Trophy (20 page)

Without Stolybin, there would be no tanker, and no NATO escort. Not, of course, that the KGB man could help him get to the rendezvous alive. Not an easy matter, even with the Krivak prototype. If pursuit were mounted, he would have to deal with it while having nothing with which to defend himself. The Krivak was not yet cleared for live firings. That was another part of the test program, to be carried out in September at a different location. In the meantime, the aircraft carried only inert weapons and simulated firing equipment.

Kukarev looked at Zitkin, stifling his distaste. “I’ll do what I can,” he said, turning to watch an Antonov
An-12 transport trundling toward the take-off point. He kept his eyes firmly upon it, until Zitkin got the message and left.

The An-12, a high-winged four-engined turboprop, rumbled on, but Kukarev was not really interested in it. He turned to walk on, and saw someone just passing Zitkin and approaching. Kukarev immediately felt better as he recognized Sergeant Yuri Tikov. They had both been in Afghanistan together where Tikov, a nerveless Ukrainian, had serviced his Su-25 under fire from the hills. Tikov was such a good crew chief, Kukarev had managed to have him posted to almost every unit in which he’d subsequently served as a pilot.

Tikov was his one regret. He would not be able to say goodbye to him. Tikov would not understand. For though the sergeant heartily despised the Zitkins of the world, and had a healthy dose of Ukrainian nationalism within him, it would never stretch to understanding a flight West. Mercifully, the sergeant would be going to the new location some days before the detachment ended.

There would be no awkward goodbyes, Kukarev thought. No inadvertent betrayal of what he planned to do when he climbed into the cockpit on that last flight.

The An-12 took off with a relative whisper of its turboprops as Tikov saluted and reminded him he had a cockpit check to do within the hour.

The end of May saw cars of a large variety of
makes and sizes turning up at the gates of November One, on Scotland’s Grampian coast.

Hohendorf, in civilian clothes, pulled up by the guardroom, his Porsche packed with his gear. He had been able to take most of what he needed for the time being. As he was now virtually single, he’d be living in the Mess.

He climbed out of the car, and looked beyond the guard barrier to where two World War II Mosquito fighter bombers, acting as gate guardians, were parked nose-on, on either side of the access road.

“They’re the real thing, sir,” the airman at the reception hatch said to him. “Not those plastic replicas some of the other stations are having.” He clearly disapproved of economy drives and plastic replicas. “They used to be based here during the war.”

“Those very two?”

“Yes, sir. Anti-shipping strikes in Bergen fjord was their game.”

How strange life is,
Hohendorf thought.
One of them may well have killed my grandfather.
The commodore’s destroyer had been sunk in Bergen fjord.

“May I have your name, please, sir?” the airman was saying.

“Oh. Yes, of course. Hohendorf.”

The airman consulted a clipboard. “Hohendorf… Hohendorf…” he murmured as he checked his list. “Yes, sir. Here we are … Kapitän Leutnant Wietze-Hohendorf.” He said it correctly. “Sign here please, sir, for your pass. And if I could see some identification …”

Hohendorf produced his Marineflieger ID. signed and was handed his pass, complete with photograph and other relevant details. The Porsche’s license number was also recorded by the airman.

“Right, sir,” the airman went on. “Here’s your information pack. It gives you all details of the unit as it relates to you. There are directions to the Officers’ Mess. If you’ll Warn In before doing anything else, sir.”

Hohendorf took the sealed, substantial folder. “Thank you,” he said.

“Thank
you.
sir. I hope you’ll enjoy it here with us.”

“I’m sure I will.”

As he spoke, Hohendorf heard a fierce roaring
sound, increasing in volume as it approached. He looked up. Two sleek fighter aircraft passed overhead, wings at mid-sweep. Their Tornado parentage was obvious, but they looked meaner and much deadlier.

As he continued to look, the Super Tornadoes swept their wings fully. The burners came on in a quadruple thunder and the aircraft rocketed upwards in a steep climb. Hohendorf stared in awe as they hurtled vertically, their tails flaming. He kept his eye on them until they had disappeared into the blue of the summer sky. The whole thing had taken fleeting moments. He could barely wait to get his hands on one of those ships.

He looked at the airman. “I shall enjoy it very much.”

