Trophy (7 page)

Baldassare was horrified. “Me? I’m only twenty-two!”

“And I’m twenty-five. Plenty of time for us both.”

“Are you going up in that roller skate of yours?”

“Careful. You’re talking about the car I love.”

The “roller skate” was a beautiful, wedge-shaped Fiat X 1/9 in gleaming black. Bagni treated it like gold.

“Get yourself a real car,” Baldassare teased good-naturedly.

“We can’t all have millionaire fathers.” Baldassare’s family were industrialists and his father had given him a red Ferrari Dino for his twenty-first birthday.

“Oh he’s not a millionaire,” Baldassare said
with the ease of someone who was close enough to millions not to care. “Not in cash, anyway.”

“You mean he still needs a hundred lira, or so?”

A
sergente maggiore
came up to them. “Sir,” he began to Bagni, “Tenente Colonnello Croce wishes to see you.”

“Thank you, Sergente. I’ll be right there.”

“Sir. And sir, it was good that you got that Eagle. We all heard it. Well done, sir.”

Bagni smiled. “Thank you, Sergente Magliano. It’s for the squadron.”

Magliano went away delighted. A little stencil of an Eagle would appear on the squadron notice board, to join others of different aircraft types nailed by the squadron pilots during air combat exercises. Among the Phantoms, F-16s—two lucky shots—Jaguars, and Tornado ground attack aircraft, would be Bagni’s Eagle; a true prize.

Baldassare said: “You’re his hero for life. No one else is going to get another Eagle. I’ll bet the old man wants to congratulate you.”

“More like extra duty for something I should or should not have done.”

It was lightly said. Their commanding officer was fierce, but he was also fair.

“You’d better go and find out,” Baldassare advised. “You don’t want him to send Magliano a second time.”

“You’re right. See you later.”

“See you, Nico.”

Croce, a big man with a drooping moustache who had difficulty squeezing himself into the Starfighter, was smiling when Bagni entered his office. The moustache made him look like every schoolboy’s idea of a seventeenth-century pirate.

“Ah. The great ‘E1 Greco’ himself,” Croce greeted warmly. “Come in, Bagni. Come in!”

Bagni moved farther into the room.

“I hate losing good pilots,” Croce went on abruptly.

Bagni stared at him. “We lost someone?”

“No, no. I don’t mean in a flying accident. I’m talking about you. You were excellent today. Not only did you get us our first and quite probably last Eagle, you handled that emergency with the sort of skill and calm under stress that I need on the squadron.”

Bagni was still staring at his boss. “Then who are we going to lose, sir?”

The moustache twitched sardonically. “I have no choice. I’ve been ordered to make you available for transfer to a new squadron. It’s a very new and elite unit, made up of NATO crews. I’m afraid you’re going to have to learn to fly with a back-seater.”

“Tornadoes?”

“Yes, but up-graded—not the ones you’ve seen. These will be very fast and very special aircraft. Someone’s read your confidential file and decided you’re just the man they need. As I said, I’ve no
choice in the matter. I’m proud they want you, but reluctant to let you go.”

“Will there be anyone else from the squadron?”

Croce shook his head. “You’re the only one going from here. I hear there’s a little party in your honor later on in the squadron bar. Am I invited?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Good. I’ll see you later.”

“Yes, sir. May I ask where this new unit is to be based?”

“Scotland.”

“Scotland?
My God—at this time of year?”

“It’s not exactly the Arctic, Bagni.”

“No, sir. But it might as well be. My blood belongs to the Mediterranean.”

“Your blood belongs wherever the AMI sends you. Besides, the actual posting won’t come through for several months yet. They’re still building the base, apparently.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Bagni …”

“Sir?”

“Not a word to anyone. As far as you’re concerned, the subject is classified.”

“Tenente Baldassare was with me when Magliano brought the message.”

“If he wants to know why I sent for you, I’m sure you can give him a suitable answer.”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right, Nico. That’s all. See you in the bar.
And by the way—” Croce leaned forward across his desk. “That was truly magnificent flying today. Your personal score on the board is now two Phantoms, two Jaguars and now, the Eagle. Impressive trophies.”

Bagni smiled briefly, nodded, and went out.

