generals: they ought to be abolished. Like state taxes. So he dived, dropped like a bomb. But Dawes, braced in his seat, was ready. The Russian helicopter was no more than half a mile away, floating towards them on the fog sea as the Cessna went down and down and the fog swept up. Schumacher pulled out of the dive with a jerk which could have knocked out Dawes, but again he was ready for the impact. They were now about three hundred feet above the helicopter. Then it vanished, fell into the fog.
'Hell!' Dawes was annoyed. 'I wonder why she's such a shy girl? Seen any of them about here before, Schumacher?'
'Never this far west - not that model. We've passed over Target-5,' the pilot added, 'somewhere down there in the oatmeal.' The edge of the fog bank was in sight and the polar pack loomed as a mellow crystal sheen beyond. 'Com ing close to the Russian base, North Pole 17, sir. '
Schumacher's access of politeness intrigued Dawes. 'I want to see what they're up to. Does it Worry you?'
'They buzz us - send a machine up and fly close. I nearly collided with one somewhere about here. They don't like us playing good neighbours with them. So we still keep on, sir? There they are.'
Twinkles of green phosphorescence glowing on the ice showed the landing strip on the ice island, showed that the airstrip was in imminent use. The buildings couldn't be seen yet, but something else could be seen, was just coming into view. Dawes leaned forward, his eyes narrowed. 'Perfect timing! You almost deserve a medal...' A small - at that range - Satanic-looking shadow was drifting down out of the sky, trailing pencil-thin vapour as it pointed its nose down. A Bison bomber was landing at North Pole 17.
'Go back, sir?'
'Not yet!'
A Bison bomber. That was interesting. The Russians didn't use the Bison as an Arctic taxi, but they might in an emergency use it to get here fast from Murmansk, to bring in a man - or a lot of men. The Bison swept down to ground level, swept along between the lights, and Dawes could see the buildings now, a tiny cluster of dark smudges. The moving smudge between the lights came to a stop, the green pinpoints faded, vanished.
"They've hooked us on their radar,' Schumacher warned. 'Now they'll send up a plane.'
'Not with their lights doused. Look below us.'
From seven hundred feet they could see them clearly, tiny turtles crawling over the ice. Sno-Cats, six of them, and they were west of the Soviet ice island - heading direct towards Target-5- They scarcely seemed to move, but behind them their caterpillar tracks left tell-tale furrows in the snow, furrows leading from North Pole 17. That - and the Bison bomber - decided Dawes.
'Home,' he said, and Schumacher reacted instantly, turn ing at speed as he gained altitude. 'Get through on your radio to Curtis Field ...'
'There's bad static .. .'
'Get through. Go on until you do get through. Send one word time and time again. Nitrogen. Got it? Nitrogen . . .' It was the code-signal Beaumont was waiting for, the signal for him to leave for Target-5.
Sunday, 20 February: 4PM - Monday, 21 February: Midnight
The two Sikorsky helicopters came down vertically as though suspended from a cable, dropping towards the ice over a hundred miles from the Greenland coast. It was a critical moment - any landing on unknown ice is critical. For one thing you can never be sure from the air that you are coming down on firm ice; it may look quite solid and then the skids land, the ice cracks and you are going down into the ocean. For another thing, if the machine doesn't settle on a flat surface it can keel over, topple, and the whirling rotors hit the ice first. One moment the men inside are pre paring to disembark, the next moment steel blades are mincing them to pieces - unless the fuel tanks detonate, in which case they are incinerated.
So it was with a certain tension that Beaumont waited for the bump which would tell them they had touched down on the polar pack. Seated in the
'Hell!' Dawes was annoyed. 'I wonder why she's such a shy girl? Seen any of them about here before, Schumacher?'
'Never this far west - not that model. We've passed over Target-5,' the pilot added, 'somewhere down there in the oatmeal.' The edge of the fog bank was in sight and the polar pack loomed as a mellow crystal sheen beyond. 'Com ing close to the Russian base, North Pole 17, sir. '
Schumacher's access of politeness intrigued Dawes. 'I want to see what they're up to. Does it Worry you?'
'They buzz us - send a machine up and fly close. I nearly collided with one somewhere about here. They don't like us playing good neighbours with them. So we still keep on, sir? There they are.'
Twinkles of green phosphorescence glowing on the ice showed the landing strip on the ice island, showed that the airstrip was in imminent use. The buildings couldn't be seen yet, but something else could be seen, was just coming into view. Dawes leaned forward, his eyes narrowed. 'Perfect timing! You almost deserve a medal...' A small - at that range - Satanic-looking shadow was drifting down out of the sky, trailing pencil-thin vapour as it pointed its nose down. A Bison bomber was landing at North Pole 17.
'Go back, sir?'
'Not yet!'
A Bison bomber. That was interesting. The Russians didn't use the Bison as an Arctic taxi, but they might in an emergency use it to get here fast from Murmansk, to bring in a man - or a lot of men. The Bison swept down to ground level, swept along between the lights, and Dawes could see the buildings now, a tiny cluster of dark smudges. The moving smudge between the lights came to a stop, the green pinpoints faded, vanished.
"They've hooked us on their radar,' Schumacher warned. 'Now they'll send up a plane.'
'Not with their lights doused. Look below us.'
From seven hundred feet they could see them clearly, tiny turtles crawling over the ice. Sno-Cats, six of them, and they were west of the Soviet ice island - heading direct towards Target-5- They scarcely seemed to move, but behind them their caterpillar tracks left tell-tale furrows in the snow, furrows leading from North Pole 17. That - and the Bison bomber - decided Dawes.
'Home,' he said, and Schumacher reacted instantly, turn ing at speed as he gained altitude. 'Get through on your radio to Curtis Field ...'
'There's bad static .. .'
'Get through. Go on until you do get through. Send one word time and time again. Nitrogen. Got it? Nitrogen . . .' It was the code-signal Beaumont was waiting for, the signal for him to leave for Target-5.
Sunday, 20 February: 4PM - Monday, 21 February: Midnight
The two Sikorsky helicopters came down vertically as though suspended from a cable, dropping towards the ice over a hundred miles from the Greenland coast. It was a critical moment - any landing on unknown ice is critical. For one thing you can never be sure from the air that you are coming down on firm ice; it may look quite solid and then the skids land, the ice cracks and you are going down into the ocean. For another thing, if the machine doesn't settle on a flat surface it can keel over, topple, and the whirling rotors hit the ice first. One moment the men inside are pre paring to disembark, the next moment steel blades are mincing them to pieces - unless the fuel tanks detonate, in which case they are incinerated.
So it was with a certain tension that Beaumont waited for the bump which would tell them they had touched down on the polar pack. Seated in the
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