'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 inissile 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 strip-lighting 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 observation-security 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.