The search would flatten in that sector of the Soviet defence system. Now he had need of at least some fair proportion of the Firefox's speed capability. He opened the throttles and watched the rpm gauges swing over, and the Mach-counter which was his only intimation, other than his ground speed read-out, that he was travelling faster than the speed of sound. He was heading east, towards the mountain chain of the Urals, seeking the shelter, he hoped, of their eastern slopes before turning due north. He could not employ the real cruising capability of the plane. Nevertheless, it was with satisfaction that he watched the numbers slipping through the Mach-counter… Mach 1,1.1, 1.2, 1.3, 1.4, 1.5…
Just below him, the flat, empty, silent expanse of the steppes fled past, receded. The buoyancy he had felt, the clearness and pleasure of the first moments of the flight, returned to him. He was flying the greatest war-plane ever built. It was a meeting of that aircraft, and the only human being good enough to fly it. His egotism, cold, unruffled, calculating, was fulfilled. A visual sighting at the height he was travelling became less and less likely. The supersonic footprint of his passage was narrow at two hundred feet, and there was little below him of human manufacture or human residence to record it. All he needed to avoid was the 'Big Ears' sound detection network. He had no idea of its capability, or location. In the Urals, however, the echoes set up by his passage would confuse any such equipment.
Suddenly, in a violent alteration of mood, he felt naked and his equilibrium seemed threatened. He was running for cover. Despite his better judgement, he pushed the throttles forward and watched, with satisfaction, as the Mach-counter reeled off the mounting numbers. Mach 1.8, 1.9, Mach 2, 2.1, 2.2…
He knew he was wasting fuel, precious fuel, yet he did not pull back the throttles. He watched the numbers mount until he had reached Mach 2.6, and then he steadied the speed. Now, the terrain below him was merely a blur. He was in a soundless cocoon, removed from the world. He began to feel safe as he switched in the TFR (Terrain Following Radar) which was his eyes and his reactions, operating as it did via the autopilot. He had not expected to need it until he entered the foothills of the Urals, but at his present speed of almost two thousand mph, he had to switch them in. He was no longer flying the aircraft. The Urals were only minutes away now and there, safe, he would regain control of the Firefox. His sense of well-being began to return. The sheer speed of the aircraft deadened the ends of nerves. The steadied figure of Mach 2.6 on the Mach-counter was brilliantly clear in his vision. At this speed, despite the draining-away of the irreplaceable kerosene, a visual sighting was as good as impossible. He was safe, running and safe…
'Give the alert to the contingency refuelling locations at once, would you?' Aubrey said blandly. He was speaking via a scrambler to Air Commodore Latchford at Strike Command, High Wycombe. He had, that moment, received a report from Latchford which indicated a definite lift-off by Gant from Bilyarsk. The AEWR (Airborne Early Warning Radar) had recorded signs of a staggered sector scramble amongst border squadrons of the Red Air Force and this, in conjunction with radio — and code-monitoring which had shown signs of furious code-communication between sections of the Red Air Force, and between the First Secretary and the Admiral of the Red Banner Northern Fleet, as well as Russian ships in the Mediterranean — all of this evidence amounted to a sighting of Gant lifting clear of the runway at Bilyarsk.
Latchford affirmed an immediate alert for both contingency refuelling points to begin transmission of the homing-signal which operated on the very special frequency of Gant's transistor-innards which would lead him home.
'Mother Two and Mother Three will go on alert now,' the Air Commodore said. 'You'll take care of Mother One yourself — at least, I presume you will, since I have no idea where to find her?' There was a chuckle at the other end of the line. Latchford had had to know about the two contingency refuelling points, but had been kept in the dark concerning the one Gant was expected to use. Aubrey sensed a communion of tension, of suppressed excitement.
'Yes, Captain Curtin will take care of Mother One,' Aubrey assured him, and then added: 'Thank you, Air Commodore — your news comes, if I may say, like a ray of pure sunshine. Many thanks.' He listened to Latchford's throaty chuckle for a moment, seeming to draw comfort from the sound, and then replaced the receiver.
