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They ate off plates of crested silver and with crested knives and forks. The meal was washed down with a nicely chilled Rhine wine.

When they’d finished, he said: “That was very good, Anne-Marie. Thank you. You always were good at this.”

When she lived with him in SchleswigHolstein, her dinner parties had been much sought after by his squadron colleagues.

“No better than your cousin Erika,” she said. “We were taught at the same school.” But she was pleased by the compliment.

“You’re better,” he said, “and you know it.”

She gave a tiny smile. “How have you been eating?”

“Most times at the house … but Erika and Johann often invite me to eat with them. I also use the restaurants and of course, during a lot of flying, I eat at the squadron. I am quite well catered for, as you can see.”

She was looking intensely at him. “Let’s go to bed.”

“What?”

“What’s so strange about a wife wanting to go to bed with her own husband?”

“Now?”

“Now.” She’d stood up and was walking away, undoing her long golden tresses as she went.

Hohendorf stared after her, at the used plates and dishes before him, then back again at his departing wife. Her behind swung with undeliberate provocation, her long legs …

He stood up. To hell with Gerhard. Anne-Marie was still his wife. He followed her up to what used to be their bedroom. She had run ahead of him and was lying on the bed, already naked. Her expensive dress had been flung to the floor, her underwear a trail leading from it. Her golden hair was spread out in a fan about her head. Her eyes watched him.

He paused. Despite everything, she had aroused him. The eyes told him she knew he wanted to take her.

“Anne-Marie …” he began.

“Don’t talk, Axel. Just take those clothes off.”

No, he thought, I won’t.

Part of him wanted to take her. then walk away from her with indifference; pay her in some way for the humiliation of her past behavior toward him. But he decided against it. Why play her game?

She saw the changing mood in his eyes and responded
by being even more outrageous. She moved suggestively on the bed.

“Come, Axel. You know you cannot resist … You know …”

But he was walking out of the room. Her eyes narrowed, blazing their anger at him. But she said nothing and after a while, she joined him in the breakfast room, dressed again, her face still and pale. She considered the remains of their lunch, then looked across at him.

“Is it another woman? No,” she went on, without waiting for his reply. “It wouldn’t be. It’s that wretched airplane of yours. You’re in love with it.”

“Anne-Marie …”

But she was not listening. Already feeling ill-humoured because of his rejection, she was not in the mood for explanations.

“Or perhaps you are paying me back for Gerhard?”

He decided not to answer her. When AnneMarie wanted to savage something or someone, no amount of reasoning could stop her until her need had run its course.

But she was changing tack. “Oh Axel,” she said, “why did you make me leave you?”

The unexpectedness of her move made him take his time before replying. “If I remember rightly, you left of your own free will. I came home after a night mission to find your car gone and your
wardrobe empty. There was not even a note to tell me why.”

“I had discovered I could not be a service wife.”

“I was already with the Marineflieger when you married me. You knew right from the beginning when you and Erika and I were all teenagers together, I wanted to be a Marineflieger pilot. It was no secret.”

“Yes, but I did not expect you to be one forever. When we got married, my father expected you to leave to join the company. You could be on the board, a vice-president.”

“And what would your brother have to say about that?”

“Rolf?” She was dismissive. “Give him a yacht in the south of France and plenty of silly girls to play with and he’s happy, as long as the money keeps going to him.”

“He’s older than you or I, and the one who should succeed your father.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Axel. Rolf is useless. He would destroy the company with his follies. Don’t you see? We need you. My father … your father-in-law … would pay any salary you’d like and if you’re so desperate to keep flying, I wouldn’t mind. We’d have the Citation to fly anytime we wanted …” She paused.

Hohendorf had sat up and was shaking his head slowly. “It’s no use, Anne-Marie …”

“What does the Marineflieger pay you?” Her
manner had again changed, and she was looking at him, eyes no longer wishing to reason. “What kind of pittance do you get?”

“It’s not the money. I’m certainly not doing it for the money. You’ve got to understand …”

“Understand what? That I must be happy for you to climb into your litle airplane, while I sit like a good little wife waiting, hoping someone is not going to come and tell me they’ve found pieces of you spread all over the place?” Her voice had risen and her eyes were blazing.
“And for what?
And don’t tell me it’s for democracy and freedom because I’ll throw something at you!”

