Firefox

room had been palpable, lifting the hair at the nape of the neck like static electricity. A profound silence bad descended on the five occupants, broken only by the creaking of the stepladder whenever Curtin ascended or descended, pinning his satellite weather photographs to the wall, or altering and supplementing the coloured pins in the map of the Barents Sea.

Buckholz had ceased to take notice of the map. For more than half an hour he had not looked once in its direction. It was as if he were listening to some inner voice, seeing some mental image, and did not need the confirmation of pictures and pins.

Aubrey knew why he was silent, grim-faced, tense. He shared that tension because he, too, understood how perilous Gant's fuel state must be. The last report from the Pequod, from Mother One and Seerbacker, was a routine weather report which contained no coded reference to sighting Gant by infra-red and contained, moreover, some discouraging news concerning the weather in the area of the floe, news that would make it difficult for Gant to land. Aubrey did not want his neat, carefully conceived, methodically executed operation to end with the humiliation of a crash-landing on the floe, and the ignominy of a Firefox damaged and affected by the corrosive sea-water from being towed home behind the Pequod.

But, it was the fuel state that worried him, more than the weather. To Buckholz, Aubrey guessed, it signified that Gant had already failed. Aubrey glanced up at the clock, and then again at Buckholz. It was the wrong thing to do, he realised, to remind Buckholz of what he had evidently forgotten but, nevertheless, he said, his voice carefully deferential:

'Is it not time we released the decoy submarine into the arena, Buckholz?'

There was a moment of silence, then Buckholz, his lips working, snapped: 'What in hell's name for?' His eyes glared at Aubrey, as if the latter had interrupted some kind of ritual, solemn and awful, proceeding within the American.

Aubrey spread his arms. 'It is time, by the clock,' he said blandly.

'Why waste it?' Buckholz asked.

'What?'

'The decoy — decoy for what, man?' Buckholz seemed to half-rise from his seat, as if to browbeat the small, rotund Aubrey.

'We don't know he's lost…' Aubrey began.

'What in the hell was all that coded stuff we picked up, between Bilyarsk and the Riga, then?' Buckholz snapped. 'They got him, Aubrey — blew the ass from under him!'

Aubrey tried to retain a smile of encouragement on his face, and said: 'I don't know — it could have meant they didn't get him.'

There was a silence. Buckholz seemed to sink back into his chair. Anders, standing behind him, a plastic cup clutched in his big hand, looked down at Buckholz's cropped head, then looked across the room at Aubrey. His gaze seemed quizzical. Aubrey nodded, and mouthed the single word: 'Decoy.' Anders crossed to a telephone in the corner, dialled a number, and spoke. Hearing his voice, Buckholz turned incuriously to watch him, then glanced across at Aubrey, and shook his head.

Buckholz had returned to his sightless contemplation of the papers in front of him. By the time Anders had completed his telephone call to an operations room in the MOD which would alert the decoy submarine at that moment lying to the west of Spitzbergen and the decoy aircraft waiting to take off from Greenland, or already in the air to the east of that frozen land-mass.

Aubrey nodded to Anders in acknowledgement of his call, then proceeded to gaze across the room at the map. The decoy planes would be picked up by Russian landborne and seaborne radar within minutes, and be seen to be heading towards the vicinity of North Cape, while the submarine would entice Russian surface vessels and submarines to investigate, drawing them away from the Pequod while she was on the surface, refuelling the Firefox.

A doubt suddenly struck him, cold in the pit of his stomach, clutching with a hot, burning sensation in his chest, like indigestion or a heart murmur. Would the Pequod ever need to surface? Looking again at Buckholz, it was evident that he didn't think so. Aubrey rubbed his smooth, cherubic cheeks, and wondered.

* * *

At twenty-two thousand feet, the Firefox dropped into the top of the cloud-stack that Gant had watched inexorably approaching. The silent, gliding aircraft slid through the ruffled, innocuous edges of the cloud, into the grey silence, with the helplessness of a stone. He had been unable to estimate the depth of the stack — it could, he knew, reach down to the surface of the pewter-coloured sea. He was four minutes to target, descending at a steady rate of three-and-a-half thousand feet per minute, moving ahead at 180 knots, three miles a minute. When he reached the target location, he would still be eight thousand feet above sea-level. It would have to be enough. There was nothing on the screen. Only the TFR reflected the monotonous pattern of ice-floes slipping past him, below the cloud.

There was nothing that looked remotely like a ship, anywhere within the limits of the target area. There was no aircraft. There was merely the incessant, monotonous signal, emanating from some unknown source, beckoning.

In the cloud, Gant felt cold. The signal was his only contact with reality, and yet it seemed to possess no other reality than that of sound. He was unable to believe in its physical source. Gant had always been an electronic pilot, always relied on instruments. Stories older men told him, of flying bombers over Germany in the last days of the last war, were tales that might have come from ancient Greece — mythological. Therefore, he did not panic, was not really afraid. The signal did have a source, however distant, however ghostly. It was no illusion. He trusted it.

Nevertheless, it began, subtly but certainly, to feel cold in the cabin of the Firefox, a chill, arctic cold, salt like the sea.

* * *

Seerbacker was swinging his legs off the bunk even as his Exec. - who in his excitement had come in person — peered round the door to his quarters and said, almost breathless with sudden, renewed tension: 'Aircraft contact, sir — heading this way.'

'Range?' Seerbacker snapped, tugging his cap on his head, and pressing past the younger man, who followed his captain's rapid progress towards the control-room.

'Less than four miles, sir — height about twelve thousand — she's on the bearing, sir. And there's no radar contact, only a very faint infra-red. She's either on lowest power or not using her engines at all.'

Without looking behind him, Seerbacker said: 'Then it's him.' Then he added: 'What's the surface temperature of the floe?'

'Still dropping, sir. Dewpoint's still a couple of degrees away'.

Seerbacker suddenly stopped, and turned on his Exec. 'A couple of degrees?' he repeated.

'Yes, sir.'

'Wind?'

'Five to ten knots, variable.'

'Insufficient turbulence, then?' he said mysteriously, and the younger man, Lt. Commander Dick Fleischer, nodded, understanding his drift. 'But, what about his turbulence, when he comes into land — uh? What happens then?'

'It shouldn't…' the younger man began.

'With this old tub's luck, Dick — what d'you think will happen? He'll put the wheels down, stick back — and phut! The lights'll go out!' He tried to smile, but the effect was unconvincing. Both he and Fleischer knew that, however he said it, the content of his statement was deadly serious. Two degrees drop in the temperature would mean that the air above the surface of the floe would achieve dewpoint, that point on the scale where freezing fog would begin to form. The effect of the turbulence of the Firefox attempting to land could trigger the drop in temperature.

Seerbacker, as if prompted by his own lurid imaginings, clattered off down the companion-way. As soon as he thrust his thin, lanky form into the control-room of the sub, he said:

'Where is he?'