A full hour after he had left Tenente Colonello Croce, Bagni still sat in his room at the Mess, facing the wall. The day had been mild, but in winter darkness came early. He had not turned on the lights.

He stared at the unseen wall, hands gripping the sides of the chair as his terror during the landing was at last allowed to surface. There had been other rooms, and other chairs.

After a while he sighed deeply, left the chair, and turned on the lights. Then he began to prepare himself for the night’s revelry in the squadron bar. He stared at the face in the mirror, and paused in the act of brushing back the dark curls of his hair.

It was a Roman face with a high forehead, strong planes and a proud nose. His dark brown eyes were lustrous in the reflected light. He was not a big man. At five inches under six feet, his body was compact and seemed just right for the small Starfighter cockpit. Yet there was an elegance about him that belonged to a much taller man. Seen together with Baldassare, it would be easy to mistake them for brothers, for they had the same unhurried manner.

Bagni frowned at his image in the mirror. He
had forgotten to ask the Colonello about making Baldassare his permanent wingman. Given the news about the posting to the special squadron, it probably didn’t matter now.

He rubbed his face with his hands. A new aircraft to get used to and someone else to think about as well, in a back seat. It was bad enough to have an unquenchable terror of smearing himself all over the runway, without being responsible for another man’s life as well.

He stared at the reflection. “Tell the Colonnello,” he said to the face before him. “Tell him you won’t do it. Tell him why.”

He could just imagine Croce’s reaction to that admission. He sighed. As with all past occasions when the matter came to haunt him, he knew he had an even greater terror: that of being grounded.

A shiver went through him, like the shedding of a skin. The persona of “El Greco,” dogfighting artist, was back. He shut the door to the room on his terror, and went to meet his waiting colleagues.

In Schleswig Holstein, it was 1300 hours. Half an hour before, Axel von Hohendorf, leader of a pair of Tornadoes, had swept along the main runway to go into a classic fighter break before landing. The second aircraft was again crewed by Beuren and Flacht. Their day’s mission had been a series of attacks on simulated dense concentrations of coastal surface-to-air missile batteries, with Beuren’s aircraft impersonating
an electronic combat and reconnaisance Tornado. Hohendorf had been detailed to attack the SAM sites after Beuren’s ECR Tornado had first cleared the fire control radars.

The attacks had been successful, with Hohendorf taking his aircraft ultra-low along the designated stretch of coast. Unfortunately, despite Beuren having acquired targets and successfully achieved launch parameters, his aircraft would again not have survived the mission.

Hohendorf, now in civilian clothes, knocked on the door to the squadron commander’s office, the damning evidence of the mission videos weighing heavily upon his mind.

“Komm!”
ordered the voice from within.

Hohendorf pushed the door open and entered. “You wanted to see me, Chief?”

Korvetten Kapitän Hans Wusterhausen was a lean man, his close-cropped dark hair with a silvergray streak at each temple. His gray eyes had a directness about them that gave the impression they were being permanently zeroed onto a target. His was a sometimes unnerving stare, a clear warning that he did not suffer fools gladly. A pilot making a dodgy landing, for instance, would be far better advised to admit it, than offer a lame excuse. His unofficial designation was “Sea Eagle.” No callsign could have been better chosen.

Wusterhausen was highly experienced, and had flown a wide variety of fast jets, including
carrier-borne US Navy F-14 Tomcats while on secondment duties.

He looked up from his desk as Hohendorf entered and shut the door.

“Ah, Axel.” He noted Hohendorfs jeans and sweater. “Ready to set off?”

“I’m hoping to get to the Hamburg tunnel by 1500 at the latest, otherwise I’ll catch all the commuter traffic and be there for hours. You know what it can be like.”

“You’ll make it easily in that Porsche of yours. Besides, I won’t keep you long. That was good work this morning, by the way. You and Johann Ecker have got the highest score of all Blue Force crews, including mine.” He smiled, a little sheepishly. “Well done. You two are a great team.”

“Thank you, sir. But the fact remains, we lost my number two again. Very expensive if we were doing it for real.”

“Willi’s a good pilot, and Wolfgang is second only to Johann as a weapons systems man. What happened?”

