Trophy (14 page)

As he settled down and checked his systems within the remarkable quiet of the cockpit, Jason again felt the elation that had come to him the very first time he had flown the new aircraft. It had come to the airfield in late April, the first of the complement that would eventually make up the Operational Conversion Unit, and had exceeded all his hopes and expectations. Now in May, with test pilots Tingey and Morgan on temporary secondment, the aircraft for the first operational squadron were already arriving. So far, everything was working out as planned, and for the moment the Air Vice-Marshal appeared to be doing a good job keeping potential wreckers at bay.

The Operational Evaluation Unit was up to strength and the station that was itself November One had received nearly all its requirement of ground personnel. Jacko Inglis was already in place as Station Commander, or Base Commander, as he would be officially called, November One being in real terms a NATO base rather than a straight RAF station. This was a slight departure from normal practice where all stations, irrespective of the nationality of the forces housed within it, remained an RAF unit. However, the Base Commander would always be RAF. When other such bases became operational in Alliance countries, their commanders would be a national of that country.

Jason knew everything depended upon his being able to make the project viable, and quickly. So far, luck appeared to be remaining with him, and the vagaries of politics seemed to be leaving him to get on with it.

The day’s mission called for a high and low-level intercept off the Norwegian coast. Playing the Aggressor role would be an unspecified number of USAF F-15 Eagles, and Norwegian air force F-16 Falcons. Their attack plan was unknown. It would be up to Jason and his wingman to detect and “destroy” the hostile aircraft without aid from a ground controller. It was to be an autonomous intercept.

From the cockpit, which seemed even roomier than the already roomy office of the standard Tornado, Jason looked out of his aircraft. Certain familiar aspects of the other Tornado variants had been altered. The main body was slightly longer and sleeker than the standard F.3, and where previously the engine intake lips could be seen slightly to the rear on either side of the cockpit, they were now hidden beneath leading edge root extensions. The LERXes reached forwards, curving gently and narrowing until they eventually diminished to nothing as they ended just behind the nose radome. The position of the LERXes served to clear the housing panel for the retractable fuelling probe on the left side of the cockpit.

The intakes, Jason knew, had been slightly redesigned to enhance the airflow into the powerful
new engines, and to fit into position with the root extensions. The main computer, already increased in memory capacity from 64K to 128K for the standard F.3, was now a computer with 256K. Jason wanted 520K, but for the moment he was more than happy with the current power.

The cockpit also revealed many changes. Most of the analogue instruments had given way to three large, multi-function displays which could furnish him with a wealth of information, depending on what was called up by the selector buttons that surrounded them. For all that, he was pleased that some standard instrumentation had been retained, a sort of “get you home” kit if a systems malfunction or potential battle damage took out the displays. Like many pilots, he did not believe in 100 percent infallible systems.

In the back seat Miles Armiger, Squadron Leader and one of the navigation instructors at November One, was also pleased with his up-graded equipment. His radar, which could track and scan simultaneously, had a max range of 150 nautical miles. With the Super Tornado’s advanced weaponry and dogfighting ability, all this added up to a uniquely lethal long-range and close-range killer. Furthermore, Armiger knew he was being flown by the best pilot he’d ever ridden with. He was ready for those F-15s, wherever they were.

Jason, head encased in an advanced helmet that could project the HUD display on its visor as
well as possessing a point-lock-and-shoot capability, listened to his own breathing, keeping it slow and calm as his eyes searched the sky about him. His hands, on the throttles and stick, were ready to react instantly in response to whatever threat showed itself. Throughout the coming encounter, there would be no need for him to remove them: various switches and buttons on each control would enable him to conduct the fight while retaining full authority to maneuver the aircraft.

Jason continued his non-stop scanning: of the world outside, of his displays and instruments. At this height, visibility was limited only by the range of his vision. A good 30,000 feet below, wisps of cloud were made invisible by a thicker blanket several thousand feet beneath them.

