Firefox (23 page)

‘And the track of Mother One?’

‘Constant - moving slowly south, in an area of loosened pack. Temperature low enough. She’s holding.’

‘Good. Then put through your call. Captain. Mother One it is.’

Before Curtin could place the call, they were startled by the chatter of a teletype from the Code Room. Aubrey watched Shelley as the younger man ripped the sheet of flimsy from the machine.

‘Communications picked this up only minutes ago,’ he said, a slight smile on his tired face. ‘Plain language. Picked up by the operator listening in on the Soviet airline frequency.’

‘Ah,’ Aubrey remarked. ‘And…?’

‘He was spotted north-west of Volgograd - almost tore the nose off the airliner, before they lost sight of him. The pilot was screaming his head off, before someone told him to keep quiet!’

‘Good.’

Aubrey inspected the sheet of paper, and then offered it to Buckholz who had crossed to perch on the table.

Buckholz stared at it, as if needing to be convinced, and then said: ‘Good. Damn good.’ He looked into Aubrey’s face, and added: ‘So far, so good?’

‘I agree, my dear Buckholz. Hopefully, the Russians are now scrambling everything, including the mess bar, to the south of Gant.’ He rubbed his chin, and said: ‘I still worry about “Big Ears”, you know. Gant must be making a frightful amount of noise, heading east to the Urals.’

‘It is not, my dear Kutuzov, a war situation,’ the First Secretary said, seated in his chair before the round table. His eyes disregarded the map of European Russia, from the Polish border to the Urals, from the Arctic Ocean to the Black Sea, despite its glowing squares of colour, despite the winking strings of tiny lights that signalled the interceptor stations with fighters in the air, despite the other lights forming links in the glowing chain which signalled the missile sites on full war alert. Kutuzov seemed, on the other side of the table, unable to remove his fixed stare from the hypnotic projection before him. Reluctantly, it seemed, he lifted his eyes, and gazed at the First Secretary.

‘You have considered that this might be some kind of supreme bluff by the Americans, First Secretary. To distract us from looking northward, while this single aircraft attempts to escape to the south.’ It was not a question. Marshal Kutuzov was evidently serious in his supposition.

The First Secretary sighed and said: ‘No, Kutuzov. This is a CIA venture - with the backing of the office of the President, and the Pentagon, no doubt.’ His palms were raised from the desk to prevent interruption. ‘But it is no more than a wildcat affair. Elaborate, yes. Far-sighted, yes. Well-planned and executed, yes. All of those things. But it is not war! No. The CIA will have arranged a refuelling point for this madman, somewhere - our computers will no doubt tell us the most likely places. But, if we shoot down the Mig-31, and even if we destroy the refuelling-vehicle, the Americans will act dumb, as they say. They will do nothing. And that - all of you…’ His voice was suddenly raised, so that the background chatter of the Command Centre stilled, and all eyes turned to him. ‘All of you understand this. If we can destroy, or recover, the aircraft, then we will hear no more of the matter.’

‘You are sure?’ Kutuzov said. His face expressed a desire to be convinced. He had been staring at the edge of a void from the moment the idea had occurred to him, that he was witnessing the opening move in the end-game for the world.

‘I am - certain. The Americans, and the British, both want this aircraft, because they are aware of its potential. They both have made massive cuts in their defence budgets during the past few years, especially in the area of development and research. Therefore, despite the free gift of the Mig-25 some years ago, they have, as we know, nothing on the drawing-board remotely capable of matching the Mig-31.’

He turned a suddenly baleful glare upon Andropov, standing at his shoulder. ‘Chairman Andropov - the security for this project was - unforgiveable!’

Andropov nodded slowly. The striplighting of the room glinted from his spectacles. Vladimirov, standing near Kutuzov, sensed the man’s anger. Also, he understood the suppressed anger of the First Secretary which had prompted the icy remark.

‘Yes - unfortunately. First Secretary.’ He looked across at the two military men on the other side of the table. ‘I remember that Marshal Kutuzov and General Vladimirov both wished the security to be strengthened, after the initial trials.’ He smiled, coldly. ‘It would appear they were right.’

‘The Americans knew far too much,’ Kutuzov growled, in a voice hardly more than a throaty whisper. The First Secretary raised his hand. He realised that he had initiated yet another internecine squabble between the military and the KGB.

