Trophy (12 page)

Jason had good reason to feel pleased with himself. Thirty-six years old, there were many who considered him a fast rising star, and the rejuvenation of the old wartime airfield was seen as ample proof
of it. He looked about him, appraising the new hardened aircraft shelters, the tall traffic control tower bristling with up to the minute electronic aids, the radar towers and beacons, the comprehensive landing system, the new personnel accommodation, the large hangars, and the ten-foot-high electronically-alarmed perimeter fence. Distantly construction vehicles churned the ground with their fat wheels and tracks, and the whole area was loud with the activity that went into the building of an operational flying station.

It was the culmination of nearly four years of hard work, and it seemed, furthermore, that the project would be completed on time. The genesis of the idea had come to Jason years before, during his time as an operational evaluation pilot on the first of the Tornado air defense variants, the F.2. He had immediately felt that more power was needed, and when, with the F.3, a new version of the engines gave 10 percent extra power, he still had not been satisfied. Admittedly, fully automatic sweep of the wings with manual over-ride would make the pilot’s life less hectic in combat, but Jason still wanted more.

In his reports and evaluations he gave his idea full rein, asking for 30 percent more power, even on the F.3, added aerodynamic surfaces for better agility, and strategically substituted composite materials to reduce weight and improve thrust-to-weight ratio. He also requested a more powerful main computer, even more advanced avionics with an integral
helmet sighting system that could work autonomously, as well as with the radar and infrared scanning and tracking sensors, through the fire control computer. As if that had not been sufficient, he had come up with the broader notion of a new fully-integrated operational force, made up of crews from the NATO Alliance which would be autonomous, and the leading edge of the organization’s conventional defences. It would be the first into battle, buying time during a sudden emergency for the member countries to sort out their priorities regarding the commitment of their national forces.

Jason personally felt that one of NATO’s chronic weaknesses had always been an apparent lack of any concerted response to a possible threat. His proposed NATO force would be the shield behind which the Alliance nations would have breathing space in which to co-ordinate their actions. He envisaged at least ten such squadrons made up of eighteen aircraft each, as a nucleus that would be stationed strategically throughout Europe. He saw a requirement for more to follow, and believed that other alliances, such as SEATO, would benefit from the system. But that was for the future. His prime concern for the moment was Europe.

Such aircraft, he had proposed, would need funding from all the Alliance states, and would be manufactured concurrently with other versions of Tornado. He put the idea to his superiors, expecting them to wince. They did, but they listened too, and
spent months deliberating. Then he was asked to submit his plans in detail. More months passed and he despaired. Then, slowly, he began to receive support; but even with support, the fight was a long and bruising one. He never weakened and in the end, after much hesitation and protestations on the grounds of cost, it was grudgingly decided to go ahead with the project. It helped that a spirit of closer unity in Europe was showing the beginnings of a tidal flow. But he was not complacent. Support was not universal. The merest whisper of change in the political climate, and that which had been given could very easily be taken away. And the really testing times were still to come.

Jason, the holder of the Air Force Cross and a Master’s Degree in the Arts, squared his shoulders and lifted his head to sniff the springlike air. Then he turned towards an approaching sound. A staff car was coming towards him. As it drew nearer, he saw the two-star vehicle plate and pennant of an Air Vice-Marshal. He drew himself to attention.

The car stopped and a tall slim man, with the single broad and single thin ring of rank on his greatcoat shoulders, climbed out. Air Vice-Marshal Robert Thurson.

Jason saluted.

Thurson smiled and returned the salute. “Walk with me, Chris,” he said.

They went a short distance from the staff car before Thurson continued: “Master of all you survey?
You must be feeling quite pleased with yourself.” He shook his head slowly. “I still can’t believe you actually managed it.”

“With plenty of help from you, sir.”

“Oh, I know a good idea when I hear one. That was all yours. Getting it implemented was quite another matter, especially when one had to deal with national vested interests. Your refusal to back down shook many people, especially when you offered to resign.” Thurson smiled again. “Shook me too. Did you really mean it?”

