Trophy (22 page)

“Remember our chat some time ago about a VIP tour of the control room?” Thurson said mildly. “I can see by your expression you hoped I’d have forgotten.”

“Not much chance of that, sir.”

“None at all, Chris. I want you to send me a convenient date. You did say the summer, if I remember correctly.”

There was nothing wrong with the AVM’s memory, Jason thought ruefully.

“Yes, sir,” he admitted.

“Good. I’ll be arriving with a group of all-Party MPs, and local councillors. Let them see what we’re up to … within reason. Let them feel involved. Get to meet them.”

“Do I have to?”

“If you wanted an easy life,” Thurson remarked, at his most dry, “this was the worst possible career to choose, and certainly not this project.”

“I’m obviously a glutton for punishment.”

Thurson stood up. “Well, glutton, take me around your little operation and show me how it’s getting on. We’ll start with the air combat simulator.”

“By the way, sir,” Jason said as he too stood up, “we’re organising November One’s first Summer Ball …”

“I’m invited, of course.”

“Naturally, sir.”

“Good. In addition to my wife, I’d like to bring an extra guest. All on the same card.”

“Of course, sir. I’ll see the invitation’s altered. May I know who—”

“Antonia. My daughter.”

“Antonia? Last time I saw her she was only a child.”

Thurson laughed. “She may have seemed like that to you, Chris, but she must have been at least
sixteen. Anyway, she’s a young woman of twenty-one now. Time passes, you know.”

“Don’t remind me, sir.”

“It’s all right for you, man. Still in the first flush of youth, feller like you. Don’t read too much into this, but you ought to take a look at her—if you can get past the young tigers, of course. She creates havoc wherever she goes, these days. Fact is, her mother and I reckon she could do with a steadying hand.” He glanced at his watch. “Well, come along now, Wing-Commander. We mustn’t keep your simulator bods waiting.”

He strode away. Still rendered speechless, Jason followed him.

Jason paused by the hatch in the entrance corridor to the vast simulator building. The corporal behind the grille looked at him. Thurson waited patiently to one side.

Jason showed his pass. “The Air Vice-Marshal is coming in with me.”

The NCO peered round to check, looked at Thurson uncertainly before saying: “Very good, sir.” He pressed a hidden button and the double doors blocking the exceptionally clean corridor swung open.

As they went through, Thurson said: “He checked me out first, despite the rank. I like that. Take nothing for granted. I must tell Jacko Inglis I like the way you two seem to be running things.”

“Let’s hope you continue to, sir.”

“That depends, Chris.”

“On what, sir?”

Thurson had moved on ahead. “On how happy you keep me.”

The Wing Commander gave his superior officer’s words some thought. There were things he wasn’t being told. He looked up. “Left here, sir, for the air combat section.”

Their rubber-soled shoes whispered on the highly polished floor as they walked. Presently, they came upon the large doors that led to the air combat section and entered. Here, the floor was covered with standard-issue hard-wearing synthetic material.

They had entered the computer room with its high banks of machines, and a large curving console stacked with display units and controls. A wide window beyond the console showed three huge domes in a hangar-sized room. Unseen within each dome was a perfectly reproduced cockpit of the particular aircraft being “flown.” Modular design enabled several different aircraft to be simulated, by simply altering the internal configuration. Currently, the cockpits were all of Super Tornadoes.

In the computer room were two instructors—one pilot, one navigator—civilian technicians, and a small group of pilots and navigators. All turned to look as Jason and Thurson entered, the military men coming loosely to attention as the Air Vice-Marshal
entered. The low hum of powerful machinery formed a constant background noise.

“Please, gentlemen,” Thurson said to them. “No ceremony. In here, we’re all jocks and navs.”

They relaxed. Thurson went across to the pilot instructor whose screen showed the images of two aircraft clearly locked in combat.

“Who’s up?” he asked.

The instructor, a Flight Lieutenant, said: “Palmer, sir. He’s matched against Selby.”

“Is he? And how is he doing?”

The instructor turned down the corners of his mouth. “Having a hard time of it, I’m afraid, sir. But to be fair, he is up against a pretty tough opponent. Selby’s very good. Selby’s red aircraft, Palmer blue.”