The Eagles, Jason knew, would be coming up once the fight was on; but the F-16s would choose the medium and lower levels. The best course would be to take out the F-15s at long range, then deal with the F-16s. It all depended on how many Aggressors were playing today.

“Any trade for me?” he asked Armiger.

“Patience,” came the reply, “is a virtue.”

“Bloody navigators,” Jason muttered.

Armiger gave a tight grin in his mask, and studied his display for signs of incoming targets. He knew Jason was tense. Jason wanted a complete kill. After all his struggles to bring November One into being, it was now up to him to prove the effort had
been worthwhile. It was necessary to prove that the November One squadrons could do the job and take out potential adversaries as far away as the region of Norway’s North Cape, over a thousand miles from base.

Though the aircraft of a fully operational November One squadron would carry a warload on combat air patrol, for this training mission Jason’s Super Tornado and that of his wingman carried only inert missiles, a full complement of ten. Four were carried under-body, the high-speed advanced medium-range air-to-air missiles, a newer generation specially designed for fitment to the Super Tornado. Known as HAMRAAMs, they were named Skyray. The six short-range missiles carried beneath the slightly larger and longer wings were the HAS-RAMMs, and these were named Krait, after the deadly and venomous little snakes of the Indian subcontinent. Both missiles were lighter, smaller, and faster than their predecessors. The Skyray had a kill range of over 100 miles and while this was slightly less than the formidable American Phoenix carried by Tomcats, three Skyrays could be had for the purchase price of one Phoenix.

The Krait, replacing the AIM-9 Sidewinders normally carried by other Tornado variants, was for close-in missile engagements and could achieve a speed of Mach 3.5 in three seconds. Its range was up to twenty miles. For closer engagements still, the
Super Tornado had a six-barrel, variable-speed 20mm rotary cannon.

Both Skyray and Krait had nasty tricks up their sleeves. Their twin seekers allowed them to lock onto decoys while still being able to use the free seeker to continue target lock. They could also identify the intended target, predict its flight path, and even switch off and commit suicide if the target turned out not to have been hostile.

For the day’s mission, all the missile and gun firings would be simulated by the computers and the kill tone would sound in the target pilot’s helmet, should he allow himself to be caught out. Jason and his wingman would hear the same “death knell” should they be the ones who were caught.

“Still nothing?” he now asked of Armiger.

“What is it with you pilots?” Armiger countered. “I’m the one sitting back here, and I’ll tell you when.”

“Yes, boss,” Jason said drily and continued to search the sky.

Sometime later, they made a rendezvous with a Victor air tanker for a top-up of fuel and then resumed patrol while the tanker headed back.

They had passed Iceland long since, and were approaching northern Norway when Jason began to feel itchy. The hostiles were out there.

It should be soon, he felt. It would not do if the “invading” force had somehow escaped detection.

The two Super Tornadoes, in their air-superiority
grey colour scheme with the low-visibility NATO four-pointed star in its blue circle on their fins and forward fuselages, continued to hunt for their adversaries. Their call signs were Hunter Two-One and Hunter Two-Four respectively.

At November One, in the fighter control room, Flight Lieutenant Caroline Hamilton-Jones—recently arrived for secondment to the USAF at Brize Norton and still settling in at the November mess—stared at the huge wall screen that would map every stage of the coming battle. Computer-generated images of the pair of defending Super Tornadoes were on it. Plan or side view could be selected, and all information about the mission could be called up on various windows. As this was to be a fully autonomous flight, no instructions would come from control. Those in the room would simply watch and record.

The room was tense with expectation. Everyone’s attention seemed glued to the vast screen, and in every heart was the wish that the boss, Wing Commander Jason, would succeed.

Suddenly a collective sigh filled the control room. Creeping in from the lower right of the screen were the first images of the Aggressor force.

Caroline watched them avidly, her mind flying out to where the Tornadoes patroled. She had a dream she told no one: she wanted to be a fighter pilot. Within the RAF, of course, there was little
chance of that happening, so instead she selflessly devoted herself to the complex electronic world of the control room, and whenever possible imagined herself up there in one of the pilots’ seats, planning how she would conduct herself in the coming fight. She was a romantic at heart, and flying was her first love.

