Russell stood at the coffee bar. ‘Chaff dispensers are ordered and should be with us inside twelve hours. Flares are a bit more of a problem. We can’t get more than the training allowance. We can have them for combat, but we can’t practise with them. I’m sorry, but I’m afraid that’s the way it is. With all the cutbacks, we just can’t afford this kind of stuff any more.’
He surveyed the circle of faces. Drew waited for someone else to speak, but realised no one was going to. ‘This is bloody ridiculous. You’re telling us we can have flares for combat but we can’t train with them. So the first time we get to use them is when someone fires a missile at us?’
‘I’m afraid so. I fought as hard as I could.’ Russell flushed.
‘And the French jamming pods?’ Jumbo asked forlornly.
‘Not a hope in hell, I’m afraid. This isn’t like the Gulf. We haven’t got the Saudis and Japanese picking up the tab. It’s coming out of our own budget and there’s just no more money in the coffers.’
‘So it’s okay for the MoD to spend seventy grand on some curtains for an Air Vice-Marshal’s house, but there’s not enough money in the budget for us to even fire off a seventy-quid flare,’ Drew said. ‘Let’s just hope the Serbs don’t have anything more advanced than bullets to fire at us, or you’ll be looking at an even bigger hole in the budget when they have to replace all the Tempests that have been shot down.’
A look at the near-mutinous faces staring back at him told Russell that this was not the moment to lock horns. He turned and went back to his office.
* * *
While they waited for the additional equipment, the engineers worked flat out, testing and retesting the jets, checking over and over for minor defects. In routine, day-to-day operations these would go unnoticed or unreported, but with a possible conflict looming nothing was left to chance.
As the engineers sweated and cursed over the jets, other ground crew practised loading the weaponry, aiming to service a returning aircraft and prepare it for a further mission in the time it took to refuel.
With no immediate sign of the call to fly out to Bosnia, the aircrew waited impatiently for the arrival of 33 Squadron’s Pumas. Russell strolled into the briefing room just as they were about to begin the Met brief for the day.
‘Okay guys, I’ve got some important news for you. Air Vice-Marshal Power will be in the crew room at nine o’clock this morning. He wants to have a bit of a chat.’
‘Come on, boss, be reasonable,’ Drew said. ‘This is no time for distractions. We’re trying to sort all the new briefs and we’ve got some serious training to do.’
‘Let’s just humour him,’ Russell said. ‘I want you, Nick, Mike, DJ and Ali in the crew room when he gets here. Make sure you’ve got your boots cleaned. And DJ, get rid of that yellow T-shirt, you look like a bloody canary.’
Two hours later, Russell ushered the honoured guest into the crew room. Power paused for a moment, apparently scrutinising one of the fading pictures of aircrew on the wall, though Drew suspected he was actually checking his reflection. He looked pleased with what he saw. Power was in his early fifties. He stood ramrod straight and the cut of his uniform suggested that its origins lay closer to Savile Row than RAF Supplies, Northolt. His grey hair, cut as impeccably, was slightly longer than the military norm and his face was deeply tanned.
Power turned and favoured Russell with a regulation smile. ‘So how are things going?’
Russell tried not to make it obvious that he would have preferred a conversation in the privacy of his office. ‘Okay, sir, thank you. The helicopters from 33 Squadron arrive this afternoon. The chaff dispensers are on their way up from the depot, but we have a bit of a problem with the allocation of flares. We’re being told that we can’t even train with them…’
Power pulled a small leather-bound notebook from his pocket and made a note with a silver propelling pencil. ‘I don’t think we need to worry about that.’ His voice was quiet, but commanded their attention.
The instant gratification of a need that had been only half expressed startled Russell. He decided to push his luck. ‘One of the crew has also seen an article on the new French jamming pod.’
‘You know how it is these days,’ Power said. ‘Even war has to be fought under Treasury constraints.’
He spread his hands, palms up, signalling the end of the discussion. ‘Let’s meet these men of yours, shall we?’
When he reached Nick, he asked, ‘Now then, how do you feel about going out to Bosnia?’
‘As long as we get the backing, sir, we’ll do the best job we can.’
