Trophy (35 page)

Anne-Marie waited. Finally he heard her open the door. She shut it, and came towards him.

“You made a spectacle of yourself,” he said to her in German. “You embarrassed both Selby and the corporal. These people are not your servants, but personnel of a military unit. I want you to return to your Citation, and get your lover to fly you home.”

“And your little whore …”

Hohendorfs eyes were blazing as they turned on her. “Don’t you call her a whore,” he said with a calm that was more potent than any shout. “You are in no position to call even the most common tart a whore. Morven may not be a baroness, but she is more noble than you could ever be.”

“So …” Anne-Marie tilted her head speculatively, “you really are in love with …” She stopped just short of repeating the insult, and smiled unpleasantly. “Forget it, Axel. You’ll never get a divorce from me. I won’t have everyone knowing I was
pushed over for some … sòme …” Again, she paused, not knowing how far she dare goad him. “It’s no use presenting her to your family.”

“I shall. And when I tell my mother you’ve read her letters, I doubt if she’ll think kindly of you …”

“I shouldn’t have needed to,” Anne-Marie snapped, unrepentant. “She had a duty to keep me informed of what you were doing … Now take me back, please.” She turned, and re-entered the Porsche.

Hohendorf followed, got in silently. The drive back to November One was done in a mutual silence which continued when she got out and climbed into the BMW, and drove off.

She did not look back.

In his room in the Mess, Hohendorf said to Selby: “Now you know everything. I do not normally explain my private affairs but because of Morven, I felt I should tell you.”

Selby looked at him steadily. “I appreciate it. I realise it could not have been easy and I’m sorry I had to witness what happened by the gate.”

“And …?” Hohendorf let the question hang.

“Morven is a grown woman. She makes her own mind up.”

“What are you trying to tell me?”

Selby tightened his lips briefly. “I don’t want my sister involved in a squalid triangle …”

“A
triangle?”

“You know what I mean. Your wife doesn’t look like the kind of woman to give up easily. Morven could get hurt. I’m not going to allow that.”

“Is that some kind of ultimatum?”

Selby gave what might have been a sigh. “No, Baron von Wietze-Hohendorf. This is not to be pistols at dawn. I’m merely saying I care for my sister very much, and I don’t want her dragged into anything that might cause her pain.”

“You are saying that I will cause …”

“You … perhaps not … But you’re not alone in this, as we’ve both just seen. My sister is important to me … And even if you could marry her tomorrow, which you cannot, I would try to stop you. Pilots like us have no right to marry. And you know why. You understand that perfectly.”

“No! I do
not
understand! And you do not. I am in love with your sister. She means everything to me …”

“Fighter pilots are in love with their airplanes. I ought to know. I cannot prevent you from seeing her, any more than I can stop her from seeing you.” Selby paused. “But I don’t have to like it, do I?”

He went out leaving Hohendorf staring after him.

Later that same day, Wing Commander Jason wandered into the Mess with a tall, black USAF Captain in tow. McCann, Selby, and Bagni were in the lounge.

“Gentlemen,” he began, “meet Ralph Cottingham. He’ll be coming to Zero One when he’s finished at the OCU. I’ve been hunting Ralph for months. Some time ago, before you bright sparks got here, we had a tussle with a bunch of F-15s and F-16s, whom we nailed … all except one: an F-15 that would not stay in one position long enough to get clobbered. He got away. I decided then that pilot was the kind of man we could use at November One. As I’ve said, it’s taken a while to find and obtain his secondment to us. There was a price to pay, of course.” Jason gave a sly smile. “I had to promise the USAF I would not send McCann back.”

“I know they love me really,” McCann said, as they all grinned at him. Then, being McCann, he went up to Cottingham palms held upwards. “Gimme some skin, bro’.”

Captain Cottingham looked down at his pushy fellow-American for long moments, unsmilingly. McCann’s gesture of welcome began to turn into a strained fixture as Cottingham continued to stare him out. When McCann had realized just how stupid he could be made to look before his peers, the tall black man relented.

Cottingham slapped his own palms down.

“Awriiight!” McCann grinned his relief.

The introductions were continued and when a suitable opportunity had presented itself, Cottingham hauled McCann into a corner.

