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“Did you say something?”

“Just that I knew I should have brought my water skis today.”

“Don’t worry. You won’t get wet.”

“That’s what you always say, Herr Baron.”

Axel von Hohendorf smiled against the pressure of his oxygen mask. With variations, the short exchange was usually the same at moments like this. Despite grumbles from the back seat he knew he was in fact lucky enough to have the best Weapons Systems Operator on the
Marineflieger
squadron. Johann Ecker might not be biologically nerveless, but in the rear cockpit of a Tornado he gave a good impression of it.

Hohendorf checked the radar altitude at the top right hand corner of his Head-up Display. The green numerals (for their height) said 20. He smiled again. 450 knots—825 kilometers an hour—at 20
feet above the surface of the Baltic, and at night. No room for nerves when your life was so completely in the hands of another. Johann deserved his little grumbles.

Hohendorf held the stick and throttles firmly, but with the light sure touch of one in complete affinity with his machine. A flashing glance past the HUD at the twin engine rpm indicators on the lower right of the main instrument panel, told him both engines were spooling smoothly at 80 percent. He eased the throttles forward minutely. Instantly, the percentage numerals in the small windows at the bottom of the dials went up to 82, while the needles on the dials inched their way round until, its wings at full sweep, the aircraft was being hurled forward at 500 knots.

Hohendorf loved the Tornado and considered himself a very lucky man to be flying it. They made a good team. He barely needed to use the 4-way “coolie hat” trim button on top of the stick to adjust to the new wing configuration. The controls remained light and crisp, just as he liked them.

In fact, of course, the feel was artificial. There were no physical connections between the controls and the systems they operated. All was done by electrical signalling, the control inputs having been interpreted and acted upon by the on-board computers. For all his skill, Hohendorf knew that flying this low at such speeds in the Baltic night required the precise sensitivity of the computers to keep the aircraft
stable and in one piece. It was the time when you trusted your instruments and systems implicitly.

There was no actual horizon in sight, no exterior reference points for the brain to refer to. If the instruments said you were upside down and about to hit something but your brain insisted there had to be thousands of feet between you and the big splash, you believed your instruments. You were well-advised to. There were lots of areas of land and seabed around that bore grim testimony to what could happen if you didn’t.

“Right, right, zero four five,” came Ecker’s voice. This time, as navigator, he spoke in English, standard practice for all operational communication.

“Zero four five.” Hohendorf confirmed the new course.

He eased the Tornado up to 100 feet, banked steeply to the right, and pulled the stick firmly. The aircraft went into a 4g turn, giving its occupants four times their own weight to cope with. G-suits inflated, embracing their lower bodies tightly, keeping the blood from flowing into their legs.

Hohendorf levelled out on the precise heading. The G-suits relaxed.

“Zero four five,” he said, and took the aircraft back down to 20 feet.

It had been necessary to climb. Twenty feet above the rushing sea was not the height to go into a 4g turn, especially at night. Even with the wings
at full sweep, the Tornado still had a span of just over 28 feet; which would mean a mere six feet between its lower wing tip and oblivion … if you got everything right.

“I’m glad you did that,” Ecker said, relapsing into German.

“Did what?”

“Climbed first.” Ecker was a veteran of Hohendorfs bat turns at low level.

Hohendorf had been known to spread the wings to their full span of just over 45V2 feet, roll the aircraft over into a 90-degree bank and pull sharply on the stick, engines on full afterburner. Once, they were so low, Ecker swore the wingtip drew a circle in the water. That was the stuff of legend. Theoretically the aircraft would have cartwheeled, but Ecker still swore by it.

Hohendorf said: “Tonight I’m doing things the easy way, Johann.”

Ecker’s reply was a grunt of disbelief: then, back in English, he said: “Left, left, zero one zero.”

“Zero one zero.” And Hohendorf repeated his earlier maneuver, this time rolling left onto the new heading.

Five miles out to their left and 200 feet up, another Marineflieger Tornado was carrying out identical manoeuvres. Though they were a combat pair, neither aircraft communicated with the other. The night’s exercise required total radio silence: but the planning had been so meticulous that at exactly the
correct times, each aircraft went into its routine, choreographed by the mission brief. Later, on return to base, infrared recordings combined with the head-up-display videos, would be analyzed to determine the success of the exercise and the performance of the crews.