On the screen, one of the aircraft had just fired a missile. A hit.

“Oh dear,” the instructor said. “Another Fox Two on Palmer.” That meant a short-range missile hit. “That’s his third. But he’ll improve. He’s done better than any other green student, all things considered. People like Hohendorf, Selby, and Bagni have taken to the system like ducks to water, but many of the other students need time to adjust. We’ve even had a few people get air sick on us. Palmer, however, is very keen to mix it. Ah! Good maneuver. He’s twisted nicely out of the way of that missile. Good use of infrared jamming and flares. He’ll be all right, sir.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Thurson remarked. “Can we hear what’s being said?”

“Certainly, sir.”

The instructor flipped a switch and immediately the sounds of aircraft in flight, plus inter-ship communications, came up on the computer room speakers.

In the “blue” cockpit, Palmer craned his neck backwards
ELS
he looked upwards through the bubble canopy at the computer-generated sky. The blue of the sky and the ground features beneath were so well simulated that he had no difficulty in suspending disbelief. As far as he was concerned, he was in real combat, and felt chastened by the way Selby continually managed to keep out of gun and missile parameters, while still being able to nail him so efficiently. Good thing this was a simulation. He’d have beer-dead long since otherwise.

He turned his head this way and that, hunting the speck that could grow in frightening milliseconds into the adversary aircraft. The radar told him where it should be, but by the time he’d manoeuvred, it was somewhere else. Selby was bloody ferocious, and was making no allowances for his lack of experience.

Despite being at the receiving end, he accepted the conditions. Better to learn this way, than in the terminal manner of a real conflict.

Christ, he thought grimly as he hauled the
stick towards him and his G-suit inflated, squeezing at him. Where is he?

Everything was realistic; even the sounds of the engines came through on the phones in his helmet. There were clouds up here also, and low-lying ones below. Every weather condition, and all times of day could be simulated. At the moment, he was in the cockpit alone, and conditions were a bright, still day, while aircraft configuration was half internal fuel, but a full weapon load. God knew what it would be like with a full war load, his back-seater in the office, and night conditions. And all that before he flew the aircraft for real.

Sod it! Where are you?

He banked sharply right. The cockpit had a limited six-axis motion capability, but with this to provide the brain with an initial motion cue and the visual images reproducing whatever change of direction was demanded at any given time, it was easy to feel you were hurtling swiftly through the air; that you were standing your aircraft on its wing tip, trying to get a missile lock on the maddeningly difficult-to-acquire blip that danced about you, itself trying to get into the vulnerable cone behind your tail, your six. Despite having all-aspect missiles that made head shots possible, a pilot still preferred attacking the six. Your opponent couldn’t shoot back. A head-to-head could be suicidal if you got things wrong.

In the first instance, a head-to-head shot was your best bet, provided you could keep the engagement
at long distance. But the difference between healthy long distance and a distinctly risky close-in knife fight could sometimes be measured in seconds. He who sees first wins …

So where was Selby?

Palmer pulled the stick, slammed the throttles open and went into a steep climb. He brought the throttles back, kept pulling on the stick. Inverted now, the nose began curving tightly towards the scenery below. The Gs mounted and the barest of tremors went through the stick, indicating that the stall was approaching, though the systems would not actually allow it to happen. Assuming they were all on-line the Super Tornado’s own control systems would in real life prevent mishandling.

A slight graying at the edges of the computer visuals warned Palmer that the same maneuver in a real situation would have brought him to the edge of a potential G-induced blackout. A severe condition would be G-loc, or G-induced loss of consciousness; a total, prolonged blackout that could sometimes prevent a pilot from regaining control of his aircraft before hitting something hard; or give a potential adversary the opportunity to nail an easy, non-maneuvering target.

Palmer eased up on the stick. The graying disappeared. He pulled on the stick again. There was Selby!

“I’ve got him!” Palmer heard himself shout.

The missile seeker had begun to give him the
tone. The seeker diamond was blinking, hunting round for the acquisition box; then both box and seeker disappeared.

“Oh shit!” Palmer said in frustration.

Almost immediately, he heard the ominous sound of Selby’s own tone in his helmet.