Power glanced sharply at Russell, who suddenly became very interested in the toes of his freshly polished boots.
‘You’ll get the backing, Flight Lieutenant,’ Power said. ‘Just do the job you’re paid to do.’
‘Any idea when we might be out in Bosnia, sir?’ DJ asked.
‘I’m afraid not. We must all keep working and training hard. When the call does come, I know you’ll do us all proud.’ He was already turning to go when Drew called after him.
‘Just one more thing, sir. You’re in charge of the Accident Investigation Bureau, aren’t you?’ Power raised an eyebrow and nodded. ‘Do you know anything yet about the crash in the Dales the other day? We normally get a bit of a hint about what happened, but we’ve heard nothing at all. There hasn’t even been a forty-eight-hour signal, as far as I’m aware.’
Power looked at him thoughtfully. ‘The investigators’ report is not yet complete. But it was a young pilot who had only been on the squadron a week. A young pilot, flying his first sortie—’ He let his words trail off. ‘Let’s put it this way. All the evidence to hand indicates that the aircraft was serviceable at the point of impact.’
‘If it’s really that straightforward, why was there no forty-eight-hour signal?’
‘I don’t think you need trouble yourself about operational matters outside your own area of expertise, Flight Lieutenant.’
‘With respect, sir, we fly these aircraft,’ Drew said, ignoring Nick’s tug on his sleeve. ‘I’m just trying to establish what made this crash so unusual.’
Power’s tone remained assured. ‘I hope you’re as aggressive in the air as you are on the ground, Flight Lieutenant. Now, I mustn’t keep you chaps from your work. Well done, carry on.’
The Air Vice-Marshal strode out, with Russell in tow. Once they were safely out of earshot, there was a burst of laughter.
‘I don’t know about you guys,’ Drew said, ‘but that’s certainly boosted my morale. I really feel like going and dying in Bosnia now.’
Nick grabbed his arm and pulled him to one side. ‘What was that about?’
‘What was what about?’
‘Come off it. The crash. Is there something you’re not telling me?’
‘Not really.’
‘Then why were you winding up Power? Russell was practically giving birth.’
‘I don’t know,’ Drew said. ‘I just think it’s very strange that there’s been no official word on it. Power was very evasive, wasn’t he? And those hints about pilot error don’t really tie in with what the farmer said to me up there.’
‘What would a farmer know about it?’
‘Enough to know if something was flying or falling.’ He paused. ‘I’ve started thinking about what happened with DJ on the way to Aalborg. What if there’s a connection?’
‘But you told me yourself what happened; you couldn’t wait to tell DJ, either.’
Drew nodded. ‘Perhaps I was wrong, though. It wouldn’t be the first time.’
‘You won’t get any disagreement from me about that, but why don’t you let the AIB sort it out? That’s what they’re there for.’
Chapter Five
The sound of rotor blades grew louder as the sleek black shapes of three Puma helicopters appeared over the horizon. They skimmed in over the boundary and hovered menacingly for a moment above the airfield, their air intakes gaping like eye sock
ets in a skull.
Nick and Drew had been detailed to go and pick up the crews in the squadron taxi, a beaten-up old Austin Allegro, hand-painted in squadron colours. Drew winced at the grinding of the gears and the creaking of the springs.
Nick peered through the windscreen at the Pumas. ‘Did you know that Michelle Power is flying one of these?’
‘No I didn’t.’ Drew waited in vain for a word of explanation. ‘So who’s Michelle Power?’
‘Oh come on. She was all over the press: one of the first woman pilots to come through the system. And the Air Vice-Marshal who gave us that inspiring speech this morning is her old man.’
Drew rolled his eyes. ‘Oh yeah? No prizes for guessing how she got through the course.’
‘I wouldn’t bet on it. My mate Scabs was on the base she trained at. He says she’s as good as any Puma pilot he’s seen.’
‘Well we’ll soon find out when we start flying against her.’
‘Give her a break, Drew. You haven’t even met her yet. At least wait until you’ve clapped eyes on her.’
Drew smiled. ‘If she’s that good, why isn’t she flying fast jets?’
