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The older men glanced at each other knowingly.

Wells said: “They are fantastic, and very, very fast. Highly responsive too. You’ll have to think far ahead of that airplane. Think of the Hawk as a nippy Ferrari sports car. The ASV is a full-blown racing machine with almost limitless power on tap, even more agile, seemingly ready to come back at you before you’ve moved. But once you’ve become one with it, it’s no more frightening than the Hawk. It will take you to regions of your skills you never thought possible. I’m here to make sure it does. You won’t be letting me down, will vou, lad?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. Got all your general bumpf about the Mess and the unit?”

Palmer nodded.

“Good.” Wells said again. “Now off you go and have a look at your shiny new toy while I complete the slaughter of this poor unfortunate. And don’t forget the Wing Commander’s seeing all students in the main briefing hall.”

“I’ve got it in the info.”

“All right, lad.” Wells smiled at him. “Glad to have you with us.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Palmer left them to their game.

Hohendorf, who had changed into uniform, finally caught up with Flacht by one of the aircraft shelters.
An ASV had just landed, and was being pushed backwards into the shelter by an aircraft towing tractor, with the crew still aboard, to allow the inertial navigation system to recognize its original starting point.

They shook hands in greeting then stood to watch as the aircraft systems were shut down.

“Oh ja, “
Hohendorf said.
“Sehr schoen. “

Flacht said: “I’m glad I came. I’ve sat in the back pocket of one of those on the line. A dream. You’ll like your office.”

Hohendorf was staring at the aircraft with something akin to love. “I’m sure I will.”

The Super Tornado was now silent and the crew were climbing out. About the aircraft, the technicians were already busy with its servicing. The pilot came towards them. A Wing Commander. He glanced at their name tags.

“Welcome, gentlemen,” he said. “Can’t wait to try one?”

“No, sir,” Hohendorf answered.

“That’s the spirit.” The Wing Commander studied them with probing eyes, then held out his hand. “I’m Jason and for my sins, mainly responsible for most of this; so if any of you cock up, it’s my neck.”

“We’ll take good care of your neck, sir,” Hohendorf said.

“I like your thinking. Hohendorf and Flacht. Heard about what you did at Red Flag. Good stuff. Selby’s here too.”

“I’ve seen him.”

“Good man, Selby. Good pilot. With Bagni, you three are my star pilots. Glad we could get you all.” Jason grinned. “Surprised? You shouldn’t be. I’ve studied everyone’s files over the past months. Believe me, there are no passengers here.” He glanced up at the clear sky. “I’ll leave you to continue your tour. Nice day for it.”

“I’d like to try an office,” Hohendorf said.

“Check with the Chiefy. If the lads are not going into the cockpit, be my guest.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Jason went on his way while Hohendorf approached the senior non-commissioned officer in charge.

“May I have a look at the cockpit, if you’re not working in there as yet?”

“Of course, sir,” the Chiefy said. “We won’t be going in for a little while yet.”

“Thank you.”

Hohendorf climbed up the ladder and eased himself into the front cockpit. It was noticeably roomier than the already quite spacious IDS version. He recognised much of the instrumentation and was pleased there had not been change for change’s sake. The newer displays he approved of, though for the moment they were switched off. He laid his hand gently upon the controls for feel, acquainting himself with the positions of the various switches and buttons on the throttles and central stick, to judge
them for ease of swift operation. They fell nicely to hand. Someone had done his homework well.

His hands reached about him, fingers expertly identifying familiar switches and controls. The rapid take-off panel had been left in its usual place near the base of the control stick. The central warning panel, with its fifty-eight rectangular warning lights, was where he expected to find it, in the lower right hand corner of the main instrument panel. Even the switch for the raising and lowering of his seat was still tucked away on the far right of the right hand side console. In the rear cockpit, if the normal layout pattern had been followed, the navigator’s seat control would have been replaced by the command ejection selection lever, with the seat switch repositioned slightly to the rear on the lamps test Da nel.

Hohendorf continued to familiarise himself with the enhanced cockpit, liking especially the wide-angle holographic HUD.

Flacht had come up the ladder, and was peering in. “Well?” he began. “Do you like it?”

