Trophy

Early summer, high noon, the Grampian coast
of Scotland.

Two sleek aircraft were lined up on the brand-new runway, their twin engines winding up to full military power as they began their take-off roll. Then four sunbursts of blue-white flame with orange tails seared backwards, as the afterburner nozzles flared open. The multiple explosion of sound came as one, and the aircraft hurtled down the wide concrete, accelerating with astonishing rapidity. Soon they were off the deck, wheels tucking away while they were barely clear of the ground. Then with breath-taking suddenness, they reefed into the vertical and roared skywards.

They rolled 180 degrees while still in the climb, pulled onto their backs, rolled another 180 upright, and streaked out to sea. The afterburners were cut with a barely audible
plop,
bringing an abrupt reduction
in noise that was almost silence. It had been a quite spectacular take-off.

Flight Lieutenant Mark Selby, RAF, was driving his metallic blue Ford Sierra XR4x4, sunroof open, along the coastal road from Cullen, making for the newly-established airbase. The A98 skirted the high dark cliffs and he was enjoying the view of the vast waters of the Moray Firth over to his left, when the sound erupted. Recognising it instantly, he pulled into the lay-by a short distance ahead and got out to watch.

The May noontide was bright and clear, with visibility limited only to the distance the eye could see. Blessed with the sight required of a top fighter pilot, he quickly picked out the fast-climbing aircraft and watched them with envy.

He had time in hand. Even though he had stopped off in Aberdeen to look in on his younger sister Morven, who was at university there, he still had a couple of hours or so before his new commanding officer at November One would be expecting him. He liked to keep an eye on Morven: not that she needed it, but both their parents were dead—their father eight years ago, of a classic businessman’s coronary, their mother the previous winter, run down one icy morning by a skidding lorry not half a mile from her home—and he and his sister had no other close family, so he felt responsible.

This morning he was dressed in a civilian outfit,
jeans, trainers, and a white polo shirt. Only just under six feet, his compactness made him seem shorter. His closely-trimmed hair was dark, his face squarish, with a prominently defined jawline, his nose underscored by a neat moustache. He had the eyes of a sea captain, blue, piercing, and distant. His hands were broad and strong, coarse almost, yet those who knew said that when flying, his touch was supremely gentle.

He leaned now against the car and stared at the receding dots until they had vanished into the unending blue of the sky. Soon he himself would be piloting one, flinging one of those beautiful machines into the air, to dance with it within its domain, leaving those less fortunate far behind, earthbound.

Mark Selby got back into the car, sighed contentedly. It felt good to be one of the chosen.

Slowly the Royal Air Force Wing Commander got to his feet. Physically he was unremarkable, of medium build, clean-shaven, with regular features, dark eyes, and slightly receding sandy hair, yet instantly he dominated the crowded briefing room. There was an intensity to his gaze, a power generated by his presence, that drew all eyes. A hush fell upon his audience of uniformed airmen. On the dais with him were two fellow senior officers, from West Germany and from Italy. They remained seated at the long briefing table. Outside, the early evening sun shone brightly upon the expanse of concrete.

“Welcome, gentlemen,” the Wing Commander began. “Welcome to Scotland, and to November One. You are here as prospective members of what is hoped will be only the first of a series of fully-integrated NATO specialist fighter squadrons. The more observant among you will have noticed the fin identification N-01 on all parked aircraft. This stands for NATO Zero One, the first such squadron. If we are successful here, others will follow. The initial requirement is for ten squadrons. We hope that will only be a beginning.

“We consider ourselves extremely fortunate. Not only have we been entrusted with a brand-new and enormously expensive aircraft, but we have also been given a brand-new station, built upon the site of an old one, from World War Two. But of course nothing comes free. In return for all this a great deal is expected of us. Some of you have come to us from Tornado squadrons. Others from the Trinational Tornado Training Establishment at Cottesmore. Some are from the flying services of other NATO countries and still others are straight from advanced flying training, with no operational experience. Here at November One, come what may, and within an extremely limited time-frame, we intend to weld you into a single, tight, supremely efficient fighting unit.

“Given recent media comments on the subject of low flying, many people can be forgiven for thinking that young men such as yourselves go out to your aircraft, look keenly up at the sky, pat your ship,
then climb into it and immediately search for a convenient mountainside to pile noisily and expensively into.”

There were brief snuffles of subdued laughter. The Wing Commander cut them off, his gaze unsmiling.

“You and I know better. We know the dangers, and we also understand the narrow edge of public acceptance that we tread, even when operating over lightly-populated areas such as this. Nevertheless, at November One you will be taught to fly lower, faster, higher and tighter than you ever thought possible.”

His eyes scanned his audience, as if seeking out each man in turn.

