Firefox Down

duties. He moved two paces to the unfolded map on its collapsible table. The eighteen SBS marines crowded around him. Their breaths climbed above them like smoke from a chimney. Flurries of snow struck Waterford's face and settled on the map. Angrily, he brushed them away.

'Right, you gung-ho buggers-; now you've got yourselves together, I just want to remind you what you're supposed to be doing. I'll keep it simple so you won't have to take notes…' He tapped at the map with a gloved forefinger. 'You're on recce not engagement duties. You have your headings and you know the maximum distance you should go. It's a scouting perimeter, nothing more solid than that. Beyond the trees — beyond three or four kilometres, that is — the country is rolling, with mixed thickets and lots of open areas. Find the best observation posts, and sit tight. Report in only at specified times and keep it brief. We're not playing requests for Grandma and Aunt Glad and the rest of the family this time. Unless, of course, you wake up to find yourself being buggered by a huge, hairy Russian soldier — in which case, don't wait for your allocated time-slot, just yell Rape! and get out of there.' They laughed. 'As far as we know, there's nothing out there. We don't expect trouble, we dont want trouble, but we want to know if it's coming. So, make sure your dinky new trannies work, and keep hold of the nice new binoculars MoD issued you, and — good luck. Any questions?'

'Reinforcements, sir?' a lieutenant asked. 'I mean, if it comes to it…?' He gestured round him.

'I know. You'd like to know there's a Herky Bird full of your mates ready to drop in — well, they'll be at Bardufoss if they're needed. But, just remember this is a nice quiet pub — we don't want a bloody awful punch-up in the lounge bar, if we can possibly help it! OK?' More laughter, then Waterford said, 'Anyway, you're the lucky ones — think of this lot having to break all the ice and dig away at the bank until it's a nice shallow incline, then lay runway repair mats. OK, let's confirm your OP sites, shall we? Crosse and Blackwell?'

'Blackburn, sir,' one of the marines corrected him amid anticipated and preconditioned laughter at a familiar joke.

'Crosse and Blackburn — your heading?' Waterford replied, his face expressionless as he stared at the radiating lines on his w map that Ted from the lake to the observation sites he had decided on for the nine pairs of marines. Not so much the thin as the transparent red line, he remarked to himself.

Buckholz turned to look at Waterford, and then returned his attention to Brooke. Evidently, Waterford knew how to handle his men. The laughter that had distracted the CIA's Deputy Director was high-pitched, nervous. The SBS men were, like most elite forces, somewhat too thoroughbred in behaviour when not in action. Buckholz had found that to be true of US Special Forces men in Vietnam. But, they were there to function, not for show…

Brooke stood with his air canisters at his feet, a white parka over his wetsuit. Two other divers had joined them, one bringing coffee. Buckholz sipped it now. The snow pattered against the back of his parka and the wind buffeted him.

'This is vital,' he reiterated, sensing Brooke's resentment of his inexpert interference. He criticised it in himself. He did not mean to imitate his own grandmother, but he simply could not help it. Brooke had already been down twice through the jagged hole they had broken in the ice. His damage report had been expert, thorough. His inspection of the undercarriage, especially, had been positive in conclusion. Then he and two others had removed the charges they had laid when they had first found the Firefox. Now, Buckholz had ordered them to make another check on the undercarriage. 'You have to be certain, really, really certain, that those three legs are going to be able to take the strain of the winching. She's got to come out of there by the strength in her legs…'

'Yes, sir,' Brooke said stiffly.

Buckholz grinned. 'OK, I know I'm fussing-but humour me, uh?'

Brooke returned his grin. 'OK, sir — I'll double check.'

'Good boy.'

'Mr Buckholz?'

