Trophy (6 page)

“What sort of weekend?”

“Oh ho-ho. Listen to him.” She tossed the red flimsy at him. Instinctively he caught it and selfconsciously rolled it into a tight ball which he shoved into a trouser pocket. “I wouldn’t put it there. Just imagine what will happen when you pull out your keys.”

“Go and get your things if you want to get that plane.”

“Seeing her later, are you?”

“Morven …” he began warningly.

“I’m going. I’m going.”

While she went to collect the small travel bag she’d brought with her, he returned to his room to find a hiding place for Kim Mannon’s underwear. He tried six places before deciding on his own travel bag.

“You’re excited by her, aren’t you?” Morven yelled at him from her room.

“That’s right … tell the whole street.”

“Well? Aren’t you?”

“No,” he said.

“Liar!”

Which was true enough.

Just over 1600 kilometers to the south of Ham
burg
and a little eastwards, a pair of F-104S Star-fighters belonging to the
Aeronautica Militare Italiana,
the Italian Air Force, were high over the Adriatic and curving round to head back to Rimini for a landing. They had been engaging in a high altitude interception exercise with a pair of USAF F-15 Eagles that had come from the air combat maneuvering range at Decimomannu on Sardinia, for the occasion. The Eagles were well on their way back to base, somewhat miffed.

The humble Starfighters had laid a well set-up ambush and had nailed one of the mighty American birds. The Eagle pilots, confident they were at the controls of the world’s most capable and potent fighter, had allowed their confidence to leave them vulnerable. An adversary who already knows he’s the underdog, will make up in cunning what he lacks
in capability. The result had been a nice video shot to be crowed over later, of an Eagle framed squarely by the gunsight of an aircraft which owed its genesis to the late fifties, and its first flight to the early sixties.

The pilot responsible for the unfortunate Eagle’s embarrassment was the newly-promoted Capitano Niccolo Bagni. The rank was a mere two days old, and his flying suit still bore the
tenente
insignia. His colleagues called him Nick the Greek because his family originally came from Syracuse in Sicily, and his unofficial call sign was “El Greco.” Bagni was himself a native of Florence.

By all the rules, Bagni should not have been a fast jet pilot, and particularly not of an aircraft as unforgiving as the needle-sharp Starfighter. Virtually a missile with stub wings, the F-104 had claimed many an unwary pilot.

Bagni was at once frightened of, and in love with it. He was also frightened of and in love with flying. The fear, no one, not even his instructors during training, suspected. The love was patently obvious to all. Bagni’s worst moments were take-off and landing, with landing being the greatest of nightmares. Yet once off the ground, he became transformed. The air was his element and in his hands the capricious Starfighter became an artist’s brush, tracing elegant patterns in the sky. His fellow pilots always insisted his nickname had less to do with his Sicilian ancestry than with the artistry of his flying.
That artistry had enabled him to win today’s aerial contest.

The Starfighters, built for speed rather than turning capability, had looked like easy meat for the agile Eagles. But Bagni and his partner had used their assets, high speed and small size, to turn the tables. The two F-104s had flashed past the Eagles splitting into different directions. Taking the bait, the Eagles had turned after them. Bagni had gone high while his number two, Vittorio Baldassare, had streaked earthwards. They had also listened on their adversary pilots’ channels. The eavesdropping had proved interesting.

“I’ve got lock-on!” one American voice had crowed. “He’s moving, but I’ve still got him!” Baldassare had been the intended target.

“Shit!” came the other Eagle. “Goddammit, mine’s gone!”

“I’m hanging in! I’m hanging in!” exclaimed Baldassare’s pursuer. “He’s not getting away!”

Bagni meanwhile had gone almost vertical and had cut after-burner. As speed bled off, he kicked left rudder, pivoting on his wingtip and was heading down again as his own pursuing Eagle had begun to turn. It was a mistake by the F-15 pilot. Using height as energy. Bagni slammed into burner and began to catch up. The F-15 obeyed the laws of physics. Pulling hard Gs, even if you’re a powerful fighter, will still cost you in speed. High speed does not a tight circle make.

Bagni knew he could not hope to turn with the Eagle. His one chance lay with cutting into the better aircraft’s circle and if he misjudged it, the Eagle would not give him a second opportunity and he’d be nailed. The initial surprise would be gone and the Eagle pilot would be waiting. Fast and furious was the way to do it.

