Firefox

Gant unfolded the single sheet of flimsy within the envelope, studying it carefully.

'What is 'Harmless'?' he repeated.

Seerbacker grinned. 'Just our little joke — only it may save our lives,' he said. 'Well go up top, in a while — you can see for yourself.'

Gant nodded, as if the answer to his question did not really interest him. His orders were simple. There was a list of map coordinates, and times, which he knew would take him at first low across the Finnish coast, east of the North Cape decoy area, across the lake-strewn landscape of Finland, towards Stockholm. Once there, where the Gulf of Bothnia encountered the Baltic, he was instructed to rendezvous with the late afternoon British Airways commercial flight from Stockholm to London. He knew why. If he tucked in behind the plane, and below it, not only would he be out of sight of the crew, but all that would show up on an infra-red screen would be the single image of the airliner's heat-source. And the airliner would be expected across the North Sea, en route and on schedule. And he was immune to any sort of detection other than visual — an unlikely possibility. No Elint ship in the North Sea warned to watch for him would guess where he was. When he arrived at a specified coordinate off the English coast, he was to call RAF Scampton in Lincolnshire on a frequency within the general aviation band, assuming the identity of a test-flight for a commercial passenger plane receiving its Certificate of Airworthiness check-up. With luck, if it worked, the Russians would lose him, if they had ever found him, off the eastern coast of Sweden, when he linked infrared images with the British Airways flight.

He read the coordinates once more, committing them firmly to memory. Then he replaced the sheet in its buff envelope, and the envelope in its wrapper. Seerbacker had already placed a large steel ashtray on the table. Gant placed the packet in the ashtray, then ground the heel of his hand on it Almost immediately, the fumes of the released acid rose pungently and the packet began to dissolve. Gant watched it until it consisted of no more than a few blackened, treacly specks. Then he nodded, as if to himself, and said: 'O.K. - let's get urgent, Captain. I want to see what progress has been made on my runway.' His eyes, surprisingly to Seerbacker, almost twinkled for a moment, and he added: 'And I want to see 'Harmless'.'

Of course, Aubrey reflected, he could not be certain — no, not by a very long way, not just at present. Nevertheless, he was unable quite to extinguish the small flame of hope that warmed his stomach like good brandy; the heat of success. The code activity from the Russians, combined with the success of the decoy-missions around the North Cape area, and the signal from Seerbacker aboard the Pequod that the Firefox was safely down, and refuelled — all added to his barely suppressed sense of satisfaction.

Shelley, too, he could see, could hardly keep a schoolboyish grin from his smooth features. The Americans, having swung down with the graph of Buckholz's doubts, been infected by indecision, now lifted in a rising curve again. Curtin was on the steps, adjusting the positions of Russian planes and vessels as they moved further and further into the decoy area. Aubrey glanced up at the huge map, and saw only the position of the floe, and the coloured pin representing the Firefox alongside.

Had Seerbacker risked getting off another signal, to confirm the sonar-contact with the approaching Russian submarine, or had Aubrey been aware of Vladimirov's intuition, and partial success in Bilyarsk, his mood might have been less equable, his ego-temperature somewhat lower. But he was still blinded by the brilliance of his own design, and Seerbacker had not informed him of the suspicious escort submarine in his vicinity. For Aubrey, the design had become now only a mechanical matter — as long as Gant followed instructions, it was in the bag.

Aubrey maintained that he was a man who never, absolutely on no occasion, counted his chickens — but now he did. The magnitude of what he had achieved, from inception, through planning, to execution, stunned him, shone like a fierce sun on his vanity, causing it to bloom.

'Hm — gentlemen,' he said, clearing his throat. 'I realise that perhaps this may be a little premature…' He smiled deprecatingly, knowing that they shared his mood. 'Nevertheless — perhaps we might permit ourselves a little — a modicum of celebratory alcohol?'