“Why fly low? you may ask. We’re fighter pilots, not mud-movers. Well, gentlemen, you may not be low-level ground attack pilots, but at November One you will be expected to carry the fight to
any
level. Nowhere is to be safe for the enemy, whoever he may be. The new Tornado excels at sustained low-level transit. Nothing can match it. That ability may well save your lives one day. During service with your previous units some of you have participated in bombing and air-to-air combat competitions for trophies. Here, however, while your conversion to the new aircraft may well include such competitions, the real trophy is already in your possession. You do not have to fight to win it—you must fight to
keep
it. That trophy, gentlemen, is life itself. Dead pilots and navigators are no good to me.

“I want no circus fliers. But I do want the sort of men who should we—God forbid—find ourselves at war, will go out there and give the other guy a thoroughly bad day,
and
live to give his friends more of the same. There may be some among you who, as time passes, will come to feel we are not for you. I expect such people to have the courage to say so. No one will think the less of you for it. The fact that you are already here speaks volumes for your capabilities. Your careers will not be affected by an unsuccessful time with us and you will be doing none of us any favors if you brazen it out. Not only could you kill yourselves. Worse, you would almost certainly take others with you. A word of advice: I have a great deal of respect for the man who knows when it’s time to quit, and none at all for the man who does not.”

The Wing Commander now introduced each of his companions on the platform.

“These gentlemen are … Fregatten Kapitän Dieter Helm, and … Tenente Colonello Mario da Vinci. And no artistic jokes, please—the Colonello’s bite is infinitely worse than his bark.”

There was a dutiful rumble of subdued chuckles. The Colonello gave a thin smile, and dusted an invisible speck from his sleeve. He was a small, neat man. A dark-haired Mediterranean, in complete contrast to the angular West German by his side.

“Their equivalent rank is Wing Commander,”
the speaker continued. “The same as mine. They are your senior flying instructors and you will listen to them and to their staff, as if they were messengers from the Almighty.” He folded his arms. “A very brief word about the variable-sweep wing of your new aircraft. Those of you from other Tornado units, and the F-111, will need no introduction. All versions of the Tornado have variable sweep, with four main configurations. Full spread at 25 degrees is the normal landing configuration and is also used for lowspeed hard maneuvering. Forty-five degrees is the mid-position for cruising, and can be used up to about Mach.88. Fifty-eight degrees and the sixty-seven degrees full sweep are for high-speed flight. Thus in one aircraft, you have both a hard-maneuvering and high-speed fighter. Our particular version, like the F2A and F3 ADVs, has fully automatic wing-sweep and this means that in combat, the aircraft will select the optimum configuration for a given situation. The IDS, of course, is manual sweep only.

“Your aircraft are advanced versions of the standard F3 Tornado. They have a thirty percent increase in power, giving a thrust-to-weight ratio that’s better than an F-15 Eagle’s or an F-16 Falcon’s. Any Americans among you will appreciate what that means.”

Someone cried out, “Oh, we do … we do!”

The Wing Commander smiled briefly. “I’m pleased to hear it. Other modifications have been
made to this special ship in order to give extra maneuvering capabilities, including control beyond the stall limits of the conventional F3. Our new ship does not as yet have an official designation. Here at November One, we call her the Super Tornado. You may also hear her referred to as the Air Superiority Variant, or ASV. Handle her properly, and she’ll get you through anything. She’ll even suffer fools gladly—up to a point. Take liberties, however, and she’ll bite. Hard.

“It now only remains for me to introduce myself. My name is Christopher Jason, and my call-sign is November. I’ve a head start on you all in flying the ASV, so when one of you can take me I’ll know he’s getting there. And to show you just how informal I can be, you may call me ‘sir’.”

Wing Commander Jason smiled again, this time more warmly, and put on his cap. The meeting was over. As he left the platform he looked back at the eager, experienced young aircrew in the briefing room. If they were successful, he’d told them, other elite squadrons would follow. He wished he felt as confident as he’d sounded: the truth was, even November One was living on borrowed time. Nothing was certain. Not even beyond the end of the month. Still …

Powerful forces in government were against it; against both the basic concept, and the expenditure it represented of tax-payers’ money. In these days of
perestroika
the cash could be spent more usefully
on … on what? Nobody ever cared to specify. In the meantime, the underlying strategic theory of deterrence without resort to nuclear weapons was conveniently forgotten.

Wing Commander Jason sighed. They’d bloody well better be successful. One mistake, and it might be just the excuse the pinchers and the scrapers needed to close him down. And they were wrong—of that he was convinced. But the trouble was, it would take a war to
prove
them wrong, and nobody in his right mind wanted that. He paused at the rear door to the briefing room and touched Da Vinci’s arm, politely gesturing for him and Dieter Helm to go out first.

As the three men disappeared the assembled aircrew began to drift out through the main doors into the warm May evening. Uncharacteristically, there was no wind off the waters of the Moray Firth to cool the baking runways. Some of them gathered in groups, talking animatedly. Others were more thoughtful, aware of the challenge ahead and remembering the events, mostly unplanned, that had brought them here to November One.