Point of Impact

by Point of Impact (retail) (epub)

  ‘You don’t know what you’re asking.’

  ‘How dare you presume to tell me what I can and cannot know about my own husband’s death? You gave your word to me as we sat around this table barely a week ago. Keep it.’

  He stared into her eyes for a long time, then nodded slowly. ‘All right. The murdering bastards shot him as he hung there, defenceless. They didn’t even kill him cleanly, they took their time. They shot him in the legs first and they laughed as they did it.’

  Tears poured down his face as he spoke, seeing the scene before his eyes as if he was back in the Bosnian forest. Sally was expressionless, her eyes never leaving his face.

  ‘I escaped, hid in a swamp while they searched for me and then I went back after dark. They’d left him hanging in the tree. There were a couple of guards on the body, but they gave up and left around midnight. I watched them go, then cut Nick’s body down and buried him.’

  He felt in his pocket. ‘I brought you this.’

  She opened the silver locket and stared at the picture of herself with Nick and the children. ‘When my children grow up, I’ll show them this and tell them exactly how their father died, so they’ll never be tempted to go and do what he did.’

  She walked to the door and held it open. ‘It’s probably best if you don’t come again, Drew. I don’t want to start hating you for being alive.’

  Drew stood for a moment searching her face. Then he bowed his head. ‘All right. If that’s what you want.’

  She nodded, expressionless.

  He paused on the doorstep, but she looked right through him. He closed the door and walked slowly away.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Drew bought a bottle of Scotch and went straight back to his flat, but his attempts to obliterate his memories with drink did not succeed. He stayed stubbornly sober and sleep was a long time coming after he lay down on the bed.

  He overslept and had to hurry through the mid-morning traffic towards the motorway. Driving south fast, he tried to drown his thoughts with the radio. He found Robintree easily enough and pulled into the car park of the Pheasant just before one o’clock.

  The other customers, all couples, gave him no more than a glance. He bought himself a drink and settled down to wait. He had been there for about twenty minutes when a tall, stoop-shouldered man in his mid-forties walked in. He looked around nervously, the bar lights glinting on the frames of his gold-rimmed glasses. Drew thought he recognised him from somewhere, but could not think where.

  ‘Mr Parr? I’m Drew Miller, I’m a pilot, flying Tempests. I didn’t want to give my real name over the phone for obvious reasons.’

  Parr pushed a strand of his thinning, sandy hair back from his forehead. He chose a chair that gave him a view of the rest of the bar. As he talked, his eyes constantly flickered towards the entrance, checking each new arrival.

  ‘I recognise you, Mr Miller,’ he said. ‘I think I can guess what you want to talk to me about.’

  Drew nodded. ‘You know how many people have been killed flying Tempests in the last few months?’

  Parr stared wretchedly at the floor before replying. ‘I do, only too well. The aircraft that crashed in Swaledale recently was piloted by my nephew. It was his first flight in a Tempest.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Drew said. ‘My best friend was killed after another crash and the navigator on your nephew’s flight was also a friend of mine. I had to lead a search-and-rescue team to the site.’

  Parr reached absently for a beer mat. He twisted and tore it into tiny scraps. ‘Were they killed instantly?’

  Drew nodded. ‘They wouldn’t even have had time to blink.’ He watched Parr carefully. ‘I’m trying to find a way to stop more people dying. I think you can help.’

  Parr glanced around the room again, then dropped his voice. ‘I can’t tell you it all.’

  ‘Then tell me what you can.’

  ‘There were lengthy delays in completing the upgrade on the Tempest, not all of which were Barnwold’s responsibility. The MoD kept changing the specification, as usual. Then the budget for the aircraft was trimmed back. Money’s always a problem with these contracts, despite what the public might think. Sorry, I’m digressing, aren’t I?’

  ‘Take your time.’ Drew said.

  ‘While taking away the money with one hand, they were also pressing us with the other one to get the job done without any further delays. To maintain the profitability of the contract, we pared down the specification.’ His voice trailed away into silence.

  ‘Could you be a little bit more specific?’

