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Ferris was still not worried, but he thought a little warning wouldn’t come amiss.

“Watch out for his next trick, Richard. He’s trying
for the pull-through. He wants to drag you through to Hard Deck, but he himself won’t touch it. Don’t get target-fixated, old mate.”

About forty seconds had passed since the turn. Palmer was still silent. The Tornado hurtled on down after Bagni’s aircraft.

“Watch the baseline, Richard,” Ferris warned. “We’re pretty close. And there he goes. He’s pulled up, Richard, and we’re going into the baseline. We’ve lost it. Never mind. Go up after him, Richard. The baseline, for Chrissake. Oh
shit.
We’ve just gone through. The boss is going to have our guts for garters.”

Ferris broke off, suddenly furious. What the hell was Palmer up to?

Jason and Beresford watched as the Tornado crossed the red line and continued earthwards. Everyone had heard Ferris’s voice. But a new tenseness had come over Jason’s body.

Beresford was watching him.

“You think something’s wrong, lad,” he remarked quietly.

In the Tornado, Ferris was desperate. “Richard! Come on, you drongo! Pull that bloody stick. Are you looking for a wash-out?
Richard!”

The Tornado continued to lose height. Then the voice warning system, pre-empting the sound of the low altitude attention-getter, was activated. The
computers had decided that if the aircraft continued upon its present course, impact would occur.

“Altitude!” the voice began. “Altitude!” Then:
“Pull up! Pull up!”

Lights were flashing, and the ground proximity tone sounded.

But Ferris had already decided to take action. He yelled into his mike on the emergency channel.
“Pilot incapacitated! Initiating command eject!”

Even as he spoke, he had reached for the lever to his right, and moved it forward.

Both seats left the aircraft cleanly, but he had waited much too long. They fired into a mountainside, killing both men instantly. The unoccupied aircraft flew steadily on for some moments, then ploughed into a valley in a ball of fire that scattered wreckage over a wide area. A sole main wheel rose high into the air, seeming to hang motionless as it reached apogee, before falling back to earth and slamming into the ground. It did not bounce, but remained firmly embedded in the spot where it had made its impact.

Wreaths of dark smoke rose towards the bright sky.

A horrified gasp went round the control room. Now there was stunned silence. All eyes were on the screen where the computers in their unemotional way had marked the aircraft with the sign of the coffin.

“Oh Neil! Oh my dear God …”

A woman’s voice. Jason turned to look. Caroline Hamilton-Jones stood by the computer console, tears in her eyes.

Beresford put a gentle hand on Jason’s arm. “I’m sorry, lad. Truly sorry.”

Jason sighed. “Thank you … I must go. Things to do.”

He put down the remote and walked away, stopping by Caroline Hamilton-Jones. “Caroline …”

Her mouth was contorted with grief. No words came.

“Look—why don’t you take a break?”

She wiped her eyes and shook her head.

He touched her gently on the shoulder, then crossed to where Thurson was standing. “I’m going with the crash crew, sir,” he said. “See what can be found.”

“Yes. Of course.”

One of the MPs found enough voice to say, “I don’t believe I just saw two men die. It seemed so….” He ran out of words.

Beresford had caught up. “There’ll be some flak after this,” he said to Jason. “I want you to know that I’d like to be in your corner. I can see what this is doing to you, and I’m very sorry. But politics are politics, lad. I’d be letting down my party if I didn’t speak out.”

Jason stared at him blankly. “What exactly are you saying?”

“I’m saying I’ll bring you down if I have to. I’m sorry. You’re a good man—but there are wider considerations. Money. Airbases or schools. Maybe that’s what it comes down to. You’ve got troubles enough, lad, I know that… but I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t warn you.”

Jason turned away. Jim Beresford was part of a battle that belonged to another day.

Bagni circled the area of the crash, horror chilling his mind. He had killed Palmer. He had dragged the younger pilot too low. Palmer hadn’t had the experience to see the danger for himself.

“I killed him,” Bagni murmured. He was speaking to himself, but Stockmann had picked up the low whisper.

“You’re talking bull there, Nico,” the back-seater said. “This had nothing to do with you. We hold here till the helo arrives, then we head for home.”

“I did kill him,” Bagni insisted. “I dragged him down.”

