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He tapped the brakes. They worked, but speed was still high. He lowered the arrestor hook. The warning light came on to confirm. He heard a noise that might have been the hook screeching on the runway surface. He kept braking. Oh for thrust reverse! But it was no go on a single engine. Now, he stopped braking as the cable approached. Braking while the cable jerked the aircraft backwards would result in a tip over.

He felt the hook catch, jerking them to a halt before dragging them sharply backwards. At last, the aircraft came to a safe halt.

There were a few moments of silence as Palmer rapidly shut down all systems.

Ferris said, mildly: “Looks as if we might make a pilot of you yet, Richard.”

Palmer did not trust himself to speak. His knees were shaking but, oddly, his hands were rock steady.

“You know a good thing when you see it,” Palmer said, at last trusting himself to speak. He was pleased to find that his voice was also steady.

Then he reached for, and pulled the canopy release handle.

Light flooded in as the blanked-out bubble of the canopy came open like a giant clam. Tom Wells was grinning down at him from a platform. They were in the full-mission simulator complex. On one
level Palmer knew he must have been aware of this. Why then were his knees still shaking?

Wells came down from the platform and onto the walkway that surrounded the cockpit module as Palmer and Ferris began to unstrap themselves.

“The chances of all these emergencies occurring at once during a single mission,” he began, “are remote … we hope. But we thought we’d throw them at you to see how you’d handle it. And while they may not occur in peacetime, wartime conditions might easily interfere with proper maintenance.” Wells looked at Ferris. “Well, Neil? What do you think?”

“He’s not a bad little pilot.” Ferris grinned. “I think I could put up with going on squadron strength with him.”

Wells said to Palmer: “Well done, lad.”

You don’t know the half of it, Palmer thought as he eased himself out of the front cockpit, praying his legs would not betray him. It had been so real! The motion, the bumps through the dark and unseen cloud layer; even the Tornado’s control system’s constant ride adjustment had been faithfully simulated. The passage through the clouds had thus been far smoother than it would have been in any other aircraft.

He found, gratefully, that his legs were quite steady.

Wells clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ve come a long way, Richard. You can be pleased with
yourself. And now for that drink you promised to buy me.”

Palmer checked. “What drink was that, sir?”

“What I like about you, Richard, is your unbounded generosity.”

Palmer gave in. “I’ll buy you a drink, sir.”

The Zero One Squadron work-up continued. More crews were sent on by the OCU and it began to look as if Wing Commander Jason would indeed have his first fully operational squadron by the end of the summer.

Selby returned from his Edinburgh vacation with Kim Mannon looking so haggard that McCann loudly recommended a month’s high-protein diet. As was his wont, he chose his moment when three of the female office staff were within earshot.

Bagni was given leave and he flew off to Florence to see his Bianca, and to invite her to the ball. She declined, saying she would be in New York on business. Bagni returned, knowing he was now in serious danger of losing her.

Ferris and Caroline Hamilton-Jones continued to grow closer to each other, while still telling themselves it was not happening.

Hohendorf heard nothing from Anne-Marie, but the news from Schleswig gave him no cause for alarm. More and more, his anxieties about Willi Beuren receded as he channelled all his energies into his mastery of the Super Tornado.

For Jason, everything was going smoothly. Thurson had not yet carried out his threat to bring his gaggle of VIPs, and Jason counted every day that he did not get warning of their arrival as a blessing. Meanwhile, everyone was looking forward to the Ball.

The gate policemen watched as the battered VW van came up the road and stopped close to the entrance. They made no move towards it, waiting in their booth to see what would happen next.

First, a young woman climbed out of the driving seat, turned and a small child was handed to her by someone unseen within. The policemen watched, intrigued. Suddenly, other people began to spill out until there were ten of them standing near the vehicle; five men and five women, plus the child. They were shabbily dressed, mainly in jeans that were seriously the worse for wear. Some wore headbands.

They began hauling placards from the van, and what looked suspiciously like bundled-up tents. A man put something on his shoulder: a video camera.

The policemen decided enough was enough. One of them reached for the telephone. The other went out to the group.