‘She wanted to stay with helicopters apparently. She was a technician on one of the chopper squadrons and wanted to know what it was like to fly them. So she’s an ex-ranker… just like you.’
‘Not quite. My father was a docker, not an Air Vice-Marshal.’
Nick laughed. ‘That’s what I like about you, Drew. You’re perfectly balanced, a chip on both shoulders.’
Drew shrugged. ‘Why would someone whose father could pull any amount of strings have wanted to be a grease monkey in the first place?’
‘You’ll have to ask her. You might enjoy it. Scabs says she’s a looker.’
The pilot of the first Puma jumped down and walked towards them. The co-pilot and crewman followed, dragging out their bags.
‘Hello, I’m Michelle Power. This is Sandy Craig and my crewman is Paul Westerman, known as Kraut. Except when we’re stationed in Germany.’
Drew turned to face them. Paul Westerman was tall, square-jawed with crewcut hair so blond it was almost white. A scar ran down his left cheek from the corner of his eye to the angle of his jaw. Sandy Craig was shorter, with a plump, round face and a slightly startled expression.
Drew nodded to the two men, then turned back to Michelle Power. She met Drew’s gaze with a challenging look which suggested that she didn’t suffer fools gladly, but her voice had an unexpected warmth. She also had a dazzling smile and startlingly blue eyes. Drew found himself smiling foolishly as he introduced himself.
She gave them a firm handshake, then turned away to help with the bags.
‘Let me give you a hand,’ Drew said, starting towards the helicopter.
‘Thanks, I can manage.’ She threw her own bags into the back of the car and, as she brushed past him, he caught a faint trace of perfume.
‘Obsession?’ he asked.
She smiled faintly. ‘Poison, actually.’
‘It makes a change from sweat and avgas.’
She laughed. ‘You certainly know how to turn on the charm, don’t you?’
She gestured to her bags. ‘By the way, do you make that offer to everybody?’
‘Just the ugly ones,’ Drew said. ‘I’m that kind of guy.’
She smiled. ‘If it’s a battle of wits you’re looking for, I hope you’re well armed.’
Drew met her gaze and his own smile grew broader.
She arched an eyebrow. ‘Was there something else?’
‘I was waiting for you to take off your helmet and shake out your mane of blonde hair.’
‘You’ve been watching too many shampoo ads. It’s not like that in real life. Still if it makes you happy…’
She took off her helmet and shook out a mane of blonde hair. Her crewmen burst out laughing.
Drew turned around and caught Nick trying not to smile. ‘What’s your problem?’
‘Wow,’ breathed Nick. ‘I don’t care who her father is. She’s okay by me.’
They drove over to the crew room and planned the next day’s training. Drew noted the way the other helicopter pilots deferred to Michelle. They obviously shared Scabs’ opinions.
Late that afternoon, they adjourned to the bar for welcome drinks. Everyone from 21 Squadron was there; 26 was in town as well, not long returned from NATO’s Red Flag exercise in the Nevada Desert, complete with suntans and Las Vegas tall stories. The banter between the rival squadrons flew to and fro across the bar.
Drew watched her from the other side of the room, admiring the way she dealt with a chorus of would-be suitors. She managed to give each of them the brush-off in a way that neither offended them nor extinguished their hopes completely.
Only a very raw flight lieutenant, full of drink and fuller of himself after a fortnight in Nevada, took Michelle’s gentle rebuff as an affront to his manhood.
‘You’re only here because your old man’s an Air Vice-Marshal.’ His jaw jutted, his red face aggressively close to hers. ‘You wouldn’t be flying at all if it wasn’t for him. Women just aren’t up to the job.’
‘Nice to know Jurassic Park isn’t the only place where dinosaurs still roam the earth,’ Drew murmured to Nick.
He nodded. ‘I think this one’s close to extinction.’
All those within earshot fell silent, waiting for Michelle’s response. She hesitated for a moment, while he swayed truculently in front of her, his face flushed as much with embarrassment as beer now that all eyes were upon them.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said in a small voice. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know much about flying Tempests. Are they very different from Pumas?’
