Trophy (23 page)

“You’re being hard on yourself, Richard,” Selby said. “I’ve been told you’ve taken two other guys on and won each engagement. One was a fighter jock with operational experience. Can’t sniff at that.”

“Who said?”

“Tom Wells.”

“My old instructor on Hawks?”

“That’s right. One word of advice, though—watch the Gs. Learn your body’s limits. A zonked-out pilot’s no good to man nor beast.”

Palmer turned to the instructor, who nodded. “You came dangerously close, I’d say, on at least one occasion. Show’s you’re keen, but there is such a thing as being too keen … A good show, though, apart from that.”

He fingered Selby’s print-outs which the machine was now producing, and dismissed them. “No need to check you out, Flight Lieutenant.”

“You say such nice things, Mike. Book me in for a session tomorrow.”

“Anyone in particular you’d like to be matched against? Hohendorf, for instance?”

Selby thought about it. “Is he booked in?”

“Not yet, but I expect it can be arranged. Unless you’d like to try one with me.”

“I’ll take you on yet, Mike, but I’d like a two-crew session tomorrow if that can be arranged. Elmer Lee and me, versus any crew you fancy.”

“All right. I’ll see what I can do. What time?”

“First thing after breakfast.”

The instructor grinned. “No trouble getting the slot. Let’s hope there’s a crew just as keen to take the early shift.”

“I wouldn’t let the Wingco hear you say that. This is a 24-hour unit.”

“Really? I wish someone had told me. Now get out of here so I can teach these neophytes how to stay alive.”

Selby gave an exaggerated bow. “To hear is to obey.”

The Air Vice-Marshal had picked up his navigator from the Mess and together they were heading for their aircraft, accompanied by Jason and Group Captain Inglis, the Station Commander. Thurson had done an informal tour of the unit, met with and spoken to the crew—both air and ground—checked out the aircraft, visited the full mission simulator and finally, pronounced himself well satisfied.

The three of them stopped short of the waiting Tornado while the navigator went on ahead and climbed in.

Thurson said: “It all seems to be going very nicely. You’ve both done an excellent job. The financial wolves of Whitehall will be kept at bay. If they howl too loudly, I shall merely say … 1992 and all that.” He rubbed his hands in a characteristic gesture. “There were a few noises when you asked for
the outer perimeter fence, but I managed to convince them that paying for the double fence system was infinitely cheaper than the loss of an aircraft through sabotage. Of course,” he went on, “if any of your jocks puts one into the drink or the mountains, that remark may well return to haunt me.” His eyes fastened upon them. “I dislike being haunted.”

Neither Jason, nor Inglis, said anything.

“Good,” Thurson said. “I see that’s gone home.” He shook hands with each in turn.

They saluted as he turned to walk to his aircraft; then he paused.

“Do you recall the buzzing of our fighter aircraft last year by the Soviets during the Baltic and Norwegian Sea exercises?”

Jason and Inglis nodded. They remembered the incidents clearly; Jason in particular. He had been piloting one of the standard Tornado F.3s, and had been leading a pair on a long-distance combat air patrol, a dry run for future CAPs by the November squadron. A pair of Flankers had popped in for a look above the icy waters of the Norwegian sea. The Su-27s had come barrelling in on either side to split right and left into tight turns before coming back again.

The Tornadoes had held station, Jason watching the antics of the Flankers keenly, noting how they manoeuvred. It all went into his mental file. Finally, bored with the game, the Flankers had turned for home. Jason’s detailed observations had since
been programmed into the air combat simulator, giving the simulated threat aircraft the observed agility of the real thing. The pilot learning how to fight with his aircraft could then adjust his tactics accordingly. It all helped.

“Ah, yes,” Thurson was now saying. “I forgot—you saw the buggers yourself, Chris. Well, there’s a new item on the agenda. Word has it that an F-16 lookalike, the MiG-35, may be nearing production. As with these things, much of it is conjecture. No one has yet produced a photograph or if they have, they’re not showing. MiG-35 may not even be its proper designation. But no matter. Do keep an eye out, won’t you? Which reminds me—let’s have the first November squadron declared operational soon.”

“If progress is maintained at our present rate,” Jason said, “I see no reason why Zero One Squadron should not be operational by the summer’s end.”

