Trophy (13 page)

“Do the Americans know one of your pilots is planning to deliver this precious toy to the West?”

“Of course not. This is for you as
I
‘ve said, Charles, and I want it kept strictly in-house. This is not another Belenko.”

Here Stolybin was referring to the MiG-25 pilot who had taken his aircraft in a blaze of publicity to Hokkaido in Japan, in September 1976, supposedly under inducement from the West. The Krivak pilot was apparently defecting unasked.

“Just supposing I do believe this wild story, what do you want of me?”

Stolybin’s eyes were very still.
“Supposing …
I understand your skepticism, Charles, but you already know you have no real choice. If I’m lying, you’ll get nothing. But what if
I
‘m not…?” He deliberately left his words hanging. “What I want from you is an escort of your fighters waiting for him, and a tanker to give him fuel for the remainder of the flight. For obvious reasons, he cannot leave with long-range tanks. He’s a test pilot and his program requires him to test the aircraft within rigidly-controlled fuel parameters. Most times he flies on half fuel only. But on occasion, he must go with full tanks, and on one of these he will make the flight West.”

“Why the escort?”

“To stop your side shooting him down.” Stolybin
gave a wide, suddenly genuine grin. “Or ours, of course.”

Buntline said nothing for some moments as he digested what he’d been told. He glanced with apparent uninterest about the room. The KGB major was clearly still trying to impress the young American woman with his suave Russian wit, but every now and then his eyes would stray towards Buntline and his companion.

Buntline cleared his throat. “When is all this to take place?”

“I’ll be in touch. Soon, I think. The pilot has been planning it for years—now it’s simply a question of his test program…. By the way, I must insist you bring as few people into this as possible. An absolute maximum of three, in fact. I must insist.”

“Three …?”

“That is so. Any more, and the whole operation may be compromised. You know the terrible reputation your people have. Soviet bugs in every room. Israeli spies camping in the chandeliers….” His eyes hardened. “I won’t risk the pilot’s neck, and I won’t risk mine either. You understand that, Charles? I protect myself. At any cost, I protect myself.”

Buntline nodded. Stolybin first, the pilot very much second. “Who is this pilot?”

“I know him personally.”

“Good.” So the man’s name was being kept for later. “Do you also know why he intends to do this?”

“Revenge.”

*   *   *

“Revenge, Mr. Buntline?”

“That’s what he said, Minister.”

“Do you believe him?”

“Not revenge against Mother Russia, sir. Not even against the Soviet system. It’s the hard-liners in the military he can’t forgive—they gave his father a rough time, I gather—and it’s them he’ll be able to hurt if he comes over. First-hand information about how perestroika is being betrayed by some of their own generals.”

“Generals are like that, Buntline. It never does any harm to shake them up.” The minister considered. “We’d have to give ‘em their plane back, of course.”

“Paperwork, Minister. Bound to take long enough for our technical people to … look it over.”

“There is that.”

“According to Stolybin the thing’s pretty innovative.”

“He’d have to say that.”

It was a week later, and Charles Buntline was back in London. He had gone to the one man he felt he could trust, his former boss in the foreign service, who was now a cabinet minister.

“Sergei’s been very clever. If we take him up on it and it’s all a big con, we lose very little. But if it’s genuine, and we turn him down, then—”

The minister nodded. “So the fact is, whether
we believe him or not, we might as well act as if we do.”

“Exactly. If the Krivak is what he says it is, then it’s the only fully operational aircraft in squadron service anywhere in the world with fly-by-light controls.” Buntline noted the minister’s incomprehension and elaborated. “They’re a system of optical fibers that, unlike more conventional fly-by-wire systems, are immune to the effects of the sort of electromagnetic pulses that accompany a nuclear blast. Fly-by-wire systems are of course far more efficient than earlier, purely mechanical linkages, but they employ computer-interpreted electrical impulses to move the controls, which make them very vulnerable to local electromagnetic disturbances….”

