Trophy (40 page)

The Fulcrum’s pilot was going for a gun shot. That could only be the reason for this furious turning fight. He would know now that his comrade had been taken out. He was alone and facing certain death unless he could fight and win. A run out was not an option, as that would only leave him vulnerable to a missile shot. It had to be decided in the close arena.

McCann was swivelling round in his cockpit, constantly on the move, tracking the MiG with his eyes.

“He’s gone low!” McCann called.

Selby pulled into a steep climb, pulled back on the throttles, and as the wings spread, kicked firmly
on the rudder. The ASV pivoted on a wing tip. He corrected and was now in a steep dive, his vertical reverse having conserved space, placing him on the tail of the Fulcrum. But the MiG was already countering, turning hard towards him.

As Selby flashed through without getting lock for his gun, the MiG shifted upwards slightly before turning again in an attacking curve.

McCann had his head craned round, watching the mongoose-like nose tightening its turn inexorably.

“Goddammit, Mark! The guy’s gonna have a solution anytime now … Aaah
shiiit!”

Selby had flung the Tornado onto its back and had pulled hard. The aircraft seemed to double back upon itself. McCann thought he heard a rasping sound as the MiG flashed past going the other way.

But Selby was turning again, heading back on full burner now, cutting into the MiG’s turning circle. He had tightened his turn by putting the boards out again when they were tail to tail, so that the MiG pilot would not see the air brakes and know what was happening. As a result, the MiG pilot was surprised to see the ASV’s nose pointing at him while he was still in the turn.

He immediately began to tighten his own turn, hoping to spoil the shot he knew was coming. It was too late.

Selby got the tone and the box, and squeezed the trigger. For a fraction of a second, the gun
burped at the MiG, then the target was out of the box. It flew steadily on.

Damn it, Selby thought. I’ve missed.

Then the Fulcrum’s turn widened, and its nose dropped towards the sea far below. But no smoke came out of it. It seemed in perfectly good shape.

“Hey!” McCann began excitedly. “You’ve scared him off, my man! Perhaps he’s reached bingo fuel. It’s a long swim home.”

But the MiG made no attempt to raise its nose. Horrified, they heard the human sound of harsh coughing.

“He’s on the emergency channel!” McCann said in astonishment.

“Give him an open one,” Selby ordered. “Clear this one. Others might need it.”

121.5 was the international emergency channel and he did not want it cluttered. Also, you never knew who was listening.

“Fulcrum, Fulcrum,” McCann called, and gave the MiG pilot an open channel frequency that would link him with both Tornadoes.

The Russian had clearly followed the English-language instructions, for they heard his coughing on the new channel.

“The guy’s hurt,” McCann said soberly, realisation dawning. “Good shooting, Mark. You must have taken him in the cockpit.”

Selby felt subdued. Blowing the aircraft away was one thing. Hearing the man suffer on was—

“Can you eject?” he asked, wishing he could speak Russian.

The reply seemed a long time in coming. When it did, the voice was weak. “No. I cannot.” The English was surprisingly good. “I … have lost an arm, and … the other … I can only move … fingers.”

Selby looked in the direction of the stricken plane. The helmet sight, still activated, framed the spot where the MiG was, within its targeting box. Selby turned it off, shocked by its unthinking ruthlessness. His mind was reeling. He was
talking
with a man he had killed.

“Are you sure you can’t reach the release handle?”

What a question! Even if he could eject, how long would he last? He was already dead.

The coughing came again, as the aircraft continued its unstoppable plunge, dwindling until it disappeared from sight.

“I am … very … sure.”

There were no further transmissions from the MiG.

Then Hohendorfs voice came on: “Goshawk Three-One. He has gone in. Let us go home.”

It was only as they formulated on Goshawk Two-One that they realized that they had been hit. Flacht had been looking them over. “There are holes in your taileron,” he said. “How are your controls?”

Surprised, Selby replied: “No anomalies. All systems are on line. Look me over, will you?”

Hohendorf manoeuvred Two-One in order to do a visual inspection.

“There is nothing else,” Hohendorf assured him. “He scored some hits. Unfortunately for him, you were the better shot.”

“Yes,” Selby said. He did not feel triumphant.

