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“May I speak frankly, sir?”

“You might as well. The nation heard you last night, and probably the world by now. Did you look at the news?”

“No, sir.”

“What it is to be wise,” Thurson said. It did not sound like a compliment.

“I said what I did to prevent a small problem from becoming a much larger one. I had no idea the man with the camera was a television reporter.”

“He wasn’t, but with the sell-anything mania that’s about these days, he quickly found someone with a chequebook.”

“I don’t think we’ve come off too badly,” Jason said. “After all, if we’d done nothing, or if the service police had been used to move them, that camera would be recording very different scenes by now.
More cameras and more people would have arrived, and we would probably be faced with a permanent camp on our doorstep.”

Thurson digested this, and looked at his subordinate thoughtfully. “For a man who dislikes politicians, you appear to know how to wield their weapons.”

“I never said I didn’t like politicians.”

“Not on TV you didn’t. For which we can be profoundly grateful, because you’ll certainly be meeting some of them now. Enemies. You and I are about to visit an inquisition chamber. Therein are some of the very people I’ve invited to visit November One. You do remember, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir. I do.”

“Good. In addition to the Honorable Members, there’ll be a gentleman from the Ministry. He’ll no doubt have some pertinent questions to put to you.”

“I take it, sir, I’m on my own?”

Thurson stared at him. “What gave you that idea?”

“Judging by the nature of your call last night …”

“The ministerial secretary was literally at my elbow as I spoke to you. I had to let him see I was on top of things, if you get my drift.”

“And today?”

“I fought for the November project, Christopher, because I believe in it. I’m not about to abandon
it because a bunch of the unwashed are looking for another issue to protest about.”

Jason would not have called the people at the gate unwashed, but he let Thurson have his say.

“If, however, your words get you into more trouble with your audience today,” the Air Vice-Marshal continued, “you’re going to have to bail yourself out. I’ll help where I can, but I can only do so much.” Thurson sighed. “My God, Chris. What possessed you?”

“The need for survival, sir.”

“Survival, Wing Commander?” The gentleman from the Ministry turned out to be a lady. She had caught the Air Vice-Marshal on the hop, but Jason was not displeased. “Whose survival?” the lady from the Ministry added.

Jason felt he knew exactly what to say. “The child’s, ma’am. And every other child’s.”

“I see. I suppose you feel this laudable sentiment gives you the right to make dubious pronouncements upon matters affecting the defense of this nation.”

“I was not making such a pronouncement, ma’am.”

“Let me get this correctly. Are you telling me you did not say … and I quote … ‘I give you my word. No nuclear weapons. Ever.’ Unquote. I’ve seen the video, Wing Commander.”

The room, oak-paneled with deeply upholstered
leather furniture, was generous in size; but to Jason, it felt claustrophobic. A long table was at its center, at which were seated several MPs and senior servicemen, plus the ministerial lady. Jason sat before them on an upright chair. To one side, out of the line of fire, was the Air Vice-Marshal.

“I spoke the truth,” Jason told them. “I said ‘We’re fighters.’ Which is correct—we do not carry nuclear weapons, ma’am. I saw nothing wrong in admitting it. If anything, it helps that any potential enemy knows what he may be up against. It should make him think twice—”

“Wing Commander,” an MP interrupted. Jim Beresford was a man who saw himself as a man of the people, and played the part to the hilt, stressing his regional accent. “Are you trying to tell us your words would make a … ‘potential enemy’ afraid of your expensive new toys?”

“With respect, sir, they are not toys. They are indeed expensive, but they are lethal weapons. The crews who fly them are dedicated, highly-trained men who chose to do a potentially dangerous job in defense of what they hold dear. They are not kids playing with toys. If their existence prevents any hostile force from breaching our airspace, then they will have proved their worth. If they can further, by their very presence, prevent the
possibility
of a hostile incursion being considered by others, then an even greater success will have been achieved. The fact that my men may enjoy what they do does not
detract from their high value. I would have no one in my squadron who was not committed to the task. We are, sir, very aware indeed of the costs involved and we make sure we give good value.”

The man of the people sat back: “By God, Wing Commander, you’re sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

“I’m paid to be, sir.”

