He had been carrying them out for almost eighteen months now, and he hated them with a passion. He had joined the R.A.F. to fly in combat with other jet fighters, not shepherd large, slow, lumbering Soviet turbo-prop aircraft around the North Sea. He complained to his Commanding Officer, Squadron Leader Boreland, that he was bored with the routine of his job. Then, he had requested a transfer to another more active posting. His C.O. had made it clear that Her Majesty’s Government was not about to start hostilities with another power to satisfy his desires for air to air combat. Although, he indicated that he would forward his transfer request to the Group Captain. In the absence of combat, he at least wanted to be on the cutting edge of R.A.F. fighter technology. It was a potential stepping-stone to combat operations. The word on the grapevine was that there were new aircraft being brought into service and he wanted to be a part of it.
Well, he had never been afraid of making waves to get what he wanted. Maybe he should spice this particular mission up a bit.
“Hello, Ivan Stinkovich,” Tommy’s voice over the intercom broke into his reverie.
Dinwoodie instantly broke from his mental absence and quickly checked his instruments, still shaking from the shocking introduction back to the real world, and cursing himself for the most unpardonable sin a combat pilot could commit.
He had lost concentration.
He looked up to see the unmistakable hulking outline of a Soviet Tupolev Tu-95, NATO designated Bear, in the distance crossing from port to starboard.
“I think we’ve got a big bad Bear in our back garden!” Dinwoodie opined to his navigator.
“I hope he’s not going to dig up the tatties, skipper, father spent all day planting them, and him with his bad back and all!” Tommy replied jovially.
“Well, you’d better let father know about our visitor then!” Dinwoodie instructed.
A few moments later, Dinwoodie had eased the Phantom into the prescribed position to port side of the Bear’s cockpit. The noise from the massive Turbo-prop engines could be heard even above the whine of the Phantom’s Spey engines. “They must be stone deaf inside that beastie,” Dinwoodie thought. Carefully, he matched speed, altitude and direction with the Soviet aircraft that dwarfed his own two-seater. The Soviet co-pilot, in a green flight suit and a black rubber oxygen-masked white helmet, threw him a salute from the co-pilot’s side window. Then, he cheekily proceeded to take photographs of the Phantom with a small camera.
“The saucy monkey!” Tommy spluttered over the intercom, with a mixture of surprise and outrage at the impudence of the Soviet.
“All right, Comrade Ivan, let’s twist your tail a little bit too!” Dinwoodie said softly to no one in particular.
He dropped the Phantom back to mid-fuselage of the Bear just behind the jet wash of the huge turbo-prop engines. Dinwoodie smiled softly to himself as he felt the Phantom buffeted for a few moments in the enormous blast of the Soviet‘s engines and propellers.
“Bravo One, what are you doing, over?” came the almost immediate challenge from his wingman, at the break of standard procedure.
“Jamie?” Tommy warned him softly thorough the intercom.
He knew that his brilliant, but unpredictable, pilot was capable of almost anything outside the confines of military discipline and protocol when it suited him.
From the mid-fuselage area of the Bear, Dinwoodie manoeuvred his Phantom gently and deftly up over the top of the Soviet aircraft. Inside the Bear, the Soviet crew were scurrying around like frightened mice in a cage, screaming and shouting their anxieties into the intercom system. They were unsure of the intentions of the NATO pilot and fearing the worst. The Soviet co-pilot, being older, more experienced and wise in the ways of fighting men, laughed to himself at the audacity and impudence of the British fighter pilot.
He had challenged the NATO crew with his camera and salute, and now they were answering his challenge.
Being the senior ranking officer aboard the Bear, he barked a sharp Russian order to be quiet and calm down into the intercom system. This produced the immediate and desired effect amongst the panicking crew.
“What in God’s holy name are you doing, Jamie!!?” Tommy screamed into the intercom as Dinwoodie smoothly dropped down the other side of the lumbering Soviet bomber.
Then, he swung down under its belly to re-take his position to port of the cockpit.
“Bravo One, I am taking the mission, return to base,” his wingman ordered.