In tight formation, they made the rendezvous with the tanker, then continued their way home. They carried out a paired landing at November One where everything seemed normal, as if they had not just come from a battle in which people had died. But then, instead of returning to its HAS, Selby’s aircraft was placed within a high-security hangar, with the crew still aboard, and later, with Hohendorf and Flacht, they were given an intense debrief by the unit’s Intelligence officers. The Air Vice-Marshal and Jason were there, but took no part in the proceedings, content just to listen. Later Jason, accompanied by the AVM, ushered them into the small briefing room.

“I have been authorized,” Jason began, “to tell you something about what occurred on today’s mission.”

Thurson sat to one side, watching each of them carefully.

“An intelligence group,” Jason continued, “whose identity is of little interest to you, was responsible for an operation which it was hoped would result in the defection of a Soviet pilot and his aircraft, an as yet unidentified single-seat, single-engined
fighter, supposedly highly agile. You’ve seen it. Unfortunately, because of what happened to the tanker, we’ve lost the chance to examine it closely on the ground. We’ll require your detailed impressions, of course, and we’ll also be studying the radar and infrared signature videos. The pilot at least, seems to have survived.”

“We were meant to keep him safe,” Hohendorf said quietly.

Jason looked uneasily at the Air Vice-Marshal before replying. “Not exactly. You were meant to be a deterrent. Your options were in fact very limited, but if something went wrong and the operation was discovered, your presence was meant to make any pursuing fighters think twice about interfering—especially so far from their own bases.”

“It didn’t work, sir, did it?” Selby asked, his voice flat and lifeless.

“No. It didn’t.” Jason paused, frowning. “Obviously, his comrades got to hear of the operation—God knows how. They must have seen it as a perfect opportunity to catch us out. We can only guess at their exact motives; but presumably they let the defection run, then set up an ambush with the intention of taking out both the defector and every NATO aircraft involved, knowing that they could rely on us to hush up the whole ugly business. Which we certainly would have, for the sake of morale, if nothing else.”

He shifted to make himself more comfortable
on the hard briefing room chair. “But you, gentlemen, by your outstanding performance, prevented that. When I was asked to supply two of my best crew for the mission, you four were my first choice. And I was right. You reacted superbly.”

“We were suckers,” McCann said flatly. “Just plain suckers. With a navy ship waiting to pick up the pieces.”

Jason stiffened. Beside him, Air Vice-Marshal Thurson decided to take a hand.

“McCann?”

“Sir?”

“You are an officer in the NATO air forces, are you not?”

“Yessir.”

“Then I take it you are aware of the proper way to address a superior officer.”

“I am, sir,” McCann stood his ground. “But in return I expect to be told when my superior officer decides to shove my ass into the meat grinder.”

Jason turned to the Air Vice-Marshal. “With your permission, sir.”

Thurson nodded, his eyes on McCann.

Jason said: “You all, I believe, support the idea of the November squadrons. You would not be here otherwise. There are still a good many people who do not, and would like to see us fail. It was one of these people who thought of using this incident to test our mettle. To make us or, preferably, break us. I had no choice but to agree, knowing that any failuree
to supply crews would be looked upon as a sign of my lack of faith in the entire project, with all the consequences that would bring.

“I am not apologising for sending you out. As fighter crews, you are well aware of the bottom line. All your expensive training ultimately has only one end purpose, to defend the integrity of the NATO Alliance and its forces. But I do agree, in some measure, with McCann. Men should know when they are being thrown into the meat grinder. What you were faced with today will shock complacency on both sides of the political divide. It is to be hoped that the lessons learned will sink home.

“We cannot bring back the tanker or its crew, and the Soviets cannot bring back their four aircraft and men either. No mention of the incident will be made on an international scale, however. It never took place … and none of you will talk of it.” Jason pushed his chair back. “It remains for me to tell you that I am proud of you all, and delighted that you made it back to us safely. All your drinks are on my Mess tab tonight.” Jason smiled.

McCann said: “No limits?”

“You’re driving a hard bargain, McCann. I shall probably live to regret this.”

“You’d better believe it,” McCann told him. “Sir.”

