Trophy (24 page)

“What for? What goes on between Anne-Marie and myself is not your fault. And as for that cousin of mine, Erika keeps hoping this sick marriage will get better.”

“And you?”

Hohendorfs eyes seemed to lose emotion. “It’s dead, Wolfie. I know that, and Anne-Marie knows that. I’d be relieved if she divorced me tomorrow. But she won’t. She wants a fall-back position.”

He reached for a newspaper lying on a nearby table: it was a
Frankfurter Zeitung
left by one of the other German-speaking aircrew. The conversation was closed.

In the Mess, Selby was on the phone to Kim Mannon.

“Thanks for calling, Mark.” There was more
than a touch of sarcasm in her voice. They hadn’t seen much of each other during the last couple of months. “I was beginning to wonder whether you were a mirage, or something.”

“I did warn you it would be a busy time,” he said.

“Yes, love, but I need to see you. Well? When are you coming down? Look … why don’t I come up instead?” she went on, not waiting for a reply. “We could meet in Edinburgh. Daddy has got that house I’ve told you about …”

“Which is used by your father and his executives during business trips.”

“And for family social events, which this will be. It is a family home, you know … not a company building. No one will be in residence for the next two weeks. There’s a couple who look after it, the Boyds, but they don’t live in. We’ll be quite by ourselves. How about it?”

“If you had given me a chance to speak, I’d have told you that I’ve got four days’ leave …”

She gave a little squeal of delight. “Oh Mark, that’s super! When?”

“Next Tuesday. I’ve got the weekend too, so that gives us six days …”

“Hooray! I’ll call the Boyds as soon as we’ve finished, to warn them.”

“There’s more.”

“I am being spoilt.”

Selby grinned at the phone. Look at me, he
thought, like a silly kid with his first girlfriend. Knowing he would be seeing her soon excited him and he wished he could be with her at that moment.

“We’re having a Summer Ball.” He gave her the date. “I’d like you to come.”

“Is this open to negotiation?”

“No.”

“Then I’ll come.”

“You could just have said yes.”

“I like putting up a fight. It keeps you on your toes.”

“You’re impossible.”

“That’s why you love me. And you know I love you,” she added softly, then hung up before he could react.

He had been about to leave the booth when he paused, and called his sister in Aberdeen. The university had begun its summer break, but she had remained to carry out some research.

“Mark,” she said. “This is a nice surprise. You’re lucky to have caught me.”

“Oh?”

“I’m off on a short coastal trip for a week. Field work. I’ve got a passage on a small fishing boat.”

“Just you?”

“No. There’ll be three of us. Anyway, to what do I owe this call?”

“I’m repaying a debt.”

“What debt?”

“A Summer Ball for a Winter Ball.”

“If I remember correctly, you didn’t particularly like that little event.”

“Something good came out of it.”

“Oh you poor, smitten man.”

“Wait till it happens to you,” Selby told her. “Which reminds me—I’ve got you a nice escort.”

“Safe, you mean.”

“His name’s Richard Palmer. A good bloke. He’ll look after you.”

“As I said … safe.”

“Do you want to come, or not?” He gave her the details.

“Of course I’ll come. But don’t expect me to fall in love with this Richard Palmer, just because you chose him. Does he know, by the way?”

“Not yet. I had to find out whether you’d come. And no one’s asking you to
do
anything. He’s just the escort. If you like him, fine. If you don’t, fine. Anyway, the poor devil needs a break. I keep shooting him down in mortal air combat.”

“I see. I’m the consolation prize.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Mo. You’ll enjoy the Ball. Besides, I’d really like you to come. It’s a rather special event.”

“Why don’t you do what we’ve always done? Escort me yourself. Ah,” she went on. “Daylight dawns. You’re escorting Kim Mannon.”

“Yes.” He sounded almost sheepish.

“Why didn’t you tell me that in the first place?”

“Well …”

“Oh Mark. You are in a bad way.” She laughed. “All right, I’ll come to your special occasion, but don’t expect me to stick to your downtrodden friend all evening.”

“He’s not downtrodden.”

“In that case, of course I’ll come.”

“Good. I’m sure you’ll have a good time.”

“I’d better,” she warned.

Whitehall, London, a day later.

Charles Buntline entered the minister’s office.

“No need to ask whether matters are proceeding according to plan, Charles,” the minister greeted him drily. “You look like a cat who’s been at the cream.”

