'It's the Tupolev, sir the aircraft commander, Major Antonov. This… I don't think he can understand it…'
Vladimirov snatched the pad, plucking his half-glasses from his top pocket, wobbling them onto his ears. Sobriety nudged him, having returned from its short absence. Antonov would not be the pilot of the Tupolev AWACS aircraft; but the political officer who theoretically commanded the crew. He was a member of GLAVPUR, the armed forces' political directorate. However, he might still be competent aircrew, even though he was on the Tupolev 'Moss' because it flew near all kinds of hostile borders across which its crew might be tempted to take it-
At first, Vladimirov did not understand the report. A frequency-agile signal, intermittent… they'd picked it up once or twice, got a line on it — the first fix — but not a second clear fix which would give them the exact position. They only knew the signal emanated somewhere along a straight line… not near the crash site…
Finally, the request for orders; the passing of the buck. Vladimirov waved the young officer out of his path and stepped into the War Command Centre. Immediately, he sensed the familiar and the desired. Yes, it was a clean, well-lit place. It was comfortable here, at the centre; the uniformed centre.
He would have been criminally stupid, he reflected as he crossed the room, to have thrown all this away — and why, and for what? Because the Soviet leader was a boor and a thug? Because the Chairman of the KGB was a psychotic? Because he loathed their company and their intellectual inferiority? Those would have been his reasons; pride and snobbery. Caste.
A clean, well-lit, comfortable place. His place. It would have been criminal to throw it away.
'Put me through to Antonov — over the cabin speaker,' he announced calmly, soberly. A moment later, he was given the signal to proceed. 'Major Antonov — this mysterious signal of yours… what do you suppose it is?'
'Yes, Comrade General,' he heard the distant, crackling voice begin, 'we don't know what to make of it — any of us.'
'When did you first pick it up?'
'Fifteen minutes ago-but we lost it-then found it on a different frequency… the third time, only five minutes ago, we managed to get a line on it, but we haven't been able to pick it up since.' The tone was apologetic, but it managed to include the entire crew of the Tupolev in any consequent blame.
'Find it again, Major I beg of you.'
'Yes, Comrade General.'
Frequency-agile — a signals or communications emission, but without a message or code… a somehow- still-operating piece of clever electronics thrown well clear of the crash site…? How far — this was too far… some Finnish ground installation we don't know about? Unlikely. There had been no Personal Survival Beacon signals from either pilot, so Gant and the Foxbat pilot were both dead… neither of them had ejected in time.
Personal Survival Beacon —
The PSB for Firefox test pilots was frequency-agile, and intermittent, to ensure that only those instructed how to listen would ever hear… and Gant was wearing dead Voskov's pressure suit!
'It's
He went through the door, slamming it behind him, already knowing, without careful analysis, what must be done. The First Secretary and Andropov were emerging into the hospitality room at that moment. Immediately, Vladimirov pointed his long forefinger at Andropov as at a recalcitrant and untrustworthy subordinate.
'I want your Border Guards, Comrade Chairman!' he snapped. 'I want a helicopter patrol, three ships, ready to cross into Finland immediately — Gant's been alive all the time!'
The contents of the survival pack from the Firefox were spread around him at the foot of the fir tree. His eyes were gritty with tiredness, and refused to focus for any length of time. Tension and weariness produced bouts of violent yawning. His body shivered almost constantly now, with cold and reaction. He had escaped. He had walked perhaps a little more than three miles in a north-westerly direction, keeping to the cover of the forest. He wanted only to sleep now. The pressure suit creaked and groaned as it froze into stiff, awkward sheets and folds around his body. His toes and fingers were numb. He had to sleep.
He would repack the survival kit except for the sleeping bag, which lay like an orange and blue brick near his left knee. If he got into it, perhaps only for an hour — surely he could afford the time. He hadn't heard the noise of a searching aircraft for perhaps twenty minutes now…
He had to sleep. He could not form ideas, make plans. He could not stay awake. There was good overhead cover here. The sleeping-bag, tight around him, would eventually warm him, restore the circulation. He would be able to continue, if only he slept now.
A white Arctic hare watched him from the other side of the fir tree. Its nose twitched as it assessed the intruder. Gant watched it dully, head hanging forward, staring at the small, still animal from beneath his furrowed brow. Even to hold the white hare in focus against the snow required vast concentration.
Automatically, the Makarov pistol came out of its holster, took aim, and fired once. The noise was deafening, frightening in the silence to which he had become totally accustomed. It seemed to invite pursuit, creat lurid images of capture. The hare leapt backwards with the force of the 9mm bullet at such close range, its powerful back legs flicking up. Then it lay on its side. A small stain spread from beneath its fur, darkly red, It would supplement the rich cake, the chocolate and biscuits in the rations of the survival pack. He was tiredly, exaggeratedly saddened by the killing of the hare, and immediately he entertained the emotion it became self-pity; he was utterly weary. He could not, now, gather up, skin, cook the hare.
He began shivering again. Furiously, as if to punish himself, he rubbed his hands on his arms, trying to warm himself. Or scrape away from his skin some guilt or paralysis that clung to it.
An object. Hard. Inside one of the pockets. Left arm. He unzipped the pocket, and withdrew a small orange cylinder. He recognised it at once. His PSB, his distress signal transmitter.
He stared at it, unbelievingly. He had forgotten it, hadn't even attempted to locate it. It would have been activated — without the shadow of a doubt it would have been activated and begun transmitting — the moment it was immersed in the waters of the lake. He looked up at the sky, wildly. Nothing. The search had been called off -
Relief in his mind was a clean image of the grey, darkening sky. Intruding upon that was the white dot of the Tupolev AWACS airplane as he had seen it on his screen. The transmitter in his cupped hand would undoubtedly have the power to beam a signal the thirty or more miles of distance and the forty thousand feet of altitude to the Tupolev. They must have heard it. They knew he was alive, where he was…
Panic removed weariness with a rush of adrenalin. He stood up, swayed, then dropped the PSB. He stamped on it, grinding it out of shape, puncturing the skin, smashing the transistors and wiring within. Killing it. The hare lay beyond the distress he had made in the snow, unmoving. He knelt again, scooping the scattered items back into the survival pack. The brick of his folded sleeping-bag, the folded .22 rifle and its half-dozen rounds, the chocolate and biscuits, the compressed rations, the solid tablet stove.
He watched the hare. He couldn't -
He dragged a plastic bag from the pack, scooped up the hare with apologetically gentle hands, and thrust it into the bag, then the package into the survival pack. As he stood up, he kicked fresh snow over the small, darkening smudge of blood.
His tracks would not show because he had been beneath the forest roof for the greater part of his journey. Eventually, he would have to sleep, but now he must strike in a more northerly direction. He slipped the harness of the pack over his shoulders, wearily assuming a fully-upright posture when he had done so. He swayed with tiredness. He looked at his watch. Darkness was still as much as two hours away. Two hours, then, before he could