‘Leave it at that,’ he said levelly. ‘It will be examined thoroughly. It would appear, from the Chairman’s initial enquiries, that Colonel Kontarsky gambled and failed.’ Behind the First Secretary, Andropov nodded slowly, then looked across the table.

Neither Kutuzov nor Vladimirov said anything. Kontarsky had played a lone hand. He had attempted to use the security of the Bilyarsk project to enhance his promotion, and his reputation. It had happened before. The KGB officer at the head of KGB observationsecurity in the Middle East, in 1967, had held back information vital to the Kremlin and to the Kremlin’s satellite, Egypt, concerning the Israeli preparations for war, until they had taken him. by surprise. Department V of the KGB. the assassination department, had liquidated him soon afterwards. Kontarsky would not survive his failure.

There was a knock at the door. The First Secretary’s KGB bodyguard opened it and accepted the sheaf of papers that were handed to him by someone in a white coat. Then the door was closed.

Thank you,’ the First Secretary said. He studied the papers for a moment, then looked up, and passed them to Kutuzov. ‘Tell me what they mean.’

The old Marshal studied them intently, after plucking a pair of battered, wire-rimmed spectacles from the breast-pocket of his tunic. The background chatter of the code and communications operators was hardly sufficient to drown the noise of the papers as he shuffled through them. When he had finished, he pulled his glasses from his face, and handed the papers to Vladimirov.

Coughing, he said: ‘It is a damage report on the second Mig, First Secretary, as you are aware. It would appear that the dissidents failed to put the aircraft out of commission.’

It suddenly became clear to Vladimirov, looking across the table to the First Secretary and Andropov, that the War Command Centre was a venue of desperation. To those two pre-eminently powerful men, who did not understand the air or aircraft, this was some kind of panacea; this was what they were hoping for, what they had been anticipating with an almost virginal excitement. They truly believed that, if they could only put up the second prototype, they would be able to bring down the running American. He dismissed the beginnings of a smile from his face.

‘How soon - how soon can it be ready to fly - armed?’ the First Secretary asked, his voice unsettled with excitement.

‘Perhaps an hour, perhaps less,’ Vladimirov put in, consulting the papers in his hand. ‘It was, of course, in a condition of flight readiness as a back-up to the PP1, but it has to be cleared of foam, pre-flighted and armed. First Secretary.’

‘But we need to know where he is, exactly!’ growled Kutuzov in his familiar whisper. Vladimirov realised that his superior was less alive to the political niceties of the atmosphere in the War Command Centre. All that the First Secretary wanted was to get the second plane airborne. He would not welcome reminders of the practical difficulties of a seek and destroy mission for the aircraft.

‘I know that, Kutuzov!’ the First Secretary snapped, silencing the old Marshal. He looked round the walls of the room, as if the bent backs of the operators would inspire him, supply him with the answer he required.

Vladimirov sensed his desperation beneath the icy calm, beneath the strength of the man’s personality. For him, the staggered sector scramble provided the only hope, slim though it was. Something nagged at the back of his mind, something he had first thought of in the early years of the Mig-31 project, something that he had raised as a possible objection to the antiradar system that had been developed, and thrust upon the Bilyarsk development. It had been a cool voice, a sprinkling of water on a burning enthusiasm.

Vladimirov was, by nature, a cool, rational man, a strategist. As O.C. ‘Wolfpack’ commandant of the Russian interceptor force, he had found his fulfilment as a military man. He, with Kutuzov, had pressed for the delay in defence spending that would ensure the rapid production of hundreds of Mig-31s, to replace the Foxbats that at present formed the strongest card in the Russian suit. The thoughtguided weaponssystem developed for the aircraft was, he recognised, its real trump, together with its huge range and frightening speed. It would put the Red Air Force into a different league, beyond the present or immediately future capabilties of the RAF and the USAF.

He wandered away from the tense, electric atmosphere surrounding the circular table in the middle of the War Command Centre, and listened with half an ear to the flow of decoded reports issuing from the teams of operators. Everything was being recorded, ready for instant playback if there was need to consult the reports.