“Good morning, Minister. Kind of you to spare me some time.”

“Cut the flannel, Charles. I’m as keen as you are to see this thing work in our favor. We’ve got a few minutes before the Air Vice-Marshal arrives. I take it you’ve heard from your man, Stolybin?”

Buntline nodded. “No problems there. All that remains is for us to have an escort crew ready in time.”

“And the tanker?”

“The tanker’s the least of our problems, Minister. The modifications to the starboard drogue have already been carried out. No one has been told why, naturally.”

“You are quite certain this aircraft … this
Krivak … will be able to make contact with its probe for the refuelling?”

“Stolybin had precise information. The drogue was modified accordingly.”

“I see.” The minister looked uncertain. “Double agents always give me the shivers …”

“I’ve kept a close eye on him. As far as I am concerned, he’s only as good as his last piece of information.”

“A wise precaution. Does he trust you as much?”

Buntline said, “We both know we’d dump the other if the going got rough.”

“And they say chivalry’s dead.” Muted voices came to them. “That must be the Air Vice-Marshal. He’ll be able to give us an up-date on the escort.”

Thurson was shown in.

“Air Vice-Marshal….” The minister shook hands warmly. “You know Charles Buntline, of course. Good of you to come.”

Thurson nodded curtly at Buntline, who contrived to be looking out of the window, down at Horse Guards Parade.

“Please take a seat, Robert,” the minister said, the first name putting Thurson immediately on his guard. “No need to beat about the bush. We all know why we’re here. How are the crews shaping?”

“They’re doing very well. Minister. The selection process clearly works. Those already posted to the squadron are excellent crew material, and those
on the operational conversion unit are beginning to show the same promise. We shall have a highly-skilled team on that first unit, just as Wing Commander Jason expected.”

“That’s very cheering news, Robert. We’ll be needing two of those crews soon, I expect. And it couldn’t be coming at a better time. Rumor has it the Opposition’s girding its loins for an all-out attack on defense expenditure; and we’re not without the waverers in our own ranks. So this mission of yours could be just what we all need.”

Thurson noticed that the mission had suddenly become
his
mission. He didn’t bother to protest. Certainly it was his head that would be first on the block if anything went wrong.

Richard Palmer was having a hard time. He was in the middle of the sort of situation any pilot would dread; but to a fast jet pilot, flying the Super Tornado with as much time on type as a gnat, this was the worst kind of emergency possible.

The weather was as nasty as only North European weather could be, a pitch black night, and the cloud base almost down to the deck. But that was only the least of his problems. A short while before, he had been settling nicely into the sortie when a caption on the far right column of the central warning panel lit up. Third down from the top, it said R REV: right engine revolutions.

Almost immediately, the rpm indicator for that
engine wound its way rapidly round the dial before whipping back to the stop. On the heels of that bad news, the caption to the left of the REV caption and one rank up, came on. R TBT, it said. Turbine bearing over-temperature.

Oh shit.

Palmer reacted swiftly. He shut down the affected engine. The left automatically built power to compensate, but he pushed the throttle to full afterburner. There was little trim change and he took the aircraft gently up from its altitude of 200 feet to one thousand. The caption lights went out.

In the back seat, Ferris had seen the repeat on his own warning panel.

“Are we in serious trouble?” he asked calmly.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Palmer replied, surprised by the calmness of his own voice. “She’s as smooth as silk. We’re heading back. I’ll make a gentle turn to two-one-zero.”

“Two-one-zero,” Ferris confirmed, unconsciously going through the motions of tightening his already tight harness.

“Don’t worry, Neil,” Palmer’s voice said in his ear, “I’ll get you down in one piece.”

Ferris felt a quick rush of guilt. He knew Palmer had not been aware of his furtive movements. Any pilot would seek to reassure his back-seater, even in the guise of a joke; but he still felt as if he’d been caught stealing biscuits.

“I have every confidence in you …”

“Uh oh,” Palmer said quickly. “I have a wing-sweep malfunction. We’re stuck at 45 degrees.”

“Oh great.” He put out a call to November One, reporting their condition.