The minister glanced ostentatiously at his watch, but Buntline in full technical flow was unstoppable. “Many top combat aircraft of the West are now fly-by-wire, and for a long time we believed that the MiG-29 owed its astonishing agility to a fly-by-wire system. When we discovered that this is not so it was thought in some quarters to be due to a lack of technical ability. I happen to believe that the retention of manual controls was a deliberate policy. Like fly-by-light, they are of course EMP proof, and therefore able to operate in the vicinity of nuclear explosions. And now, possibly, the Soviets have made the jump directly to fly-by-light. We’re working on FBL, but we’re nowhere near operational status.
If the Krivak has it, then they’ve made an astonishing breakthrough.”

As Buntline stopped speaking the minister gathered his wandering attention. “Very well, Charles. What concrete measures do you have in mind?”

“That we should provide the escort, but not from aircraft from an RAF squadron. We should approach the special new NATO unit being created up in Scotland.”

“Ah. The November Project.”

“Exactly, sir.”

“You do know, of course, that an awful lot of people would like to see that particular venture stillborn. An indulgence, they insist… waste of taxpayers’ money, so forth. Do you think we should attach ourselves to it? Would that be wise?”

Buntline looked sly. “If they make a mess of it, they will have blotted their copybook, perhaps terminally. If on the other hand they perform well, the credit will be yours. You will have pulled off quite a coup.” He thought of what Stolybin had said to him in Washington. “And so will I.”

The minister looked thoughtful, but in fact he had already come to a decision. “We need a liaison man. Someone who can handle that firebrand who’s responsible for the November Project. What’s his name?”

“Jason. Wing Commander Jason.”

“Ah yes. Jason. He’s giving a lot of people sleep
less nights; and I’m not talking about the local crofters. He’s a spender, and he doesn’t take no for an answer. Personally I wouldn’t trust him an inch. I expect you’ve got someone in mind for the job?”

“I’m thinking of someone who would be perfect.” Buntline was looking pleased with himself. “Air Vice-Marshal Robert Thurson. He’ll be able to crack the whip when necessary.”

“Thurson. Yes, of course. Jason’s a sort of protegé of his. Good choice, Charles. I like the idea of Thurson.”

“Thank you, Minister. Does that mean we go for it?”

The minister nodded slowly, eyes fixed upon Buntline. “It does indeed. Are you quite sure you can trust Stolybin?”

“One can never be sure of anything in a case like this. That could have fatal consequences. But I’ve worked him for some time now. He’s given us some good info….”

“When it pleased him.”

“He could be telling the truth on this one. If, as he claims, he does know the pilot, his reasons could be quite personal. This glasnost thing has got everyone on the hop over there. Normal analysis no longer applies.”

“Got us on the hop too. As long as we don’t let our guard down.”

“Which is exactly how Jason thinks,” Buntline
said. “So you see, Minister, his November unit is just right for the job.”

The minister’s eyes were speculative. “It would be a damned spectacular prize. A secret combat aircraft from the other side, dropped into our laps. Yes, Charles. Go for it.”

Whitehall, London, that same week.

Air Vice-Marshal Thurson was ushered into the large, richly-furnished office by a middle-aged woman in a severe suit. She closed the door quietly behind him.

“Glad you could make it, Air Vice-Marshal,” the minister said, rising to his feet and coming round his polished desk to show Thurson to a deep leather armchair. He took a seat opposite. On a small table between them, tea for two was laid out. “Will you join me in a spot of tea?”

There was another man in the room, in a dark city suit. He was not introduced. Thurson was himself in civilian clothes. The city suit was Buntline.

“Yes, thank you, Minister,” Thurson said as the minister began to pour.

“We have a proposition,” the minister said. “Sugar?”

“No, thank you. I’ll only have the milk.”

“Very well.” The minister handed the fine bone china cup over. “This gentleman will explain the proposition to you.” He settled back as Buntline came over.

Buntline did not sit down. “At some time in the near future,” he began, “a Soviet pilot will defect with a new, pre-production fighter aircraft which is far in advance of anything currently in service with their squadrons. The defection route, via the North Cape, is already set. We shall be needing a defensive escort for him. The aircraft is a single-seater, and is believed to have fly-by-light technology. We also believe, though this is not fully confirmed, that it possesses some Stealthy properties.”

Buntline paused for effect. “The escort will not be made up of aircraft from a standard Royal Air Force squadron. It will be made up of aircraft and crews from the November unit that both you and Wing Commander Jason have fought so hard for.”

