Firefox

Peck looked down at him, and said simply: 'Pressure ridge.'

'What?' Gant's face was open with shock. 'How big?'

'Three, maybe four feet — right across the floe, if my guess is right.'

'Where, man — where? Show me!' He dragged at Peck's sleeve, and the big man turned round, following him. Gant's white, desperate face disturbed him, especially the way he kept moving ahead in obvious impatience and then looking round, like a dog hurrying its master. Seerbacker, puzzled, followed in their wake.

The pressure ridge was almost four feet high and it had emerged from the ice like a low wall stretching, right across the floe, as far as Gant could see in either direction.

'You said it — goes all the way?'

'All the way — I walked a fair piece of it, in both directions. I guess it goes right across.'

Gant looked as though he disbelieved Peck for a moment but he knew that the engineer would have understood the significance of the ridge, and would have checked its extent for the right reason.

'How — did it happen?' he said stupidly.

'Only one way,' the big man said grimly. 'Ousting wind drove one of the smaller floes behind us right up our ass — like an automobile smash. Result, one pressure-ridge.'

Gant turned on Peck, grabbing the sleeves of his parka in both hands. 'You realise what this means?' he said. 'I can't damn well get out of here. I can't take off!'

* * *

The result of his deliberations, of his self-recriminations and the growing certainty that he was right and the First Secretary was disastrously wrong was, Vladimirov reflected bitterly, nothing more than a hesitation, a glance in the direction of the most powerful man in the Soviet Union. When the bulky figure merely nodded, emphasising his last order, Vladimirov turned back to the console in front of him and spoke.

'Tretsov — Vladimirov.' Though he had ignored code, he would not identify the aircraft with which he was communicating, other than by the pilot's name. In that lay a degree of anonymity.

At that moment, Tretsov, tide second test-pilot on the Mig-31 project was at fifty thousand feet, his nose- probe buried in the udder of a refuelling plane, with which the Mig had made rendezvous minutes before.

Static crackled through the console speaker. 'Tretsov — over,' came the faint voice.

'Vladimirov to Tretsov. Proceed to the North Cape area as soon as refuelling is completed.'

'North Cape — repeat your message please.'

Vladimirov's voice betrayed his anger. Of course the pilot wondered at the change of plan!

'I said North Cape — make radio contact with the following units — missile-cruiser Riga, 'Wolfpack' ground patrol Murmansk — do you copy?'

After a silence: 'Tretsov — I copy. Proceed to North Cape, contact Riga and ground control Murmansk — over.'

'Good. Await further instructions — over and out.'

Vladimirov flicked the switch, and turned away from the transmitter. It did not matter, he thought, that the Americans would undoubtedly pick up the signal, transmitted in clear voice as it had been. It was merely another unit being directed towards the decoy area. He looked once more at the First Secretary but the Soviet leader was in whispered conversation with Andropov. He turned his gaze towards Kutuzov. The old man's rheumy eyes met his, and he shook his head slightly. Vladimirov's eyes thanked him for the gesture of sympathy, of understanding.

Then the thoughts began to nag at him again. If only he could be sure in some way… He knew how it had been done, what the search-units ought to be looking for. But he was afraind, afraid to risk the shreds of his credibility, the remains of his career, on such a wild idea. He swallowed. He knew the answer — and he knew the First Secretary would not listen.

He despised himself. He was throwing away the Mig-31, handing it to the Americans on a platter! Yet he could do nothing — they would not believe him.

* * *

They had checked the floe. As Peck has surmised, the ridge ran the whole east-west axis. It was a little more than half-way down the length of the floe, down the runway for the aircraft. Gant could not possibly, by any mechanical or physical means, take off along the length of snow-covered ice available to him while the ridge remained.

'It will work, sir,' Peck was saying, leaning forward, standing taller than the thin figure of Seerbacker. Fleischer, his training and experience inadequate for these particular circumstances, remained silent. Peck's second engineer, Haynes, contributed his assessments of time and effort in support of his chief. With Gant, there were now five of them, standing stiffly in the raw air, wrapped in the mist that still clung to the floe. The wind was still gusting, but less strongly now as if, having achieved its purpose, it had become satisfied, quiescent.

'Hell, Jack — have we enough axes and shovels on board to do the job?' Seerbacker said. His eyes slid for a moment towards Gant, who seemed to be studying the floe intently, taking no notice of the discussion. Seerbacker was irritated by the man's apparent detachment, then dismissed it from his mind.

'Sir, we've got enough — crowbars, heavy screwdrivers, axes — anything!' Peck seemed to take Seerbacker's caution as a personal affront. 'And we could place a couple of small charges, maybe?' he added.

'Damn that, Jack!'

'No, sir. You place 'em properly, small ones — you won't damage the ice!'

Seerbacker was silent for a moment, then he said, addressing Gant:

'How wide is the wheel-track on that bird, Gant?'

'Twenty-two feet,' Gant replied mechanically.

'You certain?'

Gant merely nodded, without shifting his gaze from the ridge. He kicked at it aimlessly with a boot. Some loose snow flicked away, spattered on the toe — he had not marked the surface of the ridge.

'How much d'you need — how much of this wall you want to come down?' Peck said.

Gant turned his head, recognising the challenge in the big man's voice. He smiled humourlessly, thought for a moment, and then said: 'Thirty feet.'

There was a leaden silence for a moment, then Seerbacker said:

'Don't bullshit, Gant. You're not going to waste my time and wreck that bird just to prove something to my chief engineer!' His eyes flickered between the two men, sensing the challenge and response, its origins in Gant's earlier momentary panic in front of Peck.

'Thirty feet,' Gant said. 'That's all I'll need.'

'Then it's thirty fuckin' feet you'll get, mister!' Seerbacker spat back. 'Now you pick out the spot, man — and Mr. Peck and his team will get to work for you!'

Gant strolled away from them, and the four men tagged wearily behind him, as if unwilling. Seerbacker regretted the way he had handled Gant, bridling him, making him say something which he would obviously regret. Yet there was no sign of doubt on Gant's face, no fear that a margin for error of four feet on either side of the main undercart in the visibility now available to him was almost like cutting his throat with a blunt knife.

Damn him to hell! Seerbacker thought. He gets right under my skin!

Gant stopped, waited for them, and said: 'Here.'

He kicked a boot hard into the ice at the crest of the ridge at stomach height, and chipped the crest slightly. Peck reached into the pocket of his parka, pulled out an aerosal can, and sprayed it on the ice. Part of the chipped portion of crest sagged under the impact of the alcohol-based de-icing fluid. Gant paced out thirty feet, and waited for Peck to mark the ice. Then he nodded. Seerbacker sensed they were almost in the centre of the ridge, near the centre of the floe. Gant had picked the longest north-south axis for his take-off.

'How long to clear thirty feet, Mr. Peck?' Seerbacker asked.

'An hour, sir — if you include the spraying-down.' -

Gant wanted to tell them it was too long — but there was no point in futile protest.

'An hour?'

Peck nodded. Seerbacker was silent for a moment, then tugged his handset from his pocket. He pressed the button, and said: 'Waterson — hook me up to the ship's address system, huh?' He waited until his request was accomplished, and then he said: 'This is the captain — hear this. It will take one hour for the pressure-ridge to be cleared, and that means we have to stay on the surface for that length of time. I want utmost vigilance at all time; air, surface, and subsurface searches to be thorough. If any of you guys misses something, you kill all of us —