Firefox Down

them with an underwater camera — to prepare for a full photographic record.

The aircraft had awed him. Its size, of course, was huge in the partial, weak light of his lamp. More than that, its black paint, its almost total absence of markings, its praying-mantis head, its drooping wings, made it alien; most of all, its location beneath the frozen lake was sufficient to make it mesmeric, almost nightmarish as his lamp's beam danced over it.

The corporal grinned behind his facemask as Brooke jumped at the heavily gloved hand on his shoulder. Bubbles, air tanks, facemask, all fitted the scene and the airframe. He nodded, indicating the length of the fuselage, the undercarriage, the wings. Almost at once, the corporal, propelling the large underwater camera steadily in front of him, its flash unit like a blank television screen, began swimming along the airframe. The flash unit fired time after time. Each time, a part of the fuselage glared. Cannon-holes, wing section, tail, tailpipes, belly of the airframe, undercarriage, wing, cockpit… the light flashed again and again as each part of the MiG was recorded.

Brooke almost felt betrayal under the ice as he recalled the explosive charges they carried in one of the packs. They had no orders, but the airframe was intact… the easiest way to solve the problem, from London's point of view, would be to plant and detonate enough explosive to shatter the airframe, melt the electronics, destroy the hydraulics — kill the aircraft. That aircraft, that huge thing in the repeated glare of the flash or in the beam he played almost lovingly over it. He was surprised by his own sentiments; perhaps it was the too-familiar expectation of wreckage whenever he dived. Bodies, twisted metal, charred plates, signals of damage and destruction everywhere. But this — ? It was complete, almost untouched; salvageable.

Impossible. They'd be ordered to destroy it.

The corporal swam towards Brooke, his thumb erect. Brooke slapped his shoulder and the corporal swam towards the surface. His form bumped along the last feet of ice, and then he was only a half-body in the beam of light, legs flapping lazily, moving away to where the shore sloped upwards. Brooke danced his lamp over the MiG once more, and then rose to the surface. He was becoming very cold. He left the aircraft in the darkness in which he had discovered it.

As he waded out of the lake, he saw Waterford, white-clad, waiting for him, and already in conversation with the corporal. Waterford patted the camera equipment much as he touched everything; large, possessive, dangerous contacts. Dawson handed the corporal towels and a mug of coffee. Waterford waited for Brooke to remove his facemask. The moment they confronted one another, even before Dawson could take Brooke's air tanks, Waterford said:

'Well? Looks as if he taxied it to the shore and found the ice too thin?' Brooke nodded.

'It seems like it. The stream would have continued to drain the lake for a while before it froze over. It must flow pretty quickly in summer — it's not a deep channel, anyway. It left thin ice and a nice big air-pocket. Oops!'

'The corporal tells me the airframe's factory-fresh. Is that true?' It sounded like an accusation, a laying of blame upon the Royal Marine lieutenant.

Brooke nodded. 'Almost. Even the undercart is intact. One of the doors is buckled, but — '

'Christ! That's all we need. So the silly sod landed the bloody thing in one piece, did he?'

Again, Brooke nodded. 'He must have done,' he said. 'Even closed the canopy before he left. God, Major, you should see the thing!'

'No, thanks!' Then he continued, as much to himself as to Brooke: 'I almost had the poor sod…' His hand clenched into a grip in front of him, almost touching Brooke's chest. 'He was as close to me as you are now. Sheer bloody luck we found him — but they'd found him, too. Some bloody Ivan rugger-tackled him just as he had hold of the wire… we could have had him here now, for Christ's sake — !' Then, more calmly and even more ominously, he added: 'Having been that close to rescue, having looked in my face, into the cabin of the Lynx behind me, he'll go to pieces now — fast. From what I've heard of him, he's half-way off his head already. He's going to last about five minutes when they start to question him.' He looked out over the lake. 'By tomorrow, the Russians will be crawling over this place like ants. Getting ready to cart the thing home.'

'You think so?'