“Excellent. And now, Christopher, you won’t forget that invitation, will you?” There was the suspicion of a twinkle in Thurson’s eye.

“Er … no, sir. I won’t.”

“Jolly good…. Operational by the summer’s end, eh? But a week or two before that if you’re pushed, I expect. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Not waiting for a reply Thurson went quickly to the Tornado, put his helmet down by the ladder and began his walk-round of the aircraft. Inglis said to Jason: “Did I miss something?”

“Such as?”

“The AVM seemed to be advising us to get a move on. I wonder why.”

“The usual thing,” Jason shrugged. “Something to tell some parliamentary sub-committee.”

“No. Seemed a bit more important than that, I thought.”

“Well, we’re doing our damndest. I don’t see—”

Jason stopped. The Air Vice-Marshal, walk-round complete, had paused by the ladder, helmet now trailing in his left hand. On the shoulder of the aircraft, an airman who had helped the navigator with his straps now waited. About the Tornado, other members of the ground crew waited expectantly.

Thurson gave a brief nod, climbed the ladder and eased himself into the aircraft. The airman helped with the straps, then climbed down, moving the ladder away.

Jason and Inglis took a few steps farther back as the engines were started. They waited as Thurson went through further checks, then saluted as the aircraft began to roll. Thurson brought a hand to his helmet briefly in acknowledgment. The canopy closed, and the Tornado began taxiing to its take-off point.

“I wonder if he’s bringing his daughter to the Ball.” Inglis’s offhand remark was almost over
whelmed by the engine noise. “Exceptionally pretty girl. I’ve seen her.”

“Lucky you,” Jason said, eyes firmly on the departing aircraft.

Neil Ferris had made a friend since coming to
November One: Caroline Hamilton-Jones from Fighter Control. A woman who was extremely wary of attachments to fellow members of the RAF and aircrew in particular, she had surprised herself by finding she liked the company of the unassuming Ferris. He was not as she had at first expected, believing all the myths associated with male Australians.

Though they’d been out together a few times, usually to visit isolated highland villages, never once had he made an obvious pass at her. But he was clearly fond of her, and now, as they stood together in the sun outside the squadron buildings, idly watching Thurson’s Tornado take-off with its full burner climb, she decided she had grown to like him very much.

“The old man comes here so often,” Ferris said,
“I think he’d love to be back on an operational squadron.”

“Can’t be much fun down in Whitehall, I suppose,” she said, “trying to keep the accountants and God knows who else happy. Apparently a lot of people want to close us down. Russia’s put everyone in a tizzy with its new moves, and he knows he has to face a groundswell of opinion, not just in Whitehall, but in the NATO countries too.”

Ferris nodded. “You like the old boy, don’t you?”

“He’s not bad.”

“Not bad.” Ferris repeated the words drily. “I guess I’ll have to take that as an example of English understatement.”

The Tornado had now disappeared into the bright sky. A pair of ASVs swept low over the main runway to break snappily into the landing pattern.

“Looks like Hohendorf and Bagni are back,” Ferris said, following the aircraft with thoughtful eyes. “Hohendorf’s incredible. There’s a little wager going, on who’s best of the lot: him or Selby.”

“So who’s your favorite?”

Ferris grinned. “When it’s so close, I don’t gamble.”

Caroline closed her eyes, and turned her face up to the sun. “Mm. This weather’s wonderful. I came here for a while during the winter, and there were days when we had some pretty wild storms. Come winter, don’t go into the drink, will you?”

“I have no intention of going into the drink at any time.”

“Oh good.” She had turned away from the sun and was again looking at him. “So what are they really like up there?”

“Selby and Hohendorf? Like twins, sometimes. Then at other times they can be so different. Selby seems to have more passion. I can watch them carrying out combat manoeuvres and tell you who’s who, just from their style. It’s not that Hohendorf has no passion. He’s just better at controlling it. He flies with the precision of a surgeon; beautiful, fluid moves. Lightning reflexes. A real professional.”

They strolled away across the grass. Caroline decided to change the subject.

“Looking forward to the Ball?”

“Too right,” he said. “With luck, the first squadron will be fully operational by then so we’ll have something really worth celebrating. That McCann’s planning a little spectacular—so he says. He won’t let me in on it, but I think he’s told Richard …”

“Who, of course, is not telling.”

