Firefox Down

was as if everything had been no more than a dramatic prelude to the quiet desperation of Moresby's search for the auto-destruct system.

The two bodies had been shrouded in their sleeping bags and removed from the clearing. They lay now like Arctic mummies, waiting for transport to their place of burial; waiting for next-of-kin to be informed. Buckholz shook the thoughts from his head.

Moresby saw them approach, and climbed rapidly out of the cockpit. He waved his arms as if shoo-ing chickens in a yard.

'I told you to fuck off,' he said to Buckholz.

'As a kid I used to haunt accident black-spots,' Buckholz replied without expression. Moresby looked at him curiously, and then nodded, accepting his presence.

Buckholz looked around the clearing. Stores, the commpack, equipment, had all been removed. It was as if they were about to abandon the Firefox, having spent so much time and effort — and two lives — bringing her out of the lake. 'What have you done so far?' he asked.

'There's no magnetic card to activate any auto-destruct,' Moresby snapped. 'No armed micro-switches- nothing that could be set off other than by the removal of the canopy or the ejection of the bang-seat.'

'But — there has to be something else?'

'I'd bet on it. Of course there has to be something — '

'Hell.'

'Excuse me — I'm needed,' Moresby said, and turned away from Buckholz and Waterford. Buckholz let the man go. He had no expertise and could not dissuade Moresby. Instead, he worried about the thickness of the snow that had fallen on the ice. Gant had had snow cleared from the ice-floe when he had refuelled. It would have to be done here, with hot-air blowers. He would talk directly to Bardufoss, as soon -

As soon as they knew whether or not there was a clock ticking somewhere, a clock they could neither see nor hear. Was there anything?

Gunnar had covered almost the whole of the fuselage. He had worked around the airframe, reaching the fuselage below the cockpit once more. He had found nothing other than routine fuelling and inspection points, catches, switches, points, bolts, panels.

'Below this small window, it reads. — 'In the event of red placard, cordon off airframe and advise Senior Armaments Officer'.' Gunnar recited, then began humming and murmuring to himself over the R/T. Then he added: 'Yes, that's what it says. There is a red placard showing in the window.'

'Let me see,' they heard Moresby say.

Involuntarily. Buckholz started forward. Waterford snorted in derision, but followed him.

'What is it?' Buckholz asked as he reached Moresby, who was craning to look through a tiny perspex window set at eye-level below the cockpit.

'Approximately five millimetres of red-painted tin,' Moresby answered without turning his head. 'It doesn't mean a lot, does it?' He tapped the fuselage alongside the window. 'Access panel — be careful, my lad, as you take it off, won't you?'

He stepped back and allowed the technician to reach the panel and gently begin to move the first four screws.

'Is it anything?' Buckholz insisted.

'Who knows? The instruction is pretty clear. You don't cordon off aircraft for no reason, or tell the armaments people it's all theirs. I wonder… Come on lad, get a move on!' The technician had removed three of the flush screws, and he pivoted the access panel. Moresby immediately moved forward brandishing a torch like a weapon. He craned towards the panel, moving the torch's thin beam as carefully as if he were attempting to skewer something with it. Buckholz listened to his commentary over the R/T, having retreated to his former position. 'Mm. Twqsolenoids, a relay — what's that…? Wiring, a box with a tag… Gunnar, what does it say on the tag — here…' Moresby stepped away.

Gunnar wriggled the beam of the torch into the open panel. 'It says 'Battery change due on…' And it gives the date. Next month.'

'Useless!' Moresby snapped. 'Let me have another look. What else have we got here? Mm? Small canister, looks a bit like — what? Old flasher unit I had on my Morris, years ago. Top surface had a thin coating of some kind, wires from the base which couple into solenoids and the relay… and that's it. Might be to run the pilot's model railway, I suppose… Anyone else want a look?'

Moresby passed the torch to one of the technicians, and turned to face Buckholz and Waterford. 'Who knows?' he announced with a shrug. 'It ought to be important, but I can't see why.'

'The red placard?' Buckholz asked.

'If this is the auto-destruct, then it's armed, yes,'

'Thanks.'

'Pleasure.' He turned to his technician. 'Well?'

'It doesn't remind me of a flasher unit sir,' the technician offered.

'Brilliant. And what does it remind you of?'

'Looks like the automatic sprinkler device my old Dad fitted in his greenhouses — down Evesham way… very pleased with them, he was.'

'Fascinating.' Moresby flashed the torch back into the open panel, wriggled its light, sighed over the R/T, glanced at the red placard in the window, then back into the hole. 'How does your father's sprinkler system work, then?' he asked with studied casualness. They heard his muffled voice continue: 'Speak up, laddie, I'm very interested in gardening myself.'

Moresby's massive calm and expertise and exaggerated manner had all conspired to lessen the tension which Buckholz felt was beginning to grow in him again.

'You've warned your men to stay at a safe distance?' he muttered to Waterford.

'I have.' Waterford had called in nine of the eighteen SBS marines who formed his reconnaissance perimeter, to form a guard around the clearing now that the Firefox had been winched out of the lake.

Buckholz knew they should be starting to arrive within the next fifteen minutes. His concern for their safety deflected his fears for himself. The red placard must mean something.

The technician was explaining his father's greenhouse sprinkler system. Buckholz could not accommodate the seeming irrelevance of the information. '… when it dries out turns the sprinkler on… when it's wet by the right amount, it turns it off again.'

'Mm. Must get one for the lawn,' Moresby murmured, his face still pressed to the access panel. Then he stood up, and stretched. 'In the absence of anything more technical than the greenhouse sprinkler system donated by Carter and his father, I think we'll wedge the solenoids, just in case. Carry on, Carter. Let's play safe.' Immediately he walked across to Buckholz, rubbing his hands as if washing them inside his gloves. 'Hurry up, Carter,' he called over his shoulder, 'it's getting pretty dry behind that panel.'

'Do you think that's it?' Buckholz asked, his nerves and tension making him feel ridiculous.

'I should think so — bang,' he added with a tight little smile. He flicked at his moustache, which creaked with his frozen breath. 'I don't know why they wanted a water-activated system. Morbidly security-conscious, though, the Russians.'

'So how did it work?' Buckholz was more and more angry. It was an anti-climax, he had been frightened for nothing.

'With the airframe's immersion, the system became operational,' Moresby replied, almost with relish. 'It was fully armed once it came out of the water. When it dried out completely — bang! At least, I assume that's what would have happened.'

He turned. The technician gave him a thumbs-up sign, and Moresby sighed with satisfaction.

'Safe?' Buckholz asked.

'Hang about for a bit and see, if you wish. I think so — we'll get down to the real work now. I should get your chaps to cut down a few more trees. Major. It's almost three now.' He nodded, and walked away towards the aircraft.

'Christ,' Buckholzbreathed. 'Jesus H. Christ.'

'No, but he's not bad for RAF.' Waterford murmured, placing the R/T against his lips and turning away from the American.