The sighting north-west of Volgograd filled him with suspicion. A former ace, he suspected the obvious. He had been forced to respect Gant, the American pilot. Studying the KGB file on him, transmitted by wireprint from the Centre in Moscow, he appreciated the selection of the man by the CIA. Gant was a rogue pilot, a Vietnam ace. Vladimirov hoped that, had the roles been reversed, he would have had the foresight and the daring to select such a man.

He felt he knew Gant, felt the need of the man to steal the Mig, to prove it could be done. Gant would want to complete the mission. He would be determined to take the Mig home.

From the pilot’s report, it had been made to appear that the American had been surprised by the sudden appearance of the airliner to starboard of him, right on a collision course. Vladimirov knew that Gant’s radar would have warned him of the airliner’s presence in plenty of time to avoid such a sighting. And Gant was a fine pilot, perhaps the best if his record told no lies. Even in an unfamiliar aircraft, he would not have made such an error of airmanship. Vladimirov was sure that a simulator had been built at Langley, Virginia, to assist Gant in his training. He mentally cursed Kontarsky who, in the harsh glare of failure, appeared a gross fool.’ A great deal of information must have passed to the Americans over the past years, a great deal.

He dismissed Gant from his mind. To think of him was to dwell on the unchangeable past. No, there was something more important, something that might circumvent Gant’s supreme advantage of the radar immunity of the Mig-31. What the devil was it? He rubbed at his chin as he walked, a continuous, harsh motion of the hand. The voice of an operator repeating a communication struck him clearly. The words slid across his consciousness, without resonating, ‘Positive sound-trace, installation at Orsk…’ the voice at his side was saying. He was unaware of the stillness suddenly around him, unaware that the operator had turned to look up at him. No, he thought, it had nothing to do with sound. It was - was … Then he had it, elusive, yet brilliantly clear, even as his mind registered the silence around him and he saw the expectant face of the radiooperator from the corner of his eye.

He had said clearly, a lone voice amid the atmosphere of military and political euphoria, that radarimmunity by and of itself did not render any aircraft, however advanced, completely safe from detection. Infrared detection equipment, designed not to bounce a signal off a solid object but to detect heatsources on the ground or in the air, might be used to detect the presence of an aircraft immune to radar. The heat emission from a jet engine would show up on any infrared screen as an orange blip. It would be a poor substitute in tracking and fixing a target, but it would even within its limitations, cancel some of the total advantage of the Mig-31’s antiradar system. It might prove sufficiently accurate for heatseeking missiles to be launched in the direction of the prospective target. They would then, with their own sensors, seek out the heatsource that would have shown up on the infrared screens on the ground. That was it! He looked at his hand in front of his face, and saw that it was quivering.

It was the answer. His staggered sector scramble did not have to rely upon the faint possibility of a clear visual sighting. Every fighter could train its infrared weapons-aiming system ahead of the plane, in a cone. Anything with a jet engine passing through that cone, in whatever atmospheric conditions, at whatever altitude, would show up as a bright orange heat-spot on the pilot’s infrared detection screen.

He saw the face of the operator, holding one hand to his head like a man with toothache, saw the smile of puzzlement on the face.

‘Yes?’ he said. ‘What did you say?’

‘General - there has been an unidentified sound-trace from a low-flying aircraft travelling at more than Mach 2, picked up on the mobile unit west of Orsk.’

‘Where is Orsk?’ Vladimirov snapped, the excitement in the young face in front of him seeming to become infectious. Without waiting for an answer, the General turned to the man at the map-console, who computed the patterns and details to be fed onto the projection on the table. ‘Orsk! Blow up that region for me.’ He remembered. ‘It’s at the southern tip of the Urals…’

He slapped his hand against his forehead, not noticing the silence of the entire War Command Centre as the truth of his suspicions came home to him. Gant had deliberately been sighted travelling south!

‘What is the matter. General Vladimirov?’ he heard the First Secretary ask. Unconsciously, he waved his hand dismissively in the direction of the voice.

‘Get me a confirmation of that report - quickly!’ he snapped. ‘Call it out to me.’

Swiftly, he crossed to the map beneath the screen of the table, oblivious to the rising anger displayed on the face of the First Secretary. Eagerly, he studied the enlargement of the southern tip of the Urals mountain chain, realised that the area was too small and said: ‘Replace this - give me a projection of the Urals, and of as much to the north and south as you can - now.’