Authors: Craig Thomas
Empty your lungs, he told himself.
Look -
See-
He saw the dinghy-knife trailing its safety cord which his right hand had withdrawn from its sheath, he saw it hack at his left hand, left arm, so that he wanted it to stop. Feeling returned to his left arm as it cringed in anticipation of a wound. Then the sleeve was torn, sliced open, and he expected blood but there was none and his arm drifted down towards him, to be clenched against his stomach, its torn sleeve freed from the canopy.
Feebly, he kicked with numb feet, drained and leaden legs. His face was uplifted, but everything seemed dark. He kicked again, leaving the napalm-fire behind him now, afraid at that moment that it was already too late, that he was blacking out and would open his mouth, let the bubbles dribble out as his body slackened…
He felt his boots scrabbling on the metal of the Firefox's nose, and pushed upwards. It was only a matter of feet, but in time it seemed endless, because there were gaps of inky, swirling black between his attempts to count…
One, one-two… black… two-two-two… black… one-two…
Black -
Grey -
Black -
Then light.
He roared as he expelled the air, felt his lungs painfully deflate, then draw in cold new air which hurt and made him cough. He swallowed water. His cold arms and legs wouldn't tread water. Breathe…
Inhale - hold - exhale… inhale - hold - exhale… sweeter now. The air tasted. It was sweet, cold, pure. His body hung on the surface of the water, exhausted, as if threatening to slip back beneath it. Life… jacket…
His hands fumbled on his chest, dabbling there uselessly, it seemed, for whole minutes.
Then the life-jacket inflated, bobbing him unresistingly onto his back, holding up his hanging, useless, numb legs, pushing his arms out into a crucifix, keeping his chin out of the icy water. He breathed air gently, savouring it, pushing at the water with gentle movements.
A long time later, it seemed, his feet dragged gratingly against the pebbles of the shore. He was almost sitting in the water. He tried to stand up, could not, fell on his side - the life-jacket turning his face to the grey sky at once - and then turning wearily onto all fours and crawled the last few feet to the steep, snow-covered bank.
And rested, shuddering with cold, hands and feet and knees still in the water, reminded of warmth and function by the sharp pebbles beneath them. The dinghy-knife was still in his right hand, sticking up out of the water.
When his hands began to pain him with their freezing numbness, and his feet were dead from the cold, he clambered upright, and stood, rocking with exhaustion, gauging the height of the steep bank of the lake and his ability to ascend it. He succeeded in climbing by dragging his body behind his arms up the slope, digging the dinghy-knife deep into the frozen soil and heaving against it, digging it in again further up, heaving his body up to its level. It took him ten minutes; the bank at that point was a steep slope perhaps twelve feet high. He lay, when he had inched over the lip of the slope to the bole of the first fir tree, exhausted, panting, his eyes hardly able to focus. For one thing alone he was thankful. He had left the napalm of his nightmare down there behind him, in the lake with the MiG-31.
Later, he ate chocolate. Later still, when feeling had returned to his hands, he was able to rub life into the rest of his body. The pressure-suit was stiffening as it slowly dried. Later, he inspected the area of water at the neck of the lake, realising that his panicky guess had been near the truth. The stream that acted as the lake's outlet was indeed now frozen. But it must have gone on draining the lake before it, too, froze. The draining water had left an airpocket which had kept the ice thin, dangerous.
Later still, after the noise of a low-flying, searching MiG had faded east of the lake, he realised that he should put some distance between himself and the site of the forced landing. The ice would knit again, form like a cataract over the eye of water the airplane's weight had opened. The Firefox would be totally hidden by the following dawn. Already, the short Arctic day was beginning to fade.
He had the dinghy-knife, the survival pack, his parachute, and the standard-issue Makarov officer's pistol and two spare magazines. He had no extra clothing, and his body was chilled to the bone. The dinghy had drifted out into the lake, like a marker to indicate the airplane's position. He drew the Makarov, hesitated, steadied his aim, and fired twice. The noise was deafening. Birds protested with cold voices. Slowly the dinghy deflated, began to sink. Gant sighed with relief. No trace.
