‘Stand by to lase… lase now,’ Rantz called to the Tornado designator. Even before Rantz finished the command, he was pulling the Tornado into a tight turn to starboard, away from the SAMs and radar-guided artillery.
Girling tried to keep his eyes on the bridge, but it disappeared into the haze behind them.
Two miles away, the seeker heads in the Paveways responded to the laser energy scattering off the third girder of the bridge by snapping the control fins hard over, first left then right, until the bombs locked on course. Only the laser operator, watching the bridge through the high-powered electro-optics in the tip of the designator, would be able to see the results.
Four seconds later, they got the news.
‘Two strikes, bridge destroyed. Nice work Viking. See you back at base.’
When the Tornado levelled out, Girling was surprised to see they were up to a thousand feet and over water. He looked down at the moving map. They were flying south-west along the Firth of Lorn, just to the south of the Island of Mull off the Scottish West Coast.
‘Pull me up the first way-point for the return leg,’ Rantz said.
Girling punched in the commands on the buttons by the TV-tab display just as they had shown him on the simulator. The message was relayed to the pilot on his CRT. Rantz pulled them back on a course that would bring the Tornado to the west of Glasgow and thence on a direct line south-east to Marham, now something under half an hour away.
The Tornado decelerated. Girling settled back into his seat, happy in the knowledge that there would be no further need of the sick bag. In the less turbulent air of their cruising altitude, the return journey would be a breeze.
‘Just make sure you tell how it really is,’ Rantz said, suddenly.
‘Enlighten me.’
‘We fly above a hundred feet on the day and they’ll have us. It’s as simple as that. Your friends on Fleet Street make out we do this for fun. One cock-up out there on the range just now and I would have buried you, me, and a twenty-million-pound aircraft. I don’t call that fun, Girling.’
‘Who’s ‘they’, Rantz? Just who will have you on the day?’
Rantz laughed.
‘The Russians aren’t finished yet, Girling. They’ve still got the most powerful armed forces on Earth and they’ll export to any loony Third World dictator who’ll swap his fruit crop for MiGs or Sukhois.’
‘Unfortunately, that’s not how Parliament and the public see it right now.’
‘Thanks to the media.’
Girling watched a trawler pitch and roll on the gentle swell below.
‘The fact is, Rantz, there aren’t many people out there who believe there will be a war tomorrow.’
‘That’s what they were saying when the Gulf blew up in our faces.’
‘And the press played its part then, too. Most of it in your favour.’
‘Oh?’
‘When you boys complained about the F3 being no good, who was it who campaigned for government funds backing a replacement fighter? Just about every national newspaper, as I recall.’
Girling was met with nothing but static.
‘Your bosses at the MOD are as capable of manipulating the media as anyone else, you know that. It’s all part of the game.
‘If it’s any consolation, Rantz, you’ve shown me the other side of the coin today, what it’s like to fly at fifty feet when you’ve got no other choice. Maybe my piece will reflect that.’
‘Fuck it, Girling. I owe you an apology.’
‘What for?’
‘The Group Captain told me to pull out all the stops today. You know, scare the crap out of you.’
‘Why?’
‘To show you what it’s really like doing this for a living. Flying a bomber at Mach 1, day or night, whatever the weather, whenever the phone rings and someone tells us to do so. I wouldn’t swap this job for anything in the world, but sometimes, just sometimes…’
He never finished the sentence.
Girling swallowed. He suddenly realized that beneath all the bravado Rantz was scared.
‘I know.’ He sensed a new bond between them.
Rantz swore. Girling saw the master-caution light blinking urgently on the pilot’s display panel.
‘What is it?’
‘Fire in the starboard engine.’
‘Is this for real, or part of the exercise?’
Rantz’s voice was calm, measured, but Girling could hear the tension there, too. Rantz did not need to answer his question.
‘I’m shutting it down before it damages the good engine. If both go we’re really in the shit.’
Girling felt light-headed. His breathing came in short, rapid gasps. He remembered the instructor’s warning about hyperventilation. He began to moderate the tempo and felt the dizziness disappear.
Rantz’s voice was coming over his headset. The edge in his tone had disappeared. His instructions were cool, despite the gravity of their situation.
‘If the second engine gives up on us, I’m not going to hang around. If you hear me say eject three times, you’re out of here, understand? A sharp tug on the handle with both hands and the next thing you know you’ll be in the water. Your personal locator beacon will ensure you’re picked up. I’m not going to stay behind to make sure you’ve gone, so listen up for the command. Got that?’
‘Yes.’ Girling’s voice remained level. Inside his head, it screamed.
The Tornado climbed. Rantz was giving them height. The height to eject.
The moving map told Girling they were over the Sound of Jura. To the best of his knowledge there wasn’t an RAF station for miles. Perhaps they could make Glasgow airport.
If the good engine held.
A minute passed before Rantz spoke again. ‘I’m going to make for Machrihanish.’
‘Where?’
‘RAF Machrihanish on the southern tip of the Mull of Kintyre. It’s not used much but it’s got a good long runway. I think we’re going to need it. Hydraulic pressure looks dodgy.’
Rantz was still trying to call up Machrihanish tower when the coastline of the Mull of Kintyre hove into view out of the mist in front of them.
The static hiss changed in tone. A second later, Girling heard the controller. ‘Go ahead, Viking zero-one.’
Rantz gave a succinct damage report and requested permission to land. The static seemed to build in intensity. They were taking their time.
‘Come on, you son of a bitch,’ Rantz said.
It seemed minutes before the tower came back. ‘Viking zero-one?’
‘Roger.’
‘You are clear to land from the north-east. Wind speed fifteen knots. Crash crews alerted.’
‘Thank you, Machrihanish.’ There was more than a trace of sarcasm in Rantz’s voice.
Girling’s helmet dug into the back of his skull and the hole in the palm of his hand throbbed.
The Tornado passed over the coastline at two and a half thousand feet. The wings swept forward ready for landing and flaps and slats were extended into the slipstream. The straps dug into Girling’s chest as the aircraft slowed for the approach. Three green lights appeared on Rantz’s instrument panel. Girling heard the wheels lock in place.
The aircraft pulled round in a tight turn between two fifteen-hundred-foot peaks and passed over the peninsula’s eastern coastline. They were now over Kilbrannan Sound. Away, to their left, Goat Fell, Arran’s highest hill, thrust up from the centre of the island towards a patch of low cloud scudding in from the south-west.
The runway lights sparkled in the distance.
‘Port engine’s playing up now,’ Rantz said, too calmly for Girling’s liking. ‘I think we’re only going to have one stab at this.’
Girling’s grip tightened over the firing handle of his seat.