Thurson closed his eyes briefly, but said nothing.

Unaccountably, Beresford looked less hostile. “I’m a politician, Wing Commander. I’d have expected a man like you to be scared stiff of politicians.”

“I respect all of you,” Jason said, “but I am not frightened of you. No.”

“You should be. We could make recommendations to have you dismissed from the service.”

“Then sir, you would destroy my career, but you would not change the situation. The requirement to effectively defend our airspace would remain. Getting rid of me won’t make it easier.”

“But keeping you on will.”

“It just might, sir.”

“Modest with it too.”

The Air Vice-Marshal, observing the verbal battle from his corner, permitted himself the briefest of smiles.

Beresford said: “This might surprise you, Wing Commander, but, even if I may not always agree with him, I like a man who sticks to his principles.
I don’t want this country’s enemies dropping bombs on me either. That’s why I’m coming up to that base of yours. See how you’re spending our money.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why did you pick up that child?” This from the ministerial lady.

“A positive image, ma’am. It was the very last thing they expected. My intention was to get rid of a potential trouble spot. I also happen to like children. I get on well with them.”

“Yes. The child did seem to take to you. The protective warrior.”

“She liked my funny hat, ma’am.”

The lady from the Ministry actually smiled. “Do us all a favour, Wing Commander. No more press conferences. Please.”

“It is my intention to keep well away from the press.”

“Very good. That’s all, Wing Commander. Thank you for coming.”

Jason stood up. “Thank you, ma’am. Gentlemen.”

Three hours east of GMT, in a small room that had been electronically swept for listening devices, two men sat watching their own video recording of the protest incident. One of them was the handsome young KGB major Stolybin had pointed out to Charles Buntline in Washington earlier that year.

The recording ended and the major’s companion,
a grey, stony-faced civilian in an ill-fitting double-breasted suit, leaned forward and switched off the machine.

“That was good work, Comrade Major. Admittedly groups like that are always vulnerable to misinformation. Still, you fed them the nuclear weapons nonsense very neatly.”

Praise, from such a source, was rare. The major looked down modestly. “I’m afraid it hasn’t really got us anywhere. That Wing Commander’s very shrewd.”

The plan had been for a permanent protest camp to be established, even if only for a few days, which would have been a good cover for the group’s freelance cameraman, who would then have been able to record the movements of the aircraft from close quarters.

The major pointed at the now-blank screen. “More than shrewd—extremely determined. According to that news item he’s been working for the establishment of his fully integrated unit for years. And what with the advent of glasnost and the British people’s hope for defense cuts, he’s been having a difficult time of it.”

The senior man frowned. “It is
we
who are having the difficult time, Comrade Major. I must remind you that defense cuts are no longer a Western monopoly. If the man has his way, we’ll soon be defending our homeland with pea-shooters. Apart from anything else, he should realize what this does to
service morale. There’s slackness everywhere. Thank God for friend Stolybin. If, as seems likely, this Wing Commander’s unit provides the welcoming committee for the traitor Kukarev’s defection, at least we’ll be ready for them.”

“Stolybin’s no fool.” The major lit a cigarette, grimacing at its harshness after the ones he’d been used to in Washington. “All we have to do is down Kukarev … That way the Wing Commander will lose what little backing he’s got, we get rid of a traitor too decorated and famous to touch in any other way, we prove that the West, while pretending to welcome glasnost, still works to corrupt our people, and we send a message to the ‘elected Deputies’ that we so-called hardliners have been right all along.”

His companion nodded. “And what about our man on the spot? I trust he realizes how vital his job is.”

“Zitkin? He keeps the reports coming. An ambitious man. He’ll let us know the moment there’s any movement. For now, Kukarev’s simply biding his time and checking up on future aircraft deployments in his area.”

“He wants to know what the opposition will be if he’s discovered when he makes his break.” The senior man fanned cigarette smoke irritably out of his eyes. “He’s in for a nasty surprise … Do you imagine,” he went on, “that the British pilots will present much of a problem?”

The major shrugged dismissively. “I doubt it. They’re very new to their aircraft.”