“I’m sorry, ladies and gentlemen,” he began. “You cannot camp here. And definitely no cameras allowed. Sir, please remove your camera and ask your friends to return to your minibus and leave.”

“Why should we?” the woman with the child asked. “We’re on a public road.”

The child, a little girl of about three, stared at the big service policeman with the unabashed gaze that only one so young could muster.

“Wrong, madam,” the policeman said patiently. “This is Ministry of Defense property. The road over there is a public highway. Once you turn off it, you’re on MoD land. I’m sorry, but you’ll all have to leave and sir, please don’t use that camera.”

The cameraman was not prepared to back down. “Why not? If you’re worried about my taking film of your airplanes, I can do that while they’re flying anyway.”

“You may do whatever you like, sir … but from the public road.”

The placards were displayed now. One read: DON’T FRY OUR CHILDREN! Another: NO TO NUCLEAR WEAPONS.

Just then, Wing Commander Jason arrived driving the station commander’s car and skidded to a halt behind the booth. The sergeant inside came crisply to attention.

Jason opened the car door. “What the devil’s going on out there, Sarn’t Williams?”

“They just arrived, sir. Corporal Neve’s attending to them.” Williams unbent slightly. “He don’t seem to be having much luck.”

Jason came forward to see for himself. It had taken the protesters a while to find the camp, but it
was inevitable that they would eventually find their way here. The problem now was to prevent them becoming a permanent fixture.

He watched the corporal’s unsuccessful attempts to reason with the group. As a precaution, Sergeant Williams was on the phone again, calling up men from the guardroom to be ready to go to the corporal’s aid if necessary.

Jason stepped past the barrier. Corporal Neve saw him, broke off his argument, saluted.

“Sir, these people—”

Jason stopped him with a brief movement of one hand, and continued past him towards the protest group. An immediate silence fell. The camera focused on him.

Corporal Neve strode forward. “I told you not to use that camera.”

“Corporal Neve,” Jason said gently. “I’ll handle this.”

Neve came to a halt. Jason went up to the woman with the child. Before she could react he held out his hands. “May I?” He took off his cap and showed it to the little girl.

The woman eyed him uncertainly.

“I’m certainly not going to … er, fry her,” he said, referring to one of the placards.

The camera remained fixed upon him.

The child made up her own mind. Fascinated by Jason’s uniform, she began to squirm in her mother’s arms. Too surprised to do anything else, the
woman handed her over. The child immediately took the cap and put it on. It slid to one side, tilting on her tiny head, but it didn’t fall off.

“She likes pilots,” Jason said.

The woman glared at him. “Your nuclear weapons will destroy her. Or perhaps her children. And her children’s children.”

“We have no nuclear weapons here,” Jason told her. “This is an air superiority station. We’re here to prevent nuclear weapons ever being used.”

“We expected you to say that,” someone behind the woman shouted contemptuously. “It’s what your bosses program you to say.”

“Nobody’s programmed me to say anything. I am not a computer. I’ve told you the truth. Our job here is to see that this little girl, and indeed the whole world, lives in peace. Our job is to prevent war happening.”

“Do you have children?” the woman asked.

“Not yet,” he replied. “But if your little girl were mine, I’d be proud to think I’d done something in my life to make it more probable that she’d reach a happy old age. Corny though this may sound to you, I-”

“I don’t think it’s corny.” The woman looked at him for a long moment. The child showed no inclination to leave him. “You really meant that, didn’t you?”

“This is too important a matter for lying.”

“That’s not like a politician.”

“I’m not a politician. But it just doesn’t make sense to me, people protesting against something that’s designed to keep them safe. This is not a nuclear base. You’ve come to the wrong place. It’s as simple as that.”

The others had fallen silent during the exchange.

Now the disbelieving one said, “You’re not going to swallow that bullshit, are you, Lisa?”

“I believe him,” she said.

“Christ almighty,” came the voice in disgust. “You’re a pushover. He plays around with the child and you turn into jelly. Of course he’s a bloody politician. All these servicemen are. And that’s the oldest trick in the book.”

“I believe him,” Lisa repeated.