Hohendorf found he could not put his anxieties into words. He couldn’t make a firm accusation against Beuren, using his hunch as the only basis. He couldn’t endanger a man’s whole career. On the other hand …

He said: “The units playing Orange Force were a little wise to us, I think. After all, in the past, some
of them have played the role of the Blue Forces themselves.”

Wusterhausen nodded, moved on. “Even so, you still managed to inflict heavy casualties. A destroyer and a frigate, plus ten SAM batteries taken out. As I’ve just said, the highest individual score. Not a bad performance. In any case, we’ll not get the full picture until all the reports from the participating units have been analyzed, now that the exercise is over. My guess is that it will take at least two weeks before we get to see the results.” Wusterhausen gave another smile. “But that’s not why I called you in here. The information I’m about to give you is not to be repeated to anyone … not even to Johann Ecker … until I say so. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Hohendorf acknowledged formally.

“A special squadron is being formed,” Wusterhausen went on. “It is to be a fully-integrated NATO squadron, made up of crews from the Alliance countries. This will please you, Axel. The aircraft will be brand new, Super Tornadoes; fighter variants with a major increase in engine thrust. You’re always going on about wanting more power. Well, you’ll have plenty to play with.”

“I’m
going to be part of this unit?”

“A confidential directive has gone out to a series of units, requiring commanders to recommend personnel. I was asked to supply one crew. I’ve recommended you. I believe that what they’re planning
will suit you perfectly, and they’ll be pleased with you too. Well? Do you want it?”

Conflicting emotions went through Hohendorf. Despite the fact that he already flew an outstanding airplane, the thought of being given a truly powerful Tornado excited him. On the other hand, he did not want to leave the squadron. He didn’t want to leave his friends. Further, Wusterhausen was a good CO. He didn’t want to leave him either, for some unknown person he’d have to learn to understand and work with all over again. The new Tornado was powerful bait, but …

“I can almost hear the argument in your mind.” Wusterhausen’s shrewd, target-wise eyes were amused. “You don’t have a choice. My recommendation can be read as an order. If a fancy new squadron is being created, I want this squadron to be represented. You’re going to be our ambassador.”

Hohendorf stiffened. “When you put it like that, Chief, it’s very difficult to refuse.”

“Believe it.”

“So Johann and I will be leaving—”

“Ah,” Wusterhausen interrupted. “This is the part you’re not going to like. Johann will not be accompanying you.”

Hohendorf looked at his commanding officer in disbelief. “But we’re a tight crew. We’ve been together for—”

Again Wusterhausen interrupted. “… a very long time. I know, Axel. You work well together;
which is why you’re my top crew. Under normal circumstances, I would not split such a team … but these are very special circumstances. I’m sending my best pilot away. I cannot send my best back-seater as well. I need Johann here to bring the newer boys up to scratch.”

There was a knock on the door.

“Excuse me,” Wusterhausen said to him, then:
“Hierein. “

A Bootsmann entered with a sheet of paper. “This just came in, sir,” the communications petty officer began. “Leutnant Müller thought you should see it immediately.”

Wusterhausen took the decoded message. “Thank you, Aurich.”

He began to read as the Bootsmann went out. Hohendorf watched him, waiting.

“You’ll find this of interest, Axel,” Wusterhausen eventually said, looking up from the paper. “Two United States Air Force F-15 Eagles were buzzed this morning at high altitude by a pair of Fulerums who had come up for a look at our exercise. They had a mock combat with the Americans, before heading for home.”

Hohendorf raised his eyebrows. “Fulcrum” was the NATO name for the MiG-29, a formidably agile and powerful Soviet single-seater.

“Then a little later, two Royal Air Force Tornadoes …” Wusterhausen checked the message once more. “… F.3s on a practice long-distance patrol
were met by a pair of Su-27 Flankers, this time off the coast of Norway. They too played a game with the RAF, before heading home.”

“How did the Tornadoes do?” The Su-27 was larger, even more formidable than the MiG-29.

“It doesn’t say. Nothing about the Eagles, either.”

“Ever since the MiGs showed-off at Farnborough, they’ve been getting a little bolder.”

Wusterhausen said drily: “You must admit they were very impressive.”

“They’ve got their weaknesses. A good pilot could exploit them in a proper stand-up fight.”

Wusterhausen’s smile was speculative. “Think you could take them?”