“Wolfgang,” Hohendorf told him, “this is the airplane I’ve wanted for a long time. If it goes as well as it looks, I shall be a very happy man indeed. And to judge by the way I saw this one perform earlier. I think my prayers have been answered. And you? How is your seat?”

Flacht looked very happy. “I was in one down
the line and I stayed in so long, they had to throw me out …”

“We’re ready now, sir!” someone called from below.

“And,” Flacht continued, “it seems it’s your turn for the boot now.”

Hohendorf nodded, reluctant to leave. “You’re right. We’d better get out of their way.”

Flacht went back down the ladder while Hohendorf climbed out and followed him. The Chief Technician was waiting for them, a look of benign tolerance on his face.

“Well, gentlemen? Do you like what you’ve seen?”

“We like it very much, Chiefy,” Hohendorf replied. “Very much,” he repeated. “Thank you.”

“We’re here to please, sir. You fly ‘em, we keep them healthy.”

“I am sure you do.” He extended his hand to the Chief.

After a brief hesitation, the Chief shook it, then saluted. “Thank you, sir.”

Hohendorf returned the salute and followed by Flacht, left the shelter.

The Chief watched them depart. A corporal had come up to stand by him.

“Keen lot,” the corporal remarked.

“Good bloke, that,” the Chiefy said. Like all astute senior NCOs, his short comment spoke more volumes
than any number of glowing reports in a confidential file.

A Tornado streaked low on full burner.

The corporal glanced at it. “Noisy sod,” he said.

By early evening, all the expected crews had arrived and they filed into the main briefing hall, to be officially greeted by Jason. They watched as he stood on the dais, flanked by a seated, senior German and Italian officer.

“Welcome, gentlemen,” he began, “to Scotland, and to November One …”

When it was all over, Selby took McCann to one side. “That was your voice, wasn’t it, Elmer Lee? Someone’s little joke with the Wingco about welcoming the increased power of the new ships. Someone said: ‘We do, we do.’ I thought it sounded rather like your dulcet tones.”

“Yeah. That was me.”

“A word of advice, old son. Never, never interrupt a British Wing Commander in mid-flow; even one who’s a fighter jock. Bad for the health.”

“He seems an OK guy.”

“So does a tiger. Magnificent beast; but you wouldn’t put your head in his mouth.”

McCann grinned. “That’s one way of looking at it.”

Three weeks later, Air Vice-Marshal Thurson
flew his Tornado F.3 to November One in the late morning, on one of his unannounced visits.

“Well, Chris?” he began, entering Jason’s office in flying overalls. “How goes it?”

It was the first knowledge Jason had of his arrival, having spent the better part of the morning in the air combat simulator section. He stood up quickly at Thurson’s entry.

“It goes rather well, sir,” he replied. “Conversion’s progressing smoothly. Both actual flying and simulator work’s at full chat.”

“I can certainly vouch for the flying. My word. I had to wait for a landing slot. Who would have thought it, eh? A few months ago we were standing on a deserted airfield. Today, it’s a regular Heathrow. Well done.”

“Thank you, sir.
Can
I
get you some coffee?”

“Actually tea, Chris, if you can wangle it.”

“Tea it is. Please have a seat, sir.”

“Thank you.”

Jason pressed the intercom button on his desk as the Air Vice-Marshal sat down. “Sergeant Graham.”

“Sir?” came a female voice.

“Rustle up some tea for the Air Vice-Marshal, will you, please?”

“Yes, sir.”

As he cut transmission, he said to Thurson, “She should have warned me.”

“I asked her not to. No need. And no need to stand on ceremony. Do sit down. She seemed a nice young girl. Loyal too. She definitely did not approve of my barging in on you like this, and showed it. I fancy my rank does not send her into fits of awe.”

“If she was insubordinate—”

“Absolutely not. She has spirit. Leave her be. I’m certain she knows her limits. She probably thinks I’m checking up on you.”

Jason let the matter rest. “And how are things in Whitehall?”

“We’re still in good shape, but it’s early days. Our detractors, if not in retreat, are keeping their heads down and waiting to fight another day. There’s no talk at the moment of excessive defense spending. Their case is made rather more difficult by the fact that the treasuries of other nations are also involved.
However …” The AVM’s voice grew serious. “… any accidents, should they occur … will bring the wolves howling for blood.”