“Nico, you’re talking shit, I tell you. This was a weird crash. Something was wrong. He didn’t even try to pull up after you. His ship went straight in. It was almost as if the guy had gone on holiday. Here’s the crash helo. Come on, Nico. Leave them to it. Let’s go home.”

Bagni turned the Tornado for base, seeing Palmer and Ferris in his mind’s eye. Palmer shy,
quiet. Ferris dry, easy-going. They would not be in the Mess tonight.

Bagni screwed up his first landing attempt, and had to go round again.

“Nico,” Stockmann called. “Quit horsing around and put this goddam bird down. You did not kill Palmer and Ferris. Now put us down.”

It was not his best of landings, but he got down in one piece. After the extensive debriefing, he went to his room in the Mess and shut himself in.

He sat on the bed, and watched his hands tremble.

The news, as so often happened on units, went the rounds of November One like wildfire, long before the official announcement. An airman had popped into Jason’s staff office where young Sergeant Graham, who was not afraid of Air Vice-Marshals, held the fort.

“Have you heard, Sarge?”

“Heard what?”

“A Tornado’s down. Palmer and Ferris.”

Her face went gray with shock. Even as the realisation hit home, the phone rang.

Mechanically she picked it up. “Wing Commander Jason’s office.” Tears were streaming down her cheeks.

The airman stared at her uncomprehendingly.

At the other end, Jason said gently, “Sergeant Graham, Sparrowhawk’s down.”

“Yes, sir. I know—” Her voice broke.

“Gail? Gail … words aren’t much good, my dear, but I’m truly sorry.”

She hadn’t known that he was aware of how things were between her and Richard. How things had been…. But a good commanding officer missed very little. She began to sob openly.

“Dear God,” Jason muttered. “What an unholy mess. Look. I’m going over to the crash site. Get Corporal Lovell to stand in for you and go off for the rest of the day. I’ll talk to you when I return.”

She controlled herself. “If it’s all right with you, sir, I’d rather stay.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, sir. I’d prefer it.”

“Very well.” He paused. “I’ll see you when I get back.”

“Yes, sir.”

She rang off. The airman went silently away. She sat on at her desk, fingering the letter that had arrived that morning, addressed to her personally. She had wanted to give Richard the surprise when they met later that day.

Her acceptance for a commission had come through.

Tom Wells, as the instructor who had known Palmer longest, wanted to deliver the news personally to his parents. Inglis gave permission, and Thurson found him a seat on the HS 125 taking the MPs back to
London. A car was made available at Northolt and a few hours after the crash Wells, in civilian clothes, was standing outside the modest semi-detached house on the outskirts of Reading.

Palmer’s mother opened the door to his ring. “Yes? Can I help you?”

“Mrs. Palmer, I’m Tom Wells …” She stared blankly. “Perhaps your son has mentioned—”

She brightened. “Mr. Wells. Oh yes—Richard’s often spoken about …” She tailed off. Her hand went to her mouth as she made the connection. “Oh no,” she whispered. “Not Richard. Not Richard. Just now, I heard the news on the radio that an airplane had crashed in Scotland. You’ve come to tell me it’s my Richard. You have, haven’t you?”

Wells felt his eyes grow hot. “Mrs. Palmer, may I come in?”

She stood back dazedly to allow him through. She closed the door and went ahead of him with slow, emphatic steps. They went into a small, neatly furnished lounge and sat down awkwardly.

“Tell you what,” she said brightly. “Make some tea, shall I?”

Not knowing what else to say, he said: “Yes, please.”

She immediately stood up and went to the kitchen. He heard her moving around. He stayed in his seat, rooted to the spot by his inability to reach her. Surprisingly quickly she returned, bringing a
well-laid tray. There were biscuits. He stood up to help with the tray.

“Thank you,” she told him politely, and began to pour. “My husband’s out. Milk and sugar?”

“Yes, please. One sugar.”

Carefully, she carried out his request. “There you are,” she said, handing him the cup. Then she sat back, and smiled at him.

She could not have switched on the kettle. The tea was cold.

Wells drank it.

“Biscuit?” she asked.

“Yes, please.”

She handed him the plate. He took one.

“Thank you.”

Unnervingly, she continued to watch him with that fixed smile. Then the unnatural resolve gave, and her face crumpled. Still sitting bolt upright, she began to weep in a soft high-pitched wail that sounded like a small animal in pain.

Wells put down his cold tea and went to her; but she waved him away.