He was alive. Standard procedure dictated that he remain near the aircraft. In this case, he dare not. If they seached for him - when they failed to find any signs of wreckage they could attribute to the Firefox - then they must not find him near the plane. He had to head… north-west, try to make some indentation on the daunting twenty miles or more between his position and the Norwegian border. He had to blindly hope that it was not only the Russians who would be searching for him…
The homing device. The transmitter -
In a new moment of panic, he looked around sightlessly. It was nowhere to be seen.
Had he - ? Had it been switched to transmit? He could remember every movement of his right hand as it sought the dinghy-knife and then his trapped sleeve. Now. he had to recall every moment of the few when the slim black plastic case was cradled in his left hand, against his body. Had he done it, automatically? Had he switched it on…?
His memory fumbled, struggled with the effort of recalling automatic responses, mere reflex actions.
Eventually… yes. Yes, it was switched on. His eyes scanned the ice. The remains of the dinghy had disappeared. He walked clumsily, slowly along the bank - even for the transmitter, he would not allow himself to step onto the treacherous sheet of ice on the lake - searching for what would be no more than a black dot. He did not find it. The landscape was nothing more than black and grey and white.
Finally, he concluded that the transmitter had sunk to the bottom of the lake. If it had dropped onto ice - he was certain he remembered that kind of sound when it fell - it must have slipped off when the ice had been moved or distressed by the underwater eddies created by the moving bulk of the Firefox. It was lost.
Now, distance was his only imperative. He could not stay near the transmitter, near the lake. If he was found, it needed to be miles from here.
His body failed him for a moment, daunted by the prospect of movement, of travel; of survival.
He looked northwards up the lake to where the heavy, crowded trees were little more than a dark, carbon smudge made by someone sketching the scene. The ice was a smooth sheet. He was on the western shore of the lake. He checked his compass and the map he unstrapped from his thigh. In its clear plastic, it had remained dry during his immersion. The pressure-suit was achingly cold.
He looked in the direction he must travel, towards Norway. Conifers crowding to the water's edge, low hills beyond them. He heard the mocking dissuasion of large, unseen birds. He looked down at the water, still like setting jelly, its temperature dropping. The Firefox was undetectable, invisible. It had to be enough to satisfy him; drive him on.
He picked up his parachute and buckled on the harness. He clipped the survival pack to his now deflated life-jacket, and adjusted its weight for comfort. Then he turned away from the lake and entered the trees.
Air Marshal Kutuzov glanced towards the other end of the compartment and the door which led to the small private office the First Secretary used when aboard the Tupolev. Evidently, the Soviet leader and the Chairman of the KGF intended remaining there for the rest of the flight. Kutuzov glanced at his heavy gold watch. Twenty minutes to the principal military airfield south-east of Moscow. He cleared his throat, patting Vladimirov's leg as he spoke. 'Med, I think you have secured the succession for yourself.' The old man tapped the shoulder boards on his own uniform. His pale, rheumy eyes twinkled, and he nodded vigorously. 'You're learning. And in time - just in time…' It was evident that Kutuzov was philosophically drunk…
Vladimirov stared at his own small glass. How many drinks - ? They'd been drinking for less than half an hour. No one gets drunk more quickly than a Russian. What was he drinking to? The American's death? The excessive, almost manic bonhomie of the First Secretary, the cold, glinting appraisals of the still-sober Andropov - both had ceased to irritate or impinge. The vodka had distanced them. He had managed to drown reason and insight like two wasps at the bottom of his glass. Their stings pulled out.
He glanced towards the door of the War Command Centre, then at the door to the First Secretary's office. The Soviet leader had been summoned to the telephone to deal with the diplomatic niceties of airspace intrusions.
Through the vodka, the sense of self-contempt was returning. Vladimirov warned himself against it. And, as if his companion sensed the threatened change of mood, he patted Vladimirov's hand and said: 'Be sensible - continue to be sensible, General Vladimirov.' The formality of the address was intentional. Vladimirov shook his head in what was a gesture of agreement rather than protest. The alcohol stirred like a solid mass lurching across an empty space.