Coming down diagonally enabled him to curve behind the F-15 whose pilot was still looking for him. Despite the tightness of its circle, the American aircraft was still moving very fast indeed. Bagni didn’t want to lose it, and he kept his nerve as the range closed. At the moment when the Eagle’s path began to fly it towards the F-104′s gunsight, Bagni knew he had won.

“Good afternoon,” he had said in English. “Have a nice day.”

“Oh
shit!”
had come a furious, embarrassed voice, and the Eagle had violently reversed its turn. But the kill had already been made. “Goddammit, Rattler. You should have been covering me!”

The second Eagle had been getting seriously annoyed with Baldassare’s tiny, darting Starfighter.

“Hold still!” the pilot was saying as the designator box kept prancing all over the sky and the attention-getter kept beeping away. His colleague’s sudden call ruined the shot. “Dammit!” he swore quietly.

The Starfighter had got away.

“Knock it off, knock it off,” the nailed Eagle had
then called disgustedly, using the prescribed signal for termination of an engagement.

As the two Italians now headed towards Rimini, Baldassare said: “How does it feel, Capitano ‘E1 Greco,’ to have zapped the mighty Eagle?”

Bagni knew his wingman was gleeful. A small legend was in the making. Bagni decided to enter into the spirit of things.

“Just a normal day’s work for an artist.”

“Oh to be a great sky magician,” Baldassare began wistfully. “What are we poor ordinary pilots to …”

“Check my tail!” Bagni interrupted suddenly, voice sharp.

Though taken by surprise, Baldassare immediately positioned himself behind the other aircraft in order to do a visual inspection.

“There’s nothing wrong with your tail.”

“The fire warning light is giving me the slow blink. Have a good look.”

Seconds passed tensely while Baldassare carefully manoeuvred his aircraft as he gave Bagni’s tail a more detailed scrutiny.

“Still nothing. No extra smoke.” The J79 turbojet often tended to leave a slight trail. “Perhaps you’ve got a malfunction with the light.”

“I hope so. Keep with it and warn me the moment you see anything.”

Baldassare acknowledged.

Fire is every pilot’s horror and in a fast jet, with
all that high-octane fuel about, it is even more so. Given his own secret battle with landing, it was Bagni’s worst nightmare come true. He crossed himself, praying devoutly that someone had not checked the light properly. Already, despite his terror, his mind was clinically assessing the choices of action if there was indeed an incipient fire.

“Still nothing,” came Baldassare’s voice.

Bagni made a wry grimace in his mask. He was being repaid for being so unashamedly pleased by the Eagle pilot’s discomfiture. Still, it felt good to take an Ego Driver down a peg now and then. The chance did not come very often.

“How is it looking?” he now asked his wingman.

“Still clean. And the light?”

“I’ve still got it. Engine temperature’s normal, so far.” Perhaps he would make it down all right, after all. He didn’t fancy ejecting, but that would be better than trying to land with a burning engine that might die at any moment.

He checked his instruments. All had normal readings. If they were to be believed, the engine appeared to be in perfect health. He told himself to remain calm. He could not ignore the winking light, but he would not let it panic him.

As if on cue, Baldassare’s voice said in his ear: “You’re still looking good.”

Bagni decided to warn Rimini of a possible
emergency. “Striker One to Goddess,” he began, using the day’s call sign. “Striker One to Goddess.”

“We have you, Striker One.”

“I have a fire warning. Repeat. A fire warning.”

He could almost see the sudden stiffening in those who’d heard that message and knew its implications. When the voice came on again, it was measured, as if trying hard not to spook him.

“Roger, Striker One. Understand fire warning. We’re getting ready for you.”

His smile was bitter, only a grim twist of the lips. Getting ready. By now, the fire engines would be racing to take up station, followed by the ambulances …

No. Put that out of your mind.

“Advise on your current state,” Goddess was saying.

“All readings normal except fire warning. No engine surge.” He checked that his straps were secure, just in case.

“Vittorio?” he said to Baldassare.

“Looking good,” came the reply. “You’re clean, Nico.”