“I wasn’t going to. It’s much more complicated than that.”

“Whatever it is, I don’t want to hear.”

“That’s what I was afraid of.”

“Oh, Axel,” she said, voice pleading again. “You know I love you.”

“I know you don’t.”

“How can you say that? Have you forgotten how we were? We have always been good together.”

“You’re attracted to me sexually … I don’t deny it. But love me?” He shrugged. “I think not. You married me almost out of habit.”

“And you? Didn’t you ever love me?”

He looked at her and was about to reply but, afraid of his answer, she interrupted him.

“Is there another woman?”

He wanted to laugh. “Of course there isn’t,” he
replied. “Where would I find the time for another woman?”

“I suppose I can understand that,” she said with some irony. “You barely have time for the one you’ve already got.”

It was not going to be an easy weekend. But then he’d never thought it would be.

First Lieutenant Elmer Lee McCann swung the new stone-gray Corvette off the main trunk route, and onto the side road that led to the gates of the Cots-wolds USAF unit where he was stationed in England.

McCann was a native of Kansas City. He would make a point of informing anyone who would listen that meant Kansas City, Missouri, and not Kansas City, Kansas, which he considered to be hicksville. He was a city dude, not a farm boy. Easy-going for a streets man, there was one thing that really got up his nose: being called a cowboy. His father, a welloff banker, had made him a present of a brand-new Corvette for his twenty-first birthday, and a new model had followed every year since. McCann, an only child, was now twenty-four.

Shortish, with a round chubby face and a crop of corn-colored hair that became unruly beyond the length of one inch, there was a cockiness about him that sometimes rubbed people the wrong way. His bright blue eyes and a button of a nose gave him the look of a slightly malicious imp.

McCann had joined the service desperately wanting to become a fighter pilot; he saw himself flinging fast jets about the sky with omnipotent abandon. His eagerness had in the end been his undoing. After several over-confident and bad landings, and one crash that had injured his instructor but had left him unscathed, he had been washed out of flying school.

With the expectation that he’d refuse, get out of the air force and everyone’s hair, he had unenthusiastically been offered a chance at navigation school. To the chagrin and surprise of his superiors, he had accepted. To their even greater surprise, he had turned into a first-class navigator and weapons man. In navigation and bombing competitions, his aircraft frequently came first. But there were still flaws in his character, apparently irredeemable.

McCann pulled up at the gate. The military policeman, American, recognised him and came up to the car.

McCann showed his pass.

The policeman saluted.” ‘Mornin’, Lieutenant. How was London?”

“Don’t ask, Browski.” Dead pan. “Don’t ask.”

“That bad, Lieutenant? I don’t believe it. You never have a bad time.”

Suddenly McCann grinned. “It was that
good,
man. I’m telling you.”

Browski smiled back. “I figured it would be something like that.”

“Browski.”

“Yes, Lieutenant?”

“Do I get to enter the base?”

“Oh. Sure, Lieutenant.”

Browski went off to raise the barrier, saluted again as the Corvette rumbled past. He ambled across the road to talk to the other gate sentry.

“That Lieutenant McCann. Always having a good time.”

“He’s a dickhead,” the second policeman said uncharitably.

“What’s with you, Canelli? Lieutenant McCann’s one of the main men on this goddam base. Never uptight. Never pulls rank.”

“So that makes him a good officer? Goddam rich kid. If I’d had his chances …”

Browski frowned. “I get it. You want to make Airman First Class to Colonel in one day.”

“Fuck you, Browski.”

“Have a nice day,” Browski said, unmoved, and walked slowly back to his post.

In the Officers’ Club, McCann heard someone say: “Elmer Lee?”

“Yo.” He looked up from his cup of coffee to see a fellow navigator, in captain’s uniform.

“The man wants to see you,” the captain said.

“Colonel Crane himself?”

“Who else? And I’d get out of those civilian
clothes, if I were you. What have you been up to this time, Elmer Lee?”