“I have three targets,” Ecker said calmly, “at fifty miles.”

Hohendorf glanced at the small window in the top left of the horizontal situation indicator. The red glowing digits were counting off the closing range, and the needle on the HSI was now pointing 20 degrees to the left. It continued to creep left.

“Three,” Hohendorf said. “All nicely grouped?”

“Yes. They’re playing tonight.”

The targets were surface ships.

When the HSI needle had now moved 30 degrees, Ecker said: “Left, left, three four zero.”

“Three four zero.”

Hohendorf turned onto the new heading. The HSI needle had swung to point straight ahead.

“Range 25 miles,” Ecker went on. “If we keep on this track, we should pickle them nicely.”

The targets were three NATO vessels, representing hostile ships. They knew of the impending simulated attack but not when, nor from what quarter it would come. They were in a temporarily shipping-free zone and to make visual acquisition difficult for the attackers, the ships were blacked out;
not even their navigation lights were showing. But they were still sitting ducks in infrared.

If either of the attacking aircraft was detected, a pulsing tone would sound in the headphones of the crew, warning them that they were being tracked. A low-pitched continuous tone would indicate a radar lock-on; and a high-pitched continuous tone would denote a simulated surface-to-air missile launch. It was up to the crew of the aircraft to break lock before matters reached that stage.

“They’ll be picking up Beuren and Flacht in the other plane soon,” Ecker commented at 15 miles to target.

“That will keep them occupied while we enter the back door,” Hohendorf said with quiet satisfaction. The second aircraft, he knew, would not be flying so low.

Then Ecker was saying sharply: “I have a fourth target!”

“What? We were told to expect three.”

“This one’s bearing one two zero and coming up fast. Too fast for a trawler. Range thirty miles. Probably our friends from the east coming out for a snoop. Range to original target now fifteen miles.”

Hohendorf concentrated on flying the plane. Ecker would monitor the new ship’s movements. As yet, no warning tones had sounded.

“Original targets breaking formation,” Ecker announced. “They must have detected Beuren and Flacht.”

“All the better for us. How’s our new friend doing?”

“Still on the same course, but range is now thirty-five miles and increasing. We’re going away from him, of course.”

“Why didn’t we see him before? Submarine?”

“Possibly. Range ten miles to targets. Two of them right across our track. We can take the other one out later.”

“Good. At two miles, I’ll begin the pull-up to pass over their sterns. I’ll trigger the cameras at pull-up. We should have some nice pictures.”

“They must be asleep. Good thing for them we’re not firing Kormorans and they’re not hostile. You’ve done it again, Axel.”

“Wait till we get there. They might still get a lock-on.” Hohendorf wasn’t counting his chickens. Nothing was certain until the pictures were in the cameras.

At two miles, he began the pull-up, triggering the cameras as he did so.

A dark shape swept with a sudden roar out of the black night, hurtled low across the NATO ships, and was gone before anyone realized what had happened.

“Jesus!” a young American lieutenant on the bridge of one of the ships exclaimed. “What the hell was that?”

His vessel, a Spruance class anti-submarine destroyer,
was heeling over now in a tight turn to starboard, but much too late.

A seaman standing next to him, amused by the officer’s attempts to remain steady, said: “A bat out of hell, sir.”

“Don’t get smart with me, sailor!” the lieutenant snapped.

The sailor, whose name was Lebreaux, came from the Louisiana bayou country, and claimed Choctaw Indian blood in his ancestry. His now impassive face in the subdued electronic glow on the blacked-out bridge made one believe it.

“Sir!” he said.

The captain had eavesdropped on the exchange from his high chair. “Lieutenant Street?”

“Sir?” Street crabbed his way towards the captain. The ship was still leaning into its turn.

“We were just creamed, Lieutenant. What are you aiming to do about it?”

“Do, sir? Well, I guess it’s a bit late now to—”

“How long have you been with us, Lieutenant?”

“A week, sir.”

“A week. And before that?”

“Shore duty at Pearl, sir.”