“Well, well, well,” Armiger murmured. “The boys have come out to play at last.”

“What have we got?” Jason asked.

Armiger, who to minimise broadcast of their presence had been using the radar intermittently, had still managed to get his targets on screen. The radar, remembering, continued to show not only the target positions when last detected, but also their predicted positions according to the obtained track. It would update and modify this information at the next sweep.

“We’ve got six bogeys,” Armiger replied. “Four F-16s. Two at 1000 feet, and two at 5000. Then we’ve got two F-15s at 15,000.”

The radar had annotated the targets A to F, holding each in track. From its memory, it had compared radar signatures and had correctly identified the aircraft, a readout coming on-screen briefly for each designated letter. It had also decided that targets A and B, the two F-15s, were priority.

Armiger studied his screen. Top left corner was the super Tornado’s speed of 475 knots. Top center
was the current heading at 045 degrees, and at top right, was their current height at 55,000 feet. Beneath the heading was target A’s bearing at 010 degrees which was constantly changing as track information showed it was moving from left to right.

“There’ll be more,” Jason was saying, searching the sky above.

Armiger did not contradict. Instead, he switched radar on for a quick upward sweep.

“Shit!” he said. “Two more bogeys. F-15s at 70,000. Bastards. That’s sneaky. I’m altering priority.” The two new targets, G and H, were earmarked for early attention.

“I knew there’d be more,” Jason said drily. With eight targets to deal with, at four different altitudes, it was going to be a hot fight. Surprise would improve the odds. “Let me have some of your picture on the HUD and pass the situation to Hunter Two-Four.”

Flight Lieutenants Roger Tingey and Phil Morgan—pilot and navigator respectively—were in the second ASV. Secure datalink communication between the aircraft ensured a swift transfer of information, free from eavesdropping. A burst of code, and within seconds, one of the screens in the rear cockpit of Hunter Two-Four displayed the same tactical situation as Armiger’s.

On Jason’s HUD, all the relevant details necessary for the intercept were now displayed.

“We’ll take the high boys in each group,” Jason added.

Armiger passed this on to Two-Four. No other instruction was necessary. Tingey would go after the medium-level Eagles, and the low-level Falcons.

As yet, there had been no warning tone in their helmets to indicate that the Eagles had scanned them.

In Fighter Control, Caroline Hamilton-Jones watched the encounter develop. The Tornado images, though clear on the huge screen, were not realtime replicants. Because of the use of composite materials in the ASV, its radar signature was substantially degraded. The computer had used a basic source to enhance the image, creating an accurate line drawing of the aircraft. Little trails came from each wingtip: a continuous one for the left tip, a dashed one for the right. As each aircraft manoeuvred, the trails would mark its passage, sometimes crossing as it rolled. It was a graphic display of how each pilot used his mount.

She heard a sudden flurry of movement and looked up to a low balcony at the far end of the room. Someone had come in and was standing next to the senior controller. She recognised the Air Vice-Marshal, Thurson, in flying overalls.

The controller had clearly been caught on the hop. She was herself taken unawares. No one had warned of Thurson’s impending visit.

After a brief chat with the controller, a Squadron Leader, Thurson made his way down from the balcony. She drew respectfully to attention as he approached.

He gestured quietly with one hand. “No need for that, Caroline.” He studied the screen.
“I
hear November’s up.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Think he’ll make it?”

She looked at the screen, seeing Hunter Two-One, Jason’s aircraft, do a ninety-degree turn and begin to climb.

“He’s gone into a zero-Doppler turn to blind the F-15s,” she said, “in case they’re trying to light him with their radar. He’ll make it.”

“You’re talking like a pilot,” Thurson remarked, mildly amused.

“I’m around pilots all the time, sir,” she said, with the ease of one who knew what she was talking about. “You pick things up.”

Thurson stared at the screen. “It’s an interesting move. Let’s see how it develops.”