“Exactly. McCann’s a bad influence on that boy … especially now that young Richard is supposed to be sweet on that nice little WAAF who looks after the Wingco.”

Caroline looked amused. “The US Air Force couldn’t handle McCann. What chance have we got in Fighter Control?”

They walked on. Suddenly, Ferris was serious. “And what about you?”

“He’s tried.” She gave him a sideways glance.

“The little drongo. I’ll break his neck. No, honestly—he can play with any other woman on the station, except you.”

“You don’t own me, you know,” she told him.

“I don’t want to.”

“And I’m not saying that, just because we’ve been out a few times, there’s anything more in it at the moment. I’ve got a career that means a lot to me.”

“Do you hear me making demands?”

She smiled gently. “No. You’re not.” She glanced at her watch. “Time for me to go down the Hole.” The “Hole” was the name given by all November One personnel to the underground Fighter Control Center, which was linked to the entire Alliance air defense net. “If you’re not on tonight’s flying roster, perhaps we can have a drink in the Mess.”

“You’re on. Well, I guess I’d better get up the tower. The boss seems to think it’s a good idea for the crews to spend some time with the poor souls, so that we can appreciate the hard time we give them.”

“Good thing too, and second only to your coming to see us down in Control.” She reached out and held his hand briefly. “See you later.”

“You will,” he said.

He watched as she went to her car, a little yellow Volkswagen Beetle. The air-cooled engine stuttered
into life, and she waved at him as she drove off.

He stood looking at the little car until it was curving along the perimeter track, at the far end of the airfield.

Hohendorf and Flacht had completed their debrief and had left for the kitting room to remove their flying gear. Bagni and Stockmann were still finishing their reports.

Down to their flying overalls, the two Germans headed for the squadron coffee bar. As yet, only three crews were on strength: Hohendorf and Flacht, Selby and McCann, and Bagni and Stockmann. The remainder, who would make up the eventual complement of twenty, were still in training with the conversion unit. Palmer and Ferris, however, were the next crew due to come on strength. Palmer’s progress had been rapid and it would only be a matter of days before he became a properly accredited member of Zero One Squadron.

In the bar, Flacht dropped into a chair and stretched his arms. “I’ve been thinking about the Ball, Axel.”

“What about it?”

“You need a woman.” Flacht, as with all married personnel, was now housed in family accommodation. Though the November One Mess was more cheerful than the Schleswig Mess, he still felt Hohendorf
needed the friendly atmosphere of a home and had invited him over twice since their arrival.

Hohendorf went behind the counter to pour coffee from the filter machine into two mugs. He brought the coffee over, sat down, handed a mug to Flacht. “Don’t worry about my love life, Wolfie. I’ve got enough on my mind with the new ship. And what’s more, you don’t need me too often at your house. You need time with Ilse and the baby.”

“She likes having you around. You know that. Besides, it’s good having another face from home. She gets on with the other wives, of course; but you’re part of the old squadron. It’s important to her.”

“I’ll visit with you, as long as that’s the real reason and not because you think you ought to hold my hand. There are many things for me to do here, and many people in the Mess to talk to. There is so much to learn about our new airplane, the day is not long enough. I have to force myself to make time to go to the gym.”

Flacht was reluctant to leave it. “We all have the same work-load, Axel. We all have to keep fit. It doesn’t mean we can’t relax as well.”

“Stop it,” Hohendorf said, almost sharply. “My social life is fine. I promise to let you know when I see a woman to excite me.”

Flacht shook his head slowly, giving up. “You’re hopeless.”

Hohendorf remained silent for some moments.
“I appreciate your concern, Wolfie,” he said in a quiet voice. “But there isn’t a problem. You’ve got enough to do in the back seat, and looking after your family. You don’t have to look after me down here as well.”

Flacht drank his coffee. “Anne-Marie could at least have answered your letters.”

“They weren’t exactly love letters; just general news. Anyway, how do you know?”

“Erika wrote to Ilse. She had called AnneMarie to ask if she had heard from you. Anne-Marie said yes. You know your cousin. She wanted to know if Anne-Marie had replied. Anne-Marie said she hadn’t found the time yet. I’m sorry, Axel.”