“Absolutely.”

Thurson paused to look at his younger companion. “Yes. I believe you.” They continued walking. “You’ll be pleased to know the first batch of aircraft will be arriving at the end of the month and your first crews in the latter half of May. You could, of course, accept command of the Station. It’s yours, should you want it. All of this is, after all, your personal trophy.”

Jason shook his head. “Thank you, sir, but I would prefer to fly with the squadrons and be involved with the work-up. There’ll be three here eventually, plus the Operational Conversion Unit, and the Evaluation Unit. I’d like to keep close to it.”

“I suspected as much, so you’ll be happy to know who’ll be coming in to take command as Group Captain; someone who’ll back you to the hilt. Jacko Inglis.” Thurson waited for the reaction.

Jason beamed. “Could not be better. We were at the F.2 OEU together.”

“I thought it might please you,” Thurson said drily.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Our necks are on the block, Christopher. We both know it wouldn’t take much. Try not to lose any men, or any aircraft.”

“I’ll do my best, sir.”

“Let’s hope for all our sakes that that will be sufficient.”

They walked in thoughtful silence for some moments, then Jason said: “May I speak informally, sir … and frankly?”

“Please do, and I shall brace myself.” Thurson smiled thinly. “I know by now just how frank you’re capable of being.”

Their leisurely steps continued as Jason went on: “You know what I think of politics and politicians.”

The Air Vice-Marshal made no comment.

Jason glanced at him, and continued: “The recent military jet crashes have brought all kinds of Luddites out of the closet. Ban this, ban that, stop low flying … It’s a bloody funny thing, you know—airliner fall out of the sky, smash into each other on taxiways, plow into mountains, or burn themselves out on runways taking scores, sometimes hundreds of people with them, yet nobody calls for an end to civilian flying. Trains run off the rails, disasters
occur with ferries, and tubes catch fire underground … yet nobody,
nobody
tries to ban train services, or ferries. Nobody says close down the underground system.

“We fly at the edge, where we must if we are to do our job properly. If these people would stop long enough to
think,
and to compare our casualty rate with those of the organizations responsible for civilian transport, they would soon see sense. Any crash, civilian or military, is a tragedy. People die, families suffer. But if we are not allowed to carry out our training without hindrance, then they may as well disband the air force … because no commanding officer will be responsible for sending untrained crews into battle should that occasion ever arise. The entire expensive air fleet that everyone’s so exercised about would be wiped out within the first half-hour of combat—together, of course, with their expensive crews.

“I do wish that just for once these people would think of the national interest, rather than of how good their bleatings will look to their constituents, or whatever special interest group they’re pandering to at any given moment. More than anything else, sir, we need continuity. To build a successful team here, we’ve got to be able to believe in tomorrow, next week, next month. Even the month after that. All I ask is that somehow, sir, you keep these people off our backs. Then I can teach the crews who come
here to
think
their aircraft into combat, the way someone once taught me.”

“That was quite a speech.” Thurson stopped, turned to look back at his staff car. Its distance made it look strangely small. He raised an arm and signaled. The car began to move. “Give you a lift?” The snow still had not made up its mind about falling.

“No, thank you, sir. I want to walk a little longer.”

“Very well, Christopher. I’ll do what I can for you.” He removed his cap and carefully brushed his sleeve across its top, removing dark drops of moisture. “But do remember, our necks are still very much on the block.”

“Are those the words of the former QFI who taught me how to think my aircraft into combat? Or are they of the Air Vice-Marshal who has to mind his p’s and q’s?”

The car had glided to a stop and its driver, a smart young woman in civilian clothes, got out and opened one of the rear doors.

“Both,” the Air Vice-Marshal said. Turning quickly as Jason saluted, he entered the car. His warning had been delivered. Further questions or answers would be pointless.

The British Embassy, Washington, an evening
in early May.

“I may have a defector for you.” The words, in impeccable English, were softly spoken, yet Buntline clearly heard them above the general chatter.

