'It won't take us forty-eight hours to arrive on the site, Giles — '
'I realise that, Kenneth. But, the Skyhook's already making very slow time. We shall be very, very lucky if it gets there at all.'
'The winches we have are capable of moving something as heavy as the Firefox. She'll have to be winched out of the lake.'
'And then what do you do with her?'
'The Skyhook will arrive.'
'And if it doesn't?'
'Then we must salvage what we can and destroy the rest!' Aubrey turned his back on Pyott and crossed to the plot table. Curtin, seated on a folding chair, watched him in silence. Buckholz appeared genuinely distressed and firmly in a dilemma. Aubrey glared at the Mack model of the MiG-31, at the map of Finland and northern Norway, at the coloured tapes and symbols.
He turned on his three companions. 'Come on,' he said more pleasantly, 'decide. The Finns don't want the aircraft on their territory. If we removed it before the Russians found out, they'd be delighted with us! Their strong language is bluff — mostly bluff. We have placed them in an awkward spot. In twenty-four hours, perhaps less, no aircraft will be able to fly in that area, there will be no aerial reconnaissance to interrupt us. There will be no detachment of Finnish troops flown in, either. We would be on our own. We — at least our forward detachments — are little more than sixty miles from the lake. We're nearer than anyone else! One full Hercules transport could drop all our requirements and our people on the spot!'
Aubrey paused. He felt like an orator who had come from the wings towards the podiurn and, discovered an extremely thin, utterly disgruntled audience. Buckholz, instead of looking in his direction, seemed to be looking to Pyott for an answer. Curtin was doing no more than acting out his subordinate rank. Pyott was brushing his moustache as vigorously as if attempting to remove a stain from his features.
'I — ' Buckholz began, still not looking at Aubrey. 'My government wants this thing cleared up — I don't mind telling you, gentlemen, Washington is becoming a little impatient…' Aubrey watched Buckholz's face. The Deputy Director of the CIA had said nothing of his last lengthy telephone conversation with Langley. This, apparently, was the burden of it. 'I've argued the weather, the logistics, the lack of a fall-back operation, the political dangers and pitfalls. The White House still wants action…' Now, he turned directly to Aubrey, and added: 'I have my orders, Kenneth. I don't like them, but I have to try to carry them out. I don't have any answers, but I sure want some!' It was evident that Buckholz had been browbeaten by Washington. He had been ordered to mount some kind of recovery operation, however much he rejected any such idea. Buckholz shrugged. 'It has to be done — something has to be done.'
'What about Mitchell Gant, Mr Aubrey?' Curtin asked sharply.
Aubrey glared at him. Then he transferred his gaze to Pyott. 'There is the absolute time-limit, Giles,' he said. 'Gant will be unable to hold out for very long against drugs — my God, they could persuade him he was being debriefed by Charles and he'd be likely to believe it! So the Russians, who will also be watching the weather, will move soon. Or they will wait until the weather clears. It's going to be coming from their direction — they'll have it sooner than we will — it might just give us enough time, it might just persuade them to wait — ' He cleared his throat of its intended, husky sincerity. 'I think it is worth the chance. Don't you?'
Pyott looked up then. His face was clouded by doubts, by a hundred considerations. His features were maplike. He stared at his knuckles as they whitened on the edge of the plot table.
'I agree that the weather is swinging around the low and moving west across Russia — ' he said slowly and at last. 'I agree, too, that they will be hampered, even grounded, before we are. I accept that they may, just may, wait until it clears before they take their first look… But — '
Aubrey harried his opponent. 'We can withdraw, melt back into the landscape, if we find the Russians there. If we find them arriving while we're there, we can do the same…' Again, he cleared his throat. 'I don't need to remind you that possession of the intact airframe by the Soviet Union — despite the deaths of Baranovitch and the others at Bilyarsk — will mean that the Firefox project continues. We shall be where we were last year, before we ever thought of this — this escapade.' Aubrey paused for effect. Pyott's face expressed vivid uncertainty. JIC and the Cabinet Office had left the decision, the final decision, to Aubrey and Pyott. 'Our people are waiting to embark. Waterford and his SBS people are gathered at Kirkenes…' Aubrey soothed. 'We are only hours away — '
'And the Russians may be only minutes away!' Pyott snapped.
'Nothing is happening at the moment,' Aubrey countered.
'As you say,' Pyott replied with heavy irony. 'At the moment, nothing is happening.'
'Giles!' Aubrey exclaimed. 'Giles, for God's sake, commit. This aircraft is still the threat it was yesterday and last year. It is invisible to radar, its electronic systems are a generation ahead of ours, it flies twice as fast as our fastest fighter! It is a threat. Commit, Giles — one way or the other, commit.'
In the heavy ensuing silence, Buckholz cleared his throat. Curtin's chair scraped on the floor as he shifted his weight. Pyott stared at his knuckles. Aubrey's left hand made futile, uncertain sweeps over the plot table.
Then Pyott looked up. 'Very well — very well. Talk to Hanni Vitsula in Helsinki. Tell him we're on our way!'
'Giles!' Aubrey exclaimed with the excitement of a child. 'Giles — well done!'
'Kenneth!' Giles Pyott replied in an offended tone. 'It is not a matter of congratulation. Damn your scheme and damn that aeroplane!' He stretched his arms wide. 'I hope to God we never find out whether or not it holds the balance of terror — and I hope to God we don't find out it's a dud.'
'You know as well as I do — '
'Don't lecture me! I know what that anti-radar system would do if it were used on a Cruise missile or an ICBM or a MIRV–I know where thought-guided weaponry could take the Russians in five years or less… I've heard your arguments, I've heard the Pentagon on the subject — I don't need to be reminded!'
'Don't be such a sore loser, Giles,' Buckholz grumbled. Pyott turned to the American, 'I sometimes think the profession of arms is as morally delectable as the oldest profession itself,' announced freezingly.
'Don't despise we night-soil men, Giles,' Aubrey soothed. 'Better this way- '
Pyott banged the plot table with his fist. 'Let's get on with it, shall we? Charles, you'll be on-site, but Waterford has military command- you understand?' Buckholz nodded. 'I must stay here — '
'And I shall set up HQ in Kirkenes!' Aubrey announced brightly. 'Shall we go?'
He seemed to be lying down. He concluded, very slowly, that he must be in bed. The ceiling was chalk-white. It reminded him of other familiar ceilings. People were whispering out of his sight, like mice in a corner of the room… it had to be a room, there was a white ceiling and the beginnings of white walls. His head felt very heavy. He could not be bothered to move it to check. There was the ether-smell — it was a hospital room. A bedside light shone in his peripheral vision, and cast a glow on the ceiling. It must be night.