“Even so, I wish we could have got someone in there. I’d feel safer with an on-the-ground opinion.”

A failure was implied. “I did my best,” the major protested. “The screening was incredible—even the most junior non-flying staff were rigorously vetted. I nearly got a civilian cook through, but they dug up some old photograph of him outside one of our Baltic submarine bases fifteen years ago. Deep files.”

“Almost as deep as ours.” At last, the older man allowed himself a smile. “Did Kukarev really think we had forgotten the father, just because the son went to Afghanistan and covered himself with glory? Like father, like son, Comrade Major. Just a few words from his old friend Stolybin, and he fell. Not all the medals in the world will help him now.”

The major drew uneasily on the last of his cigarette. For himself, like Comrade Zitkin, he was an ambitious man, doing his duty as well as he knew how. But the civilian by his side was fired by something more, a hatred that was painful to see.

Two days later Thurson was summoned again into the minister’s presence.

“Word has come from Buntline,” the minister told him. “Apparently the closing stages of the operation are fast approaching. You will of course be given ample warning of the exact date of the defection.
A combat air patrol exercise will be mounted to include a specific area off Norway’s North Cape, well within November Squadron’s usual sphere of operations. A dummy patrol or two before the event would not go amiss, I feel. Have you selected the crews yet?”

Thurson shook his head. “That has to be up to Wing Commander Jason, Minister. He knows his men far better than I ever could. In any case, I would not care to make the selection—and when I ask
him
to I shall certainly tell him exactly why he may be ordering four of his best men into a possibly fatal encounter.”

“If they’re as good as everybody claims, they won’t get into trouble. In fact, what better way to demonstrate the usefulness of the November project?”

Demonstrate…. Usefulness…. Thurston held his peace. It was almost as if the minister wanted the project to fail. Its probationary period seemed to be never-ending.

“Use your discretion,” the minister was saying. “Choose your time to tell Jason, and then only as much as is necessary for him to mount a well-planned patrol. Now—about the briefing for the crews themselves …” He paused deliberately.

After a while, Thurson said reluctantly, “Perhaps it’s better that we don’t tell them.”

The minister nodded. “Good. Good.”

“Nobody wants a Korean airline-type incident,”
Thurson went on, feeling as if he was committing an act of betrayal of the November crews, “nor even skirmishes like those in the Gulf of Sirte. If it’s kept low-pitch, with nobody keyed-up, there’s much less chance of someone squeezing off a missile too soon. Also, I—”

“I’m glad you agree with me,” the minister interrupted. “I’m absolutely convinced that we’re doing the right thing in keeping this to ourselves. We should leave as little to chance as possible. All men are capable of mistakes, no matter how good they may be. As you’ve already pointed out, there are many instances of errors being made, even by the most professional crews. I seem to remember some Americans shooting down a perfectly innocent—”

Thurson decided on an interruption of his own. “The rights and wrongs of that one were never fully established, sir.”

The minister flashed him an irritated glance. “Exactly. That’s just what I mean—there’s always uncertainty … Anyway,” he went on in a voice that had acquired a sudden coolness, “this operation will test the November crews’ mettle. And if they come through, you’ll have been amply vindicated.”

“Wing Commander Jason will be,” the Air Vice-Marshal said with fierce loyalty. “And if they do not come through?”

The minister did not reply.

The Ball.

The last Saturday in August dawned brightly, heralding a clear-skied, hot day. A gentle breeze came off the Firth to keep the promised high temperatures within pleasant levels. Thurson arrived to declare Zero One Squadron operational, and this was marked by a full squadron fly-past of twenty aircraft. Their combined shadows fell heavily across the airfield. It was an impressive moment.

The highlight of the day was a stirring air combat display between Hohendorf and Selby. They kept this within the bounds of the station, showing to the full the astounding agility and power of the Super Tornado, and the consensus of opinion, from the hardened instructors to the youngest of ground personnel, declared the fight an honorable draw. Neither pilot had managed to achieve a single kill solution. When they landed, Selby and Hohendorf
shook hands, but there was still that indefinable distance between them. Perhaps it was as Thurson had said. They were the top males of the tribe and would always circle around each other warily.