“Don’t you ever give me what you think passes for cool again, Lieutenant. Got it?”

“Yes, sir. Yes sir, Captain.”

“Just you remember it.”

“I will. I will.”

Cottingham released him and began to walk away.

“Captain?”

Cottingham paused.

“What’s it like flying a bird like the ‘15?”

“I’ve heard about you, McCann,” Cottingham said. “The man who wanted to be a hotshot fighter jock, but kept breaking the birds. What’s the F-15 like? Only those who fly it can ever know.”

Cottingham went on his way.

“The ASV’s better,” McCann shouted after him. “And no one can replace Richard and Neil,” he added quietly to himself.

The Air Vice-Marshal chose the next day to drop his bombshell. He summoned Jason to London, with Inglis, the station commander.

“Three days?” Jason exclaimed when Thurson had finished. They were in closed session in a small and secure Whitehall office. “Sir, that gives us very little time.”

Thurson was unmoved. “It gives you plenty. The mission is scheduled for the tenth. You have till then. It’s a Sunday, so things should be quiet over there … always assuming they still respect the Sab
bath out on the Kola Peninsula.” Thurson gave a tight smile at his own joke.

Jason was unamused. “This defector, sir—how do we know it’s not a trap? The Soviets cry provocation, and there we are with egg on our faces. Besides, I thought defectors went out of fashion.”

Thurson sighed. “We do not have any choice in this. I hardly have to remind you that some people would be delighted to see you make a mess of it.”

Jason saw November One being set up as a prime scapegoat. “You’re telling me it’s an order.”

“Very much so. You are to plan a detailed training mission, with
live
weaponry. It will not, of course, be a combat air patrol as such—rather a mission with specific objectives.”

“And the crews?”

“They are to be told no more than is necessary to get them in the right place, in the right condition, and at the right time.”

“And if they do run into trouble?”

“We both know how good they are. I’m certain they’ll know how to handle themselves. Depending on the situation, we may be able to advise them by secure datalink. What will be your choice of crews?”

“My best.” Jason looked at Inglis for support. The group captain nodded slightly. “Hohendorf and Flacht,” Jason went on, “and Selby and McCann.”

“I agree,” Thurson said. “I was highly impressed by their air combat display when Zero One
squadron was declared operational. I’m confident they are right for the job.”

“And the diplomatic repercussions, sir?” Calmly from Inglis. “After all, it’s a shooting war we’re talking about.”

“That’s an aspect we leave to government, thank God.” He turned to Jason. “Do you think I want to give this order? We have no choice, and that’s all there is to it. I’m relying on you, Christopher.”

The 10th of September dawned brightly on the Kola Peninsula. As the weather reports had predicted, it was going to be a fine day. A slightly chill wind, presaging the long winter to come, fanned down from the northern icy wastes near the Pole; but it was a light wind, with no teeth in it.

Fully kitted up, Kukarev did a careful walk-round of the Krivak. He checked its compound delta wing, slightly reminiscent of the F-16XL; the deep twin slatted air inlets behind the curve of the cockpit for the single big engine; the two moveable canards either side of the cockpit, the long nose with its powerful radar, the tall landing gear. It was a cleanly-designed aircraft that looked even cleaner today, since it carried no weapons.

No external fuel had been cleared. But at least the internal tanks were full. He was not expected to need more on his flight to the Krivak manufacturer’s inland testing ground.

He had just peered into the vast tail pipe when a voice said: “Goodbye, Comrade Major.”

He turned. “Comrade Zitkin. How nice of you to come and see me off. Someone must like you. It is difficult to get past the guards. Ah … but of course … a political officer can go anywhere on this unit. You are very zealous. That is good.”

“I hope you will mention this to your friend.”

“Oh I will. I will.”

“Well, I must leave you to get on, Comrade Major.” Zitkin stepped back and saluted smartly.

Kukarev returned the salute casually, and watched as Zitkin strutted away. The crew chief came up when the walk-round was complete, and Kukarev signed for the aircraft. Then the two men saluted and shook hands, as was the custom.

Kukarev climbed up into the cockpit. He secured his straps then calmly went through his checks before starting the powerful engine.

