Firefox Down by Craig Thomas Read Free Book Online

from the Foxbat's port engine. In a matter of seconds, the aircraft would explode -
    And he would, with it…
    He grinned. He would disappear. The Foxbat fell towards a hillside, spinning. It would bury itself in deep snow. He spiralled down, following it. It was a second from impact and burning like a torch. He loosed a tail-decoy and it ignited, glowing on his infra-red screen, to be matched then surpassed by the explosion of the Foxbat at the base of the hill behind him.
    Two fireballs in close succession. Two kills.
    The cockpit was silent, except for the jabbering Russian as Bilyarsk and the search squadrons tried to raise the dead Foxbat pilot. He switched off the UHF set.
It was silent
.
    Christ -
    Then it happened. The sudden sense of the Firefox slowing that he had dreaded. His rpm was falling rapidly. In his headphones, he could hear the chatter of the auto-igniters. Altitude four thousand feet, fuel non-existent…
    He could see the snowbound landscape beneath. He had no more than minutes in which to decide to eject or to land. Then the engines caught for a moment as the pumps dredged the last of the fuel from the tanks. He pulled back on the column. He needed all the altitude he could muster. Three seconds later the engines died again, the rpm dropped, the gauges presented zero readings. The engines were silent, empty. Again, he had to decide - eject or try to land… ?
    He wouldn't eject, he told himself. Not now, not after everything that had happened.
    He banked the Firefox over the wilderness beneath the grey sky, searching for a runway that did not exist.
     
    'AWACS Tupolev reports losing all trace, Comrade General.'
    'We can't raise the pilot, sir. He's not answering.'
    'No infra-red trace after the two explosions, sir.' Two explosions, Vladimirov thought, and immediately found himself trapped in the Byzantine labyrinth of his own qualifications and guesses and instincts. It was a maze which was inescapable every time he appeared to be presented with evidence that the American had died, that the Firefox had been destroyed. And again now, when it seemed certain that the second Foxbat, itself shot down, had caused an explosion aboard the MiG-31, he doubted. He hesitated, he would not look up from the map-table, he would not listen to the First Secretary's gruff sense of relief.
    And yet, he could no longer express his doubts. He had learned that much diplomacy. He had learned silence.
    'Very well,' he replied to the now-finished chorus of reports, still without looking up. 'Very well. Institute a reconnaissance search for wreckage of the two aircraft - and possible survivors…' He looked up into the First Secretary's face and at Andropov behind the Soviet leader. 'Just to make certain,' he added. 'Routine.' He hated the apologetic tone in his voice. This new role did not suit him, but it was the only one which offered itself. He had, at last, begun to consider his own future. 'It should not offend our friends, the Finns - if they ever discover our over-flights.'
    The Soviet leader laughed. 'Come, Vladimirov - the game is over. And to you; yes, it was only a game? Played with the most expensive toys?' His hand slapped the general's shoulder and Vladimirov steeled himself not to wince at the contact. Kutuzov appeared tired and relieved. The operators began to relax. The cabin speaker had been switched off.
    Nothing, Vladimirov told himself without hope of conviction, nothing… There is nothing there now except wreckage. The American is dead.
    'Chairman Andropov - some drinks, surely?' the Soviet leader instructed. Andropov smiled and moved to summon a steward. 'No, no - we'll leave this crowded room - come, some comfortable chairs and good drink before we land - mm?'
    'Yes, of course, First Secretary,' Vladimirov murmured, following the Soviet leader out of the War Command Centre into a narrow, deceptively spacious lounge filled with well-upholstered, deep chairs, a television screen, a bar. Already, drinks