Firefox

which would, within little more than an hour, bring her close to Novaya Zemlya.

Elsewhere on the living map, Vladimirov registered the presence of two missile-destroyers, smaller, less powerfully armed replicas of the missile-cruiser, without that ship's complement of helicopters. One of them was well to the north of Novaya Zemlya, near Franz Josef Land on the edge of the permanent ice-sheet, and the other was steaming rapidly south and east from the Spitzbergen area. The majority of the Red Banner fleet's surface vessels were in Kronstadt, the huge island naval base in the estuary of the Neva, near Leningrad; it was too early for operations, too early for exercises, in the Barents Sea.

There were, however, Vladimirov saw with some relief, a number of yellow dots glowing on the surface of the map, signifying the presence of Soviet submarines. He glanced down at the list, identifying the types available to him, mentally recalling their armament and then search-capability. Soviet naval policy in the Barents Sea was to keep the surface vessels in dock during the bitter winter months and during the early spring onslaught of the southward drift of the impermanent pack-ice, and to use a single weapon in the arsenal of the Red Banner Fleet for patrol duties — the huge submarine fleet at the disposal of the Kremlin and the Admiral of the Soviet Fleet. The policy explained why the Soviet Union had concentrated for so long, and so successfully, on the development of the Soviet submarine fleet, and why they had even returned to the commissioning of new, cheaper, conventional diesel-powered submarines, instead of an exclusive concentration, as had been U.S. policy, on the hideously expensive nuclear subs.

He ignored, for the moment, the three nuclear-powered 'V' type anti-submarine subs, and the two ballistic- missile subs returning to Kronstadt after then-routine strike-patrol along the eastern seaboard of the United States. They would be of no use to him. What he required were submarines with the requisite search-capability for spotting an aircraft, and for bringing it down.

'What are the reports of the search for wreckage of the plane?' he asked aloud at last, tired suddenly of the lights on the map. It was impossible for Gant to escape, and yet… he should already be dead.

'Nothing so far, sir — air-reconnaissance reports no indications of wreckage other than that of the Badger… the ground search parties have not yet arrived at the site of the crash.'

'Give me a report on the search for the refuelling-craft,' Vladimirov said in the wake of the report.

A second voice sang out: 'Negative, sir. No unidentified surface vessels or aircraft in the area the computer predicts to be the limit of the Mig's flight.'

Vladimirov looked angry, and puzzled. It was what he wanted to hear, from one point of view. No planes or ships of the West anywhere near the area. It was, frankly, impossible. There had to be a refuelling-point. But the nearest neutral or friendly territory had to be somewhere in Scandinavia. It was, of course, possible to suppose that Gant was scheduled to make another alteration of course, to head west and follow the Russian coastline to North Cape, or Finnish Lapland.

He did not believe it, even though he had taken the necessary precautions already. He believed that the CIA and the British SIS would not have been able to persuade any of the Scandinavian governments to risk what the landing of the Mig on their territory would mean, in their delicate relations with the Soviet Union on their doorsteps. No, the refuelling had to be out at sea, or at low altitude somehow. It could not be a carrier, there wasn't one in the area, not remotely in the area. Apart from which, the Mig-31 was not equipped for a deck landing. But could the base be an American weather-station on the permanent ice-sheet of the Pole?

Vladimirov disliked having to confront the problem of the refuelling. Until final confirmation that Gant had crossed the coast, and the evidence that there was no refuelling-station apparent, he had concentrated on stopping him over Soviet territory. But, now…

'Where is it?' he said aloud.

'Where is what?' the First Secretary asked. His face was creased with thought, with his approaching decision.

'The refuelling ship… or aircraft, whatever it is!' Vladimirov snapped in reply, without looking up from the map.

'Why?'

A thought struck Vladimirov. Without replying to the First Secretary, he said, over his shoulder: 'Any trace on infra-red or sound-detectors further west, either from Firechain bases, or from coastal patrols?'

There was a silence for a moment, and then the non-commital voice replied: 'Negative, sir. Nothing, except the staggered sector scramble in operation.'

'Nothing at all?' Vladimirov said with a kind of-desperation in his voice.

'No, sir. Completely negative.'

Vladimirov was at a loss. It was like staring at a jigsaw puzzle that didn't make sense, or a game of chess where unauthorised moves had been suddenly introduced, to leave him baffled and losing. He realised he had operated too rigidly as a tactician, and that the people who had planned the theft of the Mig had been experts in the unexpected — security men like Andropov. He glanced quickly in the Chairman's direction. He decided not to involve him. Realising that he was perhaps committing Kontarsky's crime, he decided to handle it himself.

There had to be an answer, but he could not see it. The more he thought about the problem of Gant's refuelling, the more he became convinced that it was the key to the problem.

But, how?

He glared at the map as though commanding it to give up its secrets. On it, every single light represented a Soviet vessel, except for a British trawler-fleet on the very edge of the map, in the Greenland Sea, west of Bear Island.

He wondered, and decided that it was too far. Gant would not have sufficient fuel to make it — and how did the British navy expect to conceal an aircraft carrier inside a trawler-fleet? The idea was ludicrous.

No. The map didn't hold the answer. It told him nothing.

His hand thumped the map, and the lights jiggled, faded and then strengthened. 'Where is he?' he said aloud.

After a moment, the First Secretary said: 'You are convinced that he is still alive?'

Vladimirov looked up, and nodded.

'Yes, First Secretary. I am.'

* * *

There its was, Aubrey thought, a single orange pin-head on the huge wall map. Mother One. An unarmed submarine, hiding beneath an ice-floe which was drifting slowly south in its normal spring perambulation, its torpedo room and forward crew's quarters flooded with precious paraffin to feed the greedy and empty tanks of Gant's plane.

He coughed. Curtin turned slowly round, then the spell that had seemed to hold them rigidly in front of the map was broken by the entry of Shelley, preceded by a food trolley. Aubrey smelt the aroma of coffee. With a start, he realised that he was hungry. Despite being envious of Shelley who was shaved and washed and had changed his shirt, Aubrey was not displeased by the sight of the covered dishes on the trolley.

'Breakfast, sir!' the younger man called out, his smile broadening as he watched his chief's surprise grow, and then become replaced by obvious pleasure. 'Bacon and eggs, I'm afraid,' he added to the Americans. 'I couldn't find anyone in the canteen who could make flapjacks or waffles!'

Curtin grinned at him, and said: 'Mr. Shelley — a real English breakfast is the first thing we Americans order when we book into one of your hotels!' Shelley, absurdly pleased with himself, Aubrey thought, was unable to grasp the irony of Curtin's remark. Not that it mattered.

'Thanks,' Buckholz said, lifting one of the covers. Aubrey deeply inhaled the aroma of fried bacon, left his chair and joined them at the trolley.

They ate in silence for a little time, then Aubrey said, his knife scraping butter onto a thin slice of toast, his voice full of a satisfied bonhomie: 'Tell me, Captain Curtin, what is the present condition of the ice-floe beneath which our fuel tanker is hiding?'

Curtin, eating with his fork alone in the American style, leaned an elbow on the table around which they sat, and replied: 'The latest report on the depth of the ice, and its surface condition, indicates all systems go for the landing, sir.'

Aubrey smiled at his excessive politeness, and said: 'You are sure of this?'

'Sir.' As he explained, his fork jabbed the air in emphasis. 'As you know, sir, all signals from Mother One