Firefox

The submarine was being transformed into the headquarters of an Arctic weather-station. Over the transmitter in his pocket, Seerbacker snapped out orders that the torpedo-tubes and forward crew-quarters were to be flushed out with sea water, the evidence of the paraffin to be removed. This would be followed by faked evidence of hull damage to explain the presence of residual water in both compartments. On the ice, a hut had been assembled from its components, and crude wooden furniture carried inside. Maps and charts covered the newly erected walls, Gant saw as he peered through one of the windows. Impressive lists of figure-filled notepads and sheets attached to clipboards. Two masts had been erected, one twenty feet high, the other reaching to thirty feet. The taller of the pair was a radio mast, while an anemometer revolved on the top of the other one, and below this a vane swung, indicating direction of the measured wind.

A white chest, a Stephenson Screen, containing thermometers and hygrometers, stood beneath the smaller mast, and the disguising of the floe as a weather-station was completed by holes drilled into the ice, in some cases through to the sea beneath, into which thermometers had been lowered.

As Gant watched Peck and his men unroll the lengths of hose, slip the sections together, he saw a bright orange weather-balloon float up into the sky. Still clinging to the surface of the floe were shredding, rolling embers of mist, but above it, the cloud base began at thirteen thousand feet. A second balloon hovered a hundred feet above the Pequod, attached by a nylon line. The balloons would explain the earlier release of a signal balloon when he landed.

It took a little more than fifteen minutes to transform the surface of the floe into the appearance of a U.S. weather-station studying the movements and characteristics of a large ice-floe in its southward path to immolation. The fact that the Pequod was operating in the northern Barents Sea, rather than east of Greenland, was the only weakness as far as Gant could see.

As Seerbacker said, as he joined Gant near the bridge-ladder of the submarine: 'They can't prove a thing, Gant — as long as you're long gone from here before that Russian boat climbs all over us!'

Gant glanced reflectively down at the ice, and then said: 'What about the exhaust — they'll be keeping infra- red watch on this floe. They must have tumbled something?'

'Hell, Gant — I don't give a cuss for your heat-trail. Just get that bird out of here, and leave me to do the worrying, will you?'

Gant smiled at the mock ferocity of Seerbacker's answer. The man was frightened, knew he was treading a fine edge of ground steel. He nodded. 'Sure. I'll get out of here, just as soon as I can.'

'Good.' Seerbacker plucked the radio-transmitter from the pocket of his parka, pressed it to his cheek, and flicked the switch. 'This is the Captain — you there, Fleischer?'

'Sir.' From the radio, Fleischer's voice had a quality of unreality, one that impressed upon Gant the whole situation — the tiny floe, the bitter wastes of the Barents Sea, the approach of the Russian hunter-killer submarine.

'What's the news on our friend?'

There was a pause, then the Exec, said: 'We're getting a computer-prediction now, sir. Subject to a seven- per-cent error in the sonar-contact… '

'Yeah. Tell me the bad news.'

'The ETA for the sub is seventeen minutes.'

'Jesus!'

'Course and speed appear to be exactly the same, sir. She's coming straight for us.'

Seerbacker wore a strained look on his face for a moment, then he grinned at Gant. 'You hear that?' Gant nodded. 'O.K. Fleischer — I'm leaving this set on receive from now on — I want you to call it to me every minute, understand?'

'Sir.'

'When the sub comes up on close-range sonar, call me the exact speed and distance every thirty seconds.'

'Sir.'

Seerbacker clipped the handset to the breast pocket of his parka, tugged at it to ensure that it wouldn't come adrift, nodded to Gant, and headed away from the submarine in the direction indicated by the two hoses which trailed like endless black snakes away into the mist. Following him, the ridge still out of sight, the violent hiss of steam hardly audible, Gant was once more possessed by a sense of the precariousness of his position. The hunched, loping figure of Seerbacker seemed slight, almost unsubstantial, certainly not a presence capable of supporting the weight of his escape. The firm ice beneath his feet, the glimpse of the Firefox in the mist as he turned his head to glance at it — they did not reassure him. The Russian submarine was homing on the floe and the Pequod. They had sixteen minutes, give or take a little.

Two men manned each nozzle, directing a jet of superheated steam onto the ugly, unfinished plaster-work of the hole in the ridge. It was supposed to be thirty feet across. Gant's brain measured it — to his imagination it looked small, too small. The steam played over the rough surface of the floe, over the hacked, torn edges of the gap — smoothing it out. It took them only a couple of minutes to give the gap smooth edges, a smooth, gleaming floor.

Peck had turned once, acknowledged the presence of Gant and the captain, and then ignored them. As soon as the gap was smoothed to his satisfaction, he bawled at his team: 'All right, you guys — get this runway smoothed off!'

'What for, chief?'

'Because I'm telling you to do it — you'll enjoy it, Clemens!'

The hoses snaked away into the mist, unwillingly following the men dragging at them. They snaked past Gant's feet, slowly, far too slowly. He looked at his watch, just as Fleischer's voice squawked from near Seerbacker's shoulder.

'The sub's transferred to close-range screen, sir.'

Seerbacker leant his head like a bird attending to ruffled feathers, and said: 'Tell me the worst.'

'Computer-identification: Russian, type hunter-killer submarine, range four-point-six miles, ETA nine minutes… '

'What?' Seerbacker bawled.

'Sorry, sir — the sonar-error must have been larger than we thought… '

'Now you tell me!' Seerbacker was silent for an instant, then he said: 'Get off the air — Peck!'

'Sir?'

'You heard that, Chief?'

'Yes, sir — we'll never get this runway cleared, not a thirty-yard width all the way down the floe.'

Seerbacker looked at Gant. 'What the hell do you want?' he said.

'I — a hundred yards this side of the floe,' Gant replied, pointing beyond the gap in the ridge, to the north. 'Just give me that, and a clear runway this side of the gap.' He waved his hand towards the Firefox.

Seerbacker repeated his instructions. Peck sounded dubious that he could complete the work, but affirmed that he would try. Gant stared into the mist, saw the huddled, squat shapes of men moving closer, straining as they dragged the unwilling hoses back on their tracks. He heard the recommencement of the spraying, smoothing out his runway, blasting the loose, powdery surface snow clear. If he was to reach the take-off speed he required, it had to be done. And he had to wait until it was done.

Seerbacker was speaking again. 'Give me a status report on 'Harmless' — and this is the last time anyone refers to anything except the weather — understand?' He listened intently, almost leaning forward on the balls of his feet. When the voice at the other end had finished, he nodded in apparent satisfaction. Then he looked at Gant. 'It's O.K. - we're covered, as long as we get you airborne.'

'ETA seven minutes.' Fleischer's voice was infected by something that sounded dangerously like panic.

'When he contacts you — give him the low-down, like on the script — O.K., Dick?' Seerbacker's voice was soothing.

'Sir.'

Gant watched the steam skid across the snow. Blasts of powder lifted into the misty air. The hoses snaked nearer, the men straining at them, joined now by other, anonymous figures who passed Gant, summoned by Peck's call over the handset. Around the men, the self-inflicted blizzard raged, until Gant himself was enveloped in the blinding white smoke.