down the MO-MAT, then drifting out towards the edge of the ice. They reached the crucifix's tip, and immediately began sawing at the new, thin ice, working outwards from each other around the cross. Two more SBS men moved onto the ice itself, armed with steel spikes and hammers. White light reached out towards them as one of the powerful lamps was adjusted.
Even through the deadened, snow-filled air, he could hear the hammering of steel spikes into the ice. To these, lines would be attached so that sawn-off sections of ice could be towed to the shore. His divers were furiously at work cutting away chunks as the steel spikes were hammered in. He glanced at his watch. Twelve- fifteen. On schedule.
Two plates of ice were dragged by lines across the widening patch of clear water to the shore, then manhandled onto the thicker ice. Twelve-thirty. Lengths of timber floated in clear water now. The cross was losing shape. The sawing and hammering continued.
They had left the ice intact for as long as possible for reasons of security. A Dayglo crucifix, too, would signal their presence, even in bad visibility, to any low-flying aircraft or helicopter. Two hours earlier, they had had cause to consider the delay a wise one. Helicopters had been reported by Eastoe, heading north-west into Finland. Agreed, they were well to the south of them at first and later north-east as they cruised the area of the lake where Gant had been captured for almost an hour. Then they had retraced the route he had taken to that lake.
Buckholz's party had waited in darkness and silence for their approach. It never came. The weather had worsened and the helicopters, picked up with difficulty by Eastoe's most sophisticated radar, had changed course and headed south-east to re-cross the border. Immediately, the lights had been switched on and the crucifix laid out on the ice to represent the fuselage and wings of the Firefox. Since then, Eastoe had reported no activity along the border. Presumably the Russians had decided against further helicopter reconnaissance in the weather conditions that now prevailed. It indicated that they did not know where to look, were ignorant of the location of the aircraft.
More plates of ice were dragged out of the water, which now receded to the edge of visibility. Then the scene was further obscured by a curtain of snow. The corporal had thrust a mug of coffee into Brooke's hand which he had accepted almost without noticing. He sipped at it now. Twelve-thirty.
He turned his head. Royal Engineers were checking the nylon lines with the same kind of obsessiveness he had shown in relation to the undercarriage of the Firefox. Some abrasive surfaces were padded with logs of felled timber. The three trees which held the chain-lever winches were not equidistant, nor were they in a straight line. Therefore, the winching operation would be complex, and slow, in order to prevent snagging and rubbing against the undercarriage doors and ensure that the airframe ascended the ramp of the MO-MAT in as straight a line as possible. The officer in charge of the party would be required to monitor the speed and progress of each winch and line — constantly.
Out on the ice, his divers had handed over the task of driving in the remaining steel pins to RAF engineers. They dropped into the dark water, to make a thorough final check for underwater obstacles — they had spent hours clearing rocks and rubble that afternoon — and to take up their monitoring positions. They would be watching the undercarriage for signs of strain or weakness, the ropes for the same — and both for the first movements.
Twelve-forty. Brooke's coffee was cold in the mug, and he threw it away with a flick of his wrist. It dyed the trampled snow at the edge of the MO-MAT's carpet. Two of the shore party were brushing at the waffle-like surface, keeping it as free of snow as possible.
Brooke watched Moresby, the squadron-leader from the Field Recovery Unit at Abingdon and their Senior Engineering Officer, ambling towards them. He nodded to Buckholz and Waterford, taking up the stance of a spectator immediately, hands thrust into his pockets, parlca hood pulled around his face, shoulders hunched.
'As soon as we reach the level,' he announced as if he had been engaged in a conversation for some time and was-now answering one of a series of questions. 'I'd expect her stopped — oh, here,' he added, waving his arms to indicate the area just behind them where the slope of the shore all but disappeared. 'I've had a word with the engineers and they're fairly certain we can hold her on the winches. In fact, I'd like to have a look inside the cockpit as soon as she clears the water.'
Buckholz, unabashed, nodded. 'OK, Squadron-Leader. Any auto-destruct mechanism is entirely your baby. We'll order the winches to stop just as soon as she's clear of the water.'
