Skydancer by Geoffrey Archer Page A

British had changed their minds again. They had cancelled their expensive Trident plans, and resorted to guile once again.
    â€˜Skydancer!’ Kvitzinsky spat out the English word. He had to know what tricks of technology the British had invented this time, tricks the Military Committee had designated him to counter.
    Standing by the window, hands deep in his pockets, he looked across the roofs of Moscow to the onion domes of the Kremlin in the distance. There had been snow flurries earlier in the day, and he saw that it was now beginning to rain.
    It would be raining in London, too, he guessed. He had visited the British capital several times and liked his stays there. It was an unprotected city, though, he mused: if there was a nuclear war, London would have no means of stopping Soviet missiles raining down to destroy it. Curious, he thought: the British talked with vague optimism about surviving a nuclear war, yet they made no effort to protect their centre of power.
    â€˜Perhaps they are right,’ he murmured. ‘Perhaps protection is indeed a waste of time.’
    He tossed back the remains of the vodka. This would not do: those were negative thoughts. His orders were to keep Moscow safe. The trouble was that to learn how to do it, he needed those people in London to get him the Skydancer plans, and in that they seemed to be failing.
    The day in Britain was three hours younger than in Moscow; and in Florida, where the big grey RAF VC10 jet was now heading, it was five hours earlier still. As the aircraft strained upwards into the clouds over the wet grasslands of Oxfordshire, Peter Joyce breathed in deeply, eager for the seat-belt sign to be switched off so that he could press on with his work.
    He sat in an executive section of the cabin: two pairs of deeply padded seats facing each other, and a large table top between them. Opposite him sat a young woman with curly blonde hair and brown eyes. Her pretty face was turned towards the window, and she made no effort to conceal her excitement as she peered through the window.
    â€˜Ever been to America before, Jill?’ Peter asked.
    He did not know the girl well but had been assured she was one of the best computer programmers at Aldermaston.
    â€˜I’ve never even flown in an aeroplane before!’ she confided, blushing with embarrassment.
    â€˜What? Never even been to Majorca?’ he joked.
    She shook her head. ‘I’m an outdoor girl. I prefer hill-climbing to lying on a beach.’ Her accent was broad Yorkshire.
    â€˜Well, there won’t be time for anything like thatwhere we’re going. I’m sorry to say.’
    As the aircraft began to level out, Peter looked up and saw the sign was finally off. As he unclipped his seat-belt and stood up, a steward came forward from his place near the rear galley.
    â€˜The flight engineer’s laid on a power supply for you from a socket in the galley, sir,’ the man announced, glancing at the girl and wondering where these scientists were from. He had been told their mission was secret.
    â€˜Would you like me to bring the cable along right away?’
    â€˜Yes, please,’Joyce replied. ‘Then perhaps you could give us a hand with these.’ He pointed across the aisle to where the components of two microcomputers had been carefully strapped in to protect them from the jolting of the takeoff.
    They lifted the heavy boxes and placed them on the table, plugging in the leads that linked the components together. The flight engineer had reappeared from the cockpit by the time the steward had uncoiled the cable from the galley, and he supervised the final connection of the equipment.
    â€˜Do you have everything you need now?’ the engineer enquired, standing back and looking with satisfaction at the green glow emanating from the VDUs.
    â€˜Yes, thank you,’ Joyce replied. He could see curiosity on the RAF men’s faces, but he wanted them out of the way.