He had the dinghy-knife, the survival pack, his parachute, and the standard-issue Makarov officer's pistol and two spare magazines. He had no extra clothing, and his body was chilled to the bone. The dinghy had drifted out into the lake, like a marker to indicate the airplane's position. He drew the Makarov, hesitated, steadied his aim, and fired twice. The noise was deafening. Birds protested with cold voices. Slowly the dinghy deflated, began to sink. Gant sighed with relief. No trace.
He was alive. Standard procedure dictated that he remain near the aircraft. In this case, he dare not. If they seached for him — when they failed to find any signs of wreckage they could attribute to the Firefox — then they must not find him near the plane. He had to head… north-west, try to make some indentation on the daunting twenty miles or more between his position and the Norwegian border. He had to blindly hope that it was not only the Russians who would be searching for him…
The homing device. The transmitter -
In a new moment of panic, he looked around sightlessly. It was nowhere to be seen.
Had he — ? Had it been switched to transmit? He could remember every movement of his right hand as it sought the dinghy-knife and then his trapped sleeve. Now. he had to recall every moment of the few when the slim black plastic case was cradled in his left hand, against his body. Had he done it, automatically? Had he switched it on…?
His memory fumbled, struggled with the effort of recalling automatic responses, mere reflex actions.
Eventually… yes. Yes, it was switched on. His eyes scanned the ice. The remains of the dinghy had disappeared. He walked clumsily, slowly along the bank — even for the transmitter, he would not allow himself to step onto the treacherous sheet of ice on the lake — searching for what would be no more than a black dot. He did not find it. The landscape was nothing more than black and grey and white.
Finally, he concluded that the transmitter had sunk to the bottom of the lake. If it had dropped onto ice — he was certain he remembered that kind of sound when it fell — it must have slipped off when the ice had been moved or distressed by the underwater eddies created by the moving bulk of the Firefox. It was lost.
Now, distance was his only imperative. He could not stay near the transmitter, near the lake. If he was found, it needed to be miles from here.
His body failed him for a moment, daunted by the prospect of movement, of travel; of survival.
He looked northwards up the lake to where the heavy, crowded trees were little more than a dark, carbon smudge made by someone sketching the scene. The ice was a smooth sheet. He was on the western shore of the lake. He checked his compass and the map he unstrapped from his thigh. In its clear plastic, it had remained dry during his immersion. The pressure-suit was achingly cold.
He looked in the direction he must travel, towards Norway. Conifers crowding to the water's edge, low hills beyond them. He heard the mocking dissuasion of large, unseen birds. He looked down at the water, still like setting jelly, its temperature dropping. The Firefox was undetectable, invisible. It had to be enough to satisfy him; drive him on.
He picked up his parachute and buckled on the harness. He clipped the survival pack to his now deflated life- jacket, and adjusted its weight for comfort. Then he turned away from the lake and entered the trees.
Air Marshal Kutuzov glanced towards the other end of the compartment and the door which led to the small private office the First Secretary used when aboard the Tupolev. Evidently, the Soviet leader and the Chairman of the KGF intended remaining there for the rest of the flight. Kutuzov glanced at his heavy gold watch. Twenty minutes to the principal military airfield south-east of Moscow. He cleared his throat, patting Vladimirov's leg as he spoke. 'Med, I think you have secured the succession for yourself.' The old man tapped the shoulder boards on his own uniform. His pale, rheumy eyes twinkled, and he nodded vigorously. 'You're learning. And in time — just in time…' It was evident that Kutuzov was philosophically drunk…
Vladimirov stared at his own small glass. How many drinks — ? They'd been drinking for less than half an hour. No one gets drunk more quickly than a Russian. What was he drinking to? The American's death? The excessive, almost manic bonhomie of the First Secretary, the cold, glinting appraisals of the still-sober Andropov — both had ceased to irritate or impinge. The vodka had distanced them. He had managed to drown reason and insight like two wasps at the bottom of his glass. Their stings pulled out.
He glanced towards the door of the War Command Centre, then at the door to the First Secretary's office. The Soviet leader had been summoned to the telephone to deal with the diplomatic niceties of airspace intrusions.
Through the vodka, the sense of self-contempt was returning. Vladimirov warned himself against it. And, as if his companion sensed the threatened change of mood, he patted Vladimirov's hand and said: 'Be sensible — continue to be sensible, General Vladimirov.' The formality of the address was intentional. Vladimirov shook his head in what was a gesture of agreement rather than protest. The alcohol stirred like a solid mass lurching across an empty space.
'I know it, I know it,' he murmured. 'It's much better to be — oh, what? Nothing? Better to be nothing.' As he moved his hands angrily, vodka slopped from his glass onto the shining toes of his knee-boots. He watched the oily droplets flow like mercury across the polish. 'I know it.'
He stared again at the door to the War Command Centre. Through it officers had appeared periodically in the past half-hour to make their negative, comforting reports. They were like something added to the vodka, doubly calming. Wreckage photographed, pictures being returned for examination; search planes reporting no distress signals, no electronic emissions, no survivors.
Soon, it would be no more than a matter of experts examining the photographs of the wreckage to confirm that the Firefox and the M1G-25F were destroyed at the same moment in the same area. Then later the Finns would give permission for crash investigators and a recovery party to examine the site and bring the wreckage home. Black boxes would be removed, bodies would be wrapped in plastic sacks and brought back. End. Over. Finished.
The First Secretary had cancelled all over-flights of the crash area before taking his call from the Finnish President. All intrusions of foreign airspace could be apologised for because now they had ceased.
'I am offering you no more than a lesson in survival,' Kutuzov announced. It was the slurred voice of the vodka. 'Because I want
'I know that, old friend,' Vladimirov replied, nodding. Even to hirnself, his words sounded indistinct. He mocked himself silently, reproaching and ridiculing himself as bitterly as he could. He swallowed what little remained in his glass. His stomach surged. 'I've accepted. I — am a member of the team…' He smiled, his lips forming the expression imprecisely. '
'Patience. You are now a courtier. You will get used to waiting. It is a talent.'
'Courtier…' Vladimirov murmured.
'Another drink?'
'No, old friend I wouldn't be able to keep it down.'
'No Russian can — we get drunk too quickly.'
'Do you blame us?'
'No.'
The two men stared into their empty glasses. Vladimirov lifted his to reflect the overhead light. He could see the last oily smear in the glass, see the smudges made by his lips and fingertips. Then he stood up, swaying slightly, tall, grey-haired, drunk, but evidently, so evidently, an officer of distinction. As if he saw his form reflected in a mirror, he mocked his appearance. An impressive outward show, even when he was drunk. Hollow man… hollow man.
A young officer opened the door from the War Command Centre. Vladimirov whirled almost too quickly to face him. In his hand he carried a message pad.
Hollow man…
Stop it -
It was impossible to drown the wasps, then.
'What is it?' he snapped, his tongue furry, his eyes glistening. The rest of himself retreated somewhere, to wait for a more opportune moment.