McCann shrugged. “Beats me. I haven’t run over anybody. And last time I looked, old ladies still had their purses.”

“A word of advice.”

“I’ll listen, but I don’t promise to take it.”

“Try not to come on flippant with the colonel.”

McCann gave one of his impish grins.” ‘Flippant.’ Now there’s an English word. But then you Boston boys are almost English. Or perhaps you’ve been over here too long.”

“You’ve got twenty minutes, McCann.”

“Yes, sir,” McCann acknowledged, none too seriously.

But he was in Crane’s office on time, smartly in uniform.

Crane, a greying man who looked as if he’d seen too many things he hadn’t liked, was studying a thick file. Outside, a fully loaded F-lll low-level bomber trundled down the runway, and staggered into the air on widespread wings. Much bigger than the Tornado, it looked ungainly and strangely unsuited to its environment.

“Lieutenant McCann,” Crane began without looking up, as the sound of the jet’s engines faded, “I have here records which by any standards make fine reading … that is, until I look at the rest of them.” He paused, and looked up, jabbing at the file briefly with a forefinger. “Lieutenant, part of what’s
in this file tells me you should have been a captain by now. Any ideas why not?”

“No, sir.”

The wide blue eyes didn’t fool Crane. He grunted, went back to the file, began to read aloud: “First at Navigation School. First in a bombing competition at Nellis, during Red Flag. First, first, first.” He shut the file with a snap. “Dammit, McCann! If competence in the air alone gave rank, you’d probably be one of the youngest majors around.” He opened the file again, studied an item in it. “Calling your pilot a dipshit is no way to make friends and influence people, especially when
he’s
a major, and you’re a rookie second lieutenant … even if you were top of your class.”

McCann cleared his throat. “I apologised afterwards, Colonel. I’d got over-excited.”

“Over-excited. Is that what you call it? To Major … now where’s his name … to Major Ives, it was crass insubordination. He recommended at the time that you be kicked out. Did you know that?”

McCann was genuinely surprised. “No, sir.”

Crane looked at him. “A pity. You might have learned something if you had. You’ve got a good flying record, McCann. Before you came to us, you were on Rhinos.” Rhino was slang for the Phantom, the aging but powerfully brutish twin-engined fighter bomber.

“Yes, sir. I was on F-4Es.”

“Again, your flying record during that period
is excellent. But you apparently got into an argument with another major, on tactics,
during
a hard turning fight. Do you always pick arguments with majors, Lieutenant?”

“Not if I can help it, Colonel, sir. The incident you mentioned took place during Red Flag at Nellis. We were coming out of Coyote North when we were bounced by a couple of Gomer F-5s.” McCann meant the Tiger II used as MiG simulators against which participating aircraft had to fight. “I called a break and he ignored it. I could see the Gomer, and he couldn’t. He had zeroed in on the Gomer’s buddy and had become fixated. He wouldn’t let go. I called the break again, but got no reaction. He was determined to nail that little F-5. But his buddy nailed us first. I got angry. We could have taken them both if he’d listened. I told him what the hell use was it having a back-seater if he wasn’t going to listen.”

Crane remained silent for a few moments, again reading the file.

“Someone ought to paint two gold oak leaves on your cockpit rim,” he said. “You’ve certainly nailed two majors.”

McCann did not smile. The Colonel was not smiling.

“Some people say,” Crane went on, “you’re a spoilt rich kid. I don’t happen to agree … but you do have a slight problem with superior officers, especially those you think know less than you.” Crane’s eyes, seeming to hold the wisdom of the ages, fastened
upon McCann. “A special memo has been passed to me. There’s a requirement for top crews to form an elite group of squadrons. I’ve recommended you.”

McCann would not have been McCann if he had not snidely suggested: “Getting rid of me, sir?”

“No, Lieutenant. I may be doing you a favour. I may be the only person in the entire United States Air Force who believes it, but I think you have it in you to make the grade to high rank. You might even carry a general’s star one day, if you’re not busted out first. If these new squadrons hold their promise, you’ll be among some of the most envied aircrew in the Western Alliance.”

McCann thought about that for a while, then asked: “Why me, Colonel?”