Firefox

the Firefox, and what he had done.

He shrugged off the feeling. The wind gusted to perhaps twelve knots, and the blast of it struck him in the face, reviving him to the present, to his physical cold and discomfort. He raised his hand to his face, cupped it and yelled. His own voice sounded thin, almost unreal. 'Over here — the plane's over here, man!'

'That you, Gant?' the voice replied. Gant realised only as he began to cast about that his own eyesight was vastly superior to that of the figure to his left. He turned the Firefox in the mist, very slowly, and saw the figure straighten, and become certain of his whereabouts. 'Jesus — I must need glasses, for Chrissake!' the figure said.

Gant had no need to apply the brakes; slowed by the surface snow, the aircraft rolled to a halt. The great turbojets made only an impatient murmur behind him. He could hear the figure, which now seemed tall and thin, only given a tent-like shape by the parka it was wearing, talking into an R/T handset.

'O.K., you men — I found him. Get over here, on the double!' Then the figure moved forward. A mittened hand slapped against the fuselage and Gant, leaning out of the cockpit, stared down into an ascetic, lined face. He could see the gold leafing on the peak of a Navy cap beneath the fur trimming of the parka hood. Gant smiled, foolishly, feeling there was nothing to say. A great wave of relief surged in him, almost nauseous, and he began to shiver with emotion rather than the cold.

'Hi, fella,' Seerbacker said.

'Hi,' Gant said, in a choking voice. He saw other figures moving in the mist, and the round globes, furred and dim, of lamps.

'Hey, skipper — you want us to line up now?' a voice called.

Seerbacker, seemingly distracted from a perusal of Gant's features, turned his head, and yelled over his shoulder. 'Yeah — let's get this bird over to his mother — it's dying of thirst!' He turned back to Gant, and added, in a low voice: 'You don't look like anything special, mister — but I guess you must be — uh?'

'Right now — you're pretty special yourself, Captain!' Gant said.

Seerbacker nodded, and lifted the handset to his face. He said:

'O.K. this is the captain. Call it for me.'

He listened intently as men began to call in, as at a roll-call. When there was a silence once more, he looked at Gant, and said: 'I've got half of my crew standing on this goddam ice, mister, in two nice straight lines, all the way to the ship. Think you can ride down the middle?'

'Like the freeway,' Gant said.

'Seerbacker raised his hand, gripped the spring-loaded hand and toe holds and hoisted himself clear of the ground.

'Mind if I hitch a ride?'

'They're pretty rough on freeloaders on this railroad.'

'I'll take my chances,' Seerbacker said with a grin. 'O.K., let's roll.'

Gant eased off the brakes, and the Firefox slid forward. He saw the first two men, then: lights haloed, bright, and then other lights, a tunnel in the mist. He straightened the nose down the centre of the tunnel, and the lights began to roll slowly past on either side, only just visible in the mist. He heard Seerbacker giving an order.

'O.K., you guys, move in, dammit! This bird won't bite — it's one of ours, for Chrissake!'

The lights ahead wobbled, narrowed, became brighter, more helpful to him.

'Thanks,' he said to the invisible Seerbacker below him.

'O.K., mister. They're only here to help — even if they don't like it.' There was an edge to his voice as he ended his sentence. Gant sensed, beneath the surface, the resentment that had emerged along with relief at his arrival — the resentment of men stuck in the middle of an enemy sea for day after day, tracking the drifting floe.

'I'm sorry,' he said, involuntarily.

'What?' Seerbacker began, then added: 'Oh, yeah. It's just orders, mister — don't give a mind to it.' Gant saw a long low shape, sail atop, ahead of him through the mist. There she is,' Seerbacker said unnecessarily, and Gant felt the pride in his voice. It was the pride of a commanding officer in his ship.

'Yeah — I see it,' he said.

'Pull up alongside,' Seerbacker said. 'You want to eat in the car, or come on inside?' Gant swung the Firefox parallel with the fattened cigar of the ship, half-buried in ice, like something reptilian emerging from a white shell. He cut the motors, and the plane died. In the absolute silence of the next moment, Gant felt a fierce affection for the aircraft. It was not something he had stolen, a freight for the CIA — it was what had brought him from the heart of Russia, helped him to escape, taken on a missile-cruiser, taken on… Seerbacker interrupted the flood of his fierce, cold, mechanical love for another machine.

'Welcome to 'Joe's Diner'. The cabaret isn't much good, but the hamburgers are a delight to the weary traveller! Step down, Mister Gant — step down, and welcome.'

Gant unstrapped himself from the webbing of the couch. As he stood up, his muscles and joints protested as he moved. The wind seemed to gust at him, the freezing cold from the Pole search through his suit, eat at him. He shuddered.

'Thanks,' he said. 'Thanks.' He stepped out of the cockpit, no longer reluctant, down onto the ice.

* * *

'Call them out,' Vladimirov said. 'A report from every Polar Search Squadron now!'

It took four minutes for the report to be completed, time which the First Secretary seemed not to consider wasted, wherever Gant was, and whatever he was doing. Vladimirov loathed the political game that was being played and in which he had joined, his silence giving assent, his cowardice dictating his silence. When the last search-plane had reported on its findings in its designated area, it was clear that there had been no attempt by the Americans to establish any kind of fuel-dump on the ice, no attempt to mark out or clear any kind of runway. Vladimirov, his belief shaken but not destroyed, felt his bemusement hum in his head like a maddening insect. He had the answer, somewhere at the back of his mind, he was sure of it…!

The cold eyes of the First Secretary, and the glint of the strip-light on Andropov's glasses, made him bury his reflections.

'Now,' the Soviet leader said, 'order all available units into the North Cape area — everything you have!'

Vladimirov nodded.

'Scramble 'Wolfpack' squadrons in the North Cape sector through to Archangelsk sector,' he snapped. 'Staggered Sector Scramble for all units.' He did not glance at the map-table, did not ask for the map to be changed. He was oblivious to it, seeing in his mind with absolute clarity, the dispositions of all surface, sub-surface and aerial units that might be employed.

'Order the Otlintnyi and the Slavny to alter course at once for North Cape — order them to proceed at utmost speed.'

'Sir!'

'Order all submarines on the Barents Sea map to alter course, and to proceed to the Cape area at top speed.'

'Sir!'

'Order the Riga to alter course, together with her escorts, and to put up her helicopters at once — they are to proceed at top speed to the Cape.'

'Sir!'

It was futile, he knew — the bellowing challenge of a coward after the bully is out of earshot, the simulated fury of the defeated. Yet he became caught up in its frenetic, useless energy. He was intoxicated by the power he possessed.

Like a child he had once seen building on the sands at Odessa a long time ago, he made himself oblivious to the sea of truth creeping up behind him, and threw all his energies into the task of making his fragile, impermanent structure of sand. He flung everything into the air, changed the course of every surface and sub-surface vessel in the Barents Sea.

The map on the table was now showing the western sector of the Barents Sea — its operator had bled in the map reflecting Vladimirov's countless orders. Vladimirov realised he was sweating. His legs suddenly weak, unable to support him any longer. He lowered himself into a chair, looked up and found the First Secretary smiling complacently at him.