4
Inside the hangar, Shanker and Seagrave sat in deck chairs nursing monumental hangovers while Eric played in the Lightning’s cockpit. The boy’s dark blond hair kept bobbing out of sight as he fought his version of the Battle of Britain. Outside, a cleanup crew of volunteers swept up the trash from Saturday’s air show. “The bastards,” Seagrave kept grumbling over and over. “She’s too good a bird to turn into scrap.” He fell into a pit of deep remorse. “I should have mowed the bastards down.”
“A kill is a kill,” Shanker muttered, each word a pile driver of agony spiking his headache.
A silver Bentley drove up and stopped in front of the hangar. The chauffeur popped out and held the rear door open. Prince Reza Ibn Abdul Turika climbed out, stretching his tall frame. Seagrave stood and walked, a bit unsteadily, over to meet the Saudi prince. They knew each other from the time Seagrave had trained Saudi pilots in the Lightning. “So, my friend,” Turika said, “you have problems.”
Seagrave told the prince about the unauthorized flight and how, in retaliation, the CAA had ordered the Lightning to be salvaged for scrap. “All my fault,” he admitted. “I should have killed the fools on the runway.”
Turika walked around the jet. “Very good,” he admitted, admiring the immaculate restoration work. “You did this all with private contributions?” Seagrave quoted the figures in pounds sterling and the estimated number of man-hours that had been volunteered. “It sounds like a labor of love,” Turika said. Eric stuck his head out of the cockpit and quickly climbed out. Seagrave introduced Eric and then Shanker, telling the prince how Shanker had flown F-4 Phantoms. Turika was immediately interested. “Did you know a Colonel Anthony Waters?” Turika asked.
A rueful look crossed Shanker’s face. “Yeah. I knew Muddy. They don’t get any better. I was with him at Ras Assanya. I was evacuated out just before the base was overrun.”
“Muddy was a good friend,” Turika said. “And Jack Locke.”
“I knew Jack,” Shanker said. The two men shook hands, bound by a common tie to two legends of the U.S. Air Force.
“Well,” Turika said, “Chalky here tells me you can help with our dilemma.”
“I belong to a group in the states called the Gray Eagles. We restore warbirds and keep ’em flying for air shows and demonstrations. We’re long on volunteers and short on money, but we can take care of the Lightning, providing it was a donation and transported to the States.”
“And provided,” Turika said, “the CAA doesn’t turn it into scrap.” He studied the Lightning for a moment. “This was the first Lightning I ever flew. Chalky was my instructor. Do you remember that?”
Seagrave nodded. “Like yesterday. Technically it still belongs to your government and is on loan to us.”
Turika exhaled loudly. “The ownership is a confused issue. My government wants nothing to do with it.”
“But the CAA doesn’t know that,” Seagrave said. Turika fell silent, considering his options.
“Gramps,” Eric said, “if the Gray Eagles get it, I can wash it and keep it clean. I got lots of friends who’ll help me.” A thought came to him. “You know what would be real neat?” He was so excited he couldn’t contain his twelve-year-old enthusiasm. “We can paint it with Saudi markings, just like when Prince Turika and Commander Seagrave flew it.”
“I doubt if the Saudis would allow that,” Seagrave said. He looked at Turika. “But there would be a certain poetic justice, since your country has kept it alive.”
Turika smiled at the boy, recalling when his sons had been the same age. But they had all grown up, and not one had followed in his footsteps. “Do you want to be a fighter pilot?” Eric nodded vigorously, a big grin on his face. Turika turned to Shanker. “You’re a very lucky man to have such a grandson. Let’s make something happen, for his sake.” He paused, remembering the past. “And for Muddy Waters and Jack Locke.” He looked at Seagrave. “Chalky, do you know anyone in your government who might be sympathetic?”
“Miss Liz will help,” Eric blurted out. Just as quickly he added, “Excuse me, I didn’t mean to be rude.”
“Out of the mouths of babes,” Seagrave murmured.
“Sorry, Chalky,” Liz said, “but I don’t have the authority to do anything.” She gazed at the Lightning and recalled her short flight from the day before. “What a shame. It is a magnificent machine.”
“What if we submitted a letter returning the Lightning to its rightful owner?” Seagrave asked.
“I thought the RAF Cranthorpe Memorial Display owned it,” she replied.
“It is my understanding,” Turika said, “that it is on loan from my government, along with all the equipment, tools, spare parts, and extra engines.”
Liz understood exactly what the men were suggesting. “Well, if you submitted the letter through my office…”
“And if you didn’t forward it for a week or so,” Seagrave added.
“I had planned on taking leave starting tomorrow,” Liz said. “I’d be gone a week. It would be on my desk waiting for my return.”
“And if I happened to take possession of the Lightning during that time,” Turika said.
“Yes, I see,” Liz said. “You could move it at your discretion.” She warmed to the idea. “Actually, if it was out of the country, the problem goes away, for which I personally would be most grateful — in my official capacity, of course.”
“What about an export license to clear customs?” Seagrave asked.
“No license is required for exporting salvage,” Liz replied. “Just a declaration and estimate of value to pay customs.”
Shanker shook his head. “It doesn’t look like salvage to me.”
“What does salvage look like?” Eric asked.
“I imagine that customs doesn’t really care what it looks like,” Turika said, “as long as it is declared salvage and they have an estimate of value.”
“I can provide that,” Liz said.
“We can’t ask you to do that, Liz,” Seagrave said. “You’re taking too much of a chance declaring it salvage, giving us an estimate, and then sitting on the letter while we abscond with the goods.”
“Not to worry,” she replied. “Since when has one bureaucracy talked to another?” She gave them a radiant smile. “Cheated death again, yes?”
Colonel Roger “Ramjet” Priestly was not a happy man as he reread the lengthy memo from the secretary of defense’s office. He was unhappy because his name was not on it and Lieutenant Colonel Michael E. Stuart’s name was. He threw down the memo in disgust and buzzed his secretary. “Peggy, I want Stuart in here on the double.” He didn’t wait for a reply before breaking the connection. He checked his watch. Exactly forty-five seconds later Stuart presented himself in Ramjet’s office. Peggy had warned him, and not even his glasses could hide his worry. Ramjet threw the memo at Stuart. “I suppose you’ve already seen this?”
Stuart scanned the memo. “No, sir. This is all news to me.”
Ramjet came out of his chair, his palms flat against his desk, his arms rigid, and leaned forward. “In a pig’s ass! This has got your pecker tracks all over it. Tell me a major initiative coming from the National Security Council and forwarded to me from the Sec Def, that directs” — he grabbed the memo and jabbed a forefinger at the opening paragraph to quote — “‘A comprehensive review of the Strategic Petroleum Reserve to include movement and distribution affecting defense commitments’ isn’t tied to your tail.” His face turned beet red.
Stuart tried to be rational. “We do this type of thing all the time, sir. I don’t see the problem.”
Ramjet fell back in his chair. “The problem is that I’m totally out of the loop. It looks like I was asleep at the switch. From now on you will back-brief me after every meeting you attend. Also you will submit nothing, and I mean nothing, without my signing off on it first.”