  ‘Well, the original spec had called for a completely new computer system to drive the fly-by-wire.’

  ‘I know that already. Even the guys who put the petrol in know it should have had a bigger computer.’ Drew instantly regretted his impatience. ‘I’m sorry, I’m interrupting.’

  Parr gave a fleeting smile. ‘I fought the idea very hard.’ He swallowed hard before continuing. ‘Because my own belief was that in certain circumstances the computer capacity available might be insufficient.’

  ‘Insufficient for what? What circumstances?’

  ‘That’s just what we don’t know. We were under so much pressure to finish the modifications that we were never able to fully test the system; that’s still being carried out now.’

  Parr folded his hands in his lap, as if he had said enough. Drew was also silent, thinking through what Parr had told him.

  ‘I need more. I now know roughly where to look, but I still don’t know exactly what I’m looking for.’

  Parr shook his head. ‘I can’t tell you any more.’

  Drew looked at him for a moment, then reached into his pocket and pulled out the miniature tape recorder. He watched Parr’s face as his eyes followed the microphone lead up to Drew’s lapel.

  Parr spoke in a monotone. ‘If you use that you’ll ruin me.’

  ‘You’ll be in good company. Now tell me what you know.’

  ‘I don’t know any more. What I’ve told you already is only supposition. We’ve been running a Tempest on a test bed for some time and have yet to reproduce the fault.’

  ‘But if you know that there may be a problem, why haven’t you done anything about it – apart from setting up the test bed?’

  Parr gazed at the floor for a moment. ‘I tried to, but I was overruled by the rest of the board. When I protested, I was warned off and when I persisted I was effectively demoted, kicked sideways into another job.’

  ‘Why were you overruled – just to save money?’

  Parr hesitated and his eyes flickered back to Drew’s lapel. ‘If I tell you what you want, you’ll give me the tape?’ Drew nodded. ‘We’re negotiating with two Arab governments interested in buying Tempests. If the contracts go through, the hardware alone is worth well over a billion pounds. With spares, training and other backup, we’re looking at two billion pounds’ worth of business.’

  Drew shook his head. ‘So it’s all right for British aircrew to die and Arab governments to get fleeced, just as long as Barnwold can keep its shareholders happy?’

  Parr swallowed again, but said nothing.

  Drew stared at him, torn between sympathy and disdain.

  ‘I have to go,’ Parr said abruptly, rising to his feet.

  As he held out his hand for the tape, Drew suddenly realised where he had seen him before. ‘Just a minute,’ he said, catching at his arm. ‘I’ve seen you in a photograph. You, some other guys in suits, a couple of Arabs and Air Vice-Marshal Power.’

  Parr nodded. ‘That would be in Qatar probably. Charles accompanied us there on one of the sales trips.’ As he caught Drew’s expression, he added, ‘There’s nothing untoward about it. Senior officers are often involved in presentations to foreign governments.’

  ‘But he knows about the billion-pound deals?’

  Parr nodded.

  Drew held on to his arm a moment longer, and decided to test the name he had discovered while posing as the Brit
ish Telecom engineer. ‘And Henry Robertshaw?’

  Parr shrugged. ‘As the chairman of Barnwold, he would certainly have been there. Now I really have to go. The tape please.’

  Drew shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. That stays with me – life insurance if you like.’

  Parr’s eyes clouded. ‘You gave me your word.’

  Drew nodded. ‘I know. I’m learning to play dirty, just like everybody else. But don’t worry – it won’t be used except as a last resort and it won’t be sent to the company. Your precious job is safe as long as you can stomach it.’

  As he drove across country towards Brize Norton, Drew kept mulling over what Parr had said. He was left with the same feeling as before: the solution was so close that he could almost reach out and touch it, but there was still a gap he could not bridge.

  He arrived at the base with an hour to spare. He left his Audi in the main car park, then sat in the grim departure and arrivals shed, sipping bad instant coffee from a polystyrene cup as he thought furiously about his next step.

  * * *

  The first person Drew saw as he stepped out of the Herc at Gióia, was Russell.