The captain sighed. “So this is your first exercise of this type.”

“Yes, sir.”

The captain sighed once more. “From the
warmth of the Hawaiian Islands to the cold Baltic.” He paused, as if deep in thought.

“Lieutenant Street,” the captain at last began patiently, “the attack is not yet over. There’s another plane out there, maybe more. I don’t want us caught with our pants down again. As of now you’re the radar officer on this bridge. It’s not going to happen again, is it?”

Street was stunned. “Radar officer, sir?” He glanced at the stocky figure next to Lebreaux. “I thought Lieutenant Commander Gruder was …”

“The lieutenant commander is standing down for the next pass. Is that right, Lieutenant Commander?”

Gruder did not turn. “That’s right, sir. I’ll just go check on that sub-on-surface contact.” He sounded as if he might be smiling.

“There you go, Lieutenant,” the captain said. “All yours.”

Street swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

The captain lowered his voice. “And Lieutenant …”

“Sir?”

“I don’t want to hear you yelling at my sailors on my bridge again. Do you read me?”

“Sir!”

“Now back to your post, Lieutenant.”

“Sir!”

The barest of smiles creased the Choctaw profile
of seaman Lebreaux as the destroyer heaved itself into another sharp turn in the icy Baltic waters.

The Tornado was again approaching the ships, again at 20 feet. This time the attack would be more difficult, because the opposition was fully awake now.

Ecker was saying: “One of those captains really knows his business. He’s still not detected us but he’s evading like mad. I think a simulated Kormoran will take him.”

“Go ahead, Johann. A Kormoran it is.”

Hohendorf and Ecker were a total team, almost a single unit. On such occasions, Ecker was virtually in command of the aircraft. To work successfully together, a pilot had to sit on his ego. Hohendorf’s ego did not give him trouble. When all was said and done, he was still the pilot. The front cockpit was still the best place to be, despite the high respect he had for Ecker both as a fellow professional, and as a man.

The fact that none of the ships had yet picked them up on radar was a tribute to Ecker’s tracking skill. Radar illumination of the targets was kept down to five-second intervals, which meant the Tornado was broadcasting its presence only in brief spasms. The constantly updating navigation systems kept it zeroed on target, even during the periods when it was flying blind.

“Left, left, two seven zero,” Ecker said.

“Two seven zero,” Hohendorf confirmed, reefing the Tornado round onto the new heading.

A virtually invisible shape, and still undetected, it hurtled towards the wheeling destroyer.

“I have lock,” Ecker announced. Pause. “I’m launching.”

Hohendorf threw the Tornado into a wrenching turn away from target and lit the burners. Twin gouts of flame seared the darkness as the aircraft climbed into the night. No need now for stealth: the instruments told him their attack had been successful.

On the bridge of the destroyer, the loud tone that signified a direct hit filled Lieutenant Street with chagrin. They all saw the twin glows of the Tornado’s afterburners as it rocketed away.

“He’s giving us two fingers,” the captain said. “Mister Street?”

“Sir?”

“You never picked him up, did you?”

“Er … no, sir.”

“Jesus,” the captain said in disgust.

“Message from the Dutch frigate, sir,” Lebreaux said to the captain. “They nailed the other Tornado, sir.”

“Goddammit!”

“Sorry, sir,” Lebreaux said.

“Not your fault, son.”

“No, sir.”

“Goddammit!” the captain said again, heaving himself off his chair. “Stand down from general
quarters. Let’s go see what that mystery sub’s playing at. Goddammit!” One leg was stiff from sitting and he slapped at it in frustration.

The destroyer’s lights came back on, and trailed by her accompanying ships now also with their lights on, headed towards the submarine.

A short while later, Lebreaux had another message.

“Sonar reports the sub’s dived, sir.”

The captain said nothing. Warsaw Pact, certainly—it was always the way. Altogether, he was having a thoroughly bad night of it.

The Tornado was at a thousand feet and heading back towards its Schleswig-Holstein Marineflieger base, West German Naval Air Arm. The second Tornado, its nav lights also winking, was now flying in loose formation with it. There was still no communication between the two aircraft. Radio silence would be maintained all the way to touchdown at base.