Vladimirov sensed his desperation beneath the icy calm, beneath the strength of the man's personality. For him, the staggered sector scramble provided the only hope, slim though it was. Something nagged at the back of his mind, something he had first thought of in the early years of the Mig-31 project, something that he had raised as a possible objection to the anti-radar system that had been developed, and thrust upon the Bilyarsk development. It had been a cool voice, a sprinkling of water on a burning enthusiasm.
Vladimirov was, by nature, a cool, rational man, a strategist. As O.C. 'Wolfpack' commandant of the Russian interceptor force, he had found his fulfilment as a military man. He, with Kutuzov, had pressed for the delay in defence spending that would ensure the rapid production of hundreds of Mig-31s, to replace the Foxbats that at present formed the strongest card in the Russian suit. The thought-guided weapons-system developed for the aircraft was, he recognised, its real trump, together with its huge range and frightening speed. It would put the Red Air Force into a different league, beyond the present or immediately future capabilties of the RAF and the USAF.
He wandered away from the tense, electric atmosphere surrounding the circular table in the middle of the War Command Centre, and listened with half an ear to the flow of decoded reports issuing from the teams of operators. Everything was being recorded, ready for instant playback if there was need to consult the reports.
The sighting north-west of Volgograd filled him with suspicion. A former ace, he suspected the obvious. He had been forced to respect Gant, the American pilot. Studying the KGB file on him, transmitted by wire-print from the Centre in Moscow, he appreciated the selection of the man by the CIA. Gant was a rogue pilot, a Vietnam ace. Vladimirov hoped that, had the roles been reversed, he would have had the foresight and the daring to select such a man.
He felt he knew Gant, felt the need of the man to steal the Mig, to prove it could be done. Gant would want to complete the mission. He would be determined to take the Mig home.
From the pilot's report, it had been made to appear that the American had been surprised by the sudden appearance of the airliner to starboard of him, right on a collision course. Vladimirov knew that Gant's radar would have warned him of the airliner's presence in plenty of time to avoid such a sighting. And Gant was a fine pilot, perhaps the best if his record told no lies. Even in an unfamiliar aircraft, he would not have made such an error of airmanship. Vladimirov was sure that a simulator had been built at Langley, Virginia, to assist Gant in his training. He mentally cursed Kontarsky who, in the harsh glare of failure, appeared a gross fool. A great deal of information must have passed to the Americans over the past years, a great deal.
He dismissed Gant from his mind. To think of him was to dwell on the unchangeable past. No, there was something more important, something that might circumvent Gant's supreme advantage of the radar immunity of the Mig-31. What the devil was it?
He rubbed at his chin as he walked, a continuous, harsh motion of the hand. The voice of an operator repeating a communication struck him clearly. The words slid across his consciousness, without resonating.
'Positive sound-trace, installation at Orsk…' the voice at his side was saying. He was unaware of the stillness suddenly around him, unaware that the operator had turned to look up at him. No, he thought, it had nothing to do with sound. It was — was… Then he had it, elusive, yet brilliantly clear, even as his mind registered the silence around him and he saw the expectant face of the radio-operator from the corner of his eye.
He had said clearly, a lone voice amid the atmosphere of military and political euphoria, that radar-immunity by and of itself did not render any aircraft, however advanced, completely safe from detection. Infra-red detection equipment, designed not to bounce a signal off a solid object but to detect heat-sources on the ground or in the air, might be used to detect the presence of an aircraft immune to radar. The heat emission from a jet engine would show up on any infrared screen as an orange blip. It would be a poor substitute in tracking and fixing a target, but it would, even within its limitations, cancel some of the total advantage of the Mig-31's anti-radar system. It might prove sufficiently accurate for heat-seeking missiles to be launched in the direction of the prospective target. They would then, with their own sensors, seek out the heat-source that would have shown up on the infra-red screens on the ground. That was it! He looked at his hand in front of his face, and saw that it was quivering.
It was the answer. His staggered sector scramble did not have to rely upon the faint possibility of a clear visual sighting. Every fighter could train its infra-red weapons-aiming system ahead of the plane, in a cone. Anything with a jet engine passing through that cone, in whatever atmospheric conditions, at whatever altitude, would show up as a bright orange heat-spot on the pilot's infra-red detection screen.
He saw the face of the operator, holding one hand to his head like a man with toothache, saw the smile of puzzlement on the face.
'Yes?' he said. 'What did you say?'
'General — there has been an unidentified sound-trace from a low-flying aircraft travelling at more than Mach 2, picked up on the mobile unit west of Orsk.'
'Where is Orsk?' Vladimirov snapped, the excitement in the young face in front of him seeming to become infectious. Without waiting for an answer, the General turned to the man at the map-console, who computed the patterns and details to be fed onto the projection on the table. 'Orsk! Blow up that region for me.' He remembered. 'It's at the southern tip of the Urals…'
He slapped his hand against his forehead, not noticing the silence of the entire War Command Centre as the truth of his suspicions came home to him. Gant had deliberately been sighted travelling south!
'What is the matter, General Vladimirov?' he heard the First Secretary ask. Unconsciously, he waved his hand dismissively in the direction of the voice.
'Get me a confirmation of that report — quickly!' he snapped. 'Call it out to me.'
Swiftly, he crossed to the map beneath the screen of the table, oblivious to the rising anger displayed on the face of the First Secretary. Eagerly, he studied the enlargement of the southern tip of the Urals mountain chain, realised that the area was too small and said: 'Replace this — give me a projection of the Urals, and of as much to the north and south as you can — now.'
His fingers tapped at the table edges as he waited. The map dissolved, and then re-formed. The Urals spread like a livid scar down the centre of the projection. To the south was the brown, dusty-coloured expanse of Iran, and to the north the deepening blue of the Barents Sea and the Arctic Ocean. Still ignoring the First Secretary, who sat at the table like a carved figure, Vladimirov traced his finger across the map, first southwards, towards the Middle East and the Mediterranean; then, more slowly and thoughtfully, the slender, long-nailed finger tracked northward across the map, up the chain of the Urals. It paused over Novaya Zemlya, then pushed on north, then curved in an arc to the north-west into the Arctic Ocean.
When he looked up, it was only to hear the radio-operator who had informed him of the sound trace, saying: 'Trace confirmed, sir. Aircraft, which refused to answer a demand for identification, heading northeast into the mountains. They lost the trace within thirty seconds, but they confirm heading and speed.'
Vladimirov realised that Gant had made his first mistake, had made what might be promoted into a fatal error. He had ignored the demand for identification, atid that made him suspicious. Also, he was traveling far too fast, running for shelter… his fuel could not last as long as he must have hoped at first, at that speed. He studied the map again, realising that Gant was seeking the shelter, from visual and sound detection, of the eastern foothills of the Urals.