Palmer looked about him. Nothing to see out there except the black night, and the glowing HUD. At least, there were no other aircraft in the vicinity, and no mountains to speak of; but there would still be plenty of high ground and the odd ruined castle to catch the unwary on the approach. He thought of the ruin he’d marked in his mind as a reference point. No use to him now, even if he could have seen

But the aircraft was handling beautifully. The good engine seemed to have ample power to keep the ship under control. He took it out of burner. There was plenty of fuel, but he wanted to see how she handled. The Tornado ASV remained fully controllable.

Then the warning panel gave him more bad news. Third column from the left, third caption from the bottom. The IN glowed.

“Oh shit,” he said. “We’ve lost the Ins.”

Ferris saw it on his own panel. The inertial navigation system was out. Shit indeed—how often would one be hit by such a serious second malfunction? It wasn’t their lucky day. Ferris was immediately on to November One again, giving the current aircraft status.

“November Tower to Sparrowhawk,” Palmer
heard in his helmet. “We recommend a GCA. Do you accept?”

A ground-controlled approach. Palmer decided he was not going to quarrel with that.

“Accepted,” he replied. “Neil,” he said to Ferris, “do you concur?”

“From where I’m sitting,” Ferris began, “it sounds like a very good idea. Let’s get back down. The night is mean.”

Palmer thought his breathing was sounding inordinately loud, and tried to calm it.

“What is your current engine state?” November Tower was asking.

“Eighty percent.”

“Go to max dry re-heat and climb to 3000 feet. Maintain 310 knots.”

Palmer moved the throttle to the stop before the combat position on the quadrant. The Super Tornado, even on its one engine, surged upwards as he obeyed the controller’s instructions. He levelled off and throttled back. Speed came down, settled at 310 knots.

He peered through the gloom. Nothing. Not a light to be seen. The FLIR—the infrared system—in which mode, superimposed on the HUD, would have given him an almost day-like view of the world, had been the first casualty of the dead engine, going out almost simultaneously. He could have used it now; but there was little point in his wishing for something he could not have.

“Right, two-seven-five,” the tower said.

“Two-seven-five,” Palmer acknowledged.

“No one told you to descend. Maintain 3000.”

Shit. He was allowing the aircraft to run away with him. He had lost 200 feet in the process. Suppose there had been high ground only a hundred feet below? Exit one aircraft and two crew members.

His body felt clammy and he had the bizarre sensation of wanting to wipe his palms, though he knew they were perfectly dry within his gloves.

“Sparrowhawk,” a new voice was saying, “this is Peregrine.” Tom Wells, his instructor. “You’ve flown single engine for months,” Wells continued, referring to the single-engined Hawk. “Your aircraft is more agile and more powerful, but I have every confidence in you. You can do it.”

“Left, one-eight-one,” the tower said. “Descend to 1500 feet, 300 knots.”

Palmer obeyed the instruction.

Ferris said: “You OK, Richard?”

“I’m fine. Don’t worry.”

“Who’s worried? I’m enjoying the ride.”

Some ride, Palmer thought, marvelling at Ferris’s calm.

“Wheels down,” the tower said.

Palmer complied. “Three greens,” he reported with relief. At least, nothing had gone wrong with the hydraulics.

“You’re on the glide path, on the centreline,” tower said, as if announcing a cricket score. “Holding
good. 250 knots. Remember you’re at 45 degrees sweep.”

Palmer eased the throttle back. At 45 degrees sweep, neither flaps nor slats should be deployed. It was going to be a nose-high, fast approach.

“Cables prepared for engagement,” the tower informed him.

At each end of the runway a series of cables, rather like arrestor wires on an aircraft carrier, were built into its surface. Should the aircraft miss the cable, there was still the arrestor net, after which was the final line, the rough gravelly overshoot. Palmer hoped it would not come to that. If you’re into the gravel, you’re in real trouble.

“One thousand feet, 210 knots,” the tower said. “You’re on the glidepath, on the centreline. You should be seeing the runway lights any moment now.”

And there they were. Dear God, they were beautiful.

“All yours,” the tower said.

“Thank you, November Tower.”

Palmer held the nose high at 14 degrees alpha, with 190 knots on the HUD and slowing rapidly. The LERXes were giving good aero-dynamic braking. Airbrakes and wing spoilers were out. He flared to 16 degrees alpha as the wheels thumped down. He brought the throttle to idle, keeping the nose high, letting the wings and LERXes do the braking for as long as possible. There would be no thrust reversers
to help him. At last, the nose settled down and he moved the stick forward to keep it there.