‘Exercise Stalwart Divider was the biggest test of Britain’s air defences since first talk of “peace dividends”. And against the background of the Devon school disaster, it was controversial. In view of the vast cost, and the danger to civilian life, people are asking why we have to stage these things at all now that the Soviet threat has disappeared.’
‘And your facility — your three days at the base — were exclusive to us?’ Carey asked.
‘Yes.’
‘It’s certainly topical.’
‘And expensive,’ Girling said. ‘Half the US Air Force was there.’
‘Official figures?’
‘I picked up a USAF press release at the Tornado base. It seemed to contain all the facts.’
Carey stared at his page-plan for a moment. ‘I’ll buy around five hundred well-chosen words on the financial and political cost to the government of military low flying.’
Kelso looked at Girling over the top of his glasses. ‘You flew in one of those jets, so why not give the punters some of your celebrated techno jargon — tell them how it is from the other side.’
Girling thought about Bag, Air Sickness NATO Stock № 8105-99-130-2180. He was glad to have a chance to put across the pilot’s viewpoint. But he would leave out any reference to the in-flight emergency. He owed Rantz something for getting them down in one piece.
Carey scratched his chin. ‘Seems to me we should split the story in two. We’ll box up your own first-hand impressions of the exercise on the same page as the main angle. A thousand words, tops, all right?’
‘And I want to see it by end lunch-time,’ Kelso said. ‘Anything else we should know about?’
‘Picked up a tip they’re using Concorde to simulate Blackjack attacks,’ Girling said.
Kelso twiddled a biro’s end in his ear and admired the results. ‘What in God’s name is Blackjack?’
‘The Soviet Union’s new strategic bomber. It flies the same speed as Concorde and, apparently, has an identical radar signature. For the last six months the RAF has been monitoring British Airways charter flights in and out of Russia to see if they can be tracked on our ground-based radar. The RAF has just carried out a whole load of software improvements on our air defence network, and they want to know if it works. They’re using the Concorde flights to test out fighter intercept procedure, and nobody knows about it, least of all the Concorde passengers.’
Kelso popped the biro back in his top pocket. ‘Let’s give it to young Kieran, see what he makes of it.’ He turned to the Irishman.
Only Girling saw Mallon’s disappointment.
Girling turned to Carey. ‘There was a Soviet military transport aircraft at a base on the West Coast of Scotland yesterday. A place called Machrihanish.’
‘How do you know?’ Carey asked.
‘I was there. Got pictures, too.’
Just then the phone rang by Kelso’s elbow. ‘The Soviets are probably starting charter services between Scotland and Murmansk,’ he said, picking up the phone. ‘Hello?’
Girling put his notes away. He would follow it up another time.
Kelso barked down the receiver to the graphics department for thirty seconds, then hung up. ‘Jesus, what a fucking mess. Where was I? Oh, yes. News. Just when everyone thought hijacking had gone out of fashion and it was safe to get back on a fucking plane, these jokers pop up from nowhere and do a number on the American ambassador to Saudi and his negotiating team. This time, the American public has gone ape-shit. My guess is Washington’s going to send in the Marines, or that antiterrorist outfit of theirs.’
‘Delta Force,’ Carey prompted.
Kelso twitched. It didn’t do to show him up in company.
‘I mean, talk about balls,’ Kelso continued, his gaze fixed on Girling. ‘Did you see how they got on board?’
‘I haven’t had a chance,’ Girling said.
‘Well, read the cuttings, Tom. It’ll take your breath away.’
The shark’s eyes swept the assembled company.
‘We need to find out what’s happening in Washington,’ he said. ‘It’s been too quiet for my liking since that 747 touched down in Beirut. We need to steal a march. Show the world we’ve still got teeth.’
‘What’s the word from the States?’ Girling asked. They had to have some news.
Kelso looked to Carey.
‘Claudia’s done a piece on the knee-jerk reaction over there.’ Carey picked up the cue. ‘But it’s the usual trawl through her sources in the Administration and Congress. So far she hasn’t turned up anything we can stick on page one.’ He paused. ‘We’ve also got Stansell working the story out of Cairo. That should produce some results.’
‘If he can get his nose out of a bloody bottle,’ someone whispered, too low for Kelso to catch. Girling turned to see Moynahan smiling sweetly at him.
Girling stiffened. Coming from Moynahan, the two-faced bastard, that was rich. ‘What’s Stansell’s brief?’
‘Find out the identity of the hijackers, their motives, see if there’s any word of state involvement on the streets. Maybe Libya’s up to its old tricks. The usual shit.’
Girling’s brow furrowed. ‘You mean, these guys haven’t said who they are yet?’
Carey shook his head.
‘What about demands?’
Girling felt himself drawn towards the story. He bit his lip. He was done with that kind of thing. He had promised himself, as much for Alia’s sake as his own.
Only Kelso caught his reaction. ‘Zilch. As I said, we’re dealing with some hard bastards out there. You might find them interesting.’ He smiled beguilingly. ‘Why don’t you pull the file from the cuttings library, Tom, and take a look. After you’ve turned round your copy, of course.’
Girling flicked through his notes.
He pounded out the details of his trip with Rantz — up to the point where the bombs destroyed the bridge: the nausea, the concentration, the sweat, and the fear that accompanied a Tornado crewman as he hurtled supersonically towards the target, his wings level with the tops of the trees.
As science and technology correspondent, Girling had written many such pieces. Today, he pounded out the story mechanically, with little enthusiasm for the words.
‘What is it?’ Mallon asked.
Girling paused.
‘I was thinking of all the useless knowledge that’s stored away between these two ears, with maybe a total of three pages a year on which to dump it. Seems like a hell of a waste. I mean, tens of thousands of pounds of taxpayers’ money has been spent training me to fly aircraft and helicopters, drive tanks, fire guns — ’
‘Sounds fun to me,’ Mallon said.
‘Don’t get me wrong, it is. But in the end I just get to file the copy if I’m lucky and then kiss all this knowledge goodbye.’
‘Short of fighting a war, there’s not a whole lot you can do with it.’
The picture editor arrived with photographs of a Tornado, similar to the one in which he had flown with Rantz, and the burnt-out shell of the little Devon village school. The one with the rag-doll body of the child in the ruins that had been splashed across the front pages of so many tabloids the day after the disaster.
Girling sighed. ‘Kelso?’
The man nodded.
If orders came from the board to take Dispatches downmarket, it looked like being a short journey.
Girling hit the key to save the file, entered it into the network system and dispatched it electronically to the sub-editor’s desk, where it would be hacked about before being put into production, finally ending up on an inside news page.