Later that evening in the Mess, Selby and Hohendorf were sitting quietly beside a low table at the far
end of the lounge. McCann had taken the Wing Commander at his word and was in the bar, picking out four of the most expensive bottles of wine on the Mess list.

“Going to say anything to Morven?” Selby asked.

Hohendorf considered. “As much as I’m allowed to. And you?”

“I don’t know. That would be involving our women. A pilot shouldn’t do that. No right to. I’ve always believed a pilot has no right to get too deeply involved, or marry.”

“Pilots
do
marry,” Hohendorf said. “Look at me. I married.”

“And see what happened to that.”

“There was no love, Mark. Just a business agreement.”

“Love
…” Selby shook his head. “Now there’s a word.”

“Only if you’re afraid of it. I think you
are
afraid of it. It means responsibility.”

Selby shifted uncomfortably, changed the subject. “We worked well out there together, you and I. Everything seemed to fall into place.”

“I never doubted it would.” Hohendorf shrugged. “We grew up.”

They saw McCann approaching with a tray of bottles, Flacht close behind with the glasses.

“As soon as I can get some leave,” Hohendorf
said quickly, “I’m taking Morven to Germany to meet my mother.”

Selby seemed about to protest. He changed his mind, helped to clear the table for the wine. As he watched the bottles being opened he was clearly thinking of something else.

“Responsibility,” he murmured softly to himself. If any of his three companions heard him, they made no comment.

The general looked across his KGB-issue desk
at Sergei Stolybin, a cold gleam in his eye.

“I do not think, Comrade,” he said, lowering his gaze to the dossier before him, “that you will be receiving any medals for that particular day’s work. In fact, there are those among us who would be delighted to see your future activities curtailed. For a very long time … in a very cold place. And we do have such places. Even now.”

In London, across a wider, more elegant desk, the minister held audience with Thurson and Buntline. Fine sherry was being served in crystal, tulip-shaped glasses.

“Come, come, Air Vice-Marshal,” the minister was saying, “don’t look so down in the mouth. This was a successful operation. Everybody’s very
pleased. You should be too—the future of your November project is secure now.”

“A successful operation, Minister? Eight people were killed.”

“Four of them from … er, the other side. Hardly our fault. Superb work by your crews. My word—you and the Wing Commander must be proud of them.”

“We are, Minister. And the tanker crew?”

Piously the minister laid aside his glass. “Ah … dreadful tragedy, of course.” He brightened. “But we all know that air forces lose aircraft and crews almost every day. Accidents, so forth. Not at all by hostile action.” The tanker crew dealt with, the minister rested his elbows on his desk and steepled his fingers. “I’m sure you’ll now agree that we were correct in not allowing your crews to know what to expect. Proof of the pudding, and all that. In the event, they were fired upon first, and subsequently acted well within international laws. Both sides are of course prepared to bury the whole incident.
Quid pro quo
… if you get my drift.”

“Four of ours, for four of theirs.” There was a bitter edge to Thurson’s voice.

“Quite.” The minister refused to be shamed. “Most unfortunate about that aircraft … the … er … Krivak. But we do have the pilot, of course. So we’re actually one up.”

Thurson hid the distaste he felt and watched
as Buntline emptied his glass and held it out for a refill.

“Debriefing’s already well under way,” Buntline said, looking at Thurson, “as you know. Early days yet, but things are looking very good indeed. Lots of technical and political info. A positive gold mine, that man. A lot of hardliners back in the Motherland are going to be very upset … and someone I used to know is bound to cop it. Serves him right.” This was said with venom.

The minister dealt with Buntline’s glass, and then his own. “The operation was worth it, Robert,” the minister said to Thurson. “Advanced the cause of peace. Both Jason and yourself have come out of this very well. Guilt won’t bring back the dead. The whole thing’s a credit to November One … to all those involved up there in Scotland.”

Thurson drank his sherry, not really enjoying it. The minister was right, in a narrow sort of way. The operation
was
a success. The cause of peace advanced? Perhaps. And feeling guilty most certainly did not bring back the dead. Pity he did not like the minister. Pity he could not stop himself for thinking that the minister’s career was being advanced through the skill and courage of men like Selby and Hohendorf.