Trophy (3 page)

“I think Beuren and Flacht were taken,” Ecker announced with some satisfaction. He’d gone back to German. “I’ve picked up some coded stuff between the ships.”

“We won’t know for certain until debrief. I’ll back Flacht myself.”

“If I’m wrong, I’ll buy you dinner in the Altstadt.” There was a restaurant in the preserved old part of Schleswig that was a favourite. “If I’m right, you buy.”

“I’ll take a meal off you any day.”

“We’ll see.” Ecker sounded sure of himself. The entire exercise had been recorded by the aircraft, right down to their inter-cockpit communication. “You’re going to lose.”

For some moments silence descended between them, broken by the sounds of their breathing of oxygen through their masks, and the muted hum of the twin RB-199 engines spooling behind them. From within, the Tornado was a remarkably quiet aircraft.

Then Hohendorf said: “I’m going to let her take us in now.”

“All right,” Ecker agreed. “I’ve got the flight plan ready.”

Hohendorf relinquished control of the Tornado to its computers. The inertial navigation system would take them with accurate precision right back to base. Then Hohendorf would assume control again for the actual landing.

Ecker set up the return flight plan, giving the system its waypoints, areas to avoid, beacons to take note of, then left it to its devices. In the second Tornado, the same procedure was taking place. Then in the winter darkness, the two aircraft, computer controlled and spaced three minutes in tandem, headed for home.

Instead of the customary manually-performed fighter break over the runway, the approach was long and straight so as not to unduly disturb the sleeping citizens below. Despite the known reliability
of the system, Hohendorf always felt uneasy with this particular operation. He didn’t really mind the automated transit and attack mode—there was always airspace should anything go wrong—but approach was something else entirely. He knew such feelings didn’t make sense, especially since he trusted the machine to carry out auto terrain avoidance at well over 500 knots, but there it was. His one comfort was that he could always over-ride the system and revert to manual control.

Ecker, who was quite aware of how Hohendorf felt, said: “Look at it from my point of view, Axel. Whether I like it or not I’ve got to put up with you pilots most of the time. Now if only we had fully automated take-off and landing, we back-seaters could do the job all by ourselves.”

“Everyone knows a back-seater is only a frustrated pilot.”

“You pilots love to believe that. It polishes your egos.”

“Jealous, jealous.”

The banter continued until Ecker said: “All right, genius. Time for you to play with your stick again. Come on, driver. Get me down.”

Hohendorf grinned in his mask. “Yes, sir. It’s nice to know you’re needed.”

He carried out another of his perfectly smooth landings.

Ecker said: “One of these days, I’ll catch you out doing a rough touchdown.”

“You’ll have a very long wait.”

“Pilots are so vain,” Ecker went on as they began taxiing back to the hardened aircraft shelter. The navigation system remembered its original starting point and would know when it was back home.

“And beautiful,” Hohendorf reminded him. “Don’t forget that.”

“You’ve been watching the movies again.”

The second Tornado touched down just as they reached the HAS. Another pair of Tornados took off soon after, to continue the night’s exercise.

At the debrief, Beuren and Flacht were looking sheepish.

Beuren, the pilot, said: “The Dutch nailed us on the first pass. We got a hit in. But that’s not much good if you’re shot down as well.”

Ecker was surprised. Willi Beuren was an excellent pilot. “How did that happen?” He turned to Flacht. Electronic countermeasures were the back-seater’s responsibility.

Flacht said: “They’ve got a good crew on that ship. They were really on the ball. I was jamming like mad; but I’d waited as long as possible before starting, to cut down our radar signature. Too long, in fact—they were on to us like that.” He snapped his fingers. “As Willi just said, we got the hit, but we wouldn’t have made it home in the real game.”

Hohendorf, who’d been unzipping his G-suit, straightened and said: “You were too high. You
should have gone lower.” He placed the suit on a perspex-covered map table. “Even at night, 200 feet is too high these days. Once we had reached the attack phase, you should have copied and taken her down.”

Hohendorf was exactly six feet tall, with the palest of blue eyes, and a crop of fine blond hair. Without the cumbersome flight gear, his body was slim and tough-looking. His unlined face was deceptive. At twenty-eight, he looked like a teenager, until you saw the life experience in his eyes.

“You should have gone down to the sea,” he insisted.