The minister chose that moment to join in. “Good opportunity to test its feasibility, don’t you think, Air Vice-Marshal?”

Thurson stared at each of them in turn. “With respect, Minister, I …”

“I do hope you’re not going to turn me down,” the minister interrupted. The veiled threat was laid neatly behind the words.

“I was about to say, Minister,” Thurson began firmly, “that we’re a long way from having crews capable of undertaking such a risky venture.”

“Risk is part of a figher crew’s life.”

“Again, I must correct you, Minister. Wing Commander Jason does not train risk-taking crews.
That would make them far more dangerous to each other than to the enemy.”

“If you keep to schedule,” Buntline put in smoothly, “you should be fully operational by the time we’re ready. We expect the best crews to be put forward for this mission. We cannot afford any mistakes. If things should go wrong, they must be able to take care of themselves. Naturally, we expect nothing to go wrong.”

Thurson said: “You’re telling me these crews may actually have to shoot their way out? I want to make quite certain that’s what you’re really saying.”

“What’s the value of a fighter crew that can’t shoot?”

Thurson’s eyes hardened as he looked at Buntline, then he turned to the minister. “I must consult with Wing Commander Jason, sir. He—”

“Have things changed so much within the RAF?” the minister wondered. “I was not aware that Wing Commanders could give orders to Air Vice-Marshals.”

Buntline shot his cuffs. “Well, Air Vice-Marshal?”

Thurson could be seen controlling himself. He turned back to Buntline, but the minister stepped in quickly.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” he said pacifyingly. “We are all on the same side. You are to say nothing to the Wing Commander,” he went on to Thurson,
“until you receive specific authority to do so. Let him continue as normal.”

“In short, Minister, keep him in the dark as long as possible.”

“I see you understand the situation perfectly.”

“And the crews eventually selected for the mission? Are they to be kept in the dark too?”

“They’ll already have quite enough to worry about. I’m told a modern fighter crew has an immense workload. Let’s not burden them any more than we have to, shall we?” The minister smiled. “After all,” he went on, “there is much in this for your Wing Commander. There are some very powerful forces ranged against him, who would like to see him fail, and the project halted. I would think he would grab this opportunity to show the merit of his plans. He would be proving a very valuable point.

“After all, I believe he is of the opinion that we should not succumb too readily to the current blandishments from the East. In some quarters, he is seen as a warmonger.”

Thurson said stiffly: “Wing Commander Jason is no warmonger. That is a scurrilous …”

“I did not say it, Robert,” the minister interrupted mildly, becoming unexpectedly informal. “I happen to agree with your man.”

“He is still no warmonger,” Thurson repeated.

“Precisely. I’m on his side.” He clapped his hands together and rubbed them warmly. “I want the November Project to succeed.”

*   *   *

Jason lifted the Super Tornado off the main runway within 300 meters of ground roll and at 130 knots, raising the gear as he did so. With the wheels nicely tucked in and afterburners roaring, he reefed the aircraft into a vertical climb. In the seat behind him his navigator. Squadron Leader Armiger, blew out his cheeks to clear his popping ears.

The Tornado hurled itself skywards, spread wings automatically moving to full sweep as the speed built. On the HUD, the digital airspeed display blurred in a swirl of numbers. At 30,000 feet, barely thirty seconds had passed. The numbers had begun to slow down as he eased the throttles back to full military power, canceling afterburners. Behind them the tiny fishing village a few miles down the road from the base was a thumbnail-sized blur of gray slate roofs. The Tornado still flung itself towards the roof of the sky, the thinner air allowing it to maintain its phenomenal rate of climb, even with the burners out.

At 60,000 feet, Jason eased out of the climb and brought the aircraft level. The wings began to spread. He throttled further back and speed decayed to 400 knots and at that velocity, the Super Tornado headed out towards the coast of Norway.

Behind Jason’s aircraft, was another Tornado F.3S from November One, crewed by Flight Lieutenants Tingey and Morgan, pilot and navigator respectively, which was keeping station with him at ten
miles separation and 5,000 feet below. Exactly one minute and thirty seconds had passed since take-off.