the very moment he arrives… that lake cannot be utilised as a runway without preparation. Even if the MiG is fuelled, armed and pre-flighted when he arrives, he will have to wait.' He stopped and turned to Andropov. Behind the Chairman of the KGB, the Trinity Tower, topped by its huge red star, loomed against the sky. 'Do you see? We have him. We have the pilot and the aircraft in our hands.'
Andropov adjusted his spectacles. 'I seem to have heard that cry all too often before,' he replied sharply. 'You have a second line of defence, I take it, General?'
'Defence?'
'Against failure.' Andropov's narrow face was chilled white.
'I see.' Vladimirov felt uncomfortable, almost guilty; as if he had joined some unscrupulous conspiracy against his friends. 'Of course,' he continued brusquely. 'Border squadrons will be airborne. Interceptors from 'Wolfpack' squadrons on the Kola Peninsula will be in the air as soon as the weather breaks sufficiently for them to take off. As a line of defence.'
'You still think you can capture the MiG-31 intact?'
'Why not? I don't believe its destruction should be our first objective.'
'The Finns will try everything to arrive the moment the deadline expires,' Andropov announced tiredly.
'If they get there, and find the aircraft, they will hand it over to us. As long as it remains where it is, it is ours. Obviously.'
'As long as it remains where it is.'
'We shall have to contrive that it does so,' Vladimirov snapped. Lost sleep, concentrated thought, continual tension seemed to overtake him for a moment. He rubbed his forehead. Touching the peak of his cap made him aware of his shoulder boards, his greatcoat, the medal ribbons he wore. They revived him, reasserted his superiority over the ambitious politician beside him. 'I have computer predictions of a timetable for repairs, drying out, replacement, preparation… all of them suggest that, with limited equipment, they will be hours behind their self-imposed deadline. Andropov, they can't fly the MiG out. It won't be ready.'
'So you hope.'
'So I believe.'
'Mm.' Andropov turned away, like a camera scanning the walls and towers and buildings of the Kremlin. The fortified encampment in the wilderness, Vladimirov thought. His mind was filled with contempt for Andropov and what he represented. Protected by their walls, he continued to himself, afraid of the wild tribes outside the palisade. They don't belong -
'I see our revered First Secretary heading this way,' Andropov murmured, smiling thinly as Vladimirov's head jerked up and his lips trembled slightly. Then anger at his own weakness darkened the soldier's features. 'You can't be above it all, you see,' Andropov added.
Vladimirov felt as if the Soviet leader had been watching them from his office window and had pounced, hoping to catch them at some conspiracy, or simply off-balance. His trilby hat was jammed onto his head, his coat with its astrakhan collar was wrapped around him; his bodyguards hurried after him. Both men moved towards the Soviet leader, preparing their minds and faces.
'What is happening?' the First Secretary asked accusingly, looking at each of them in turn. The bodyguards loitered. 'I rang the command centre, only to be told that you had gone for a
'It is all decided — everything has been worked out,' Andropov replied calmly, indicating Vladimirov. The First Secretary appeared to make an immediate pact with the Chairman of the KGB. His face darkened when he turned to Vladimirov, ready to accuse.
'Well, General-well?'
'Comrade Chairman Andropov and myself have made our decisions, First Secretary. We were on our way to inform you privately.'
Andropov's glasses caught the sun, and glinted. It was like a surrogate smile, a small signal of congratulation. 'Yes,' he agreed. 'We differ in some essentials, however.'
'I will tell you what is to happen,' the Soviet leader announced, walking on down the path, careful of his footing, waiting for them to fall into step at either side of him. Vladimirov clenched his fists for a moment, then caught up with the older man. Andropov was already to his left.
'We would value your opinion, of course — ' Andropov began.
'You will listen to your orders.'
'First Secretary, I have to say that you are not — '
The gleam in the First Secretary's eyes silenced Vladimirov. It was more eloquent than the threats which followed. 'Orders. Do you really want me to produce the Minister and Deputy Ministers, the Military Council in force, the General Staff, the Commander-in-Chief of Warsaw Pact Forces, members of the Politburo — more than enough to form a quorum — half the Central Committee…?' The Soviet leader waved his arms in the air, as if conjuring his supporters. 'All of them will tell you that I am right, even before I say anything! What is it you want, Vladimirov? What proof do you require before you realise that this business — all.of it — falls under my control? I have
Vladimirov stared over the trilby hat, towards the Archangel Cathedral and the great bell-tower of Ivan the Terrible. He fought to control his features; to prevent his lips from twisting in ugly, frightening contempt, to prevent a blush of anger and shame entering his skin. Eventually, without meeting the Soviet leader's gaze, he nodded stiffly. 'I understand you, First Secretary.'
'Good.' Clouds moved swiftly behind the trilby hat, behind the bell-tower and the cathedral's domes. Shadow for a moment or two, then cold sunlight again. 'Good.'
'What is it you wish to be done?' Vladimirov asked. It was evident that the First Secretary had been in consultation with members of the General Staff and the Military Council. He was certain of himself. He had a scenario prepared. A consensus had been reached.
'You have one attempt — just one — to recapture the MiG-31. If that fails, then the aircraft is to be destroyed where it stands. Do you comprehend?'
Vladimirov nodded miserably. The First Secretary had ensured his backing for such a decision. The wasted billions, the wasted high technology, the wasted lives, did not matter. Safety first. The General Staff and the Council had accepted the wisdom of erasure. Better no one than the Americans. Obviously, he already had given guarantees that the project would be continued, and that continuity of funding was assured. In exchange, the General Staff had agreed that no one be held responsible for the theft of the MiG. A fresh start would be made. The matter would be forgotten.
Vladimirov wondered who had been on his side. The Minister of Defence — Kutuzov, certainly, but who else? He still had some influential allies, otherwise he would never have been granted even one chance to recover the aircraft. Someone would have ordered a small, powerful bomb to be dropped, or a stand-off missile to be fired -
And then he saw the trap, opening up at his feet. Realisation raced like the clouds beyond the domes of the cathedral. He was expected to fail. He would be disgraced, and removed. The First Secretary — perhaps even Andropov, too — would be revenged upon the insubordinate soldier. A warning to others. He dropped his gaze and met the Soviet leader's eyes. And saw that his insight was a true one. This man wanted his head.
Summoning as much bravado as he could, he said, 'One chance, First Secretary? Then I shall take it, gladly. We'll capture the aircraft and our friend, the American!'
The MO-MAT creaked with frozen snow as a great bale of it was slowly unrolled along the cleared shoreline. The trees there had been cut down and the bases and roots grubbed out to make an open flat area which stretched away to a point where the ice would bear the weight of the Firefox. The portable runway covered rutted mud, pockmark holes, frozen slush.
Buckholz stood on the shore, his back to the soupy, refreezing water beneath which the aircraft had lain. He could hear the creaking of the MO-MAT, and the noise disturbed him. At that distance, he should not have been able to hear it. The wind must be dropping. He turned his face into it, and his cheeks were numbed almost instantly. But he could hear the MO-MAT, hear distinctly the chain-saws, even hear the voices of the mechanics and engineers who swarmed over the airframe. There should be nothing else but the wind. He pulled back the cuff of his parka, and looked at his watch. According to updated reports, they had another hour.
Runway, he told himself. Runway. He would need Moresby to check that. They needed upwards of four
