Authors: Craig Thomas
He crested a ridge, and the trees seemed to straggle more, with brighter snowy spaces between them. The morning was advanced, the light was pale grey. Slowly, he urged his body forward down the slope towards the unseen shore of the larger lake. He felt tense and excited, as if approaching some important promotional interview. He skirted the bole of a fir, glimpsed a stretch of snow-covered ice clear of trees, and came to a halt. He heard the slither of other stopping skis. By hand signals, he urged his men to cover. Rifles were quickly unwrapped and checked, ski-sticks planted like the cross-poles of wigwams for rifle rests. Trees became cover, the hardware of an ambush.
The major raised his binoculars, adjusted their focus, and stared into the flying snow which swept across the lake. Disappointed he could not see the farther shore, he felt he was gazing into a new and unearthly sunrise. He leant against the bole of the tree, a sergeant on the other side of it, and waited. He knew the answers would emerge from that glow, if there was a momentary change or drop in the wind and the snow was moved aside. He was prepared to wait, even though his jumpy, tense body was little more than an impatient net of nerves.
He waited for ten minutes, perhaps twelve. He heard the muffled noises at first. Compressors, a saw, no, two saws, the cracking, thudding fall of trees. The grind and creak of machinery, the whine of drills and what he presumed might be other power tools. He was reminded of his grandfather's hut at the bottom of the garden where the old man enthusiastically concocted gadgets that never worked, or badly repaired household utensils that had been damaged or broken. The tapestry of sounds comforted and excited him, but supplied no answers to his insistent questions. The voices of men, too, were carried faintly towards him by the wind.
Then he saw it. The snow seemed to retreat across the lake like a curtain, and he fine-focused his glasses after raising them quickly to his eyes. He stretched his eyelids, cleared his throat, then saw -
It had to be the MiG-31. It had to be exactly what they had been sent to find. It left him breathless. A black shape at the back of what might have been a stage set. Men half-swallowed by the cockpit or swarming over the tail section and the main fuselage. Great trailing hoses blowing air or supplying something, lay about the aircraft. A wide snail-track of portable runway ran down to the edge of the water - yes, water, where the ice had been broken…
'My God,' he whispered. 'My God, it
was
in the lake! Do you see, that, sergeant? It
was
in the lake!'
'Yes, sir. What are they doing to the aircraft, sir?'
'I don't know. They must be dismantling it. Yes, they must be taking it apart, ripping out all the secret stuff, the stuff they want…'
The black shape, the men, the noises and the now visible machinery… he scanned along the shore. Trees being cleared, more huge rolls of portable runway, a yellow - what was that? - yellow. Small tractor… where had he seen those before? Towing aircraft - ? Yes, at airports and airfields. One black - football? - almost hidden in the trees, certainly camouflaged from the air, and other, similar shapes behind it. Then the curtain was drawn once more just as he saw the rifles worn by a handful of the men around and in front of the aircraft. Troops, armed troops -
And then it was gone, the noises now the sole indication that they were not alone on the shore of the frozen lake.
There are too many of them, he thought. Then - do I tell Moscow what I fear?
'Sir?' the sergeant began, his voice seeming to possess a weight of insight.
The major nodded. 'Yes,' he said. 'Get Melnik here with the radio - quickly.' The sergeant turned and moved off, but the major continued speaking softly, as if answering the sergeant's unspoken question. 'Yes, they're going to try to fly that plane out!'
Vladimirov stood before the tall fibre-optic map in the control gallery. His body quivered with excitement. He assessed his appearance as being like that of one of his family's hunting dogs; a luxury' his rank and income had enabled him to resurrect from the family's past. The scent of the game, the dog's rippling excitement which the noise of the gun and the fall of the bird would convert to speed, to capture.
Andropov stood next to him, rubbing his spectacles heavily and repeatedly, as if to re-assess the information on the map and the transmission from the reconnaissance party. Lights and indicators had been bled into the map, and the projection of Finnish Lapland had been altered. Now, an enlargement of the area of the two lakes almost filled the entire surface. The cleared site the major had seen was marked, as was the position of the major's party.