'I know it, I know it,' he murmured. 'It's much better to be - oh, what? Nothing? Better to be nothing.' As he moved his hands angrily, vodka slopped from his glass onto the shining toes of his knee-boots. He watched the oily droplets flow like mercury across the polish. 'I know it.'
He stared again at the door to the War Command Centre. Through it officers had appeared periodically in the past half-hour to make their negative, comforting reports. They were like something added to the vodka, doubly calming. Wreckage photographed, pictures being returned for examination; search planes reporting no distress signals, no electronic emissions, no survivors.
Soon, it would be no more than a matter of experts examining the photographs of the wreckage to confirm that the Firefox and the M1G-25F were destroyed at the same moment in the same area. Then later the Finns would give permission for crash investigators and a recovery party to examine the site and bring the wreckage home. Black boxes would be removed, bodies would be wrapped in plastic sacks and brought back. End. Over. Finished.
The First Secretary had cancelled all over-flights of the crash area before taking his call from the Finnish President. All intrusions of foreign airspace could be apologised for because now they had ceased.
'I am offering you no more than a lesson in survival,' Kutuzov announced. It was the slurred voice of the vodka. 'Because I want
you
to command the air force.
You
.' He was patting Vladimirov's knee slowly and heavily to emphasise each word.
'I know that, old friend,' Vladimirov replied, nodding. Even to hirnself, his words sounded indistinct. He mocked himself silently, reproaching and ridiculing himself as bitterly as he could. He swallowed what little remained in his glass. His stomach surged. 'I've accepted. I - am a member of the team…" He smiled, his lips forming the expression imprecisely. '
How
long before we land?' he added with sudden exasperation.
'Patience. You are now a courtier. You will get used to waiting. It is a talent.'
'Courtier…' Vladimirov murmured.
'Another drink?'
'No, old friend I wouldn't be able to keep it down.'
'No Russian can - we get drunk too quickly.'
'Do you blame us?'
'No.'
The two men stared into their empty glasses. Vladimirov lifted his to reflect the overhead light. He could see the last oily smear in the glass, see the smudges made by his lips and fingertips. Then he stood up, swaying slightly, tall, grey-haired, drunk, but evidently, so evidently, an officer of distinction. As if he saw his form reflected in a mirror, he mocked his appearance. An impressive outward show, even when he was drunk. Hollow man… hollow man.
A young officer opened the door from the War Command Centre. Vladimirov whirled almost too quickly to face him. In his hand he carried a message pad.
Hollow man…
Stop it -
It was impossible to drown the wasps, then.
'What is it?' he snapped, his tongue furry, his eyes glistening. The rest of himself retreated somewhere, to wait for a more opportune moment.
'It's the Tupolev, sir the aircraft commander, Major Antonov. This… I don't think he can understand it…'
Vladimirov snatched the pad, plucking his half-glasses from his top pocket, wobbling them onto his ears. Sobriety nudged him, having returned from its short absence. Antonov would not be the pilot of the Tupolev AWACS aircraft; but the political officer who theoretically commanded the crew. He was a member of GLAVPUR, the armed forces' political directorate. However, he might still be competent aircrew, even though he was on the Tupolev 'Moss' because it flew near all kinds of hostile borders across which its crew might be tempted to take it-
liberating
it and themselves in the process. So, Antonov…
At first, Vladimirov did not understand the report. A frequency-agile signal, intermittent… they'd picked it up once or twice, got a line on it - the first fix - but not a second clear fix which would give them the exact position. They only knew the signal emanated somewhere along a straight line… not near the crash site…
Finally, the request for orders; the passing of the buck. Vladimirov waved the young officer out of his path and stepped into the War Command Centre. Immediately, he sensed the familiar and the desired. Yes, it was a clean, well-lit place. It was comfortable here, at the centre; the uniformed centre.
He would have been criminally stupid, he reflected as he crossed the room, to have thrown all this away - and why, and for what? Because the Soviet leader was a boor and a thug? Because the Chairman of the KGB was a psychotic? Because he loathed their company and their intellectual inferiority? Those would have been his reasons; pride and snobbery. Caste.