“We’re minimising the chances by putting in plenty of simulator work, both in the air combat and full-mission roles. The procedural sims are in full swing.”

There was a discreet knock on the door.

“Come in, Sergeant,” Jason called.

Small and very pretty with short, gleaming black hair, she came in with a full tray which she placed on a low table next to Thurson.

“I’ve made you some coffee, sir,” she said to Jason.

He smiled at her. “Thank you.”

“And thank you, Sergeant,” Thurson said.

“Sir. Shall I pour?”

“No. That’s quite all right. Let it stew for a bit.”

She placed Jason’s mug, which had a transfer of the NATO emblem on it, on the desk, and went out.

Thurson said: “Have any rising stars begun to show as yet?”

Jason nodded. “At first, there were the three pilots I expected: Hohendorf, Selby, and Bagni. Then the performance of one of the youngest, straight from the Hawk school with no Tornado experience, caught my eye. His name’s Palmer. He’s good, and will be better with time. For the navs, Ferris, Flacht, and McCann. Now there’s a character.” Jason
chuckled. “If I were a policeman, I’d say he had a record as long as your arm.”

Thurson began to pour his tea. “What nationality?”

“American.”

“Oh well,” Thurson commented, as if that explained everything. “Good, is he?”

“Brilliant, and absolutely aggressive when he’s after a target. He’s a failed pilot. I believe the Americans are glad to have him out of their hair.”

“Hm. Keep an eye on him, just in case.”

“I’m already doing so. Bit of a rebel, but gold in the back seat.”

“Who’s his best pilot?”

“There are two he seems most compatible with. Selby, who is a first-class fighter jock, and oddly enough, Palmer, our novice. They achieve good results. I think he respects Selby, and sees Palmer as a sort of younger brother. We shift them around to get the best possible mix. Hohendorf and Flacht are like cement. Selby works well either with McCann, or Ferris. Ferris is also good with Bagni, and Palmer. I think the primary crewings should be Selby-McCann, Hohendorf-Flacht, Ferris-Palmer. Ferris is more stable. Just right for Palmer.”

“What about Bagni?”

“There’s a nav from Italian Tornadoes, Tenente Spacio, who’s converting very quickly and who’ll make a good intercept man; but for some reason, his results with Bagni are less than perfect. I’ve
teamed him with a US marine, and they seem to be getting on famously. Bagni and the second marine, who happens to be a back-seater formerly on Phantoms, are working rather well together. There’s a moral there somewhere. The marine’s called James Henry Stockman III, and is a captain. Father owns a Ferrari dealership on the West Coast. Perhaps that’s it, even though Bagni owns some souped-up Fiat.

“There’s an odd thing, however,” Jason continued. “Hohendorf and Selby.”

Thurson’s eyes were alert. “What about them?”

“Nothing to cause worry … yet. They were on that Red Flag deployment together …”

“I saw the reports. They performed excellently.”

Jason nodded. “Yes. Their results were very good indeed.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“There’s … an atmosphere between them. Oh they’re civil to each other … no breach of conduct or anything so obvious; but there is something, an undercurrent that I cannot quite put my finger on.”

“Does it affect the performance of their duties?”

“Absolutely not. Red Flag proved they cannot be faulted professionall’.”

“Then I believe you have no cause for anxiety. From what you’ve told me, we’re dealing with two exceptionally skilled men serving in the same unit.
A competitive spirit between them is inevitable, perhaps to be welcomed. They’re both good material. I’ve heard that Hohendorf would not have had any great difficulty in getting his own command back home in the near future, had we not deprived the Marineflieger of his services. Let’s make good use of his talents.” Thurson finished his tea. “And now, for some slightly irritating news which I thought
I
‘d leave till the end.”

“Ah,” Jason said warily.

The Air Vice-Marshal gave his thinnest smile. “A few letters have reached me, about low-flying. Not a deluge … not even a trickle; but I felt you ought to know. It’s not a problem. We’re still in the honeymoon period, and are likely to remain there … provided no one disfigures himself and his aircraft on a mountain.”

“We’ll keep an eye on stray mountains.”

Thurson looked at him speculatively. “Yes. Good. One other item.”

Jason waited, knowing this would be more “irritating” news.