Buckholz turned in the direction of the call. The chain-saw was at work again. Snow flurried into his face. The sky was dark grey, the snow almost constant now, and the wind had increased from around five to more than ten knots. Sure, it was all helping to mask the signs of the air drop and their prints out on the lake, but it was reducing visibility at times to less than thirty yards. From the shore, it was difficult to see across the clearing to the Royal Engineer corporal with the chain-saw. He mistrusted the weather. A small example of its crippling effect had been the three hours of parching required to locate the contents of one hurst pack out an the ice Yes, more than anything it was the weather that, made-him fuss and triple-check. It held the key. Worst of all, the weather was delaying the Skyhook so much that they couldn't now assume it would arrive by the time they had winched out the Firefox. Buckholz was worried that the flying crane would never arrive, and they would have to destroy the Firefox where it stood. Damn the weather.

'What is it?' he called into the gusting wind. 'Mr. Aubrey, sir,' the radio operator called. He was bent over the control console of the commpack as he crouched behind a canvas windbreak reinforced by lopped tree-branches. A dish aerial rose to the height of the lowest overhanging branches of the tree canopy on the shoreline.

'OK, tell him I'm coming.' He turned back to Brooke, hesitated, then said, 'OK you bums — do your thing.' Brooke smiled as the American walked away. 'Mr. Aubrey said it was urgent, sir.'

'Sure,' Buckholz replied, attempting a grin. 'With him, everything is. OK — put me through,' He shivered. At least in the Lynx helicopter, one of two that had brought in the non-parachutists and which were now tied down and camouflaged on the far side of the lake, it had been crowded but warm. He looked at the coffee-mug in his mittened hand. He hadn't been warm since… too old, that was the trouble. Thin blood. Buckholz devoutly wished Aubrey his own present discomfort. The operator keyed in the voice scrambling code and paused for the light which would signify the console was ready to transmit. Then he sent his call-sign and received an acknowledgement a few seconds later. He nodded to Buckholz, who held the microphone close to his lips, as if about to whisper

He was assailed by a sense of foreboding, which made him pause before he said: 'OK, 'Mother', go ahead. What's on your mind? Over.' The conversational, almost jocular tone was deliberate, as if it could fend off what he sensed was approaching bad news. He heard Aubrey's voice through the one earpiece of the headset that he pressed against the side of his head.

'Bad news, I'm afraid, 'Fisherman'. The Skyhook has had to put down at a military airfield in southern Sweden for repairs. I'm assured that the repairs are minor, something to do with the rotors being out of balance. Caused by the bad weather they've been forced to fly through. However, even more important, they can't yet give an accurate estimate of the length of the delay. I'm sorry. Over.'

'Hell! Give it to me straight, 'Mother'. Don't bullshit me. I'm a big boy and I can take it. Over.'

'At least tomorrow afternoon — that's the earliest they could be with you. Over.'

'But they will come? Over.'

'They must! When do you think you'll be able to begin winching out? Over.'

'Some time around midnight tonight. Before first light, the Firefox will be on land. And no Skyhook! Over.'

'It will come. 'Fisherman' — it will come. Over.'

'If it doesn't arrive by eight, I'm planting the charges and we start ripping out the thought-guidance and anti-radar systems! Over.'

'It will arrive, 'Fisherman' — just be patient. Over.'

'Get the damn weather changed, will you? Over.'

'I'll do what I can. 'Fisherman'. Meanwhile, prayer might be advisable. Over.'

'I'll pray, 'Mother' — I'll pray. Out.'

Buckholz looked around him. The SBS two-man reconnaissance units were vanishing behind the weather and the trees, on their way out of the camp. He could hardly see the last of them. Brooke had already descended with one of the other divers. In the silence after the chain-saw had ceased, a stunted tree fell with a crack like the beginning of a landslide.

Buckholz looked up. The snow was heavier, the wind colder, stronger.

'Yeah, I'll pray,' he said, 'I just hope He can hear me above this wind!'

* * *

He had been like a thief, an intruder, in her apartment. She had had to be careful, almost obsessive, about the things he picked up, touched, used. She was coming back — she had determined on that — and Dmitri would be coming back there, too. There must be no traces of any other man — this American least of all. After each cup of