With his free left hand Dinwoodie pointed his fore and middle fingers to the Soviet co-pilot to imitate a pistol. He raised his thumb and dropped it onto the forefinger to indicate the hammer falling, and a shot being fired. The message was clear enough: I can shoot you down whenever I want to. The Soviet co-pilot threw back his head in laughter, and clapped his heavily gloved hands, in appreciation of the British pilot’s skill, before gesturing to his pilot. A few moments later the Bear peeled off from its southerly course and headed for home.
“Dear God, Jamie, you’ll be in for the high jump now!” Tommy stammered into the intercom.
This’ll get their attention at Group, he smiled softly to himself, and swung his Phantom back to the direction of base.
Chapter 13
Unknown to Dinwoodie, and everyone else on Earth, high above the action, a strange pale yellow-skinned alien creature in a light-blue coverall uniform, called Tega Samarasa, had also noticed his activities. For three Earth days she had fruitlessly scanned the frequencies looking for potential targets for her quest. Now she felt that she had hit the jackpot. Constantly scanning the radio frequencies used by the Air Forces of the world, the Voice Scanner was programmed to tune into the voice patterns of pilots under extreme stress. When Tommy MacLaggan had radioed to Sector Command the identification of the Bear, the Voice Scanner had alerted Samarasa. She was able to tune into the air to air frequency and also the cockpit intercom. The visual scanner had given her a ringside view of the ensuing action.
As the action had unfolded Tega Samarasa became more and more convinced that this Jamie Dinwoodie was the human she was searching for. So, she tracked the Phantom back to the base and took images of Jamie Dinwoodie as he emerged from the aircraft. She noted that he was tall, slim with close-cropped dark hair and a blue colour to his eyes. He walked with the arrogance and composure of a creature confident in his actions and abilities. She had seen that same walk in so many soldiers in the Garmaurian Fleet and Surface Forces. Quickly, she fed the images into the memory bank of the teleporter. The teleporter’s computer would work out his dimensions, mass and weight from the known reference of the size of the aircraft. She had then started to identify the location of the air base where the human had landed. Northern Hemisphere, she noted, European Landmass, nation called Great Britain, she recorded into the mission log.
Being aware that she would have to reconnoitre the airbase, she noted that she needed to programme an Intelligence Drone to fly down and accurately map out the airbase. Despite all of the scanner and drone technology, she mused, there were still some things that had to be done by an agent on the ground, especially when these Earth creatures did not use any digital or computer technology. Information gathering would be a great deal easier if she had had a computer system to tap into.
These Earth creatures were still so primitive.
Of more concern to her were the green blotches appearing on the pale yellow skin on her arms. She knew that the virus was starting to break down her immune system. Soon she would have to start using the Med-Bed and the phoronic radiation to stave off the worst effects. She hoped that she would have enough time to complete the mission. Turning back to the visual scanner, she saw that the human creature was greeted by another human as he descended the ladder from the aircraft. The creature in blue seemed to salute, almost in the Garmaurian manner, using the right hand rather than the left. How quaint, Samarasa thought. Although the audio scanners could not pick up what was said, she could sense that the blue clad creature was not the b
earer of glad tidings. The Dinwoodie creature returned the salute and walked off towards a building, whilst other human creatures in green overalls clambered over the aircraft.
“Technicians,” she muttered to herself, as the Dinwoodie creature disappeared through a doorway with his fellow flying creature.
She cursed the Garmaurian technology that had never developed visual scanners that could look through solid objects.
So, frustratedly, she set the other scanners in the array to track his movements based on the dimensions from the image.
Chapter 14
“Almost there,” Billy Caudwell allowed himself a small smile of relief as he approached the heavy oak doors of the converted Victorian church that doubled as a dinner hall for the students at his school. The brief five minute walk through the well tended school grounds on this bright summer afternoon offered no crumbs of comfort to the diners as they plodded leaden-footed to the old sandstone building. This was the danger time for Billy and his schoolmates as the bullies who stalked the playgrounds waited to batter and extort the few precious pennies held by those who were too small, too weak or too terrified to fight back.
