Firefox Down (53 page)

'Good. Now, wait a minute while we unload these missiles, then you can check the thought-guidance system. I'll give you the word…' Gant felt the two jolts as the AA-6 missiles were removed from their wing pylons. Then Moresby's face appeared outside the cockpit hood, his thumb erect in front of his features. Gant hesitated, then gave a mental command in Russian to fire a port wing missile. The sequence of lights stuttered across the panel. He counted them, remembered them. It appeared to work.

He opened the canopy. 'OK,' he said, removing the helmet.

'Right. Get those missiles back on their pylons,' Moresby called down to his technicians. 'Life-support?'

'OK.'

'Thorne here, sir,' they both heard from Moresby's R/T.

Gant's hand twitched on the sill of the cockpit.

'Yes?' Moresby snapped.

'It's difficult, sir-hard still object on a hard still surface against a cluttered background - '

'But?' Moresby said sombrely.

'I shouldn't be able to pick up anything, should I, sir?'

'No,' Gant said heavily.

'I - it's… I do have an image on radar, sir. Of the - Firefox. In flight, on the moving target display, I'd expect a strong reading…Sorry, sir.'

Moresby stared at Gant. 'That's it, then.' Gant felt a shudder run through his body. 'That's sodding it!' Moresby shouted. 'The anti-radar's been damaged - it doesn't work! You'll be a sitting duck as soon as you're airborne.'

'But-'

'No buts! I can't repair it - I don't know how it works!'

Aubrey turned away from the communications console. Eastoe, already supplying reports on all signs of movement along the border, especially at Nikel, and at the closest Kola Peninsula fighter bases, had relayed to Aubrey Moresby's discovery of the failure of the anti-radar system.

Curtin thought Aubrey looked ashen. He did not know what to say to the Englishman. He was relieved when Aubrey moved away towards the farthest corner of the room. It was as if he wished to hide. But the corner seemed to repulse him, for he backed away from it. When he turned, his face was determined.

'Thorne must get him out of there!' he said, coming back towards the console. He glanced up at the clock. Twenty-three minutes since the weather had begun to clear. The window must be close to the Russian units at Nikel by now. The interceptor bases on the Kola Peninsula would be free of the foul weather later than Nikel, but there, within minutes, the first helicopters would be airborne, carrying the first wave of commandos. They would take less than twenty minutes at top speed to reach the lake. Less than thirty minutes, then, before there was absolutely no possibility of rescue for Gant. What could they salvage of the aircraft in that time, prior to destroying the airfrarne… ?

And getting the people out.

Waterford would have to organise a retreat on foot, to some prearranged point where they could be picked up when the weather cleared. Vital personnel land equipment must come out aboard the two Lynx helicopters -

'He must get him out of there,' tie, repeated, grimacing. 'Get "Fisherman" at once.'

The radio operator swivelled in his chair and faced the smaller rack of radio equipment which they used to communicate with the lake. He repeated Buckholz's call-sign, and was answered. Aubrey muttered and paced while Buckholz was summoned to the radio. As soon as he heard the American's voice, Aubrey snatched the microphone with a trembling hand.

'"Fisherman",' he said. Then realising the futility of codes, he added, 'Charles - get Gant out of there at once. Thorne is to bring him back here immediately.'

'The anti-radar, you mean?' Buckholz replied. 'Look, Kenneth, we have maybe twenty minutes… what other way do we have? He
has
to fly the plane out - !'

'Without the anti-radar, he hasn't a chance…'

A stray flash of sunlight lit the room. Dust-motes danced, as if. mirroring Aubrey's agitation. Then the sunlight disappeared.

'What about the helicopter force?' Buckholz asked.

'No movement yet. Charles, order him to get out of there. Salvage what you can. Get Waterford to organise the loading of the two Lynxes… and the withdrawal - Charles, do you hear me?'

Instead of Buckholz's voice, Aubrey heard Gant. His voice was distant. 'No way, Aubrey. No way.'

'Mitchell, please listen to me…'

'I heard. The anti-radar doesn't make any difference.'

'You haven't got
time
- !'

Gant was suddenly speaking to someone else - presumably Moresby. Aubrey strained to catch the words. 'Hot refuelling… the hell it does! Hot refuelling - '

'Jesus!' Curtin breathed. Even the radio operator appeared abashed.