'Splendid. The anti-radar capability and the thought-guidance systems must be protected by some kind of auto-destruct. Since the bang-seat wasn't used, they may not be armed. But they could, just could, be armed by immersion in water — some of these devices are. So, I think I'd better find out before the aircraft dries off.' He smiled perfunctorily, saluted quickly, and ambled off once more.
'It won't be much of a bang,' Waterford commented. 'They won't have rigged the whole airframe to blow up, much too dangerous. Russian pilots are very thick. Might kill the squadron-leader, of course, and give Aubrey a heart attack when he hears he's lost all the best stuff
'Thank you, Major,' Buckholz retorted.
Out on the ice, the last plates were being manhandled onto the firmer ice. The channel of clear water stretched away into the darkness beyond the lights. Bits of luminous wood floated randomly. The cross had gone. The shore party had begun to return, and his divers were walking out of the water up the slope of the temporary roadway. They were grinning as they removed their facemasks. Brooke nodded, and one of the divers turned and slipped back into the water to take up a monitoring station. Brooke watched the beam of his lamp flicker palely, like the track of some glowing fish, as it moved away towards one of the wings of the submerged Firefox.
'Tell me, Major,' Buckholz began, 'did Aubrey call this operation 'Nessie' because he thought he wouldn't get the airframe out of the water?' He was smiling as he asked the question.
Waterford tossed his head. 'Aubrey's idea of a joke, Mr. Buckholz — just his idea of a joke.' He smiled briefly, then added: 'Time for me to check with the Apaches out there. Excuse me.'
Waterford's huge, solid calm had acted like a barrier, but now that he had moved away Brooke could sense the electricity of the scene, the tension felt by each man. The ice was clear, the lines checked, the divers on- station. Moresby was standing with the party of Royal Engineers at the rear of the scene, upstage. They were checking drills, and walkie-talkies. Then he scoured the ground around each of the trees selected to take one of the winches, checking anchorages and knots. Eventually, he waved a hand towards Buckholz and moved back towards Brooke and the American.
Brooke could smell soup on the snowy air. And coffee. It would be served when — if — their first attempt proved successful and they got the airframe to move. Then, safe in the knowledge that it was possible to move the plane, they would be given a ten-minute break for food and drink. The winching would take much of the night.
Buckholz's head swivelled inside the fur-edged hood of his white parka as he checked with each section of the operation by walkie-talkie and hand-signals. Then he turned to Brooke. His grin was nervous, his face pale with cold and excitement. Brooke grinned and gestured him to begin.
'OK, everyone — let's catch 'Nessie', shall we?' he announced, and immediately turned to watch the winches take up the first of the slack in the nylon ropes.
Buckholz turned his back on the lake and looked towards the three teams manning the winches. As the two men on each winch levered back and forth easily and rhythmically, the nylon ropes tautened. The teams slowed almost immediately at a command from the Royal Engineer officer. The central pair stopped winching altogether at his hand signal only moments later; quickly followed by the pair to the left. The RE captain allowed the right-hand winch to continue as he moved forward to check the relative tension of each rope. A few seconds later, he made a chopping motion with his hand, and the third winch stopped.
Moresby, joining him, spoke briefly, then nodded.
Buckholz heard the captain call: 'Numbers One, Two, Three — haul away,' and the ropes stretched, creaking slightly in the silence. Buckholz noticed the science only then, at the first renewed sound of winching. He was aware, too, of the stillness of everyone there, except the six men at the bases of the trees which anchored the winches. Buckholz could sense their effort now; both men on each winch were straining. 'All stop?' the captain called out. The lines had lifted from the surface of the MO-MAT. To Buckholz, they appeared overstretched, ready to break. Then he felt the silence again and realised he had thrust his hands into his pockets because they were trembling.
One of the SBS divers slipped into the cleared dark water and swam to the lines in turn, tying an orange marker to each one at the point where it emerged from the water. Moresby, like some parody of a keen-eyed, grasping factory owner, had walked down to the shore and was studying the diver, as if about to sack or reprimand
