Eric read another one of the signs. “What’s ‘Ban the Bomb’ mean?”
“It’s a throwback to another time, son, when people were worried about nuclear war.”
The two Americans watched as three well-dressed men approached the group of protesters. “I’m afraid I must ask you to leave,” one of the men told the demonstrators.
“Who are you, mate?” a scruffily dressed woman shouted.
“I’m from the CAA, and—”
The crowd started shouting, “Hell no, we won’t go,” and drowned out the CAA man. The three men gave up and retreated to the safety of their car as the crowd grew larger and the chanting louder.
“What’s the CAA?” Eric asked.
“That’s the British government’s Civil Aviation Agency,” Shanker answered. “It’s the same as our FAA, the Federal Aviation Agency.”
“I thought you didn’t like the FAA.”
“I don’t dislike them, son. I just think they’re a pain in the ass. Like all bureaucrats.”
“Dad says he’s just a bureaucrat in the Air Force.”
“That’s different,” Shanker replied. But not much, he groused to himself. All he ever wanted was for Michael to be like his older brother and fly jet fighters. But Mike’s poor eyesight had precluded that, and as a result he was a nonrated officer with a desk job. His younger son was one of his life’s major disappointments. He put his arm around his grandson’s shoulders. “Come on. They got an F-4 here like the ones I used to fly.”
“That’s neat, Gramps. Can I sit in it?”
“We’ll see, son,” Shanker said, feeling much better. There was hope for the family yet. They followed the crowd out to the old parking lots, where three generations of warbirds were on display. Shanker paused when he saw the old F-4 Phantom II, and for a moment the memories came rushing back. It was 1972, and he was a young captain walking out to a bomb-laden Phantom for a mission over North Vietnam. “We were young then,” he said in a low voice.
“I’m afraid you were born old,” a voice with a clipped English accent said from behind him, bringing Shanker back to the moment.
Shanker turned around. The speaker was a tall, lanky man his age. A mass of unruly gray hair framed a ruddy face, and close-set, bright blue eyes twinkled above an outrageous RAF-style handlebar mustache. He was wearing an olive-green flight suit with leather gloves protruding from a leg pocket. “Chalky!” Shanker shouted. “You old reprobate! The last I heard, you were flying for the Saudis.”
“I was until they phased out the Lightning and bought F-15s from you Yanks.”
“Can’t say I blame them,” Shanker allowed.
The Englishman shook his head. The old, long-forgotten, good-natured rivalry was back. “Who’s the young gentleman?”
“Wing Commander Seagrave, may I present my grandson, Eric Stuart. Eric, Wing Commander Robin Seagrave, better known as ‘Chalky’ because of his hair, which turned white the first time he flew in a real jet.”
Eric extended his hand. “Pleased to meet you, sir.” The two shook hands, the Englishman impressed with the boy’s good manners.
“Eric,” Shanker said, “don’t pay any attention to what Chalky says about the Lightning.”
“What’s the Lightning?” Eric asked.
Seagrave laughed. “Obviously your grandfather has neglected your education. Come, I’ll show you.” He led the two to another parking lot, where a jet fighter was parked. “Well, lad, what do you see?”
Eric studied the airplane for a moment and concentrated hard. He glanced at his grandfather, and Shanker nodded his encouragement. “Well,” Eric began, “I see a single-place jet fighter with a big intake in the nose.” He walked around the old jet and screwed up his face. “It’s got funny-looking clipped wings, almost delta-shaped but not quite.” He smiled. “It’s got a big vertical stabilizer sticking up like a B-52.” His eyes opened wide in amazement when he walked around the back. “It’s got two engines! One on top of the other!”
“Very good,” Seagrave said. “Right on all counts, except it’s a two-place. The pilot and passenger sit side by side. A bit cramped. Specifically it’s a BAC Lightning, model T.55. Lightnings were in service with the RAF from 1960 to 1988.” He explained how Saudi Arabia had also flown the jet until 1986 and then given this particular one to a group of English aviation enthusiasts for preservation. “Unfortunately,” Seagrave explained, “the CAA won’t allow me to fly it. Never said why. Some bureaucratic nonsense. Probably afraid to make a decision.”
“Then why the flight suit?” Shanker asked.
“They will allow a high-speed taxi demonstration down the active. I’ll light the reheat but shut it down at a hundred fifty knots and deploy the brake chute. That should delight the crowd.”
Shanker was jealous. “You lucky dog.”
Seagrave wouldn’t let it go and had to rub it in. “Wait until you see my passenger.” He pointed to a young woman waiting near the boarding ladder to the cockpit. “On local control with the CAA. Going along to make sure all is correct. Liz,” Seagrave called. “Someone I’d like you to meet.”
The woman walked over to them. Her flight suit was molded to her figure, and she moved to an inner music that created an image of beauty and grace. Seagrave made the introductions and escorted her back to the boarding ladder. “Lucky dog,” Shanker muttered under his breath.
“She’s really pretty, Gramps,” Eric said.
“I’m glad you noticed, son.” They watched in silence as the two climbed into the Lightning, donned their helmets, and started engines.
Eric studied the jet as it taxied out to the main runway. “Was the Lightning a good fighter, Gramps?”
Shanker was absolutely honest. “It was a real hot rod in its day and still nothing to sneeze at. I flew against it in an exercise once and got my eyes watered. But it didn’t carry enough fuel and had a limited range. It never saw combat, which is the real test.”
“Wing Commander Seagrave is really cool. Is he a good fighter pilot?”
“He’s one mellow dude in the hot tub and a damn good pilot, but since he never flew combat, we’ll never know for sure about the fighter thing. Just like the Lightning.”
Seagrave glanced at his passenger. “You okay?”
Liz took a deep breath. “Fine, thanks. This is most exciting.”
“Much more thrilling if we could fly.” He pointed at the handle for the brake chute in the upper right-hand corner of the instrument panel. “When I ask for the chute, just a smooth straight pull. But not until I tell you.” She nodded, her eyes bright. She tentatively touched the handle.
Seagrave keyed the radio. “Cranthorpe Tower. Lightning One is holding at ‘C’ ready for taxi run.”
“Cleared to enter and hold,” the tower answered. Seagrave acknowledged and taxied into position on the runway. “Lightning One, you are cleared for your high-speed taxi run, surface wind is two-fifty at twelve knots, temperature plus eighteen.”
Seagrave answered, “Winding up and rolling in twenty seconds.”
“Roger, Lightning One,” the tower replied. “Runway is clear.”
Seagrave fed the power into the two Rolls-Royce Avon Mark 302C engines. When the RPMs touched 92 percent, he called “Brakes off” over the intercom and shoved the throttles full forward. “Reheat now.” He lit the afterburners and called their speed, his voice calm and matter-of-fact as their speed quickly built. “Very good. One-twenty, one-thirty — Christ!” A swarm of people surged onto the runway, directly in their path. They were holding a huge banner across the runway proclaiming SAVE OUR CHILDREN — NOT CRANTHORPE! Their intent was obvious: They wanted the Lightning to split the banner while video cameras recorded the image for the evening news. But they’d misjudged the space the Lightning needed to clear on each side and hadn’t given Seagrave enough distance to drag the accelerating fighter to a stop. There was only one option left.