He gave her a suspicious look, but then blundered ahead. ‘As different as a Ferrari from a tricycle.’
‘And you must have been to some really interesting places.’
Bathed in the radiance of her deep-blue eyes, he puffed out his chest. ‘I’ve been on detachments in Alaska, Italy, Denmark and Cyprus, and I’ve just been on the biggest NATO exercise of them all, Red Flag in the Nevada Desert.’
‘It all sounds fascinating,’ Michelle said breathily, ‘but I don’t think you’ll find it’s any substitute for the real thing. I’ve obviously not had as much excitement as you have, but I have seen action in Northern Ireland and Iraq. I’ve watched one of my mates killed by ground fire, and I’ve seen the IRA blow up an army patrol – boys about your age - with one of their booby traps. There was hardly enough left of them to fill one body bag.
‘I also did CASEVAC in the Gulf War. I brought back the crew of a Tempest once. They had to bang out over the Iraqi desert. Unlike them, I got my aircraft there and back every time. Perhaps I’ll have the pleasure of meeting you under similar circumstances one day. Until then though, I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me: my friends and I are going for dinner.’
There was a burst of laughter and the normal hubbub resumed as the pilot, his face beetroot, slunk away to the far end of the bar.
The floor show over, Nick turned to Drew. ‘Are you off back to an empty flat? Why don’t you come and have dinner at our place?’
Drew gazed after Michelle as she left the bar. ‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’
Nick laughed. ‘I said, I’ve never seen anyone look that good in a flying suit. Do you want to come for dinner at our place?’ He paused again. ‘Hello… Drew… are you receiving me? Over.’
‘What? Yes, sorry, that’d be great.’
* * *
As they opened Nick’s kitchen door, they were buried under a warm avalanche of kids. Drew hugged each of them in turn and then walked over to kiss Sally. ‘Evening, Sally. God, you’re beautiful after dark.’
He ducked as a piece of toast buzzed past his left ear. ‘Very droll. If you think I’m beautiful now, you’ll die when I’m not two stone overweight and knackered from breastfeeding every five minutes.’
Drew pretended to study her again. She was in her mid-thirti
es, but even after four children could have passed for much younger. She had a tangle of thick, shoulder-length, dark hair and her hazel eyes were full of humour.
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘I can see it now. You need a couple of laps around the block, but for a woman of fifty you’re actually in very good shape.’
‘You’ll pay for that,’ she promised. ‘Here, hold this, will you?’ She thrust her two-month-old daughter at him.
‘I certainly will not,’ Drew said, recoiling in mock horror. ‘It might be loaded.’
He sat listening to the children’s excited chatter until Nick rounded them up for their bedtime stories.
‘Get yourself a drink, Drew,’ he called over his shoulder as he followed them up the stairs, ‘and tell Sally all about your new friend at work.’
Drew could hear him laughing as he chased the children into their rooms.
Sally gave him a quizzical look as he pulled the cork on a bottle of Chardonnay and handed her a glass. ‘New friend? Don’t tell me, let me guess. You’ve crossed swords with another senior officer.’
‘That’s not as much fun as it used to be. No, Nick’s talking about a helicopter pilot.’
‘Smart-arse was he?’
‘She. No. Just smart.’
‘And beautiful?’ she asked, with a sly glance.
‘And beautiful.’
She hooted with laughter. ‘For steely-eyed pilot Hunk Masters and blonde heiress Sharon Cleavage it was hate at first sight. But as international tension rose, warfare was the last thing on their minds…’
Drew gave what he hoped was an enigmatic smile. ‘You’re wearing too much eyeliner, but otherwise you’d make a great Barbara Cartland.’
Sally choked on her drink. ‘You charmer,’ she said. ‘That helicopter pilot will be fluttering her eyelashes like captive pigeons and beating her fists against your manly chest by the end of the week.’
‘I think I might wait a bit for Josie’s imprint to fade from the mattress.’
There was a brief, brittle silence. Sally took another sip from her glass. ‘Nick told me about it. I’m sorry.’ He nodded, staring into his drink. ‘So… how is it going?’ She gave him a gentle smile. ‘As your surrogate mother, I have a right to know these things.’
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