Buckholz grinned openly. 'You sure put it tortuously, Aubrey — but yes, I reckon we could open a bottle,' he said.

'Good.'

Aubrey moved to the drinks trolley that had stood throughout their vigil in the corner of the operations room. Suddenly, the place seemed to be without the stale, almost rancid, smell of old cigar smoke and unchanged clothing. The faces were no longer strained with tension. It was merely that they were a little tired — tired with the satisfying tiredness of a job well done, of something completed.

He broke the seal on the malt whisky, and poured the pale gold liquid into four tumblers in generous measures. Then, deferentially, he handed the drinks round on a small silver tray, brought from his own flat, in readiness.

Aubrey raised his glass, smiled benignly, and said: 'Gentlemen — to the Firefox… and, of course, to Gant.'

'Gant — and the Firefox,' the four men chanted in a rough unison. Aubrey watched, with mild distaste, as Buckholz threw his drink into the back of his throat, swallowed the precious liquid in one. Really, he thought the man has absolutely no taste — none at all.

As he sipped at his own drink, it seemed more than ever merely a matter of time. He glanced at the telephone. In a few minutes, no more, it would be time to order the car to transport them to RAF Scampton — if Gant were not to arrive before themselves, which would not do at all.

He smiled at the thought.

* * *

Peck was standing in front of Gant and Seerbacker, looming over them both. Sweat rimed the fur of his hood in crystals of ice, and ice stood out stiffly on his moustache. His face was pale, drained by effort.

'Well?' Seerbacker said, his hand still on the sail-ladder of the Pequod.

'It's done, sir,' Peck said. Then he looked at Gant, and his voice hardened. 'We've cleared your damn runway, Mr. Gant!'

'Peck!' Seerbacker warned.

For a moment, Gant thought the huge Chief Engineer was intending to strike him, and he flinched physically. Then he said: 'I'm sorry, Peck.'

Peck seemed nonplussed by his reply. He scrutinised Gant's face, as if suspecting some trick, nodded as he appeared satisfied, and then seemed to feel that some explanation was required of him. He said: 'Sorry — Major…' Gant's eyes opened in surprise. It was the first time anyone had used his old rank. Peck meant it as a mark of respect. 'We — it's just the feeling, sir. Working out there on that damn pressure-ridge, the men and me — well, we just kept thinking how we could have been getting out of this place, instead of breaking our backs.' The big man's voice tailed off, and he looked steadily down at his feet.

Gant said: 'It's O.K., Peck — and thanks. Now, tell me where we are, what stage have you reached.'

Peck became business-like, immediately formal. 'We've got a thirty-feet gap hacked out of the ridge. Now we run the hoses from the turbine on a direct-feed — we need a lot of pipe, Major — it'll take time.'

Gant nodded.

'Get to it, Peck — the sooner you've done, the sooner you can get going. When you've finished smoothing down the surface of the floe — and make it as smooth as possible, 'cos I don't want to hit a bump at a hundred- and-fifty knots — I want you to spray steam on the ice, down the length of the runway, starting as near the northern edge of the floe as you can, running down to the Firefox — if you have the time.'

Peck looked puzzled. 'Why, Major?'

'Clear the surface snow, Peck — that's what it'll do. I don't need to be held back by the surface- resistance…'

'Get to it, Peck,' Seerbacker said. 'I've just got to check on the decoy procedure, and then I'm coming to take a look at your night-school efforts!'

Peck grinned, nodded, and moved away down the length of the Pequod, forward to the hatch above the turbines, where two members of the engineering crew were feeding down great serpent-loops of hose into the belly of the submarine.

'You want to see 'Harmless'?' Seerbacker said. 'Come take a look.'

'Harmless' was hurried, crude, and brilliant, Gant was forced to admit. The feverish activity of those members of the sub's crew not working on the pressure-ridge at first seemed to obey no overall strategy, tend towards no definable object. Then he realised what was happening.