Free Firefox Down by Craig Thomas Page A

memory fumbled, struggled with the effort of recalling automatic responses, mere reflex actions.
    Eventually… yes. Yes, it was switched on. His eyes scanned the ice. The remains of the dinghy had disappeared. He walked clumsily, slowly along the bank - even for the transmitter, he would not allow himself to step onto the treacherous sheet of ice on the lake - searching for what would be no more than a black dot. He did not find it. The landscape was nothing more than black and grey and white.
    Finally, he concluded that the transmitter had sunk to the bottom of the lake. If it had dropped onto ice - he was certain he remembered that kind of sound when it fell - it must have slipped off when the ice had been moved or distressed by the underwater eddies created by the moving bulk of the Firefox. It was lost.
    Now, distance was his only imperative. He could not stay near the transmitter, near the lake. If he was found, it needed to be miles from here.
    His body failed him for a moment, daunted by the prospect of movement, of travel; of survival.
    He looked northwards up the lake to where the heavy, crowded trees were little more than a dark, carbon smudge made by someone sketching the scene. The ice was a smooth sheet. He was on the western shore of the lake. He checked his compass and the map he unstrapped from his thigh. In its clear plastic, it had remained dry during his immersion. The pressure-suit was achingly cold.
    He looked in the direction he must travel, towards Norway. Conifers crowding to the water's edge, low hills beyond them. He heard the mocking dissuasion of large, unseen birds. He looked down at the water, still like setting jelly, its temperature dropping. The Firefox was undetectable, invisible. It had to be enough to satisfy him; drive him on.
    He picked up his parachute and buckled on the harness. He clipped the survival pack to his now deflated life-jacket, and adjusted its weight for comfort. Then he turned away from the lake and entered the trees.
     
    Air Marshal Kutuzov glanced towards the other end of the compartment and the door which led to the small private office the First Secretary used when aboard the Tupolev. Evidently, the Soviet leader and the Chairman of the KGF intended remaining there for the rest of the flight. Kutuzov glanced at his heavy gold watch. Twenty minutes to the principal military airfield south-east of Moscow. He cleared his throat, patting Vladimirov's leg as he spoke. 'Med, I think you have secured the succession for yourself.' The old man tapped the shoulder boards on his own uniform. His pale, rheumy eyes twinkled, and he nodded vigorously. 'You're learning. And in time - just in time…' It was evident that Kutuzov was philosophically drunk…
    Vladimirov stared at his own small glass. How many drinks - ? They'd been drinking for less than half an hour. No one gets drunk more quickly than a Russian. What was he drinking to? The American's death? The excessive, almost manic bonhomie of the First Secretary, the cold, glinting appraisals of the still-sober Andropov - both had ceased to irritate or impinge. The vodka had distanced them. He had managed to drown reason and insight like two wasps at the bottom of his glass. Their stings pulled out.
    He glanced towards the door of the War Command Centre, then at the door to the First Secretary's office. The Soviet leader had been summoned to the telephone to deal with the diplomatic niceties of airspace intrusions.
    Through the vodka, the sense of self-contempt was returning. Vladimirov warned himself against it. And, as if his companion sensed the threatened change of mood, he patted Vladimirov's hand and said: 'Be sensible - continue to be sensible, General Vladimirov.' The formality of the address was intentional. Vladimirov shook his head in what was a gesture of agreement rather than protest. The alcohol stirred like a solid mass lurching across an empty space.
    'I know it, I know it,' he murmured. 'It's much better to be