'Sir.'
'When the sub comes up on close-range sonar, call me the exact speed and distance every thirty seconds.'
'Sir.'
Seerbacker clipped the handset to the breast pocket of his parka, tugged at it to ensure that it wouldn't come adrift, nodded to Gant, and headed away from the submarine in the direction indicated by the two hoses which trailed like endless black snakes away into the mist. Following him, the ridge still out of sight, the violent hiss of steam hardly audible, Gant was once more possessed by a sense of the precariousness of his position. The hunched, loping figure of Seerbacker seemed slight, almost unsubstantial, certainly not a presence capable of supporting the weight of his escape. The firm ice beneath his feet, the glimpse of the Firefox in the mist as he turned his head to glance at it — they did not reassure him. The Russian submarine was homing on the floe and the Pequod. They had sixteen minutes, give or take a little.
Two men manned each nozzle, directing a jet of superheated steam onto the ugly, unfinished plaster-work of the hole in the ridge. It was supposed to be thirty feet across. Gant's brain measured it — to his imagination it looked small, too small. The steam played over the rough surface of the floe, over the hacked, torn edges of the gap — smoothing it out. It took them only a couple of minutes to give the gap smooth edges, a smooth, gleaming floor.
Peck had turned once, acknowledged the presence of Gant and the captain, and then ignored them. As soon as the gap was smoothed to his satisfaction, he bawled at his team: 'All right, you guys — get this runway smoothed off!'
'What for, chief?'
'Because I'm telling you to do it — you'll enjoy it, Clemens!'
The hoses snaked away into the mist, unwillingly following the men dragging at them. They snaked past Gant's feet, slowly, far too slowly. He looked at his watch, just as Fleischer's voice squawked from near Seerbacker's shoulder.
'The sub's transferred to close-range screen, sir.'
Seerbacker leant his head like a bird attending to ruffled feathers, and said: 'Tell me the worst.'
'Computer-identification: Russian, type hunter-killer submarine, range four-point-six miles, ETA nine minutes… '
'What?' Seerbacker bawled.
'Sorry, sir — the sonar-error must have been larger than we thought… '
'Now you tell me!' Seerbacker was silent for an instant, then he said: 'Get off the air — Peck!'
'Sir?'
'You heard that, Chief?'
'Yes, sir — we'll never get this runway cleared, not a thirty-yard width all the way down the floe.'
Seerbacker looked at Gant. 'What the hell do you want?' he said.
'I — a hundred yards this side of the floe,' Gant replied, pointing beyond the gap in the ridge, to the north. 'Just give me that, and a clear runway this side of the gap.' He waved his hand towards the Firefox.
Seerbacker repeated his instructions. Peck sounded dubious that he could complete the work, but affirmed that he would try. Gant stared into the mist, saw the huddled, squat shapes of men moving closer, straining as they dragged the unwilling hoses back on their tracks. He heard the recommencement of the spraying, smoothing out his runway, blasting the loose, powdery surface snow clear. If he was to reach the take-off speed he required, it had to be done. And he had to wait until it was done.
Seerbacker was speaking again. 'Give me a status report on "Harmless" — and this is the last time anyone refers to anything except the weather — understand?' He listened intently, almost leaning forward on the balls of his feet. When the voice at the other end had finished, he nodded in apparent satisfaction. Then he looked at Gant. 'It's O.K. - we're covered, as long as we get you airborne.'
'ETA seven minutes.' Fleischer's voice was infected by something that sounded dangerously like panic.
'When he contacts you — give him the low-down, like on the script — O.K., Dick?' Seerbacker's voice was soothing.
'Sir.'
Gant watched the steam skid across the snow. Blasts of powder lifted into the misty air. The hoses snaked nearer, the men straining at them, joined now by other, anonymous figures who passed Gant, summoned by Peck's call over the handset. Around the men, the self-inflicted blizzard raged, until Gant himself was enveloped in the blinding white smoke.
'ETA six minutes… still no radio contact, sir.' Gant heard Fleischer's voice coming squeakly from the settling storm, saw the thin figure of Seerbacker outlined once more as the hoses passed away down the floe towards the plane. He wiped the snow from his stubbled face with the back of a mitten.
Seerbacker remained silent for a long time, his back to Gant as he watched Peck's party clearing the runway. To him, they appeared to be moving slowly, far too slowly. Unable to bear the tension or the silence any longer, he turned to Gant, and said:
'Are they going to make it?'
Gant nodded. 'A minute to spare,' he said.
'Can you get out of here in that time?'
'So far away, you wouldn't believe!' Gant said, with a grim smile.
'You better be right, mister — you just better be!'
'The contact is confirmed, First Secretary!' Vladimirov said, his hand slamming down on the map-table, so that the lights joggled and blurred for a moment.
The man in front of him seemed unmoved, perhaps still even contemptuous of the military man's urgency Vladimirov knew that he was risking everything now, that there was no time for the niceties of career, and politics. He had known that it was an American submarine, and he had known its purpose. The silence had told on him. He was white and strained, and there was sweat on his forehead. He sensed that, alone in the room, only the old man, Kutuzov, supported him. Even he was silent.
'Vladimirov, calm yourself!' the First Secretary growled.
'Calm — calm myself?' Vladimirov's voice was high-pitched, out of control. He had committed himself now, he knew. Yet he could not stand by, even though he had schooled himself to do so, tried to quell the pendular motion of self-interest and duty that had plagued him throughout the morning. He had been unable to eat lunch, there had been such tightness in his stomach, such a knot of fear. Perhaps, he sensed, it was that he was afraid, the appalling knowledge that he was a coward, that had driven him to do his duty.
'Yes — calm yourself!'
'How can I be calm — when your stupidity — stupidity, is losing that aircraft to the Americans? You have read the file — you know what this man Gant is. He could land that aircraft on an ice-floe, and take off again. Listen to me — before it's too late!'
Like a frozen hare, Vladimirov watched the emotions chase each other across the face of the First Secretary. The initial hot rage at the insult was controlled in an instant, becoming once more the cold contempt of habit; a sense of sadistic pleasure seemed present to Vladimirov — lastly, he saw the emotion for which he searched — doubt.
Vladimirov pressed on, knowing that, even as he ruined himself, that the First Secretary was afraid to ignore him any longer. The Soviet leader was unable to hold Vladimirov's gaze, and turned to look over his shoulder at Andropov. The Chairman's face was inscrutable.
'You must act, First Secretary — it is too late for politics.'
The big man seemed as if poised to spring at the O.C. 'Wolfpack', then he summoned a smile to his face, lightness to his voice: 'Very well, Vladimirov, very well, if it means that much to you…' The voice hardened. 'If you are so ready to — spoil things by your behaviour — I can do no more than humour you.' He waved his hand in a generous gesture. 'What is it you require?'