Andropov had not congratulated Vladimirov, but there had been a surprised, almost mocking respect in his pale eyes, before both of them had abandoned their coffee and hurried across the gallery to the map.
As if unable to bear the proximity of the map, the Chairman of the KGB wandered away from Vladimirov. When the general turned to look at him, he realised that Andropov, having replaced his spectacles, was simply looking through the glass down at the main floor of the underground command centre. His gaze was fixed upon the huge map table surrounded by operators; a table displaying the same large-scale images of the two lakes, the position of the major and his party, the location of the MiG-31.
Eventually, as if aware of being observed, Andropov turned to Vladimirov and said, 'Do you agree with the major's prognostication, General Vladimirov?' It was a complex, subtle question asked in a direct, neutral tone. It prompted Vladimirov to accept responsibility, it was genuinely undecided, it hovered on the verge of disbelief.
'Yes,' Vladimirov said. 'I incline to. His descriptions of equipment, of what he saw, even when I questioned him, were too detailed to be misinterpreted. Transportable fuel cells - his black footballs could be nothing else. Compressors and hoses.'
'But, could they do it? Could
they possibly
do it?'
Vladimirov shook his head. 'I would have thought their attempt likely to end in failure - '
'But not
certain
to end that way?'
'Are
you
prepared to be certain?' Vladimirov countered.
Andropov, as if suddenly made aware of the others in the room, the majority of them military personnel, seemed to scuttle across to Vladimirov's side. To create a fiction of competence, he adjusted his glasses to make a renewed study of the map. Its colours palely mottled his features. Eventually, he turned to Vladimirov and said quietly. 'You realise what this means? You realise
everything
?
'I realise.'
'Very well, then. What do we do?' There was no emphasis on the plural, but it was a commitment from Andropov. Out of necessity, Vladimirov concluded. The man had no idea how to deal with the situation. He was no longer seeking a scapegoat; rather, he required a skilled, expert assistant. Vladimirov felt himself burn with purpose, what he would have mocked in a younger officer as crusading zeal. It was at once both ridiculous and gratifying.
'We can do nothing-for the moment,' Vladimirov said calmly, glancing through the sheaf of papers that represented the detailed Met. reports he had requested as soon as the major's report had been relayed to them. Andropov's face was angry, and also he seemed disappointed. 'We can only prepare for action - we cannot act. Unless you wish to bomb the area from high altitude?' Vladimirov added, smiling. Andropov glowered at him.
Vladimirov pondered the map. He could, hopefully even in this foul weather, continue to assemble troops ready to move them into Lapland. In the hours after his first realisation that Gant must have landed on a frozen lake, and as a preliminary to the location of the MiG by the reconnaissance party, he had ordered the Leningrad Military district to place Engineer Troops and
desant
commandos from one of their advance Airborne Divisions, on alert. Already, some units were at the assembly point, the military airfield near the town of Nikel, at the meeting point of the Soviet, Finnish and Norwegian borders. The facilities at Nikel were adequate, just, for a swift helicopter assault across the border in the required numbers to guarantee success. But, the commandos mobilised and at present at Nikel, were fewer than seventy. They had been intended only as a guard for the more vital Engineer Troops who would salvage, with the assistance of a huge MiL flying crane, the MiG-31 from whichever lake contained it. Now, any salvage operation would necessitate an armed attack; a rescue by force.
Strangely, perhaps because it so closely paralleled his own embryo plan, he had recovered swiftly from the shock of discovering that he had been beaten to the site, beaten to the recovery of the aircraft. He had clenched his fist the moment he received the news, felt his nails digging into his palm until the pain became numbness. Then he realised that the weather had closed upon the lake. They were isolated. They could not be reached. They were locked in, immobile. If they intended to fly the aircraft out, they would need another break in the weather. It was a stalemate…
To his advantage. The British and Norwegians and Americans had done much of his work for him.
Andropov had moved to the door of the room. He was in conversation with a tall, dark-haired young man with an easy, confident manner which now seemed harassed and half-afraid. Vladimirov returned to his map and his thoughts.
