Firefox Down

intently. Almost willing them to answer, Aubrey felt. Then he added: 'Well? Time to consider, gentlemen?'

'Not for me,' Aubrey declared firmly. 'It may very well be true. I, for one, must know for certain.' Aubrey glared at Charles Buckholz. 'Charles?'

'I don't know — look, you could be right. I hope to God you are. But — it just doesn't look that way to us.'

'Will you say that it does — just for the moment?'

'I don't know

'We can't just write the whole thing off, Charles — !' Aubrey cried, standing up. His chair collapsed behind him, making a disproportionate noise in the Ops. Room. 'There has been too much expenditure of planning, time, and lives involved. You must want to be certain, surely? The Russians will want to be, and we may already be behind them in a race we didn't even know we'd entered!'

Buckholz's face was puzzled atid a little fearful as he looked up at Aubrey, bent intently over him like a bully. 'I — ' he began, but Aubrey seized upon his hesitation.

'Once they've seen the pictures they took of the crash site, they'll find the Firefox's remains are missing. We know the plane isn't there. Once they know — and they may know it already — they'll be looking for it. And, if it is intact…' He left the threat unelaborated.

Pyott stroked his moustache. 'I think Kenneth has a point, Charles,' he murmured.

'Maybe,' Buckholz replied reluctantly.

Curtin was nodding. 'I think we have to, Mr. Buckholz — we have to follow this thing through.'

Buckholz shrugged heavily. 'Very well. For the moment, I'll lie my head off to Washington. And you'll do the same for London, uh?'

Pyott nodded. 'We will.'

'We must get our political masters to order us to go ahead,' Aubrey instructed in a dark, Machiavellian voice, his face at first sombre but breaking into a mischievous smile as he finished speaking.

'OK.'

'Let's not waste time. There are secure telephones in the Briefing Room. You can call Grosvenor Square at once, Charles. We'll wait until you've finished your call before we make ours.'

Buckholz felt himself dismissed, but not slighted. He motioned to Curtin. 'Come on. Gene — let's agree our story before anyone makes a call.'

The two Americans disappeared into the Briefing Room, the door of which led off the main Ops. Room. Giles Pyott and Aubrey watched it close behind them.

'Can we do it?' Aubrey asked quickly.

Instead of answering, Pyott stood up and moved to the huge plot-table in the centre of the underground room. He brooded over the models and tapes and markings on its surface. 'Damn bad show,' he murmured, turning to Aubrey, who now stood alongside him. The crash site was represented on the plot-table by a model of a MiG-25 and the black, futuristic model of the MiG-31. In deadly, fatal conjunction. Deliberately, Aubrey picked up one of the cuelike rods the plotters used to alter the position of symbols on the table. Awkwardly, he reached out with it and shunted the model of the Firefox southwards, letting it come to rest on the blue spot of a lake. For a moment. Aubrey's movements reminded Pyott of a short, bald croupier.

'There!' he said with intense triumph.

'You're convinced it's in one piece?'

'I'm not convinced it's in a million pieces, Giles — besides, we could still learn a great deal from whatever is left of it — from Gant, were he alive. To know, we must have someone under the ice, so to speak.'

Pyott rubbed his moustache with a quicker, stronger rhythm. When he faced Aubrey again, he said, 'I know what you want of me, Kenneth. There are some people who would suit, up in the Varahgerfjord at the moment. Some of our Special Boat Service marines… practising landing on an enemy coast from a hunter-killer submarine, that sort of training. Routine stuff. Under the supervision of an old friend of yours — Major Alan Waterford of 22 SAS. Perhaps that seems like the workings of an auspicious fate to you, mm?'

'Can we-?'

Pyott shook his head. 'Not until we have clearance — a direct order to do something. Washington and Number Ten must give that order. You know that, Kenneth.'

'Unfortunately, yes.'

'The Finns gave us permission for the covert overflight of their country, and certain reluctant back-up facilities. They are unlikely, without pressure from our masters, to involve themselves any further in this affair. I must argue, from StratAn's point of view, you from that of SIS. JIC and the Chiefs of Staff will, in all likelihood, have to persuade Number Ten to continue with the affair. It really depends on Washington's attitude.'

Pyott's attention moved from Aubrey to an approaching RAF officer. He had come quickly down the metal steps from the glass-fronted gallery which contained the communications equipment. All that could be seen from the floor of the Ops. Room was a row of bent heads. The Pilot Officer hurried towards them.

'Mr. Aubrey — Colonel Pyott, I think you'd better come quickly. Squadron Leader Eastoe wants to speak to Mr. Aibrey urgently.'

'What is it?'

'I don't know, sir — the Squadron Leader just said it was very urgent and to get you to the mike at once.'

Pyott strode after the RAF officer as soon as the young man turned away. Aubrey scuttled after them both, his eye glancing across a litter of paper cups, bent backs in blue uniform shirts, scribbled blackboards and weather charts, before he concentrated his gaze on the metal steps as he clattered up them behind Pyott. Eastoe was waiting for him behind the glass, pausing on tape for a scrambled spit of sound that would be Aubrey's speeded-up reply.

Aubrey thrust past Pyott and said to the Operator, 'Play it for me.'

'Mr. Aubrey had better be told at once,' Eastoe began, 'even through the ground-clutter and the intermittent snow we're picking up signs of helicopter activity, moving west and southwest. Our best guess is three of them, and that they're troop-carriers. They're not interested in our lake, as far as we can tell — their course would take them north-west of it. Our ETA for the lake is four minutes two. If you want us to go, that is. Over.'

The tape stopped. Aubrey rubbed his cheeks furiously. It couldn't be — they couldn't have picked up the carrier wave from the homing device, only Eastoe could do that aboard the Nimrod. What, then?

'Eastoe, keep track of them if you can. Do whatever you have to…' He merely glanced up at Pyott, whose face was impassive. Aubrey hesitated for a moment, then said firmly, 'I'm ordering you to overfly the lake — deceive them as to your object — and obtain the best photographic record you can under the circumstances. And, when you've done that, I want you to take a look at those helicopters. I want to know what they're doing- dammit!' The tape continued to run. Aubrey finally added: 'Good luck. Over and out.' Only then he did return his gaze to Pyott, whose face was gloomy. His eyes were glazed and inward-looking. Evidently, he was weighing the consequences of Aubrey's precipitation. 'I had to,' Aubrey explained. 'Things are beginning to outrun us. I had to have better information, whatever the fuss.'

'I agree,' Pyott said. 'Even though I don't much like it. Well, we'd better talk to JIC and the Chiefs of Staff — I may have to get down there myself…' He crossed to the door of the communications gallery, then turned to Aubrey. 'I do hope our American friends are obtaining the most hopeful noises from their President, Kenneth — for all our sakes.'

* * *

The icicles were like transparent, colourless gloves worn over the dead twigs of the bush behind which Gant crouched. Below him, the noise and movement belonged to a wild hunt: an image of his own pursuit, probably no more than a mile behind him now.

He had heard the noise of dogs. The helicopters — three he was almost certain — had cast about for signs of him, often appearing as they drove westwards above him or close to one of his hiding places. It was as if they knew his position, and were herding him ahead of or between them. He knew one of the helicopters was west or north-west of him now, its troops probably working back towards him…

Towards this village, too, this collection of wooden huts below him, beyond which a group of Lapps were