  ‘How’s your father, Drew?’

  There was a pause before Drew remembered his cover story.

  ‘Fine, thank you sir. It was a false alarm. An attack of angina. I hope he’ll heed the warning.’ He smiled and hurried away.

  DJ looked up as Drew entered the Mess. ‘Did you hear? Decisive Edge is finally gaining some teeth. Your tame American general has done the business. He reported back to NATO commanders about Nick’s murder, forcing the UN to hold another emergency debate earlier today. They passed a further resolution handing operational control permanently to NATO and authorising “all necessary force” to bring the Serbs to heel.’

  There was a mixture of excitement and anxiety in his voice.

  ‘We’re briefing at five,’ DJ said, checking his watch. ‘I’m off to write a couple of letters and then get some sleep.’

  Drew nodded. ‘I guess we’ll all be writing those “just-in-case” letters tonight, trying to say all those things we should have said but somehow never did.’

  * * *

  The briefing was long and detailed. The intelligence officer, her face drawn and tired, referred frequently to her notes. ‘As soon as news of the UN resolution reached the Bosnian Serb commanders yesterday, they began a push towards Srebanj. They are advancing their armour and artillery, clearly seeking to overrun the UN garrison there. Artillery and mortars are already raining fire down around the town.’

  Drew’s formation listened attentively as they were briefed on their part in the mission. They were to provide escort cover for Tempest RSIs and American F16s bombing the artillery and mortar sites, part of a massive package of NATO aircraft.

  Drew glanced at DJ and Ali. They were being asked to fly one of the most difficult of missions, right through a firestorm of Triple-A and ground fire.

  DJ met his look with a wink, but his face was pale. Ali stared straight ahead, a muscle twitching beneath his eye.

  ‘Under cover of the bombing, a rescue mission will be mounted to extract the garrison.’ The intelligence officer shuffled her notes. ‘You should also be aware of a new development. There may be additional threats beyond the Triple-A defences and the SAM 2 and SAM 6 sites we’ve identified. There’s also a strong possibility that the Serb Federation forces may come to the support of the Bosnian Serbs.

  ‘Serbian forces have been mobilised and their aircraft are already patrolling close to the Bosnian border. Their Mig 21s shouldn’t be a serious worry, but they also have four squadrons of Mig 29s.’

  In the ensuing silence, Drew looked around the room. The faces of the aircrew were set. The Mig 29 had been the pick of the Soviet Union’s aircraft and, even without some of the advanced technology fitted to Western fighters, it was a remarkably capable aircraft, fast and manoeuvrable enough to be a match for any of them and more than a match for the Tempest.

  Drew raised his hand. ‘What priority are you putting on the threat? Is it sabre-rattling or the real thing? How good is the intelligence?’

  The intelligence officer laid down her notes and looked up to meet Drew’s gaze. ‘The short answer is we don’t know, but the threat is real, don’t be in any doubt whatsoever about that.’

  She glanced around the room as she spoke again. ‘One last thing. They have been warned that any penetration of Bosnian airspace will be treated as a violation of UN Resolution 937. As you know, it is no longer necessary to get a UN official out of the shower or off the golf course in order to obtain authority to engage a target. Have a nice day.’

  ‘Nirvana!’ DJ said. ‘No more politics, no more “Land immediately or we will be forced to escort you to your final destination”. Why didn’t we have this from the start?’

  Drew smiled, forcing to the back of his mind his worries about how the Tempest would perform against the Mig. ‘Right. We all know that the Mig 29 is a very capable aircraft, but whatever advantage that might confer is nullified by the fact that we’re better trained, better equipped and just plain bloody better than the Serbs who’ll be flying them. There are also two of us in each aircraft, so let’s make full use of the advantage that gives us. There’s not a pilot born who can keep track of eight jets in close combat, so navs, help your pilots hold the big picture in their heads. Last thing: these bastards killed Nick. Remember that. Let’s go.’

  As Drew headed towards the changing room, he met Michelle in the corridor. He stood for a moment, lost for words. ‘I wanted to see you, talk to you…’

  ‘Later,’ she said. ‘As long as you fly back this time.’