The airman smiled. “Thought you would, sir. That’s what all the gentlemen say.”

“Have many arrived?”

“Quite a few, sir. And there’s more to come. The Mess will be fuller than some I’ve known.”

“Well … thank you again.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Hohendorf got back into the Porsche and drove slowly towards the barrier. He showed his pass, and was allowed through. A sign said: STATION LIMIT 20 MPH.

Hohendorf smiled to himself as he followed directions on the map from the info pack. The real station limit was more like Mach 2.5-—at the very least.

The place had the sparkle of its newness. Even the utility vehicles gleamed. He pulled up in the Mess car park and went to Warn In at Reception. After he’d been allocated his quarters, he unloaded his gear and began to settle in.

Then he went in search of Flacht, whom the receptionist had said had arrived a day previously.

The roar of an aircraft taking off penetrated even the thick walls of the Mess. Hohendorf smiled again, deeply excited by the prospect of climbing into the front seat of one of this new breed of Tornado.

Selby had come to November One two hours before, and had taken the earliest opportunity to inspect the new aircraft. Apart from the more obvious changes, he had studied with interest the new tailerons. They were larger in area, and had been moved slightly aft. They also had dogtooth leading edges, rather like the F-15 Eagle’s, though the overall Tornado design had been retained.

The station itself, he’d found, while having the familiarity of an RAF establishment, was subtly different. Most apparent, was the flagpole at Station Headquarters. Where normally a solitary RAF ensign would have been flown, two emblems now flew, with the blue of the NATO flag occupying the top position. The uniforms worn by the various people on the unit were those of their respective nationalities, but all wore the NATO shoulder patch in the shape
of a shield on the left, with another shield of the national flag, on the right.

The Mess building, he’d noted, had followed the standard RAF design; but again, there were differences. Perhaps it was the newness of the three-storeyed structure.

He walked along a carpeted corridor on the ground floor, heading for the anteroom. His footsteps slowed as he recognised someone coming towards him. He stopped by one of the doors.

Hohendorf came up to him. “So … we are to be here together. But you do not look as surprised as I am.” Hohendorf held out a hand.

Selby shook it, “I met up with your back-seater an hour ago …”

“Ah … Wolfgang.”

“Yes. He told me you were expected.”

“Do you know where he is now?”

“Looking at one of the new aircraft.”

Hohendorf smiled. “It should please him. I saw a pair demonstrating a remarkable climb.”

“The Wing Commander was in one of them. All the crews will be getting an official welcome from him later today.”

“And you … you have seen the ships?”

“Oh yes.”

“And?”

“Beautiful.”

Hohendorf nodded. “I think so too. I am anxious to fly one.”

“We’ll be getting the chance soon, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“Any other Red Flag people here?”

“McCann’s with us,” Selby replied, “and Ferris, but not Urquhart… which is a shame. He’s a very good pilot. But perhaps they’ll send him through later. He works well with Ferris. There’s a small Italian contingent. I’ve met one of them, Nico Bagni, not much to look at, but by all accounts, he’s quite fiendish in the air. Nailed an Eagle not so long ago. In a one-oh-four, would you believe.”

“A Starfighter.” Hohendorf grinned. “We shall have to look to our laurels.”

“Possibly.”

They were still fencing with each other, still wondering about the other’s mettle. Their eyes held each other’s for a brief speculative moment, probing.

Selby said: “Care for a coffee? I was just about to have one in the anteroom.”

“I should find Wolfgang, but he can wait. Yes, thank you. I will have one.”

As they entered, another Super Tornado roared into the Grampian sky.

“Did Bagni himself tell you about the Eagle?” Hohendorf asked.

“Oh no. Strikes me as the slightly shy type. He’d never raise the subject. Usual grapevine stuff. One of their ground crew talked to a couple of RAG bods and it filtered through. They call him E1 Greco.’”

“An artist. We really shall have to watch him.”

Selby poured the coffees, then raised his cup. “Cheers. Here’s to whatever this is going to be.”

Hohendorf raised his own cup. They were challenging, as well as toasting each other.

McCann breezed into the anteroom a few minutes later.

“Well hi, guy!” he greeted Hohendorf, genuinely pleased. He grabbed Hohendorfs hand, shook it briskly.

