Trophy (29 page)

“He came to my room,” she now replied, not wishing to elaborate.

Hohendorf, in a lightweight suit and a white T-shirt sporting the head-on view of a Tornado at speed, looked out to sea.

“Your brother does not like me,” he said, “and I cannot quite understand why.”

“I don’t think he dislikes you. He is wary.”

“But why? What have I done to him?”

“For a start, you’re as good as he is. He’s always prided himself on his abilities as a fighter pilot. I suppose he doesn’t want someone as good as he is on the same squadron.”

“I am not sure that is all it is,” Hohendorf said thoughtfully. “Of course we circle about each other like a pair of stags … but I think there is something
else and I do not understand what it is. Perhaps Mark does not know himself. I wonder, for example, if he would help me if I got into trouble up there.”

Morven tossed her head indignantly. “Of course he would. Mark’s not the kind of person to leave
anyone
in trouble.”

Hohendorf persisted. “Perhaps, my dear, I am not just
anyone….”

She swung round. “Would you help him?”

“Of course.”

“And he would help you. You’re both airmen, for God’s sake.”

A silence fell between them and though they were close to each other, they held their bodies warily apart.

Then Hohendorf, offering the olive branch, said: “It cannot help that he sees me with you, especially as he knows I am married.”

“He thinks you will hurt me.”

“I understand that. But how could I even consider hurting you? I would rather not see you again.”

She hunched her shoulders. “Is that what you want? That we don’t see each other anymore?”

“No,” he said quietly. “It is not what I want.”

She leaned against him, relieved, turning her head out to sea. “That’s all right then.”

After a moment’s hesitation, he put an arm about her. “Last night, I wanted to kiss you.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Well … I …”

She snuggled against him. “It’s all right. You don’t have to find an answer.”

They stayed on the mole for a good hour, saying very little, enjoying the warmth of the sun and the closeness of their bodies. Visitors walked along the mole and came to stand behind them to look out to sea. Morven and Hohendorf took little notice, and the visitors went quietly on their way. The world about the girl and the tall young pilot had temporarily faded out of existence.

At last they stood up and, arms about each other’s waists, walked back up the lane towards the hotel.

“I’m coming back next week,” she began. “I’ve got to do some field work in and around the Spey Bay area. If you can manage a day or so off, why don’t we meet?”

“I would like that,” he said. “I have seen Spey-mouth from the air, of course. Where shall I meet you?”

“There’s a little guest house on the road to Spey Bay. Not luxurious, but very cozy and run by a lovely family. I’ve stayed there before. We can leave the car and go for a real walk on the Speyside Way. A true nature trail, if you’re feeling fit.”

He smiled. “I’m feeling fit.”

“Do you have a back pack?”

“Yes. I do plenty of walking near my home in the Teutoburger Wald.”

“Oh well. This will be just a stroll to you.”

“I have a feeling,” he said, “that this stroll of yours will test me to the full.”

“As if I’d do a thing like that.” She pressed him closer. “I’ll get lots of food and we can go up into the hills away from everyone. Why don’t we drive to Spey Bay now so you can check the route? It’s a nice day. We can have tea at the guest house.”

“It is OK with me,” he said. “Let’s do it.”

Later in the Mess, Hohendorf heard a knock upon his door.

“Komm. “

Selby entered. Hohendorf watched him with expectant wariness. Selby came straight to the point.

“You know how I feel about my sister seeing you,” he said.

“Yes. I do.”

“I just want you to know you’ll answer to me if you hurt her.”

“I would feel the same way about my own sister, if I had one.”

“Yes. Well.” Selby was unsure of how to continue. It was not the reaction he had expected. “You are a married man, Hohendorf. How would you react to your sister going out with one?”

“I would not try to direct her life, although I would advise caution. But I would trust her to make her own decisions. Have you ordered her to stop seeing me?”

“Me? Order Morven? You must be joking.”

“Then trust me. I will do nothing to hurt her.”

“Your word as an officer and a gentleman?” Selby spoke the words almost as a joke, but the German took them very seriously.

“Yes,” he said. “My word as an officer and a gentleman.”

The operational week began smoothly.

