'Patience. You are now a courtier. You will get used to waiting. It is a talent.'
'Courtier…' Vladimirov murmured.
'Another drink?'
'No, old friend I wouldn't be able to keep it down.'
'No Russian can — we get drunk too quickly.'
'Do you blame us?'
'No.'
The two men stared into their empty glasses. Vladimirov lifted his to reflect the overhead light. He could see the last oily smear in the glass, see the smudges made by his lips and fingertips. Then he stood up, swaying slightly, tall, grey-haired, drunk, but evidently, so evidently, an officer of distinction. As if he saw his form reflected in a mirror, he mocked his appearance. An impressive outward show, even when he was drunk. Hollow man… hollow man.
A young officer opened the door from the War Command Centre. Vladimirov whirled almost too quickly to face him. In his hand he carried a message pad.
Hollow man…
Stop it -
It was impossible to drown the wasps, then.
'What is it?' he snapped, his tongue furry, his eyes glistening. The rest of himself retreated somewhere, to wait for a more opportune moment.
'It's the Tupolev, sir the aircraft commander, Major Antonov. This… I don't think he can understand it…'
Vladimirov snatched the pad, plucking his half-glasses from his top pocket, wobbling them onto his ears. Sobriety nudged him, having returned from its short absence. Antonov would not be the pilot of the Tupolev AWACS aircraft; but the political officer who theoretically commanded the crew. He was a member of GLAVPUR, the armed forces' political directorate. However, he might still be competent aircrew, even though he was on the Tupolev 'Moss' because it flew near all kinds of hostile borders across which its crew might be tempted to take it- liberating it and themselves in the process. So, Antonov…
At first, Vladimirov did not understand the report. A frequency-agile signal, intermittent… they'd picked it up once or twice, got a line on it — the first fix — but not a second clear fix which would give them the exact position. They only knew the signal emanated somewhere along a straight line… not near the crash site…
Finally, the request for orders; the passing of the buck. Vladimirov waved the young officer out of his path and stepped into the War Command Centre. Immediately, he sensed the familiar and the desired. Yes, it was a clean, well-lit place. It was comfortable here, at the centre; the uniformed centre.
He would have been criminally stupid, he reflected as he crossed the room, to have thrown all this away — and why, and for what? Because the Soviet leader was a boor and a thug? Because the Chairman of the KGB was a psychotic? Because he loathed their company and their intellectual inferiority? Those would have been his reasons; pride and snobbery. Caste.
A clean, well-lit, comfortable place. His place. It would have been criminal to throw it away.
'Put me through to Antonov — over the cabin speaker,' he announced calmly, soberly. A moment later, he was given the signal to proceed. 'Major Antonov — this mysterious signal of yours… what do you suppose it is?'
'Yes, Comrade General,' he heard the distant, crackling voice begin, 'we don't know what to make of it — any of us.'
'When did you first pick it up?'
'Fifteen minutes ago-but we lost it-then found it on a different frequency… the third time, only five minutes ago, we managed to get a line on it, but we haven't been able to pick it up since.' The tone was apologetic, but it managed to include the entire crew of the Tupolev in any consequent blame.
'Find it again, Major I beg of you.'
'Yes, Comrade General.'
Frequency-agile — a signals or communications emission, but without a message or code… a somehow-still-operating piece of clever electronics thrown well clear of the crash site…? How far — this was too far… some Finnish ground installation we don't know about? Unlikely. There had been no Personal Survival Beacon signals from either pilot, so Gant and the Foxbat pilot were both dead… neither of them had ejected in time.
Personal Survival Beacon — Beacon — secure signal, he remembered, secrecy when all the pilot would want was the loudest scream across the widest band. Because of the MiG-31 project there was secrecy surrounding the aircraft, the pilots, the ground crews, the instruments, the pressure-suits… the obsession of the Soviet state, how many times had it enraged him!
The PSB for Firefox test pilots was frequency-agile, and intermittent, to ensure that only those instructed how to listen would ever hear… and Gant was wearing dead Voskov's pressure suit!
'It's Gant!' he roared. Shoulders and heads twitched with shock. Vladimirov beat his fists against his thighs. 'He's alive. He's been alive all the time! You!' he barked at the officer who had brought him the scribbled transcript of Antonov's message. 'Get me the details of the frequency-code for the PSB in a Firefox pressure suit-get it now!' He hurried to the door. Turning, he added: 'Transmit it to Antonov as soon as you have it. And tell Antonov he must find that signal again and obtain an exact fix. No excuses!'
He went through the door, slamming it behind him, already knowing, without careful analysis, what must be done. The First Secretary and Andropov were emerging into the hospitality room at that moment. Immediately, Vladimirov pointed his long forefinger at Andropov as at a recalcitrant and untrustworthy subordinate.
'I want your Border Guards, Comrade Chairman!' he snapped. 'I want a helicopter patrol, three ships, ready to cross into Finland immediately — Gant's been alive all the time!'
The contents of the survival pack from the Firefox were spread around him at the foot of the fir tree. His eyes were gritty with tiredness, and refused to focus for any length of time. Tension and weariness produced bouts of violent yawning. His body shivered almost constantly now, with cold and reaction. He had escaped. He had walked perhaps a little more than three miles in a north-westerly direction, keeping to the cover of the forest. He wanted only to sleep now. The pressure suit creaked and groaned as it froze into stiff, awkward sheets and folds around his body. His toes and fingers were numb. He had to sleep.
He would repack the survival kit except for the sleeping bag, which lay like an orange and blue brick near his left knee. If he got into it, perhaps only for an hour — surely he could afford the time. He hadn't heard the noise of a searching aircraft for perhaps twenty minutes now…
He had to sleep. He could not form ideas, make plans. He could not stay awake. There was good overhead cover here. The sleeping-bag, tight around him, would eventually warm him, restore the circulation. He would be able to continue, if only he slept now.
A white Arctic hare watched him from the other side of the fir tree. Its nose twitched as it assessed the intruder. Gant watched it dully, head hanging forward, staring at the small, still animal from beneath his furrowed brow. Even to hold the white hare in focus against the snow required vast concentration.
Automatically, the Makarov pistol came out of its holster, took aim, and fired once. The noise was deafening, frightening in the silence to which he had become totally accustomed. It seemed to invite pursuit, creat lurid images of capture. The hare leapt backwards with the force of the 9mm bullet at such close range, its powerful back legs flicking up. Then it lay on its side. A small stain spread from beneath its fur, darkly red, It would supplement the rich cake, the chocolate and biscuits in the rations of the survival pack. He was tiredly, exaggeratedly saddened by the killing of the hare, and immediately he entertained the emotion it became self-pity; he was utterly weary. He could not, now, gather up, skin, cook the hare.