“Hello yourself,” Hohendorf said, amused.

“First some of that coffee.” McCann went to pour himself a cup, returned to join them. “So the Red Flag gang’s been sent up here. I guess somebody somewhere wanted to see how we’d shape up first. I’ve seen Wolfie, and old Bondi Ferris. I’ve recognised a few other Red Flaggers too. One of the French guys, and a bunch from Stateside. France is not strictly in NATO, but what the hell. They’re part of the Alliance. And where are your other guys, Axel?”

“Johann and Willi will not be coming.”

“Shame. I liked Johann.”

“Are there many Americans?”

“A whole crowd. There’s a couple of Navy guys rolling around in shades making like they’re Hollywood stars, and even a pair of shaven-headed gyrenes, for Christsakes.”

Selby said: “Elmer Lee has a phobia about US Marines.”

“As long as they keep out of my way, is all.”

Hohendorf said soothingly: “We’re all on the same side.”

McCann snorted. “A Marine’s on only one side … his own. Wait till we start ACM, eh Mark?” he continued, meaning air combat maneuvering. “We’ll nail those guys.”

“That we shall,” Selby agreed, pacifying his back-seater.

But McCann had pushed the unwelcome Marines to the back of his mind. “Seen the birds?” he asked Hohendorf. “They’re something special.”

“I saw two of them doing a very impressive climb when I arrived, but not close to.”

“Wolfie’s out on the flight line having a good look at one. You’ll be even more impressed when you get into the front seat. Boy … I’ve been waiting for a ship like this all my life.” McCann gave Selby a warning scowl. “Just don’t bend it when I’m with you.”

Selby gave a tight smile. “I’ll try to remember, Elmer Lee.”

About an hour after Hohendorf had arrived, Richard Palmer pulled his laden Vauxhall Cavalier estate to the side of the B-class coastal road that led to November One. He had come from the direction of Portsoy, and beyond the road on a bluff to seaward were the remains of an ancient castle. It seemed to be almost directly under the flight path and he made a mental
note of it. It was a good reference point. A path near a stream led to it.

He got out of the car, and looked up. A pair of Super Tornadoes had streaked over, going low out to sea. He recognized them by their differences. Now their burners came on together and reefing onto their tails, they tore upwards with a knife-edged sound of thunder. Palmer knew he would come to recognize that distinctive roar anywhere.

As he watched them leap into the blue, he felt a heartbeat of excitement. A mix of emotions were coursing through him. It was like the first day at school, at university, at flying training. The questions were always the same. Would he be able to hack it? What were the others like? And as usual, the greatest of fears was that of failure.

As he watched the aircraft turn into specks then disappear, he felt a burst of pride too. He had been selected to fly one of these things. Many had not. It was something to hold on to. He climbed back into the car and continued on his way, following the winding road that eventually took him to the main gate.

Once past the guard there, Palmer unpacked in his allocated room in the Mess. He put his various items away with studied calm. The room was extremely spacious and comfortable, with a bathroom en suite. While it was undoubtedly of RAF Mess pattern, there was a continental feel to its decoration and furnishings.

When he had finished, he went downstairs to have a look around. He wandered into the billiards room. Two men in flying overalls were having a game. He was astonished to recognize one of them.

They paused in their game to look at him.

“Welcome, Sparrowhawk,” the taller of the two said with a smile. “So you made it.”

His old instructor from his Hawk days, Squadron Leader Tom Wells.

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t look so surprised, lad. I’ve come to make sure you don’t bend one of those shiny new airplanes.”

“Yes, sir.” Palmer wasn’t sure whether the prospect of being put through the training wringer a second time was something to look forward to, but it was nice to see a familiar face.

“Settling in OK?”

“Yes, thank you. The accommodation is rather generous.”

“Shows what can be done when we all put our heads together. This is Mick Thirsk. He’s a back-seater instructor. I’m about to thrash him.”

Palmer nodded at Thirsk, also a Squadron Leader. “Sir.”

Thirsk smiled at him. “I’ve heard good things about you, Richard. I’ll see if we can get a decent back-seater to hold your hand. Seen the aircraft yet?”

“Only in the air, sir. They look quite fantastic.”