'Sorry, Charles — I said you could listen. Is Moresby still there?'
'I'm here!'
'Good. Now, Squadron-Leader, perhaps you'll be so good as to try to answer my question. Could the aircraft be prepared for a flight of, say — fifteen to twenty minutes duration, at sub-sonic speed, of course? A distance of a couple of hundred miles? Please think very carefully.'
Both Moresby and Buckholz had, by some unspoken common assent, turned their backs on the commpack and its operator, and shuffled to the extent of their headset leads; as if to remove themselves from the communicable lunacy of Kenneth Aubrey. Both of them watched the fresh teams at the winches slip quickly into the easy, regular rythm of the levering. The ropes, at the edge of clear vision out on the dark water, shook off silver drops of light. The marker flags were perhaps a few feet nearer the shore.
A diver's head popped above the water. He removed his facemask and mouthpiece, and they heard him shout: 'Port wheels are almost on top of a rock. Stop winching and give me a crowbar!'
'One, Two, and Three — stop winching!'
Brooke, the skirts of his park gathered up around his body, waded out into the water, which moved sluggishly around his legs, and handed the crowbar to his diver. Their conversation was brief. The diver disappeared.
Moresby seemed to recollect Aubrey. 'I've already told you that it's impossible, Mr. Aubrey. Please forgive my outburst — didn't mean to sound raped.'
'You were, buddy — or you will be,' Buckholz growled beside him.
'But it is impossible. I'm concentrating on what kind of auto-destruct may or may not be attached to the thought-guidance systems, the on-board computer and the anti-radar. If we don't locate the auto-destruct assuming there is one, you won't have anything left that's worth the time and effort already spent. Over.'
'I realise that, Moresby. But, please, simply tell me — Captain Curtin is listening, pen poised — what would be needed if the Firefox were to fly again — from that lake?'
The diver's head popped above the surface again. Brooke had waited for him, and took the crowbar. Both of them gave the thumbs-up, and the engineer captain immediately ordered the three teams to recommence winching. Moresby sighed, then with an angry reluctance returned his attention to Aubrey. Buckholz willed him to utterly refute the Englishman as he felt the impact of the news concerning the Skyhook helicopter spread through him. They couldn't get the Firefox out. As simple as that. They were winching it out of the lake only to be unable to do any more than steal a few of its systems and instruments and samples of its airframe materials… and photographs. Countless photographs.
Buckholz understood Aubrey's refusal to surrender to the inevitable. But he could not share the man's new, impossible scheme. Which, he reminded himself, Aubrey was conjuring out of thin air just because he left himself without any fall back plan!
'Hot air blowers,' Moresby snapped as if the information was being extracted by physical pain. 'Undercover job, drying the airframe. That takes care of the airframe. Now you have a dry lump of metal. Do you wish me to go on? Over.'
'Please continue, Squadron-Leader. All this is most interesting. Over.'
Moresby sighed at the sarcasm in Aubrey's voice. Buckholz watched the three orange flags dancing like great butterflies above the dark, soupy water as the ropes strained.
'Engines next, then. Drying out — then you have problems with igniters, lubrication, barometric controls, engine ancillaries, and fuel, of course. Number three — hydraulics and pneumatics. They could be OK, after such a short immersion, but everything, repeat everything, would have to be thoroughly checked otherwise you could end up without undercarriage, airbrakes, flaps. Four — the electrics. It would depend on what level of operation would be acceptable. Again, everything would have to be thoroughly checked, and any damage would have to be made good. You do have a private pipeline into the Mikoyan production line, so that we have easy access to Russian spares, I suppose?' Moresby snorted; a noise not much like laughter but which Buckholz assumed was the air force officer's means of expressing amusement. 'Five — instruments… the air-driven ones may be OK, since the water may not have got into the instrument heads — but, the electrically-driven gyro ones — I wouldn't even like to speculate on that. Over.'
Buckholz sensed that Moresby had flung a great douche of cold water in Aubrey's direction and expected his ploy to work. He imagined Curtin scribbling furiously, shaking his head almost without pause. When he heard Aubrey's voice, however, he realised that he was undaunted.
'What about armaments? Over.'
'For Heaven's sake, Aubrey!' Moresby exclaimed. 'You'd have to talk to my armourer, but my guess is that you're on to a hiding to nothing on that tack.'
'I see. But, thus far, apart from things mechanical and electronic, I would need experts in airframes, engines, hydraulics, control systems, electrics, avionics, instruments and weapons… in other words, a full ground-crew who would be experienced in servicing military aircraft. That doesn't seem too tall an order… Over?'
'Don't forget the runway, fuel, oxygen, a set of jacks, tools that fit — I simply cannot see any way in which it is feasible. Impossible in less than twenty-four hours, which is what we have. Impossible in three days or more, even at Abingdon — never mind Lapland!'
'Get off the guy's back, Aubrey!' Buckholz snapped. 'You haven't got a chance with this. You couldn't even get the stuff he needs here, never mind the men. Forget it. Arrange for that Chinook to pick us up at dusk tomorrow. Jesus — !'
'What's the matter! Over.'
'She — she's on her way up, Aubrey — she's on her way up!'
He had noticed the silence. Now, cheering filled it. The winches paused, the orange marker flags danced. Pearls of water dropped from the taut nylon lines. Cheering.
The nose of the Firefox had slipped above the water, black and snoutlike, ugly and still threatening. Above it, like eyes, the perspex of the cockpit canopy stared at them. It was a sea creature, Aubrey's Nessie. Watching them, waiting for them to be foolish enough to enter the water.
'Is she-?' he heard Aubrey ask in a quiet voice.
'Beautiful,' Buckholz said. 'Dangerous and beautiful. My God, when Gant first saw that — '
'Now tell me not to try. Over,' Aubrey replied sardonically.
'It's still impossible,' Moresby interrupted. The winches began again. Inch by inch, the snout and cockpit slipped higher out of the water, sometimes lost in the flurries of snow, sometimes clearer and more deadly in appearance.
'The weather, Kenneth?'
'At dawn, something of a lull is anticipated… enough for a Hercules to make a low-level drop. One drop, of everything you need. Then the weather will close in again.'
'So no one gets out of here?'
'The Met reports anticipate another such lull, late in the afternoon. The fronts will allow two windows in the weather, at dawn and around dusk. Over.'
'That means less than twelve hours, Aubrey — '
'I realise that, Squadron-Leader. However, you could have everything you need dropped on the lake at first light. If it doesn't work, I promise you will have my reluctant permission to utterly destroy the aircraft. Over.'
Involuntarily, Buckholz's head flicked round so that he was looking at the Firefox. The leading edges of its huge wings were beginning to emerge. Now, it looked like something captured, caught in a net and dragged from its own element into the snowy air; a great manta ray rather than an aircraft. It mounted the slope, moving slowly, very slowly out of the water. Menaced. Yes, Buckholz thought, it already exuded menace, even though there was no possibility it could ever fly again.