“Why didn’t you look after him!” she suddenly said accusingly. “He said you always looked after him. Squadron Leader Wells this, Squadron Leader Wells that. Why didn’t you look after him?”

Wells didn’t know what to say. He was grateful to hear a key in the door.

“Hello, love,” a male voice greeted. “Got company, have we?” It was a sturdy, cheerful voice and
a moment later its owner, a sturdy, cheerful man in corduroy trousers, tweed jacket, a checked shirt and knitted tie entered the room. He first looked at Wells. “I know you. You’re Tom Wells, Richard’s instructor.”

“That’s correct, sir. You visited Richard during advanced training. Your wife was ill at the time.”

“Yes. I remember.” Even as he spoke, the older man had been taking in the scene, putting two and two together. It didn’t need genius to work out why Wells was there. “Let me see to my wife,” he said to him. “I’ll be right back.”

She struggled to her feet. “I’ll see to myself, Harry. You … you talk to Mr. Wells. He’s come a long way. I’m going upstairs. You can tell me what he says later.”

She allowed her husband to help her to the door. Wells stood up as she left the room. She didn’t look back at him. Mr. Palmer stood in the doorway, watching her go up the stairs.

“Won’t be long, love,” he called after her. Then he returned to Wells. “Life has to go on, Mr. Wells.” He sighed deeply. “That’s what they always say, isn’t it?”

Wells nodded silently.

“Thank you for coming,” Palmer said. “I know it can’t have been easy.”

“I wanted to do this, Mr. Palmer. A phone call’s not right, or some total stranger at the door. I cared
for Richard. He was one of the best young pilots I’ve ever had the privilege of training.”

“Thank you for saying that. I know it’s not the usual stuff—dear sir or madam, your son was brave and did his duty … You know the crap I mean.”

“Yes. I do.”

Palmer’s voice was husky. “He always wanted to be a pilot, you know. Ever since a boy. His room’s full of stuff about airplanes. We’ve kept all his models.” Palmer hesitated, staring at his hands. “I could show you if you like. Would you like to see?”

“I’d be honored.”

“It’s just upstairs.”

Richard Palmer’s room had been kept tidy by a loving mother. Everything was spotlessly clean. Models of aircraft were arranged neatly on shelves fixed about the room. Others hung on lengths of string from the ceiling. Bookcases were full of aeronautical works, from boys’ stories to the most advanced aerospace technology. There were photographs of Richard at all stages of flying training; photographs from university days; photographs from schooldays; photographs of him as a small child and finally, as a baby. It was a shrine.

I’ve got to get out of here, Wells was thinking.

Palmer picked up a model. It was of a Hawk. “I made this one. He stopped making them when he went to university, so I took over.” He sat down on the unused bed. “I’d been hoping to play with these
with a grandchild one day. Do you know he met a girl recently?”

Wells was surprised. “No. I had no idea.”

“He was going to bring her down to meet us. Well … it’s all gone now.” Palmer put the model of the Hawk gently down and stood up. “Thanks again for coming, Mr. Wells …”

Wells gritted his teeth. There was one last formality. “Arrangements are being made to have Richard flown down, Mr. Palmer. If you need anything …”

“No. We’re fine, thank you. Would you think it rude of me if I said we’d prefer a quiet service? Just family.”

“I understand.”

“But ask the girl, if you can find out who she is. Gail, he said her name was. We’d like to see her, if only this once.”

“I’ll make enquiries.”

Palmer held out his hand. “Thank you. Would you mind showing yourself out? Richard’s mother—you do understand?”

“Of course,” Wells said, and made his way downstairs and out of the sad house.

The next morning, Bagni knocked on the door to Jason’s office.

“Come in,” the Wing Commander called.

Bagni entered and saluted with unusual formality.
Jason frowned. “At ease. You wanted a word with me?”

Bagni came instantly to the point. “It was all my fault, sir.”

“What was your fault? You’re not going to take the blame for that crash, are you? I saw it all on the screen, Nico. Yours was a legitimate manoeuvre. You were not to know Palmer had suffered G-loc. He blacked out.”

“I dragged him down …”

“Let me ask you a question … If this had been a real combat would you have carried on with the manoeuvre?”

“Yes sir, but …”

“There isn’t a ‘but’ in there, Capitano Bagni. You’re a fighter pilot. So was Palmer. What happened to him was not your fault.”