Flacht got his strike in first. He and Hohendorf were in flying overalls in the squadron coffee bar, and had recently landed from a high-level sweep to Iceland and back. They had been paired with Palmer and Ferris. Selby and McCann were up, accompanied by Bagni and Stockmann.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice what was going on,” Flacht told him, “just because we left the Ball early. So when are you going to bring her over to us? Ilse would like to meet her properly.”

“Hey, Wolfie. Hold it, hold it! I’ve been out with her once.”

“And already you’re looking the better for it. Working better too. There was an extra bite to your flying today.”

“Nonsense.”

“Nonsense, he says. I’m the one who has to sit
in the back. She’s put some electricity into your blood. You were a robot before. Now, you’re on fire. You’ve come alive again for the first time since Anne-Marie left. I wish Johann were here to see it.”

“Ah,” Hohendorf said, self-consciously dismissive. “I’ll be seeing him and Erika soon. I’m taking some leave in two weeks. I’ll be flying over to see them.”

“You can tell the old reprobate when you see him I can navigate circles round him now.”

“I can see he’s really going to like hearing that,” Hohendorf said drily.

Not wanting to delay any longer, Thurson brought his group of all-party MPs up to November One two days later. Among them was that “man of the people,” Beresford, despite subtle efforts in London to keep him off the invitation list.

They were in Fighter Control when Jason joined them on his return from a sortie.

Beresford collared him immediately. “Well, Wing Commander,” he announced, “I’m here.”

“Yes, sir,” Jason said, hoping his dismay did not show. When they had met for the first time down in London, Beresford had been surprisingly friendly. But up here he’d have his reputation as a back-bench firebrand to consider.

“Stop calling me, sir, lad. I’m not one of your superior officers. I’m Jim Beresford. Call me Mr. Beresford if you must, but I’d prefer Jim.” He glanced
round at the other MPs who were trying to look as if they understood what was being said to them by Flight Lieutenant Caroline Hamilton-Jones at one of the computer terminals. “Look at that lot. When they leave here, they’ll have as much idea as a fart in a bucket.”

Beresford was a sturdy man, roundish about the middle. He had the solid face of one who had worked manually in a hard profession. His eyes seemed watery and a little vague but, as Jason knew from experience, this impression could not be more wrong.

“I’ve had a good look round at the station,” Beresford was saying. “I’m impressed. I know how much you’ve worked for it. If this place can do what you claim, it may turn out to have been a good idea.”

“You’re being cautious, Mr. Beresford.”

“Jim, lad. Call me, Jim.”

“Very well … Jim.”

“And I’ll call you Chris. Right… Now can you show me how that flipping Christmas tree works?”

The “Christmas Tree” was the operations screen.

“Of course.” Jason picked up a remote control about the size of those used for switching channels on a television set. “We normally use the computer terminals to place different windows on-screen, as well as different levels of magnification. There are, of course, several other functions. For the purposes of the demonstration, I’ll use the remote.” He
pressed a switch. The screen altered. “Here, you can see the whole NATO area, from Norway to Greece …”

“And you can go beyond, I imagine.”

“Er …” Jason hesitated. “… yes. But I’m afraid I’m not authorized to show you.”

“Of course,” Beresford remarked drily. “I’m only one of them what pays for the stuff… Don’t worry. I expected as much.”

Jason pressed another switch, held it down. The screen changed scale.

“We can select any country within the Alliance, lay a grid over it and focus on any square within to view a particular tactical situation. For example, here we have the UK … moving … to our own area. There.”

“Are those two blobs moving about in there your fighters?”

“Yes. One is piloted by Capitano Bagni from Italy, with Captain Stockmann from the United States as navigator. The other has Flying Officer Palmer as its pilot. He’s our youngest, and promises to be a top ranking pilot. He had to be good in the first place, to get here. You’ll appreciate this, Jim—he doesn’t come from a privileged background. He worked very hard to get where he is.”

“Good for him. You sound as if you’re proud of him.”

“I am. I’m proud of all my crews. His navigator is Flight Lieutenant Ferris, from Australia.”

“Truly international.” Beresford watched as the images whirled about each other. “What are they up to?”

