Moresby's voice instructed his technicians. 'Hot refuelling. Let's get one of the fuel cells close to the wing, along with the pump unit. I want everyone clear of the front intakes, and well clear of the tailpipes. An arc of men with extinguishers — ' He glanced at Gant, but addressed no words to him. ' — on either side of the aircraft. And keep alert!' Then he turned to Gant. 'You listen to me over the landline. I'm staying well clear, thanks very much. Keep your engine power as low as you can, but not below generator power level…' Gant nodded. 'Good.'
Gant watched the technicians rolling one of the huge rubber fuel cells towards the aircraft and abeam of the starboard wing. He heard the connections made with the hose nozzle and the tank. Then the technicians retired. Moresby, standing perhaps a dozen yards away, signalled him to start the engines. The noise of the MiL above them pressed down upon him. The helicopter had been there for twenty seconds, perhaps half a minute. The main force was a minute behind it now. When they saw the engines ignite, having seen the fuel cell coupled, they would guess at hot refuelling and know he was speeding up the preparations for take-off. Would they still wait, when that was reported, or would they move in — ?
He could not expect any more time, whoever controlled events. The Firefox was a sitting target they would not be able to resist. He switched on the master start, pressed the start button and turned on the high-pressure cock.
Behind him, halfway down the fuselage, there was the sound of a double explosion; the discharge of a shotgun's two barrels. In the mirror, he saw the two rolls of sooty smoke drift into the air. He heard the whirring of the turbines as they built up. He switched in the fuel booster pump, and eased the throttles forward. The rpm gauges mounted to twenty-eight per cent. He eased the throttles back as far as he dared, and steadied them. Both huge Turmansky turbojets roared steadily. He grinned with relief. Moresby hand-signalled his team to recommence pumping.
'Thank God,' Moresby said.
Waterford appeared a little distance from the Firefox, at the edge of the clearing. He raised his planklike rifle, and fired several three-shot bursts at the hovering, shifting MiL. Immediately, the gunship flicked away over the trees. Waterford spoke into Moresby's microphone. 'Fucking tourists!' Then he added, 'OK, Gant — they'll be back in force in a couple of minutes at the outside. What they do then will depend on what you're doing. Good luck.' Immediately, he walked away, re-checking the disposition of his marines.
Gant watched the fuel gauges. When should he tell them to stop? When should he end the risk of hot refuelling? How much spare fuel capacity would he require?
He was oblivious of the scene around him. He scanned the instrument and systems panels, checked the centre console, the left-hand console. He operated the rudder and the flaps. Stiff, sluggish by comparison with before, but they would have to do. Then he heard the commpack operator's voice.
'Weather has cleared sufficiently at Pechenga. Two squadrons of interceptors airborne. ETA — six minutes.'
He looked up. Visibility perhaps seven hundred yards, maybe seven fifty. He would be rushing towards a blanket of what might have been fog, except that it was grey-white and falling slowly. The snow was heavier. Only the wind was missing. One of the Lynxes took off, being almost immediately swallowed by cloud. The second Lynx drifted towards the Firefox, to await the rescue of Moresby's technicians.
'OK, that's everyone except your people, Moresby,' he heard Buckholz announce. Gant could see him beside the commpack. The rotors of the Lynx died down. 'We can leave our four prisoners tied up where they are. Their friends will be along any minute. So — let's go…?'
Moresby nodded. 'Thank you, Mr. Buckholz. We'll be aboard in a moment or two.' Then he addressed Gant. 'They've split into two groups — south of us and east, as Waterford suggested. But the gunships are still airborne. They're obviously awaiting orders.'
Gant checked the fuel gauges. And shook his head. 'Not yet,' he said. 'I'll tell you when to stop.' Moresby's face was tired and angry; even frightened.
'Those bloody gunships,' he murmured.
'Gant?' he heard in his earpiece. 'Gant — this is Thorne. I've got an idea.'
'What?'
'A double take-off — let me take off first… it might keep some of them off your back.'
'What are the gunships doing?'
'Holding — agreed?'
Gant flicked on the radar. On the scope, amid the clutter from the worsening weather, he could just make out two heavy, glowing blips of light in close formation. Range perhaps two or three miles. There were paler, higher dots beyond them, at the very edge of the screen, but he disregarded them. They were still as much as five minutes away.
'Good idea — but no thanks. They know which is which. You move out now before they get their orders. Good luck.'
There were puffs of snow from beneath the Harrier which became small billows as she rose on the downward-directed thrust of her engine. The Harrier wobbled aloft, lights winking beneath her wingtips and belly, glowing as much as at dusk. The aircraft turned in the air like a clumsy dancer, then the thrust of the engine was vectored to forward flight. The aircraft slipped behind the snow and was gone.
Gunnar in the second Lynx had watched the Harrier's disappearance avidly. Now, he returned his attention to the Firefox. Gant saw the turn of his head. He was the only Norwegian remaining, waiting for the last handful of technicians. Around the lake were perhaps forty-five marines, all of them hidden except for the white-clothed figure of Waterford outside the windbreak which protected the commpack and its operator. He knew they were waiting for the aircraft to take off so that they could disappear deep into the forest, and make for the Norwegian border in small, quick-moving groups.
The lake was suddenly isolated and lonely. Gant wanted to stop the refuelling that moment, let the technicians go, let Moresby go. Take off-
Two heavy, nearby glows on the radar; other paler dots moving steadily closer above the clouds. In minutes, they would be above him, poised like birds of prey. The encounter was inevitable.
He watched the fuel gauges. He glanced down at Moresby. The two dots on the radar remained motionless.
'Advance units report no contact, General.'
Vladimirov listened with his head cocked slightly on one side as the reports began coming in from the airborne troops set down to the south and east of the lake. The British troops must be slowly falling back to the lake itself, with orders not to engage. A quick thrust now — a surprise outflanking movement around the tree-lined southern shore of the lake, and they might yet have the airframe intact -
The two MiL-24 gunships had been ordered to hold their position, despite the reports from the reconnaissance helicopter that Gant had started the MiG-31's engines and the Harrier and one of the Lynx helicopters had departed. There were only moments left.
The microphone was in his hand, to give the order. His lips had begun to frame the first words. He had summoned saliva into his dry mouth -
The First Secretary's hand fell heavily on his, startling him. He turned from the communications console. The Soviet leader was framed by the fibre-optic map. The scene upon its surface looked like an indictment.
'What are you about to do, General Vladimirov?'
'I — want our troops to push forward to the lake with all speed-' he began.
There was scorn in the heavy face of the First Secretary. 'No,' he said quietly. Then, more loudly: 'No! Your time has run out, General Vladimirov — run out! There is no time left for you. You — are dismissed!'
The silence in the long gallery was intense, almost audible. Andropov had turned away. No one looked in Vladimirov's direction, although he knew by their stance and lack of movement that they were all listening.
'What do you mean…?'
'I mean you are dismissed, Vladimirov — I mean you are to get out.'
'But — '
'Go! Give me the microphone — ' For a second, they struggled for possession of it like two children quarrelling over a toy. Then Vladimirov wearily, defeatedly released his grip. The First Secretary cleared his throat