Waterford's face was grim. 'I've seen them, lad,' he snapped sourly. 'In Belfast, in Cyprus, Borneo, the Oman-I've seen how communicative people can be when they're put to it.' His square, stone-cut features were bleak as he spoke. 'Gant, poor sod, won't be able to help himself… and I haven't helped him either, arriving like the Seventh Cavalry just after they've burned down the fort!' He threw up his hands, and added: 'OK, let's tell Aubrey the good news. Dawson, have you hidden that commpack successfully? Will it work for the next lot in?'

'Reindeer permitting, yes, sir,' Dawson replied.

'He's going to love this, that podgy little clever-dick — Christ, is he going to love this!'

* * *

The rain blew out of the darkness like something alive and impishly malevolent. Aubrey had closed his umbrella because it threatened to turn inside-out in every gust of searching wind, but he held his hat jammed onto his head. Buckholz walked beside him, bareheaded, chilly and soaked, hands thrust in his pockets, head bent against the splashes and gouts of rain. They had been silent for some minutes. Buckholz, numbed by the signals they had received via the satellite link, as he knew Aubrey must be, had no wish to interrupt the silence. The splashing of the rain against the administration building windows as they passed, the faint noises from the Officers' Mess, their clicking or sloshing footsteps, the sudden yells of the wind, all expressed his mood and deadened it at the same time. He was able not to think, not to consider.

Aubrey dabbed at puddles with the ferrule of his umbrella, breaking up their rippling reflections of light. As always to Buckholz, his anger seemed no grander than petulance. Yet it was real and deep. The smaller, older man shivered at the intrusion of rain into his collar, and expelled an angry, exasperated breath. Buckholz thought he might be about to speak, but they continued their patrol in silence. Down in the Ops. Room, Curtin was trying to contact Pyott in London.

They had come to a dead-stop, Buckholz had to admit. They needed fresh orders, a fresh guarantee of support, from Washington and London and Brussels and Oslo, and they had to make fresh approaches to the Finns. But — to what end? For why?

Buckholz brushed away the thoughts, his face cleansed of worried frowns by the splash of rain that met them as they turned the corner of the building, into a gleam of light from a doorway. Buckholz thought it was Bradnum, standing there in his uniform raincoat, but the RAF officer, whoever he was, saw them and turned suddenly back into the building. They passed the main door. Noises from the Mess emerged as warmly as the heat of a fire. They passed on, feet crunching on gravel, no longer clicking or splashing on concrete.

Finally, as if in the grip of a tormenting, unbearable secret he must blurt out, Aubrey turned to Buckholz and said, almost in a gasp: 'They have everything, Charles — in the palm of… oh, dammit, they have everything.' Buckholz was prompted, for an instant, to pat Aubrey's shoulder, but desisted. The Englishman would find it patronising, too gauchely American.

'I know, Kenneth- it's one hell of a blow.'

'Both prizes, Charles — both of them, lost to us. The airframe is intact and less than forty miles from the Russian border, and the pilot is by now probably in Murmansk, if not on his way to Moscow!' Aubrey leaned towards Buckholz, lowering his voice to an intense whisper as he said, 'And they will make him talk, Charles. Believe me, they will. He is alone, you see — their first and sharpest weapon. Before, he was never alone, not for a moment. He had help. Now, he will know he is alone, and that resistance, courage, defiance, all have no meaning. Sooner or later he will tell them where to find the airframe of the Firefox.'

'I know you're right, Kenneth.'

'And, like me, you can see no way out?'

Buckholz shook his head emphatically, as if to dispel any lingering, foolish hope in Aubrey, who merely nodded once in reply to the gesture.

'No, all I can see is we've painted ourselves into a corner, Kenneth.'

'I won't accept that — '

'You have to, Kenneth. I have to talk to Washington again, you to London. And we have to tell them that, in our considered estimation, we've lost both ends of the operation — Gant and the Firefox.' Buckholz shrugged expressively. Water ran from his short hair in droplets that gleamed in the light above the main doors of the admin, building. 'What else can we say, for God's sake?'