Walker obviously knew when he was not going to win, because there was a pause and next moment there was a different voice on the line. However, Bear noted that Walker clearly did not like coming second; his failure to tell him who he was going to speak to next was another clear breach of protocol and designed to wrong-foot him.
“Prime Minister here,” a slightly high-pitched, nasal voice speaking in what Bear recognized as the Queen’s English came on the line.
“Hold on, Sir. I’ll put you through to the President.” Bear waited for Dillon to pick up and greet the Prime Minister and then flicked to “monitor call.”
“My dear Lynn.” It was the PM speaking. “How wonderful to hear you. How are you?”
“Good thanks, William.” Dillon was big enough not to be rattled at being stood up by the sky-diving machismo of the President, but she still had to talk to the French and small talk had never been her strongest suite. Quickly she ran through her thinking and then announced her decision to deter the Russians from further aggression against Latvia with a rapid deployment by sea, land and air.
“But to be effective, William, the United States needs allies in this. I’ve worked on the Chancellor in Berlin and I’m reasonably confident we’ll get Germany to sign up to Article Five, but it will take time. And we haven’t got time. I don’t anticipate a problem with the French, but I really need the UK to join us and quickly. When all’s said and done, no other armed forces are as close to us as yours… And we trust you. Our two nations have been through a lot together and I’m told your airborne troops have been working closely with ours, practicing just this sort of operation. Can I count you in?”
The Prime Minister hesitated and then blustered. “Ah well, Lynn. Of course I understand where you’re coming from and I do agree that the Russians are playing a seriously dodgy game. But as for sending troops to Latvia… I’m really not sure. We’d be awfully concerned at winding up the Russians even more and there’s really not a lot we can do. After all, it’s very much their backyard… Don’t you think?”
“Prime Minister.” Dillon dropped the “William” and her voice turned cold. “Are you seriously telling me that the UK is not prepared to stand up and defend the freedom of a NATO ally, facing the most egregious aggression from a resurgent Russia, determined to defend Russian speakers, wherever they are, and by invasion if necessary?”
“Well, no. Of course not, Lynn.” The Prime Minister was squirming now. “But you have to understand. My hands are tied. I really can do nothing with the military without first putting it to Parliament. Besides, we don’t need to worry about Russia and any reductions in our conventional forces, because we’re well covered with our Trident independent nuclear deterrent.”
“Prime Minister,” President Dillon’s voice was withering, “your complacency stuns me. You clearly do not understand the most basic principle of deterrence: that it needs to be matched at every level, whether conventional or nuclear, if it is to be effective. Let me make it crystal clear to you in words of one syllable. If we don’t stop the Russians right now, this means war in Europe… and that will escalate into nuclear war, as surely as night follows day. Your generals have explained that much to you?”
The Prime Minister tried to be firmer. “Now come on, Lynn. I’m sure it’s not that bad, yet. Nobody has attacked anybody… and,” he sounded almost petulant, “well, my people are telling me that there’s no way we can commit British service personnel to a war in the Baltic states. As you know, we’re in a bit of a transition period here and we don’t have our usual forces equipped and ready to go. My generals assure me it’s only a temporary blip and—”
He got no further as the President interrupted. “Are you telling me that you want to go down in history as the first UK prime minister not prepared to stand by a NATO ally in its hour of need? What happened to a thousand years of history? To Britain’s finest hour? As… as far as I am concerned, such a capitulation would be the end of any so-called special relationship.”
Bear imagined he could hear the Prime Minister gulp. “I’ll… I’ll see what I can do, Lynn.”
The phone clicked and went silent.
1735 hours, Saturday, May 20, 2017
IT HAD TAKEN him only two hours and twenty minutes, flying at a cruising speed of 435 knots in his F-16C multi-role fighter aircraft to cover the 900 miles from Aviano Air Base, north of Venice, to Latvia, but Major Philip Bertinetti, US Air Force, was still looking forward to landing and stretching his legs. In line with his instructions from US Air Force air traffic control at Lielvārde, part of the advance party sent ahead to receive the American fighter aircraft, he descended with the second F-16 piloted by Mike Ryan, his new wingman, flying in formation to the rear and left of him. As he banked right he saw, 3,000 feet below him, the gentle curve of the Gulf of Riga, with its miles of yellow, pristine sandy beach fringed by green forest. Then he picked out the beach resort of Jurmala, with its attractive art nouveau wooden houses, the summer playground for the Russian aristocracy in the days of the Tsar and, in Soviet days, a favorite of the Communist Party leadership.
Reminding himself to return one day for a visit with his wife and family when this was all over, Bertinetti started going through his pre-landing checks until there, in front of him, was the runway at Lielvārde. He lowered the landing gear, opened his airbrake and reduced airspeed. Checking his glideslope was within the 2.5–3 degree bracket, he ensured the FPM, the flight path marker, on his heads-up display was over the threshold of the runway and pulled his throttle rearwards. Soon he was closing with the runway and dropping. Within seconds of landing he flared the aircraft gently, decreasing power to idle as he pulled back on the stick.
Touchdown! The F-16 ran true and straight along the runway. But as his instructor always used to tell him, you’re only as good as your last landing—and that one was pretty good. Especially, some would say, in the circumstances. However, for Bertinetti, the past was the past and he had to be perfect right now, because anything less than perfect and he suspected that he would be on the next flight home, but in a passenger seat and no longer the driving seat; the only place he was ever happy in any airplane.
It had been quite a week. Shot down only seven days ago over eastern Ukraine, while providing top cover for US Army trainers working with the Ukrainian Army, he had been swiftly picked up by a Combat Search and Rescue helicopter and repatriated to his home base at Aviano for medical checks and debriefing. He’d been judged in perfect health by the Medical Group and lost no time in persuading the Brigadier General commanding 31st Fighter Wing that he needed to return to duty, to ensure that his recent combat experience against the latest Russian fighters could be passed on to other pilots. Normally, he would have been grounded and kept under observation, but times were definitely not normal and the general had finally relented. Bertinetti had managed a few days at home with his long-suffering wife Diane and their two daughters, before the call came to deploy eight F-16s to Latvia.
The two F-16s were guided onto the pan by ground crew wearing US uniforms; a C-17 and two C-130 transport aircraft from 435th Contingency Response Group had flown to Lielvārde the day before, to prepare the way for them. His canopy opened, Bertinetti removed his oxygen mask, unstrapped himself and stepped out of the cockpit. Then he stretched, took off his helmet and sucked in a lungful of fresh air, before climbing down from the aircraft on the ladder put in place by the ground crew. They hooked the aircraft up to a tractor, which would pull it into a hardened shelter. In minutes, the maintenance crews would be all over it.