched further, skewing round, lifting the starboard wheel almost over the jam of logs beside Buckholz.
'Here - !' he called. Someone was beside him almost at once. 'Hold on here!'
He stood up, gripping the makeshift wooden lever the other man had placed against the pile of logs. Together, they attempted to hold the pressure of the aircraft's weight, trying to keep the logs from rolling away from the wheel. Immediately, Buckholz was gasping for breath and his arms and back and legs ached. A third and fourth man joined them; another crude braking lever was jammed against the logs. It did not seem to ease the pressure on Buckholz's muscles. He grunted as a substitute for protest.
'Then take the bloody risk with
that
tree, Captain!' Moresby yelled in the R/T, and was acknowledged immediately. 'Don't slacken the line, you stupid buggers! Pay it out ahead-yes, that's it… take the strain, you silly sods, or we'll all be in the bloody shit!' Beneath the language and the apparent panic, there was expertise. 'Get the two remaining trees anchored before they give way!' Moresby continued. 'Lash each of them to three other trees, nearest ones to them. Come on, before they uproot themselves too!'
'Come on, come
on
-' Buckholz recited, finding the words in his grunting breaths. The man beside him took up the words like a chant. The tyre squeaked in protest against the logs. 'Come on, come on, come on - '
The captain ordered his men to attach the winch to the selected tree. Buckholz's leg muscles went into spasm, but they were a great distance from him. The colour of the fire seemed to lessen as it was reflected on the sheen of ice already forming on the aircraft's belly. There was a scorched smell on the snowy wind - netting, canvas, clothing, and something else he did not want to identify...
flesh
.
The strain became worse. His mittened hands were welded to the wooden lever, his arms welded to his hands, his shoulders locked above his hurting back and buttocks.
'Come on - get on with it, Captain!' Moresby was yelling again.
'Come on, come on, come on…'
'Make sure that the bloody fire's out! Look after - who is it, Henderson? - and get the poor sod out from under that bastard tree!' Waterford's orders bellowed over the R/T.
He heard the two remaining winches yield the nylon lines inch by inch, as the anchor trees bent. The tyre that filled his gaze seemed to lift further, almost mounting the logs. Then a rapid noise in the distance, at the edge of the clearing -
'Oh, Jesus- !' he wailed. Rapid clicks, quiet pistol-shots. He was about to warn the men with him to get out of the way, to save themselves, when he realised it was the chain-winch winding the line through to take up the slack as rapidly as possible. Three lines now, almost three, three in a moment or two -
'Come on, come on, come on…'
'Fuck this for-'
'Come on!' Moresby yelled. 'Have you finished anchoring the other trees?'
Then he saw the line on the port leg snap straight, take up the strain, quiver and remain still. He heard the single winch click and click again and again. The nose of the Firefox steadied, as if the animal it had become sensed a superiority of strength in its captors. He exhaled in a great sigh.
'Is that tree holding?' Moresby shouted.
'For the moment, sir,' the engineer captain replied.
'Anchor it to three secondary trees, then.'
'Sir.'
Someone near Buckholz grunted a cheer. In front of him, the tyre had slid back behind the little barricade of logs. It just rested against them now. He raised his eyes. The port and nosewheel lines were shivering into still tension. The trees - did they still quiver and lean or was it the cold sweat in his eyes, the effort he was making, that gave them the appearance of movement? He lowered his gaze to the starboard wheel. The tyre had moved away from the logs.