Beuren was indignant. “And hit it?”

“Trust the auto. Besides, in the real thing, you would have died anyway. You just said so.”

“But it’s not the real thing, is it, Axel? Remember that.”

“And you remember, Willi … if the real thing should ever happen, I don’t intend to die; and if that means going down to
five
feet, that’s where I’ll be.”

Beuren looked at Ecker. “What do you say to that, Johann? It will be your neck too.”

Ecker decided to remain neutral. “War is war, and an exercise is an exercise.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Axel is a very good pilot …”

“So am I.”

“Everybody knows that, Willi. You were just
unlucky tonight. Don’t worry about it. Come on, Herr Baron. Let’s get this gear off.”

As they left the debriefing room and went down a corridor to the small room where they would hand in their helmets, G-suits and lifejackets, Ecker continued: “You were a bit hard on him.”

Hohendorf said: “I know Willi is a good pilot, Johann, but he must use more aggression. He’ll be one of the first people we lose, and Wolfgang with him, should we ever have to do it for real, and I don’t want that to happen. If he can’t hack it, I think he should transfer to something else.”

“You know how he feels about Tornadoes. He’d never fly anything else.”

They had reached the gear store. A civilian in his fifties was waiting behind a small counter.

“Good evening, Herr Stöcken,” Hohendorf greeted as he put his gear on the counter. “We’re keeping you up late tonight.”

Herr Stöcken, a former serviceman, was used to night exercises. “No more than usual,” he said. “How did you do, sir?”

It was Ecker who answered as he placed his own gear next to Hohendorf’s. “How can you ask? I have a pilot who needs water skis. Two passes, two scores. You should see the video.”

“I don’t know why you do it,” Herr Stöcken said to Hohendorf, putting the first batch of flying equipment neatly away. The G-suits went on shelves, the helmets and lifejackets being hung next to their
owners’. “You wouldn’t catch me up in one of those things.” He had never flown, but liked being near aircrew. Even in these times they were the nearest thing to heroes.

Hohendorf smiled at him.

“‘wiedersehen, Herr Stöcken,” he said. “Danke.”

“Gute nacht.” Ecker yawned.

“‘wiedersehen, meine Herren,” Herr Stöcken said, sorting dockets as he settled down to wait for the next crew.

Hohendorf and Ecker went farther down the corridor, turned into another which led to a row of small changing rooms. Each went into one where he undressed and, wrapped in a towel, went to the shower room. After showering they changed into civilian clothes and made for the small squadron Mess.

The pine-lined room was partitioned with shelves and well-tended pot plants into a dining area and a lounge bar with comfortable armchairs. A television set stood in one corner, a coffee machine in another. The walls were decorated with squadron photographs: aircraft, people, events. There were also badges and insignia from other units that had paid visits down the years. Off to one side, a swinging door led to the kitchen. There was a light on in the bar, but no one seemed to be around.

As they entered, Ecker said: “A coffee? Or would you prefer a beer from the kitchen fridge?”

“A coffee, thanks, Johann.”

Hohendorf went over to a window and looked out. The lights of the airfield glowed like so many stars in the night. On the ground snow lay thickly, the black gashes of the cleared roads like deep wounds across it. In the distance, plows moved to and fro, their lights swinging in bright swathes. The weather people had said no further snow was expected.

“It wouldn’t be like this,” Hohendorf said, his forehead against the cold glass, “in a real war. So neat and tidy.”

“Would anything still be here?” Ecker queried drily. “Come, Axel. Your coffee’s ready. Come and sit down.”

Hohendorf came away from the window and took a seat next to Ecker at a small, low table.

“I know Willi likes to fly Tornadoes,” he said. “And I know he’s good. But if he thinks he will kill himself by going lower, one day he might decide to … and then he
will
kill himself. And Wolfie too, of course.”

“What are you trying to say?”

Hohendorf took a swallow of coffee. Glared at

“What’s wrong?” Ecker asked innocently.

“You forgot the sugar.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“You’re not,” Hohendorf told him. “Ever since you gave up sugar, you’ve been trying your crusade on me.”

“Do you good.”

“God save me from the converted. I remember when you gave up cigarettes. But I was lucky then, never having been a smoker. The sugar, Johann. Please.”

Ecker gave in and got the sugar.