“Air combat training. We do much of it on the ground in simulators, to cut costs and to allow the crews to get used to taking the aircraft to limits which would be the least of what they could expect in actual warfare. Simulators are becoming so sophisticated these days that transfer to the aircraft itself has become much smoother. But of course they can never totally replace actual experience in the air.

“For the more complex battle scenarios we go to America or Canada, where there’s more space. We also go to Sardinia where there’s a fully-equipped air combat range. But all these deployments cost time and money, and in addition, slots have got to be booked well in advance because of demand. We’re hoping a range will be built in the North Sea area. We could get a lot more training done, with less time wasted waiting for slots to become available.” He pointed at the images on the screen. “Would you like to hear how they’re doing?”

“Can we?”

“Oh yes. We can put them on the speakers.”

Jason pressed another switch and the airmen’s voices came through, swelling into the room.

Everyone paused to listen.

*   *   *

Palmer watched Bagni’s aircraft disappear from his HUD. Grunting to fight the G forces, he pulled into a tight turn after it. Nothing.

Ferris was moving his head about, eyes searching the sky.

Then the radar warning went mad. “Break right!” he called.
“Now!”

Palmer obeyed, and lock was broken. But Bagni had already called Fox on him twice. He had to get one in. At least.

In Fighter Control, Beresford was listening with rapt attention, his eyes glued to the screen.

Jason said: “We can change to side view, and give a 3D image.”

The screen altered again, and this time the terrain beneath the aircraft showed peaks and valleys, with the high ground colored red.

“They seem a bit close to those mountains,” Beresford remarked.

“Not as close as it looks. When air fighting, absolute minimum height above high ground is 5,000 feet. All manoeuvres must have this as the pull-up altitude. Most manoeuvres end at 10,000. Anyone who disobeys this rule knows he will be carpeted and grounded for a while, or even washed out of this unit, if he doesn’t have a damned good reason. Not excuse, you’ll note. Excuses are not accepted here.”

Beresford nodded, still watching the screen. “I can see you mean business.”

“Aircraft and crews are expensive items, and lives are priceless.”

“You’re talking my kind of language, Chris.”

“Where is he, Neil?” Palmer was saying.

“Below us,” Ferris replied. “Stay up here. Let him come up.”

Palmer listened for a tracking warning. None came.

“All right, Richard,” Ferris said. “He’s coming. He’s not tracking because he doesn’t want to warn us. When I call the break, go for it. OK?”

“‘kay.”

“Right. Hold it … hold it.
Break left!”

Palmer flung the Tornado into a hard left turn, hauling on the stick, grunting like a walrus. The aircraft pulled itself tightly round. Bagni’s Tornado began to creep into their HUD, then stabilised.

“You’ve done it, Richard!” Ferris crowed as the G forces lessened. “Now zap him before the wily bugger gets away. You pulled some heavy Gs back there, matey. We hit 9 for a while.”

There was no reply from Palmer. The other aircraft was still within the parameters for a good shot. Ferris felt the Tornado’s nose drop slightly. He wasn’t worried. Palmer was obviously concentrating on making certain of the shot. Ferris decided not to interfere.

*   *   *

In Fighter Control, Jason was giving Beresford a running commentary.

“Bagni is pulling the sucker trick on Palmer,” he began, “or is trying to. The question is whether Palmer will allow himself to be drawn.”

“You’ll have to explain that, lad.”

“As you can see, Bagni is holding a fairly straight course.” Jason pressed a switch on the remote. A red line crossed the 3D view from left to right. “That’s the base line. Hard Deck we sometimes call it. For the purposes of the exercise, it simulates ground level. Bagni will go as close as possible, then pull up. If Palmer has not been keeping a sharp lookout, he will be suckered into the follow-through and cross the line. If that happens, he’s lost the engagement.”

“And if that was the real ground,” Beresford said, “he’d be dead.”

“Exactly. In either case, he loses the engagement.”

“This air fighting business is rough.”

“The real thing will be a lot rougher. I’d prefer it if the real thing did not occur.”

“So would we all.”

“Which is why we want the other guy to know it’ll never be worth his while.”