'What - ?' Aubrey began.

'Refuelling while the engines are running. He's going to start the engines while they're still pumping in fuel. One mistake and -'

'Charles - stop him!' Aubrey snapped.

'Why?' he heard Gant ask. 'Does it matter who blows this airplane up - me, you, Buckholz, the Russians?'

'Let me speak to Moresby.'

'No. There isn't time - he's busy right now.'

The radio operator was scribbling busily. Curtin held one earpiece against his head, nodding as he listened. Then he said, 'Three heavy transport helicopters have just taken off from Nikel. They're already across the border. Gant has less than twenty minutes.'

'Charles - they're on their way.'

'Three small helicopters - probably gunships,' Curtin reported. 'One of them's moving faster than the other two. It's probably unarmed and carrying no passengers. Reconnaissance.'

'Charles, give him a direct order. Tell him the mission is aborted!'

'Conditions at the Pechenga airbase should be good enough for flying in no more than seven or eight minutes.'

'Charles,' Aubrey said levelly, his face white, his lips thin and bloodless, 'Gant may no longer have twenty minutes. It is less than one hundred miles from Pechenga to you. A Foxbat could cover that distance in - ?' He glanced at Curtin.

'Maybe another seven, eight minutes at low altitude with half-fuel…' He wobbled his hand to indicate the degree of guesswork involved.

'Once any of those front-line airbases is clear, he has no more than seven minutes. Even if he could take off within fifteen minutes, he has no chance of escaping the attentions of Soviet aircraft. They will simply be waiting for him. Do you understand me?'

'It's all too late, Kenneth. We don't have the time to strip the airframe of even the most valuable equipment.'

'We can't lose Gant - '

'This way there's a chance - '

'There's no chance!'

'I'm not prepared to have him shot in order to stop him, Kenneth.'

'ETA of leading gunship at the lake - thirteen minutes.'

'And when they see the aircraft on the ice,' Aubrey snapped at Curtin, 'and a runway strip blown free of snow - what will they do then?'

'Shoot first, talk later?'

'I would imagine so. Charles, please obey my instructions. I demand that Gant be flown out immediately in the Harrier. Then - destroy the airframe!'

'We're getting Eastoe's reports, too. The reconnaissance MiL should be with us in twelve rninytes. That's the time we have - '

'No!'

'Dammit, yes! We're going to give it our best shot. Now, I'm busy, Kenneth. Out.'

Aubrey was left standing with the microphone in his hand. He stared at it in disbelief, then dropped it as if it contained an electrical charge. He wandered away from the console towards the window.

The clouds were already massing again beyond the mountains, to the north and west. The light was thicker. Snowflakes drifted. The Norwegian army guard passed the window.

Aubrey knew he had failed. His final, desperate throw of the dice had, effectively, cost Gant his life. He had lost both the aircraft and the pilot. Killed people, too - Gant was just the last of his victims. There was nothing he could do now to affect the consequences of his actions. Nothing at all.

'ETA of the reconnaissance helicopter, ten minutes,' Curtin recited. 'Main force, eleven minutes forty. Weather continuing to clear over Pechenga. It might permit flying in four minutes, perhaps less. Eastoe's picking up infra-red traces more strongly. They're on the runway, is his guess.'

They would build a roof of aircraft over the lake, to keep in the Firefox. Without the anti-radar, there was no possibility of escape for Gant.

'What?' he heard Curtin exclaim like a man who has been winded. 'Repeat!'

Aubrey turned from the window. 'What is it?' he asked tiredly.

Curtin held up his hand for a moment, laid down the headset and looked at Aubrey. His face was lined and defeated. 'Just to add to your pleasure,' he said, 'that was Bardufoss. Their weather is right on the margin, now. In minutes, they guess they'll have to close down. Even if he takes off, he won't be able to land.'

'ETA of leading helicopter, six minutes… ETA main force, eight minutes.'

The commpack operator was relaying the information he received to Gant via Moresby's R/T, which was still clipped to the cockpit sill. Gant shrugged, sensing the nervous tension, the urgency in his frame as he gangloaded the ignition switches, reached for the fuel cocks -

And stared in disbelief at the purple light glowing on the main panel, to the left and just below the cockpit coaming.

'For Christ's sake, I thought this aircraft was
checked
!' he exploded.