Buckholz, elbows on his desk, was watching him intently as he looked up. 'They confirm? All that activity isn't just because they caught our boy?' he enquired.
Aubrey shook his head. 'No, my dear Buckholz,' Aubrey said blandly. 'AEW Radar confirms the pre-dieted activity on the part of the Red Air Force, northern and southern borders — Gant is in the air.'
Buckholz breathed deeply, his breath exhaling loudly. He turned to Anders, almost asleep next to him, and grinned with the pure self-satisfaction of a child.
'Thank God,' he whispered.
There was a silence, broken by Curtin's creaking descent from the step-ladder. When he regained the floor, he said to Aubrey: 'I didn't reckon on doing the office-boy's job when I volunteered for this!' He grinned as he said it. 'You want me to tell Washington to alert Mother One, Mr. Aubrey?'
Aubrey nodded. 'Yes, my boy — do that now, would you? If the weather's still holding, that is.'
Curtin walked back to the map, picked up a pointer and tapped at a satellite weather-photograph pinned high on the wall. 'That's the latest — two a.m. your time. All clear.'
'And the track of Mother One?'
'Constant — moving slowly south, in an area of loosened pack. Temperature low enough. She's holding.'
'Good. Then put through your call, Captain. Mother One it is.'
Before Curtin could place the call, they were startled by the chatter of a teletype from the Code Room. Aubrey watched Shelley as the younger man ripped the sheet of flimsy from the machine.
'Communications picked this up only minutes ago,' he said, a slight smile on his tired face. 'Plain language. Picked up by the operator listening in on the Soviet airline frequency.'
'Ah,' Aubrey remarked. 'And…?'
'He was spotted north-west of Volgograd — almost tore the nose off the airliner, before they lost sight of him. The pilot was screaming his head off, before someone told him to keep quiet!'
'Good.'
Aubrey inspected the sheet of paper, and then offered it to Buckholz who had crossed to perch on the table.
Buckholz stared at it, as if needing to be convinced, and then said: 'Good. Damn good.' He looked into Aubrey's face, and added: 'So far, so good?'
'I agree, my dear Buckholz. Hopefully, the Russians are now scrambling everything, including the mess bar, to the south of Gant.' He rubbed his chin, and said: 'I still worry about 'Big Ears', you know. Gant must be making a frightful amount of noise, heading east to the Urals.'
'It is not, my dear Kutuzov, a war situation,' the First Secretary said, seated in his chair before the round table. His eyes disregarded the map of European Russia, from the Polish border to the Urals, from the Arctic Ocean to the Black Sea, despite its glowing squares of colour, despite the winking strings of tiny lights that signalled the interceptor stations with fighters in the air, despite the other lights forming links in the glowing chain which signalled the inissile sites on full war alert. Kutuzov seemed, on the other side of the table, unable to remove his fixed stare from the hypnotic projection before him. Reluctantly, it seemed, he lifted his eyes, and gazed at the First Secretary.
'You have considered that this might be some kind of supreme bluff by the Americans, First Secretary. To distract us from looking northward, while this single aircraft attempts to escape to the south.' It was not a question. Marshal Kutuzov was evidently serious in his supposition.
The First Secretary sighed and said: 'No, Kutuzov. This is a CIA venture — with the backing of the office of the President, and the Pentagon, no doubt.' His palms were raised from the desk to prevent interruption. 'But it is no more than a wildcat affair. Elaborate, yes. Far-sighted, yes. Well-planned and executed, yes. All of those things. But it is not war! No. The CIA will have arranged a refuelling point for this madman, somewhere — our computers will no doubt tell us the most likely places. But, if we shoot down the Mig-31, and even if we destroy the refuelling- vehicle, the Americans will act dumb, as they say. They will do nothing. And that — all of you…' His voice was suddenly raised, so that the background chatter of the Command Centre stilled, and all eyes turned to him. 'All of you understand this. If we can destroy, or recover, the aircraft, then we will hear no more of the matter.'
'You are sure?' Kutuzov said. His face expressed a desire to be convinced. He had been staring at the edge