“Thank you,” Hohendorf said drily. “What am I trying to say about Willi?” He put two teaspoonsful into his mug, stirred, then laid the spoon down. “Wilhelm has a wife and two children. Wolfgang has a wife and a baby. I don’t want to see either of them go. Someone has to get Willi to come to terms with flying low. If not, then—”

“Not everyone’s like you, Axel. Willi handles two hundred feet well enough. He’s a very safe pilot.”

“I know that.”

“So what are you going to do? Tell the boss what you think?”

Hohendorf stared at his back-seater. “Are you crazy? I can’t do that to Willi.”

“Then what?”

“I’ll talk to him.”

“And how are you going to do that without upsetting him?”

“I’ll find a way.”

“I wish you luck.”

“I’ll take him up in the trainer. We can work it out up there.”

“Oh yes.” Ecker was skeptical.”
You ‘re
going to
give Willi Beuren a check-ride? A man who was on Tornadoes two years before you were? Oh I can just see it.”

“I’ll ask him to give
me
a check-ride.”

“He’s not going to fall for that. After tonight’s performance, how are you going to persuade him you need a checkout? How are you going to persuade the boss, for that matter?” Ecker shook his head. “Give it up, Axel. Willi is all right …”

“Look, Johann. Wolfgang felt they should have gone lower tonight. He didn’t say so in there, but I know how he felt. I’ve flown with him. He’s not as good as you, but he’s very, very able. In a little while, he’ll be snapping at your heels. And already he can handle the ski level. He knew that’s what they should have done tonight.” Hohendorf sighed. “All right, Johann. I’m going to leave it for now. But I tell you there’s an ugly feeling in my gut about this, and it worries me.”

They finished their coffees and stood up to leave. Ecker took the mugs into the kitchen to rinse them out. Hohendorf went to the main entrance to wait for him.

On a wall near the double doors was a large frame containing passport-type photographs of squadron aircrew, past and present. Each carried a small caption beneath denoting name, rank, and period of service with the unit. Beneath a few something else was appended: a small inked-in, black cross. There were four beneath the newer photographs;
people who had died, two into the sea off Bornholm.

Hohendorf read his own entry silently. KAPITÄN LEUTNANT AXEL Baron Von WIETZEHOHENDORF. Next to his, was Ecker’s. KAPITÄN LEUTNANT JOHANN ECKER.

Footsteps made him turn. Ecker approached, and looked at him questioningly.

“The board interests you suddenly?”

Hohendorf said nothing. He turned back to the board, searching for two other names. KAPITÄN LEUTNANT WILHELM BEUREN, and OBERLEUTNANT ZUR SEE WOLFGANG FLACHT. He imagined one day seeing small black crosses beneath those names.

Ecker’s own eyes followed the direction of Hohendorfs gaze. “Come on, Axel,” he said. “It’s time to put your worries away. We’ve had a long day of it and I’m ready for home and bed.”

Just as they were going out, Beuren and Flacht went past, their debriefing over, on their way to change out of their flying suits.

Flacht waved cheerily. Hohendorf and Ecker responded, then went wearily out into the cold, still night.

The car park was a short distance from the squadron buildings. Hohendorf glanced up at the sky. A faint sound of jet engines came to him.

“The boss on his way back?” he remarked to Ecker.

Ecker glanced at his watch. The dial glowed faintly at him. “It should be. It’s just past midnight. His ETA’s in five minutes.”

Hohendorf was sure Ecker was correct. The squadron commander always made his estimated time of arrival.

“Are you going to wait for him?” Ecker queried.

Hohendorf shook his head. “No. I told you I’d leave it for the time being.” He walked to his car, a dark red Porsche 944 Turbo. A rich man’s toy.

Ecker accompanied him, and stood to one side as he unlocked the car and climbed in. He started the engine. Ecker was still standing there. He lowered his window.

“What’s up, Johann?”

Ecker came forward, leaned on the car, and lowered his head. “Why don’t you come over and spend the night with us?”

“I’ve got a perfectly good bed waiting for me.”

“You’ve been in that house by yourself for a month now. My Erika’s worried about you. You know she is. Ever since Anne-Marie went back to Munich … Erika thinks you’re going to sell the house and move into the Fliegerhorst Mess. You can’t do that. There’s never anyone there except a few green Fähnrich officer candidates waiting for assignment. You’ll be bored out of your mind.”