He slammed the stick to the left while kicking right rudder. He centralised, slammed the stick the other way until he was again inverted, then pulled hard, reversing his direction. The tone died, but almost immediately came back.

“Jesus!” Palmer muttered, breaking hard to the right and pulling tightly into the turn. He broke lock again. Thank Christ for that, he thought feverishly. He realized he was sweating.

Now where was Selby this time?

Then the tone was back, insistent and deadly. There was a thump and a muted explosion, and the cockpit rocked.

“Fox two,” he heard Selby say.

That was the fourth time he’d been nailed.

“Very impressive,” Thurson said. He had watched the combat on one of the monitors and was now standing to one side with Jason, keeping out of the way of the students and instructors.

“Selby and Palmer?” Jason asked. “Or the equipment.”

“All of it. Selby, Palmer, and the equipment.”

“Poor old Palmer will be feeling a bit miffed. He was rather comprehensively bested.”

“Yes, but as has recently been said, he’ll improve. Besides, he did fight back rather aggressively. A good thing, don’t you think?”

The doors to the domes had opened, and out of the red one came Selby. He waited for Palmer who came somewhat sheepishly out of the blue dome. They were both wearing full kit.

Selby gave Palmer a friendly pat on the shoulder and said something to him. Palmer returned a rueful grin.

Thurson said to the instructor: “Have Selby and Hohendorf been at it yet?”

“Oh yes, sir,” the instructor answered. “They’re our best customers. They’ve had four combats so far.”

“And the outcome?”

The instructor grinned. “Inconclusive. Is there something I don’t know? Are those two having a grudge match?”

“Good competitive spirit,” Jason said, after a sideways glance at the Air Vice-Marshal.

“I see, sir,” the instructor said warily. He wasn’t going to argue with the Wing Commander.

“How do you rate them?”

“There’s not much I can teach them about the basics of air fighting. Between us we’re now working out tactics to counter those of all possible threat air
craft, mixing them with all sorts of weather and light conditions. Those two are very keen.”

“As they should be,” Thurson commented drily.

Selby and Palmer, who had gone into another room to remove their gear, now entered wearing their flying overalls. They saw the Air Vice-Marshal and Jason, and paused uncertainly.

Thurson went up to them. Jason followed.

“Good work,” Thurson said, including them both.

Palmer said: “I’m afraid I was soundly thrashed, sir.”

“He does have a certain advantage. He’s been doing this job rather longer than you have. I thought you handled yourself well.”

Palmer looked pleased. “Thank you, sir.”

“Just bear in mind that a potential enemy will be in there, hoping to make dead meat of you before you can blink. The only answer … get him first. I’ve no doubt you can do it.”

“Thank you, sir,” Palmer said again.

The instructor had been waiting for a break in the conversation. Now he said to Palmer: “You can watch the reply. We’ll freeze the action at certain manoeuvres to analyze it and see where there’s room for improvement. When we’ve done that, we’ll study the print-outs to check the launch parameters on your missile releases.”

Palmer nodded. “If you’ll excuse me, sir?” he said to Thurson.

Thurson gave his permission. “Carry on, Richard.”

“Sir.” Palmer joined the instructor at the console.

Thurson turned to Selby. “Impressive work. How do you find the new aircraft?”

“Everything I could wish for, sir. She’s crisp, responsive, agile, unbelieveably powerful … Need I go on?”

Thurson smiled. “I think you’ve convinced me.” He glanced at his watch. “Now I’d better leave you to get on. Nice work, Flight Lieutenant.”

He caught Jason’s eye and together the two men left the computer room. This was literally a flying visit—he had to be back in Whitehall by four.

Selby went over to the console to join the others. Palmer was examining his print-outs in disgust. “Look at that.” He began to read off the conce rtinaed sheets that had come off the printer. “Conditions at acquisition: 117.7 seconds, range 3000.3 meters, azimuth minus 0.2, elevation minus 0.2, angle off 72.1, throttle 100 percent, missile status … my God … mach number less than allowed minimum. I launched three more—bad angle off, poor range, track-while-scan a fat zero, missile crashed, missile infrared signal lost and finally, this one: max flight time exceeded.” He flung the sheets down. “Hell—I might as well give up.”