The party was being hosted by a junior Western diplomat and Charles Buntline had a glazed look that those who didn’t know him would mistake for the onset of drunkenness. Those who did, would recognize the signs. Buntline wanted to leave. Of this, the speaker was well aware. He had known Buntline for some time.

Buntline turned, the glazed look fading. “Surely not, Sergei,” he said with mild skepticism. “What with
glasnost, perestroika,
and even elections? I’d have thought the defection business was going out of fashion. Nobody’s wanting to leave anymore.
Why should they? Sad thing is, it’ll put people like you and me out of business, old son.”

Sergei Grigorevich Stolybin, KGB Lieutenant-Colonel ostensibly a journalist on Moscow’s leading monthly, laughed softly. “If I believed that, I’d give up malt whiskey.
Glasnost
is ripping us apart. The old guard are not pleased and everyone’s waiting for the counterattack.”

They were standing next to a buffet table. Buntline stared at its gaudy delicacies unenthusiastically. “There’s nothing there that I’d like to eat.” He glanced about him. “God. I hate these occasions. I don’t know why we bother to come. Attachés of every hue pretending to be enjoying themselves, but really just desperate for something less than totally boring to fall their way.”

“Such as the kind of information I’ve just given you …”

“Which I’m expected to believe.”

“Why don’t we move a little further from the common herd? Enough to be out of immediate earshot, but still within sight … so that no one gets the wrong idea. Especially not my sour-faced but ambitious young KGB major over there who’s trying to make it with that young American lady while keeping an eye on me.”

As they moved from the table Buntline staggered slightly, giving the impression of having reached his limit.

“I do hope this is not one of your misinformation
games, Sergei. Are you working for us on this? Or for your people?”

“Questions, Charles. Which do you want answered?”

“The one that really matters. Is it true?”

“Very true. Not an ordinary defection, either.”

They had secured a quiet corner in the vast apartment. They smiled insincerely, as they talked in keeping with the people around them. Buntline was supposed to be an export-import businessman.

Stolybin looked at him speculatively. “You don’t believe me.”

“Should I?”

“You don’t have a choice.”

“That’s original.”

Stolybin hesitated for a split second, then made up his mind. “A pilot is going to bring out an operational prototype of a single-seat, single-engined fighter. The West suspects that it exists, but knows absolutely nothing about it. Like the MiG-29, early variants have been in squadron service for years. It took you long enough to find out about the 29. You’re getting a chance to find out early on this one. It’s an F-16C beater. At least, that’s the thinking behind the design and it will complete the triad with the Su-27, and the MiG-29.”

“What’s this wonder machine called?”

Stolybin said drily: “You don’t sound convinced. Stories have been floating around in the West about it …”

“Not one of your special brand of leaks, I suppose? Rumors about something that isn’t really there?”

“You mean the way the American Stealth fighter hasn’t really been ‘there,’ Pentagon leaks notwithstanding. Until, of course, persistent rumors forced
them
to publish a single, crudely-doctored photograph which is causing even more confusion. No, Charles, what I’m offering you is the chance to get your hands on something tangible. Quite a coup for you, Charles.”

“You still haven’t told me what this technological marvel is called.”

“You in the West, tend to go in for educated guesswork. I’ve seen it referred to in some quarters as the MiG-35. We have not yet given it a name.”

Buntline still looked skeptical. “It must have a Design Bureau Identification number.”

Stolybin appeared to dodge that. “It does have a nickname … a little joke by the pilots. They call it
Krivak …”

“Krivak?
But that’s a naval ship … a class of destroyer.”

“As I said, a pilot’s joke. They think their new aircraft is so good, it will destroy all before it.”

“They can live in hope, I suppose.”

“Don’t dismiss them, Charles. I believe it to be an excellent airplane. The MiG-29 took you all by surprise and even now, you’ve still not had the
chance to assess the Su-27 properly despite the Paris air show.
I
‘m offering you something quite special.”