They continued their descent, having been given priority over all other traffic heading for the base. For Bagni, it would be a straight run in. Baldassare would wait until he was safely down, then come in for a normal landing.

The Starfighter was handling perfectly. If only
that light would behave itself! He felt as if he were sitting on a bomb, waiting for it to go off.

Baldassare was saying: “Don’t wait in there if it looks like trouble, Nico. She’s not a glider. Punch out if it looks bad.”

“We’re not there yet. She’s handling perfectly. I’m watching her. Don’t worry.”

“Don’t worry, he says.”

The descent continued without drama, then it was time to set up for the landing. The tower left him to it, wisely choosing not to distract him with useless queries. If he had a problem, they’d soon know about it.

Speed was now down to 250 knots, just over 460 kilometers per hour. Time to lower the flaps and gear. The wheels came down and he trimmed the aircraft in the new configuration. No control problem. No fire. But not the time to be complacent. The engine could blow at any moment. Flaps fully extended to landing configuration. Engine to 93 percent, boundary layer blowing coming on, helping the flaps to give more lift. 180 knots now, creeping down to 175.

Runway threshold coming up. Speed over it at well over 300 kilometers an hour. Nearly 325. Air brakes out. Throttle back. 75 percent power now. 152 knots. Here’s the runway. Wham. Braking chute out, streaming behind the tail. Powerful retardation. Slowing down. Safe.
Safe!
Fire warning light still blinking. Lousy malfunction. Must be. But still no
chances to be taken. Drop chute. Fire engines following, just in case. Ambulances too. Sorry, boys. No trade for you today.

Sweat was on Bagni’s brow, and his entire head felt sticky within the helmet. He taxied off the runway and stopped well away from other aircraft. He shut down the engine. The warning light was still on. He shut down all systems swiftly. Snap harness release. Canopy open. Someone had put the ladder against the aircraft: one of the fire crew, in full gear.

Bagni started to climb out, keeping his helmet on. He glanced at the instrument panel. The fire warning light was out. Even so. A hot engine can still explode. He got out of the Starfighter quickly and hurried well away from it. What had taken seconds, had seemed a lifetime. Seconds only, from landing to a full stop.

He removed his helmet, and turned to look as Baldassare swept over to break for entry into the circuit. He glanced at his own aircraft now surrounded by the fire crews, waiting for something to happen. Nothing did. The aircraft was perfectly all right. The ambulance gave him a lift back to the squadron.

Baldassare landed smoothly, giving the ambulance a thumbs-up as he taxied by.

After the debrief, Baldassare was hushed. A quick check of the aircraft by the ground crew had discovered two things: the fire warning light had indeed malfunctioned: chillingly, however, a hairline crack
had been found in one of the fuel feed pipes that ran atop the main tanks, beneath the Starfighter’s spine. Had Bagni continued hard maneuvering and used the engine robustly, the crack might have widened to spew fuel all over the hot engine, resulting in a catastrophic fire.

“So all along,” Baldassare was saying in wonder, “you did have an emergency, Nico.” He shook his head, marvelling, and held a forefinger and thumb together. “That close to a fire. A guardian angel made that warning light blink. I think I’ll ask the Colonnello to keep me flying with you. You’re lucky. A pilot needs to be lucky sometimes.”

Bagni smiled. “You don’t need me, Vitto. You’re a good pilot.”

“Perhaps, but not an artist like ‘E1 Greco.’ You must teach me how.”

Bagni put a hand on the younger pilot’s shoulder. “I don’t think there’s much I can teach you—but if the Colonnello agrees, you can be my wingman for as long as you like.”

Baldassare grinned. “That’s what I wanted to hear. Now to some real business. I hope you’re not going far this weekend because the guys and I have planned a little something tonight to celebrate your advancement to capitano. After your close shave with the fire, we intend to make it something you’ll remember. You’ll need the weekend to recover! The squadron bar this evening.”

“I’ll be there, but it can’t be an all-nighter. I’m off up to Milan in the morning.”

“Bianca?”

“Yes. I promised her last weekend, and couldn’t make it because of standby duty. I cannot let her down again.”

“Why don’t you two just get married and solve the problem?”

“She’s not ready yet. She has her business up there. Very successful. And I’m not ready either. We like it the way it is. What about you? Why don’t you marry that little girl of yours?”