Today, good fortune seemed to be smiling upon Billy Caudwell; there had been no attacks, no one drawn quietly and efficiently out of the dinner line by bigger, stronger students for the purpose of intimidation, violence and larceny. It looked like there were going to be no attacks this day. Savouring the prospect of a terror and bruise-free lunch, Billy Caudwell clutched the small pink ticket in his blazer pocket that entitled him to the best fine-dining that the Local Authority could provide on its dwindling budget. It was in that moment of distraction that Billy let down his guard. Stepping forward, Billy forgot to side-step the Murder Hole, the small gap in the high brick wall that led into the enclosed courtyard where worshippers had once sat in quiet contemplation and prayer.
The well aimed punch to his midriff hit Billy like a hammer blow as the two burly figures silently jostled him into the dreaded Murder Hole without drawing the attention of any of the teachers who supervised the lunch session. Stunned, shocked and gasping for breath, Billy found himself dumped unceremoniously onto his back amongst a circle of bigger boys in the small cramped courtyard.
“Well, well, what do we have here?” the familiar terrifying voice sounded in his ears as he squinted up at the silhouetted-shape framed by the bright summer sun.
Billy well knew that voice, and also what it meant. It usually meant pain and humiliation for the poor unfortunate who had been chosen. As Billy’s eyes focussed around the glare of the sun, he recognised the outline of Timothy Patrick Reilly. With that recognition, his bowels dissolved with fear. Timothy Reilly was the top predator of the playground. He was blond, handsome and fair, with a thick local accent. As team captain for soccer, rugby and cricket, Tim Reilly was the golden boy of the school.
“It’s Caudwell,” one of Reilly’s cronies spat in sarcasm.
Billy recognised him as Nicky Wilson; a mousy-haired, weasel-faced fourteen-year old, who relied on the top bully for protection. This time there were only three of his usual six companions.
“He’s a ‘free dinner ticket’, Reilly,” Wilson sneered indicating that through his parent’s low income Billy was entitled to free school meals, “he’s got no money”.
“You got any money, ginger nut?” Reilly hissed, not really caring.
He didn’t want Billy’s money; he had a far more personal message to drive home into the red-haired Caudwell. Unable to utter a sound, with sheer naked terror, Billy Caudwell shook his head to respond in the negative. This was exactly the response that Reilly wanted to see. He lashed a savage stinging kick into Billy’s cringing body.
“I told you before, ginger nut,” Reilly hissed to the trembling, cringing Billy Caudwell, “if you’ve got no money, then you get a booting”
Knowing it was pointless to beg, and being outnumbered once again, Billy resigned himself to yet another bruising and painful punishment for not having any money to offer up to the top predator. Praying silently, to any God that was prepared to listen, Billy Caudwell curled up into a protective ball, like a hedgehog, waiting for the inevitable rain of blows that would follow. The rain of blows did come. Winding up as tightly as he could the feet and fists of four assailants slammed into his unprotected body. Billy felt every blow as they crashed into him again and again.
When it was over, the bullies trotted off, all except Reilly. He stayed behind to deliver his own particular private message to Billy Caudwell.
“Get up, fatso!” Reilly ordered slamming a kick into Billy’s unprotected back.
Slowly and painfully, his injured muscles protesting, Billy rose to his feet.
In an instant, Reilly had pushed Billy brutally against the church wall. Once more, the pain from an impact registered in Billy’s already protesting brain. His hand was around Billy’s throat a moment later pinning the terrified, powerless Billy against the wall. The hand tightened around his throat making it difficult to breathe. Slowly, Reilly’s vicious angry face was shoved close to his own. Shying away as best he could, Billy tried to avert his gaze away from the pitiless brutal stare of the top bully.
“You leave Julie Martin alone, gingernut,” he hissed quietly and slammed one final right-handed punch into the side of Billy’s head.
Releasing his hand from Caudwell’s throat, Reilly was pleased to see the terrified Billy slump to the ground in an ungainly heap, before strolling arrogantly away to join his cronies. With cuts and bruises to his arms, legs and face, Billy stumbled, shamefaced and angry, into the dining room, and made his way to an empty seat. The students around him at the six-seated table looked nervously at the wounds he bore, thanking whatever spirit protected them that they themselves had not been the victims of the beating. Slowly, the dinner ladies served what passed for food based on the Local Authority’s budget.