  ‘So where are you guys going?’

  ‘We’re the ones going in underneath you guys to evacuate the garrison from the base at Srebanj.’ She squeezed his hand and then was gone, hurrying down the corridor.

  Drew was left staring after her, hoping that his concern for her safety had not shown in his face.

  Before walking out to their aircraft, the outgoing crews all crammed into the briefing room, weighed down with their war kit, and sang the squadron battle song at the tops of their voices. Drew found himself uncharacteristically moved, singing lustily until a lump in his throat forced him to stop.

  He strode out to his aircraft quiet and determined. His new navigator, Stig Jonsson, was waiting for him. He shook his hand and grinned. ‘I’m afraid I’m not great at keeping these things in the air at the moment.’

  There was laughter in Stig’s pale-blue eyes. ‘Don’t worry about a thing. You steer and I’ll read the map. If that doesn’t work, we can always swap over.’

  Stig proved to be a methodical and unflappable back-seater, taking the customary changes of aircraft and constant reloading of computers in his stride, but Drew could feel his own tension rising. He gripped the stick a little harder and double-checked his armament switches.

  He glanced up to see the vapour trails of the first waves, the Stealth bombers and F18 HARM-shooters, already returning to base. ‘Lucky bastards. They’ll have hit their targets before the defenders even knew they were under attack. I don’t think we’ll have the same luxury.’

  The silver trails seemed to be pointing the way to war. He called up the other members of the formation, then taxied out to the runway on schedule and lined up alongside DJ and Ali. The other pair tucked in behind and to one side of them. The four Tempests wound up together like an erupting volcano. The ground shook as a cloud of black smoke billowed across the runway, pierced by four white-hot tongues of flame. There was an instant of stillness, then the jets howled down the runway and blasted off into the dawn.

  As the package of forty aircraft formed up over the Adriatic, Drew and the other RS3s took up station at the head. They flew fifteen thousand feet above them, their radars probing fifty miles ahead.

  He looked down. The formation stretched back for thirty miles. Four radar-jamming aircraft led the way. Eight HARM-shooters came next, at
height above two teams of six bombers. The three minutes of travelling time between the bomber formations represented twenty-one miles. There were two layers of fighter protection as well, one down in the package with the bombers, the other flying on top. He could not see it, but Drew knew that Michelle’s Puma was in a formation of helicopters somewhere behind the bombers. He tried not to think about her.

  Though Drew led the whole formation, he was not the ringmaster; no one was. The aircraft – German, Dutch, Danish, French, British and American – arrived from half a dozen different bases, each one precisely on its scheduled time, height and track. A few seconds too late or too early, or a few hundred metres off line or height, and an aircraft would be piling into the back of the one in front or being rammed by the one behind.

  He checked his watch. ‘Push-point in twenty seconds… ten… now!’ There was no visible sign or signal that the countdown had begun, but the clock was now running. In exactly twenty-two minutes the first bombs would be falling, the precise computations of time and space culminating in a firestorm of explosions and flames, breaking every body and building in its path.

  Drew checked in with AWACs as they approached the coast. For an instant he envied the controller, lying far off shore, miles above the earth, a chess grandmaster moving his pieces into position. But this was where he wanted to be, where he had to be. He made his weapons live and, as they moved into hostile territory, gave his ritual touch to the ejection handle.

  ‘You expect it to feel different when it’s for real, don’t you?’ Stig said. ‘But it’s not… not yet anyway.’ He lowered his head to scrutinise the patterns emerging from the green glow of his screens.

  As they crossed the coast, there were flickers on the warner as it identified Triple-A and SAM sites, but most of the known SAM 2 and SAM 6 sites had already been silenced by the F18s. Those remaining knew better than to switch on their acquisition radars for more than a few seconds. To do so was to issue an open invitation to another HARM missile. They probed the jet’s defences for an instant, then hid behind a wall of silence. The only live traces on the radar screen were the RSIs and F16s streaking in towards their targets.