To fly the aircraft to Norway, to somewhere like Bardufoss, was a distance that could be covered in minutes. The aircraft would need to be no more than half-airworthy for that short hop. Was it possible? Someone - Aubrey, perhaps? - evidently thought it was.
They needed a window in the weather. They dare not risk a take-off with a patched-together aircraft in the kind of weather that now prevailed. It would kill the pilot, lose them the MiG.
So -
They were waiting for the break that was promised for late that afternoon. He glanced at his watch. Perhaps in seven or eight hours' time.
The site had to be occupied by Soviet troops and the secrets of the MiG protected. If they had been photographed, stripped down, examined, discovered, then -
No one could be allowed to leave with that knowledge, with those secrets. He
had
to put troops into the area, for every possible reason.
It would be close. His helicopters would move just as the weather cleared. According to the Met. people, they would have the disadvantage. Thirty minutes' delay as the weather cleared from the west.
Now his excitement was intense. He sensed the danger, the knife-edge, and welcomed it. He was combative, certain, aggressive. The prize was tangible. His troops must surround the clearing beside the lake, prevent damage to the airframe, prevent take-off if that was feasible.
Kill-
Andropov approached him, his face grim. Vladimirov allowed a smile of triumph to appear on his lips, then said gruffly, 'What is it?'
'I-I have received a report that the American has been allowed to escape. He crossed into Finland hours -
hours
ago!' Andropov was sweating. His forehead shone in the lights. He would be blamed; the KGB had failed.
Vladimirov blenched inwardly at the news. He understood fully now.
Gant.
Vladimirov knew that Gant was the intended pilot of the MiG-31, as he had been before. He could not envisage, even wildly imagine, how he could be transported to the lake. But he knew that that was the intention.
Somehow, when the first Soviet gunships drove down on that clearing, when the first commandos dropped from their transport helicopters, Gant would be there. With a lifting triumph filling his chest and stomach, Vladimirov knew that Gant would die.
The snow had turned to sleet soon after first light, sliding away from the wipers to the edges of the windscreen. The Mercedes had become a cocoon for Gant; warm, moving, self-contained. The Finnish Intelligence officers, though he sensed their curiosity, were respectfully quiet. They supplied him with vodka and coffee, had bought him breakfast at a service station restaurant - coffee, eggs, herring, cheese, rolls, jam. He had resisted at first because of the pungent unexpectedness of the fish so early in the morning, but then his hunger had insisted. Anna retreated; she was no longer present in the warmth and quiet bustle of the restaurant.
The military airfield was north-east of Helsinki. The Mercedes turned in, papers were checked at the guardroom, and then they drove directly out onto the tarmac. Through the windscreen, through the sleet and against the grey cloud scudding low across the runways and hangars, Gant saw a Harrier in RAF camouflage, standing like a fleeting visitor apart from the planes bearing Finnish markings. The aircraft surprised him, now that his next movement, the coming hours, were forced to his attention. He was reluctant to leave the Mercedes and the quiet, respectful, reassuring company of the Finns.
A drab-painted trailer was drawn up near the Harrier. It had been towed into position by a Land-Rover. The arrangement of the vehicles and the aircraft disturbed him. It appeared temporary; a beginning.
'Major Gant?' the Finn next to him on the rear seat enquired politely, as if to re-establish some former identity. 'Would you please leave the car now and go to the trailer?' The Mercedes drew up a matter of yards from the trailer with its blank windows and dark-grey, wet flanks. 'Please, Major Gant - '
He gripped the door handle. All three of them were watching him with a patient curiosity. Already distancing themselves.
'Thanks,' he said.
'Our pleasure,' one of them said with an engaging smile. 'Good luck, Major.'
'Sure.'
He got out of the car, hunching his shoulders immediately against the cold sting and splash of the driven sleet. He hurried the few yards of wet concrete to the trailer. The door opened, as if at some electronic signal from himself. He climbed the two steps, wiped his feet on a rough mat, and only then looked up as the door closed behind him.
He recognised neither man in the room. There was a smell of wetness from the olive-green flying suit worn by one of them. He seemed to appraise Gant more quickly, but less expertly, than the one in the fur hat and the leather overcoat. A pilot's helmet lay on a plain wooden table, flanked by two cups.