thousand feet of clear ice, and God alone knew what lay out on the lake. He had an image of Gunnar stumbling, tripping and falling against small ridges of drift that had frozen. The aircraft could never achieve its take-off speed, maintain its heading or preserve its undercarriage intact if the obstacles were too numerous, too solid…
He moved towards the aircraft. It was like entering a warm and familiar room. Cannon ammunition was being fed into the huge drum aft of the cockpit. Two AA-6 missiles had already been fitted beneath the wings. The ammunition was NATO in origin, but fitted the drum and the calibre of cannon aboard the MiG-31. The two missiles were a bonus, Buckholz admitted. Salvaged from a MiG which had crashed, killing the pilot, on the Varanger-Halvoya while trying to get back to its Kola Peninsula base with an electrical fire on board. The wreckage had been returned, together with the pilot's remains. The missiles had ended up at Bardufoss with the RNAF Tactical Supply Squadron.
Beneath the aircraft lay a crude timber support and a deflated black airbag. They had been used to lift the airframe off the ground to test the undercarriage. To one side, the hot-air blowers lay waiting for re-use. Much of the MiG's airframe was covered by temporary shrouding when operations began, and the air blown around the airframe to dry it. The shrouds remained around the engine intakes. One engineer had only minutes before completed his slow, patient journey around the aircraft with a smaller, more portable blower, drying off every hinge, flap, and lock on the airframe.
The fuselage had been patched where it had been torn by cannon fire. The fuel lines had been repaired. Oxygen had been loaded aboard. The aircraft looked like an expensive model, as far as Buckholz was concerned. Somehow, it no longer seemed designed to fly. Sinister yes, beautiful in a dangerous way. But — a copy. A fake. He could not believe that the avionics, the hydraulics, the instruments, the engine itself, even the flaps and rudders — would operate. More than seven hours after the drop, after work had begun on the Firefox, Buckholz could not believe.
He signalled to Moresby, who seemed reluctantly to detach himself from a conversation with two of his team leaders. Yet the Englishman hurried the short distance between them.
'What is it, Buckholz?' he snapped, glancing back towards the aircraft. 'Not just a polite enquiry, I hope?'
'No.' He turned to face the snow-swept lake. Visibility, he realised, was improving. He could see the ice, the patches of snow, the ridges, stretching away from the shore. 'The runway,' he explained.
'Ah, yes. Been thinking about that.' Moresby glanced back at the aircraft, and shouted, 'I don't want that radio tested until we know we're going for the real thing!' One of the two men to whom he had been talking raised his hand in acknowledgement. 'Can't trust the bloody Russians not to be listening, mm? Even if they know, I don't want them knowing any more… that way, they might think we haven't got a hope!' His smile was like a wince. 'Come on, let's have a look at this runway!'
They walked out onto the ice, hunching against the wind and the intermittent snow.
'Four thousand feet-better give him a little more…' Moresby murmured, studying a compass, changing direction almost mechanically. 'Swings here… Ah, clear ice. Just a spot of paint for the moment.' He drew an aerosol from his parka and sprayed red paint onto the ice, a curving arrow in shape. 'There — nice touch.' Then he began striding in measured steps away from Buckholz, heading north up the lake. Buckholz caught up with him, and they walked together, faces protected from the wind, goggles now in place to cover their eyes.
'How're things?' Buckholz asked eventually. Moresby appeared to be counting. Every hundred paces or so, he sprayed the snow or ice with a blotch of red paint.
'Wife's fine thank you. Wants to go to Venice this year… not keen myself.'
'The airplane, dammit!'
'Oh-so-so. Good and bad, yes and no.'
'I see.'
'It won't be ready in the next hour, nor the next two,' Moresby announced. 'Except by a miracle.'
'Hell — what's wrong?'
Moresby sprayed a patch of clear ice. Then he bent near a ridge of snow, and poked at it. It was only fifteen inches high. 'Mm,' he murmured. 'Some of these will have to be levelled off-hot air, and all that. The rest can be blown off with a downdraught.'
'Downdraught?'
'We have two helicopters, old man. If they fly up and down this runway you want, they'll blow most of the snow clear. What's too stubborn to move, we'll have to melt! Come on, let's get on with it.'
'What's wrong with the aircraft?'
'Oh… Look, Buckholz, let me take you through it, nose to tail, as it were — then you'll see the problem. The problem that is now increased by the fact that the Russians know where we are and what we're doing… I really don't think, do you, that a short slow hop into Norway is going to be enough?'
'Maybe not — I just hope…'
'Well, you do that, Father, and the rest of us will work. That aircraft
'Can you?'
'No. Nowhere near. Look — ' He sprayed a ridge with red paint. 'That's three thousand feet. The whole airframe is dry… the air-driven back-up instruments and systems — they all work… hydraulics and flying controls, OK… We can't even begin to tinker with the thought-guidance or the anti-radar — we don't know how they work. We've checked the connectors, the switches, the wiring, in case of shorts or damage…' They paced on through the flying snow. Visibility stretched suddenly to perhaps seventy or eighty yards, then closed in again just as quickly. Moresby continued: 'Patching up the battle damage was relatively easy, so was draining the water from the fuel tanks. The radar and the other avionics in the nose section-well, we've done what we can. Checked it out, replaced just about all the multi-connectors and some wiring that looked a bit dodgy… that's about the limit of what we can do here-without the workshop manual!' Moresby smiled, sprayed red paint, paused to kick a low ridge that extended to either side of them, then moved on. 'The manual firing systems seem OK. Your man could shoot. However, down at the tail, those decoys are not what the Russians were using, but they might work, they come off the ejector rails OK, and they ignite, of course, they might just give enough of a showing on infra-red to fool a missile — perhaps.'
He was silent, then, and eventually Buckholz said, 'And yet you won't be ready?'
Moresby sprayed paint and announced, 'Four thousand. Where are we?' He stared into the snow and wind. 'Mm. Visibility, fifty yards. Let's have a look and see what he's got left before he hits the north shore and the trees!' They walked on for some paces, and then Moresby replied to Buckholz's question. 'No, we won't be ready. She has to be fuelled up, for one thing. The radio, the electrics, the engine all has to be tested. We're less than half-way through the full instrument check. I wouldn't give this aircraft a chitty by the end of tomorrow.' He paused. 'Ah, there we are. Just a bit less than four and a half thousand feet. He'll be lucky.'
'How long will it take to strip out the most important equipment from the aircraft?'
'Two hours minimum.'
'Then-'
'We're committed, one way or the other. Once the weather clears, your man will have to take off, or else we blow up everything, without salvaging even the anti-radar and the thought-guidance systems. I can't put it any more kindly than that.'
Buckholz stared at the trees fringing the curving shore of the lake. It was visible now, a vista that retreated into the snowy haze. The weather was improving. There was less snow, even though the wind did not seem to be dropping.
'Can we clear this runway?'
'Oh, yes — I think so. Not too much trouble, using our two Lynx helicopters. And a hot-air blower for these bloody-minded little ridges. The ice underneath was OK. If he's any good, he could get off…' Moresby glanced up at the sky. Cloud, heavy and grey, was revealed above the lessening snow. 'But, now that they know, what is he going to meet up there, even-if he does get off? I wouldn't give that aircraft any chance in a dogfight with a Spitfire, never mind a MiG-25!'
'Yes, Moresby, I understand that. Yes, yes, it's my decision. Thank you. I'll be in touch.'