Billy sat and ate his meal in the oppressive silence of that table, wishing there were something he could do about the situation.
After lunch, he could at least relax; he’d had his punishment for the day. Reilly would go after someone who had money, and leave Billy Caudwell alone.
Tomorrow, though, was another day.
Chapter 15
James Dinwoodie marched confidently down the dimly lit corridor towards the Squadron Leader’s Office in the Administration Block, wearing his best Number Two dress uniform. He had been summoned to the Commanding Officer’s presence, and Dinwoodie had surmised he was not about to receive a medal. Dinwoodie always fastidious about his appearance could never ever be faulted for his uniform or turn-out. His conduct, however, was an entirely different story.
Outside the glass-panelled door he had straightened his tunic, and knocked twice in precise and sharp military fashion. The days of butterflies in his stomach at being summoned to the C.O.’s office had passed more than a year previously. Being summoned for a dressing down by the Old Man was a regular occurrence at the base, and also in the hectic schedule of James Dinwoodie.
Except this time it was different. Dinwoodie noticed a different atmosphere in the Squadron Leader’s office. The silence in the room was oppressive. The hum of the large electric clock on the wall struggled to drown out the atmosphere of naked intimidation. Dinwoodie, sensing something was out of the ordinary, nervously came to attention and saluted. The Squadron Leader, seated at the battleship grey R.A.F. issue steel work desk, rustled several sheets of paper failing to acknowledge his subordinate’s salute. With rising anxiety Dinwoodie scanned the desk and room for any reason why he now felt so uneasy and anxious. The room was exactly the same as all the other times he had been summoned to listen to the C.O. shout and yell at him for his recent transgressions of the rules.
The cream coloured walls still bore the framed pictures of fighter and bomber craft that were cutting edge technology almost forty years previously. The battleship grey filing cabinets stood sentry to the small coffee table, not quite R.A.F. issue that the C.O.
used to hold up an inordinate pile of paperwork. Still standing stiffly at attention, with sweat running down his back, Dinwoodie was feeling decidedly uneasy. Dinwoodie was further alarmed when the Squadron Leader did finally set the papers aside and deigned to acknowledge his presence in the room. Gone was the usual angry red face of the C.O., replaced by a calmer expression that hinted he had finally reached the end of his tether with this young officer. The face that was normally animated and expressive with anger was now blank and expressionless.
“You sent for me, sir?” Dinwoodie said with a slight edge of anxiety in his voice.
“Yes, Flight Lieutenant, I did send for you, I submitted a request for you to face a General Court Martial for that last little stunt you pulled off over the North Sea,” Boreland began letting the dreaded words sink in.
For Jamie Dinwoodie, the words “Court Martial” struck into him like a stake through his heart.
“Court Martial” meant disgrace, dismissal from the service, and a very bleak future for James Dinwoodie. For generations, the Dinwoodie’s had served as Officers in the military, and he would be the first to be cashiered. Now, he would be the family pariah. His father would probably disown him and suspend his generous and comfortable private allowance with which he supplemented his Air Force pay. As for finding a job, no one in civil aviation would touch a disgraced combat pilot, and he certainly couldn’t afford to set up his own flying business.
“The Group Captain, for his own particular reasons, which are a mystery to me, you will be relieved to hear, has refused that request,” Boreland continued.
With an audible sigh, Dinwoodie stood shakily at attention, his heart hammering in his chest, and was grateful that he did not collapse with relief.
“Instead, the Group Captain, in his infinite wisdom, has decided that you will no longer be an irritant to me and the efficient functioning of my Squadron,” Boreland began, his resentment now visible, “You are the most undisciplined, arrogant and selfish individual I have ever encountered in Her Majesty’s uniform. You will, most likely, end up doing the Royal Air Force a massive favour by getting yourself killed. Unfortunately, you will also, most likely, kill one of your comrades and cost the taxpayers several millions of pounds in Tornado aircraft.”
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