“I give you my word,” Jason said to her. “No nuclear weapons. Ever. We’re fighters.”

The child lay her head on Jason’s shoulder, and stared at her mother.

“Come on, Tiffy,” Lisa told her. “Time to go.” Reluctantly the child went back to her. “Children see things better than we do.” She returned Jason’s cap and he put it on. “Tiffy doesn’t normally go to people.”

“I’m flattered,” Jason said. “Goodbye, Tiffy.”

“‘Bye.”

Jason straightened his cap and raised one hand to Lisa in an informal salute. “Thank you for listening.” He turned and went behind the barrier.

Neve followed for a few steps.
“I
think you should know, sir, that man was filming you all the time you—”

“Leave him, Corporal Neve.”

“Sir.”

Uncertainly, Corporal Neve turned to face the protesters, planted his feet apart, and clasped his hands behind his back.

“You’re not really leaving, are you, Lisa?” one of the men asked.

“Yes, Baz—I am.”

“But for fuck’s sake—”

“This is Ministry of Defense land and that officer could have turned his bully boys loose on us. Dogs, the whole production. But he didn’t. Instead he came out to talk. He didn’t have to.”

“Don’t be so wet. He just wants us out of the way.”

“You’re being very stupid,” Lisa said. “I’m going home. You can please yourselves.”

“Pull yourself together, Lisa. He’s just another PR man.”

Lisa shook her head. “No. I could see his eyes and he was genuine. He knew we had come all this way for nothing. What idiot gave us the information about this being a nuclear base?”

“Well …”

“You, Baz. That’s who. Tell whoever gave you the information to … Oh what’s the use. Let’s get the gear packed up.”

*   *   *

Neve watched as the van turned round and went back the way it had come. The Wing Commander knew his stuff. Neve was glad he would not have to cope with a bunch of crazy women camping outside the station perimeter. If it meant the Wingco had to mess around with that woman’s baby, it was worth it.

He looked at the departing van with contempt. Bloody trouble-makers.

Later that evening, Jason received a call in the Mess. Thurson was at the other end.

“Have you seen this evening’s news?” Thurson’s voice was brusque.

“No, sir.”

“Perhaps you’d better not. An HS 125 CC will be flying up to the station in the morning. It’s coming for you. Put on your best uniform and be on it. I’ll meet you at Northolt.”

“Sir, may I know …”

“Wing Commanders do not give unofficial press conferences.”

“I gave no …”

“Watch the news. Better still, don’t. I’ll see you in the morning. I’ve already spoken to Group Captain Inglis.” Thurson hung up.

Jason replaced the phone slowly. Group Captain Inglis. Not Jacko Inglis. Trouble … and bad
enough to get him summoned to London. What press conference was Thurson talking about?

“I didn’t give any bloody press conference,” Jason said aloud.

Then he remembered the people outside the November One gate, and the man with the camera. He did not regret what he had done.

But he had not expected it to become television news.

The twin-engined military version of the BAe executive jet landed at November One at 0700. Jason, who like a man condemned had risen early and had eaten a good breakfast, was ready to go. By 0730, the 125 was again in the air and heading south.

At 0900, it landed at Northolt on the outskirts of London and a few minutes later Jason was on his way to town in the back of the official car, accompanied by Thurson. Thurson was in a funereally sombre single-breasted suit.

Their meeting had been reasonably cordial, Thurson having the look of a man who had much to say, but was biding his time. Nothing about November One was discussed in the car, but Thurson silently handed Jason a copy of a national newspaper. On the front page was a photograph of Jason with the little girl in his arms. The picture showed her playing with the RAF cap on her head. He thought it was not a bad picture. It caught the intense expression
on the little girl’s face as she peered out from under the cap’s brim.

Thurson noted his reaction. “It’s a nice hat. It goes with a nice uniform. I just hope our masters let you keep it.”

Which brought the silence down until Whitehall.

In Thurson’s simple office in one of the solid buildings along the wide thoroughfare, the Air Vice-Marshal said: “Sit down, Christopher.” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “We’ve got five minutes. Suppose you tell me what the devil you thought you were up to.”