Free Firefox Down by Craig Thomas Page B

- oh, what? Nothing? Better to be nothing.' As he moved his hands angrily, vodka slopped from his glass onto the shining toes of his knee-boots. He watched the oily droplets flow like mercury across the polish. 'I know it.'
    He stared again at the door to the War Command Centre. Through it officers had appeared periodically in the past half-hour to make their negative, comforting reports. They were like something added to the vodka, doubly calming. Wreckage photographed, pictures being returned for examination; search planes reporting no distress signals, no electronic emissions, no survivors.
    Soon, it would be no more than a matter of experts examining the photographs of the wreckage to confirm that the Firefox and the M1G-25F were destroyed at the same moment in the same area. Then later the Finns would give permission for crash investigators and a recovery party to examine the site and bring the wreckage home. Black boxes would be removed, bodies would be wrapped in plastic sacks and brought back. End. Over. Finished.
    The First Secretary had cancelled all over-flights of the crash area before taking his call from the Finnish President. All intrusions of foreign airspace could be apologised for because now they had ceased.
    'I am offering you no more than a lesson in survival,' Kutuzov announced. It was the slurred voice of the vodka. 'Because I want
you
to command the air force.
You
.' He was patting Vladimirov's knee slowly and heavily to emphasise each word.
    'I know that, old friend,' Vladimirov replied, nodding. Even to hirnself, his words sounded indistinct. He mocked himself silently, reproaching and ridiculing himself as bitterly as he could. He swallowed what little remained in his glass. His stomach surged. 'I've accepted. I - am a member of the team…" He smiled, his lips forming the expression imprecisely. '
How
long before we land?' he added with sudden exasperation.
    'Patience. You are now a courtier. You will get used to waiting. It is a talent.'
    'Courtier…' Vladimirov murmured.
    'Another drink?'
    'No, old friend I wouldn't be able to keep it down.'
    'No Russian can - we get drunk too quickly.'
    'Do you blame us?'
    'No.'
    The two men stared into their empty glasses. Vladimirov lifted his to reflect the overhead light. He could see the last oily smear in the glass, see the smudges made by his lips and fingertips. Then he stood up, swaying slightly, tall, grey-haired, drunk, but evidently, so evidently, an officer of distinction. As if he saw his form reflected in a mirror, he mocked his appearance. An impressive outward show, even when he was drunk. Hollow man… hollow man.
    A young officer opened the door from the War Command Centre. Vladimirov whirled almost too quickly to face him. In his hand he carried a message pad.
    Hollow man…
    Stop it -
    It was impossible to drown the wasps, then.
    'What is it?' he snapped, his tongue furry, his eyes glistening. The rest of himself retreated somewhere, to wait for a more opportune moment.
    'It's the Tupolev, sir the aircraft commander, Major Antonov. This… I don't think he can understand it…'
    Vladimirov snatched the pad, plucking his half-glasses from his top pocket, wobbling them onto his ears. Sobriety nudged him, having returned from its short absence. Antonov would not be the pilot of the Tupolev AWACS aircraft; but the political officer who theoretically commanded the crew. He was a member of GLAVPUR, the armed forces' political directorate. However, he might still be competent aircrew, even though he was on the Tupolev 'Moss' because it flew near all kinds of hostile borders across which its crew might be tempted to take it-
liberating
it and themselves in the process. So, Antonov…
    At first, Vladimirov did not understand the report. A frequency-agile signal, intermittent… they'd picked it up once or twice, got a line on it - the first fix - but not a second clear fix which would give them the exact position. They only knew the signal emanated