Ahead of him, visibility was already decreasing. The window in the weather had lasted for less time than had been forecast. The far end of the lake was dimly visible, an irregularity of the thick air rather than a landscape. The two Lynx helicopters had completed their clearance of the ice. They waited silently now, beside the Harrier, as teams with shovels and hot air blowers completed the task.

'It was,' Moresby replied grimly. He looked down at the technicians who surrounded the Firefox. 'Ramp differential light's on,' he called down. 'Port engine intake - check it now! Come on, you buggers, the intake ramp's jammed or something! Find out what's wrong.'

'How did I miss it?' Gant said, staring at the purple light. 'I missed the damn light!'

'So did we all, Gant - so did we all.' Moresby leaned out from the pilot's steps, clinging to the cockpit sill, straining to see what his technicians were doing. 'Well?' he called. Through the open R/T Gant listened to Waterford as he proceeded with the disposition of his forces. Brooke and his SBS men were to the south and east of the lake, while the marines who had parachuted in from the Hercules were on the opposite shore, where the Russians had been discovered.

'Nothing, sir - it's jammed all right.'

'Why the hell that circuit was only routed through ignition, I don't know!' Moresby snapped in self recrimination, staring at Gant. Frost had begun to rime his moustache, as if the man had been breathing more heavily. Gant's heartbeat raced. He felt his stomach watery and his chest hollow and shallow, as if there was insufficient space for his heart and lungs. 'That bloody APU snarl-up earlier didn't help - nor the bloody rush -
come on
.'

'ETA of leading helicopter, three minutes fifty.'

'Shit,' Moresby breathed.

'Sir - we've found it - '

'What is it?'

'ETA - three minutes.'

'Piece of sheet metal - looks scorched - it's folded like a bit of cardboard, sir. Wedging the door. Have to be careful with it - '

'Then be bloody careful!' He looked at Gant. 'Some debris from one of your military encounters, old man,' he said with forced and unfelt lightness. Gant merely nodded.

'Get me an update on the Bardufoss weather,' he said into the R/T.

'Sir.'

'I hope to God it stays no worse than it is,' Moresby murmured. 'Because, if you can't get in there, I wouldn't guarantee the vehicle for a longer distance!'

'Two hundred miles-you think I'll be safe two hundred miles away?"

'It's Norway, old man - '

'So?'

Moresby's finger flicked at his moustache. A noise of levering, and scraping, twisting metal, came from aft of them on the port side. Gant shuddered.

'Be bloody careful!' Moresby yelled.

'ETA of leading helicopter, two minutes forty,' the radio operator announced.

'Where's that weather update?'

'Coming, sir -'

Gant heard Buckholz's voice over the R/T organising the loading of the two Lynx helicopters with the Norwegian personnel who had been engaged in the operation. Women, children and allies first, he thought with bitter humour. Waterford's constant radio chatter was a muffled background, since he had left his R/T open. He had perhaps forty-five men. The three big MiLs coming behind the leading, unarmed reconnaissance helicopter and flanked by the two gunships, would be carrying perhaps forty or fifty troops each. Fewer than that only if they were bringing heavy equipment or light vehicles. Waterford dare not make the first move, even to protect the Firefox. He had to get the airplane out - ! If he managed to take off, Waterford's men could melt into the landscape, avoiding all contact with Russian troops.

'I have to get her out,' he repeated aloud.

'Weather, sir - '

'Yes.'

'They're closing Bardufoss in five minutes, sir. Within ten, they say, no one could get in.'

'OK,' Gant replied in a small, tight voice. He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he saw Moresby staring at him.

'Where to, laddie? Mm - where will you take her when you get in the air?' It was not sarcasm; rather defeat.

'If I have to - all the way.'

'What?'

'You heard me. All the fucking way, man! UK or bust!' He tried to grin.

'I wouldn't advise that, Gant. Anything,
everything -
could go wrong.
Try
to get into Bardufoss - I really am serious about that…'

'ETA of leading helicopter - one minute.'

'For Christ's sake, you buggers, hurry it up!' Moresby raged.

'Sir, we're having to be very careful to avoid more damage- it's really wedged in tight.'

'Then cut the bloody thing into smaller pieces!'

'You have maybe two minutes or a little more - unless they hold back until the leading helicopter's done some spotting,' Gant announced.