Zitkin was already on the phone in his office as the Krivak roared down the runway, climbed steeply and banked hard, turning south.

“Are you certain he has turned south?” the voice on the phone said. “Not towards the west?”

“No, Comrade General. Definitely south. I’ve just watched him take-off.”

“Very well.” The other sounded bored. “It is a feint, obviously.”

The line went dead and Zitkin replaced the
receiver. A feint? Briefly he wondered what the comrade general had meant. The KGB had never told him why they wanted Kukarev watched, only that he was a traitor planning to do great harm to the Motherland.

Zitkin sat back, reminding himself that it was not his place to question the KGB’s motives. It was a sufficient honor to have been asked to carry out a surveillance of such importance.

In fact, a half-wit could have done the job. A half-wit had.

The general put down the phone. “That little worm. Why do we have to use such people?” He looked unenthusiastically out of a window. It was raining in Moscow.

“Because they are worms.”

“Well, Sergei, your little scheme is off and running. I hope it works.”

Sergei Stolybin answered calmly: “It will work. Everything is ready. We have him. We also have a great propaganda victory.”

“If he makes it to the other side,
they
will.”

“He won’t make it. He’ll run out of fuel, or he’ll be shot down—with or without his NATO escort.”

“No fuel? But I thought they’d set a tanker up?”

Stolybin hummed a few bars of a Western song. September in the Rain.

“And what about the Krivak itself?”

Stolybin sat forward. “If we’re stupid enough to let someone steal it from us, we deserve to lose it. What do I care if a few Air Force generals get chopped? The right ones will remain. The hard ones—the ones who know what self-preservation’s all about. And they’re the ones Russia needs.”

The general eyed him thoughtfully. “You still hate the Air Force, don’t you? Why? Me—I do my job. But you, Sergei, you bring emotion to it. So much emotion.”

Stolybin’s mouth drew into a tight line. “I could have been a pilot myself. It’s a long time ago, and you probably won’t understand me, but I wanted that. I wanted to fly. I wanted it so much I could taste it. And they
failed
me. They claimed I wasn’t good enough. General Kukarev was on the board. That traitor … that lackey of the West … that crypto-capitalist …”

The general calmed him. “Whom you later denounced, Sergei. That was excellent work. It set you off on a career that has impressed us all.”

A savage rancour still burned in Stolybin’s eyes. “Do you know, Comrade General, what really turns my stomach? I’ll tell you—even today, even as young Kukarev’s up in the air with a stolen aircraft, a traitor, determined to betray his country, what turns my stomach is that in spite of all that he believes himself to be honorable. And if he were to discover that I had betrayed him, he would not be surprised. I am KGB and he would expect it of KGB.
I am not Sergei, the friend whose life he once saved. I am KGB, and therefore not really human at all.”

The general looked at him sideways. “You do not like being KGB?”

“That’s the funny thing, Comrade General. I do.”

“Gimme my speed jeans, ba by,” McCann sang as
he zipped the left leg of his G-suit,
“let me show you how. Yeah, gimme my speed jeans, baby, Let me love, let me love, Let me love you now …”

“Elmer Lee,” interrupted a long-suffering Selby.

“Yo.”

“What do you call that noise?”

“Singing, my man. Singing.”

“Well kindly stop it. You’re giving us all a headache.” They were in the kitting room, suiting up for the flight.

“No soul. You’ve got no soul, Flight Lieutenant Selby, sir, pilot and coffee bar. Dunno why I fly with you.”

A short distance away between the racks, Hohendorf and Flacht listened to the banter as they too got their gear on. It had been a long briefing; over
an hour. No explanation had been given, but the mission for that day was an unusually long combat air patrol that would take them all the way to Norway’s North Cape. Air-to-air refueling areas had been designated, references for intercept practice with target drones had been given, weather conditions annotated, sortie profile planned, combat weapons and fuel loads selected, and so on.

The notices to airmen—NOTAMS—for the day had looked like a telephone directory, with over a hundred entries covering the areas likely to be crossed and bordered by their flight-path.

Hohendorf read off some of the areas to look out for in his mind.

Item 21—Practice firing 2NM around grid 9J PSN (position)… with height given as 625 feet.