Firefox

'Yes?'

'Gant?' Seerbacker's voice sounded laboured, out of breath. 'Listen to me, mister. We've got three sonar contacts to the south of us, along your flight-path.'

Gant was silent for a moment, then he said: 'Yes — it has to be the cruiser and her two escorts — hunter-killer subs.'

'Jesus — you know how to make trouble for me, Gant — you really, really do!'

'How long before they get here?'

'Forty — maybe forty-five minutes.'

'Then that's enough time.'

'Fuck you, mister! Enough time for you to get the hell out of here — what about my ship? What about its gallant crew who are at this moment working their tails off to get you a runway you can use?'

'I–I'm sorry, Seerbacker — I didn't think…'

Almost as if he were winning a point, Seerbacker replied:

'Anyway — it'll take longer than we thought. It seems Mr. Peck was a little optimistic in his estimates. We'll need almost the same time to get you out of here as they'll need to catch up on us!'

Gant was silent. Eventually, Seerbacker said: 'You still there, Gant?'

'Uh — yeah. You sure they're heading this way?'

'Maybe, maybe not. They weren't, that's for sure.'

'Weren't?'

'They were steaming west, across the track of the floe, but sure as hell is hot, Gant, if we can see them, then they can damn well see us!'

Ten THE DUEL

Vladimirov confronted the First Secretary, a renewed sense of purpose doing little to contradict or overcome the tension he felt. He knew, with a sickening certainty, that he did not want to throw his career away, that he wanted Kutuzov's rank and post when the old man was put out to grass. Yet he was contained within a dilemma. Even if he managed to quell the rising doubts and proceed as ordered, there was still the chance that, if Gant succeeded in escaping with the Mig-31 intact, he himself would be blamed for the Soviet failure to recapture or destroy. It was that knowledge finally that persuaded him to demand that action be taken with regard to the sonar-contact reported by the Riga a minute before.

'In my estimation, First Secretary,' he began, keeping his voice neutral, level, with a vast effort of will, 'this contact, though confused by the presence of icefloes, is worth investigation.'

His words seemed to be swallowed in the silence of the War Command Centre. Vladinurov was aware that everybody, from Andropov down to the most junior radio-operator, understood that the room had polarised around the First Secretary and the O.C. 'Wolfpack'. They were spectators in a power game being played out between the two men. They seemed to the General, tense with anticipation, almost to appreciate the fact that he was at last making his move — his final move.

'In your estimation,' the Soviet leader said softly after a while, his voice seeming to blame Vladimirov for speaking.

Vladimirov nodded. Then he said: 'I–I am sure that I understand now how they intend to refuel the Mig at sea…' He chose the cryptic words with care. He had to play the First Secretary like a recalcitrant, dangerous fish, a shark. Yet he had committed himself. If his assumption proved to be correct, and they still failed, it would be tantamount to professional suicide to have voiced his ideas. The wild idea had grown in him slowly; he had tried to deny it, rid himself of it and the personal perspectives it evoked. Now, however, it possessed him, and he could no longer avoid its communication to the First Secretary. Damnation, he thought, almost grinding his teeth as he envisaged the consequences of his ensuing conflict with the Soviet leader — but it was their last and only chance to prevent the Mig from falling into American hands, delivered by Gant.

His hatred of Gant burnt at the back of his throat like nausea.

'Yes — they have used — are using — a large ice-floe as a runway, and the refuelling vessel is undoubtedly a submarine. That is the sonar-contact that the Riga has made!' In bald, hurried words, the idea seemed ridiculous, unconvincing. Yet, in his mind, he could visualise the scene so clearly! The parka-clothed figures, the fuel-lines, the aircraft sitting on the ice… there were a thousand floes the Americans could have chosen from!

'The aircraft has landed, Vladimirov?'

Vladimirov knew he had lost. The voice, dry and calm, told him he had failed to convince. He looked around him. Faces turned away, stares directed aside, or downwards, not meeting his eyes. Even Kutuzov turned away, the eyes of a spectator at a road accident.

'Yes.' His voice was too high, he knew it. Damn, he could not even control his voice any more! How was it, he wondered, that the man was able to frighten him from the other side of the map-table, on the surface of which the coloured lights scuttled towards the North Cape? They had accepted Aubrey's decoys — Vladimirov knew they were decoys, aircraft and a submarine, bustling to no purpose but to trick them — and the total available Soviet air and sea forces had been ordered to dash for the North Cape. The man in front of him now possessed power that could ruin him, drop him, crush him, imprison him — say that he was mad. And Vladimirov did not want to end up like Grigorenko, in an asylum.

He tried once more.

'The contact is on the flight-path last registered by the Riga and her escorts — just before the trace was lost.'

Then he subsided into silence. He watched, almost like a spectator himself, as the large, square, grey-suited man stared, apparently idly, at the map-table. The Riga and the two escorting submarines were rapidly becoming solitary lights as the scene of Soviet surface and air activity moved further west. Then he looked up into Vladimirov's eyes. The incredulous General saw, from an instant before the eyes became hooded again, naked, stark fear. He could not assimilate the information, until the First Secretary said:

'It would take too long to recall the helicopters, and order them to make a search of the area. Instead, my dear General, because you seem to have this — obsessive concern with ice-floes and tanker-submarines…' He paused and Andropov, seated now next to him, smiled thinly. He supplied the expected reaction, even as his humourless eyes behind the steel-framed spectacles indicated that he understood the motives of the Soviet leader. 'As I said — to give you peace of mind, my dear Vladimirov — we will despatch one of the escorting submarines to investigate this highly dubious sonar-contact that the cruiser claims to have made.' He smiled blandly, recovering from the moment of naked understanding he had seen in the Chairman's eyes.

'But, if it is…' Vladimirov began.

The First Secretary held up his huge hand 'One of the escorts, Vladimirov — how long will it take?'

'Forty minutes, no more.'

'Then — if there is anything to report, if the contact turns out to be interesting — the second Mig-31 will be ordered to return from its rendezvous off the North Cape — at top speed.'

It was over. Vladimirov felt the tension drain away, leaving him physically weak, exhausted. At least it was something. Yet he could not sense a victory. He was unable to do more than continue to despise himself.

Swiftly, as if to hide the feelings that must show on his face, he turned to the encoding-console to issue orders to the captain of the Riga.

* * *

Gant had watched the green sonar-screen and the sweep of its tireless arm until his eyes ached. The endless revolution of the arm, dragging the wash of whiteness behind it that left three crystallised points of light in its wake, unnerved him. After silent, tense minutes in the control room of the Pequod, leaning over the sailor wearing headphones, listening to the amplified pinging of the contact, it became apparent what was occurring. One of the blips on the screen, one of the escort submarines, had detached itself from its westward course, and was moving along the line of a bearing that would bring it homing on the Pequod. The other two blips continued on their westward course.