If he changed course, then the Tupolev would assume he'd found something. But, if he photographed the crash site at low level, then the bluff might work — and the snaps would be useful, more useful than tooling up and down the border.
'Anything, John?'
'Nothing, skipper.'
Eastoe glanced at his co-pilot. 'Everybody stay alert. I'm just taking a little short-cut here — a little corner off the map. I'd like some souvenir snaps. OK?'
The co-pilot watched Eastoe, then remarked: 'You really do like working for these cloak-and-dagger bods, don't you? Deeds of bloody derring-do. When are you going to grow up?'
'Like you?' Eastoe was grinning. 'Beats routine patrol. Who'll ever know? Who'll ever make a fuss? We can have our own snaps of the wreckage, and a closer listen for that bloody carrier wave — then, I promise, we'll go home.'
'Three or four minutes in Finnish airspace doesn't constitute the crime of the century, Terry,' the tactical navigator offered.
'Bob?'
'Yes, skipper?' the routine navigator replied.
'Give me a course for the crash site.'
'Roger, skipper.'
Eastoe grinned. 'Blame me at the court-martial. Terry,' he offered.
'You bet.'
Eastoe nudged the alteration of course through the rudder. The Nimrod's blunt head swung to starboard. The cloud layer beneath the aircraft was devoid of nationality. Simple, Eastoe thought, feeling the tension stiffening in his frame as they crossed into Finnish airspace.
'Twenty-four kilometres from the crash site — right on course.'
'No transmission, skipper.'
'ETA — fifteen seconds.'
Eastoe dipped the Nimrod's nose. 'I'm taking her down slowly to avoid creating any suspicion — then we'll turn and come back over the crash site. Everyone ready with their Brownies, please.'
The cloud layer rose up to meet the nose of the Nimrod, almost touching it.
'That's it!'
'Christ, what-?'
'The carrier wave. We're locked on now, transmission steady. It's her all right!'
'I'll alter course for the fix.'
The clouds slid around the Nimrod, darkening the flight deck.
'No, it's almost due south of us now — I've got the line… first fix, skipper. Just keep on course — don't alter a bloody thing.'
'South?' Eastoe remarked, genuinely surprised. 'Not at the crash site. Christ, then he didn't go down…?'
'Wait till you find the distance — it could have been thrown upwards of a mile,' the co-pilot offered.
'Jeremiah. Come on, John…'
'Give me time, skipper — fifty, fifty-one, two, three
'Do it now — I'll come back for another run if you need it — ' Eastoe ordered impatiently.
'Right. Got it.' Eastoe hummed tunelessly in the silence. His ears buzzed with anticipation. The tactical navigator would now be drawing his lines on the map, out towards the point where they would intersect and establish the precise position of the homing device. Then they'd know how far away it was — exactly where it was.
'It's almost forty kilometres south of us. On what looks like a lake.'
'His PSB-anything?'
'Nothing.'
'If he's in the plane, he'd have it working. So, where the hell is he?'
Gant awoke. Some part of his mind became immediately and completely alert, but he sensed the rest of himself, his thought-processes, his whole personality; struggling to throw off the deep sleep into which he had fallen the moment he climbed into the sleeping bag. Something had woken him — something…
He groaned, then clamped his hand over his mouth. Something, something that could already be as close as the Arctic hare had been when he had shot it -
His hand scrabbled within the sleeping bag, emerging with the Makarov pistol. It was almost completely dark. He could see little more than the glimmer of the snow, the boles of the nearest small trees like fence-posts. He listened, the remainder of his mind and senses becoming alert, shaking off sleep.
He pressed the cold barrel of the Makarov against his face, leaning against the gun as if for support.
Distantly he could hear the noise of helicopter rotors, the whisper that had penetrated his sleep. He had no doubt that the sound was approaching from the east and moving in his direction. Russians… Lights, troops, even dogs…
He kicked the sleeping bag from his legs and began to fold it untidily then thrust it into the survival pack. He hoisted the harness, slipping it over his shoulders even as he began running.
THREE:
In Flight
'There!' Aubrey announced immediately he located the coded map reference Eastoe had supplied, his finger tapping at the large-scale map of Finland, which lapped down over the edges of the foldaway table. 'There — in a lake, gentlemen. In a lake.' There was a note of triumph in his voice.
'The lake would have been frozen — that's why he might have thought he could land safely,' Buckholz speculated quietly, tugging at his lower lip and glancing towards Curtin for confirmation. The USN Officer nodded.
'He must have gone straight through — or otherwise the Russians would have spotted the Firefox,' Curtin murmured, his brow furrowed. It was evident he was considering Gant's chances of survival.
'Agreed. But it's there.'
'The homing device is there,' Giles Pyott offered. He was still wearing his uniform greatcoat, his brown gloves were held in his right hand. They tapped at the map in a soft rhythm. 'But what else, mm? My guess would be wreckage. Gant must have ejected.'
'Then why is there no trace of Gant's PSB?' Curtin asked gloomily. 'Where is he Colonel Pyott, if he's alive?'
'Mm. Tricky.'
'Maybe he switched it off-or destroyed it,' Buckholz suggested. 'He wouldn't want to get himself picked up by the other side… they're a lot closer than we are, and there are a hell of a lot more of them.' Despite the offer of such qualified optimism, Buckholz shook his head. 'But, maybe he isn't alive. We have to face that possibility.'
'But the Firefox — !' Aubrey protested impatiently.
'It could be in two pieces, two hundred, or two million,' Curtin answered him. Aubrey's face wrinkled in irritation. 'This location is twenty miles from the point where the Foxbat impacted,' Curtin continued. 'That was up here…' He, in turn, tapped the map. It was as if the contoured sheet had become a talisman for them as they gathered around it. Pyott's military cap rested over northern Norway, his gloves now beside it, fingers reaching into the Barents Sea.
'So, it was damaged,' Buckholz said. 'Maybe on fire — twenty miles is nothing. There's no hope down that road, my friends.'
'We really must know.' Aubrey snapped in utter exasperation. 'We must have a look' As he uttered the words, he was staring up into Pyott's face, like a child expecting assured parental activity.
Giles Pyott smiled thinly. 'Kenneth, my dear chap — let's take this one step at a time. In the ten minutes since I got here from MoD, I've taken over his flying station from poor Bradnum, all in the name of this project of yours…what else would you have me do?'
'Eastoe must overfly — '
'The lake? What about diplomatic noises from the Finns?' Giles Pyott drew a folding chair to him, flicked it open with a movement of his wrist, and sat down. He placed his hands on his thighs, and waited. Three more chairs were lifted from a dozen or more stacked against one wall of the Scampton Ops. Room, and arranged in a semi-circle in front of Pyott. Aubrey seemed content, for the moment, to become the soldier's subordinate. Buckholz was surprised, until he realised that Aubrey was simply playing a waiting game. He expected good things from Pyott, if the colonel from MoD's StratAn Intelligence Committee was given the impression of command, of superior authority.