CHAPTER 1

The black shape sliced through the upper atmosphere like a black stiletto. Its short forward-swept main wings and slightly smaller forward-swept canard were reminiscent of the pommel and guard of a medieval knife. Its long nose, flattened by the chines along the sides, thrust forward like a blade of the finest steel. But even a blade forged and flung by Satan himself would have been puny by the standards of the weaponry concealed within this nose. Its wings, canard and twin inward-canted fins were the only excrescences to mar the long sinuous shape. Fast it most assuredly was. Every line and curve screamed that here was a machine whose total reason for being was to fight and win. Yet, curiously, it was not its appearance that would have sent a shiver of apprehension through an observer. Much more menacing was its undeviating flight path. The impression of mindless, arrogant irresistibility, as if weaving or dodging was for lesser things.

Far below, Greenland slips by in just three minutes, its frozen surface glinting in the mid day sun. Onward, onward, racing towards darkness as it outstrips the speed of the Earth's rotation at a rate that makes even the magnificent Concorde pale into insignificance. Baffin Island and Goose Bay are traversed in a mere six minutes. The 600 miles to the Canadian border with the United States takes a further three minutes.

The cockpit, unusual for an aircraft with such a high altitude capability, is a pronounced bubble reaching down to hip level to provide the superb visibility that is life itself to a fighter pilot. It is situated well in front of the canard so the view is unobstructed. Inside are two seats, one behind the other with the rear one raised to give its occupant unobstructed forward vision. Only one is occupied. In the front seat sits a stocky figure clad in a combination flying-cum-anti-g suit, flying helmet and gloves. The visor is up and the oxygen mask is unclipped and dangles under the chin. A wisp of red hair sticks out between the helmet and forehead - like straw from a roughly made scarecrow. Enough of the face is visible to show that he is no youngster. He seems out of place in this high tech projectile - a middle-aged drone strayed from the cosy office into the gladiators' arena. He sits with his head tilted back and askew against the headrest, his eyes closed and his forearms resting on the ample armrests. His gloved fingers brush the bases of a pair of short, carefully sculpted, be-buttoned joysticks set into the armrests. His loose fitting suit hides any signs of respiration. He might be a dummy - or dead.

Suddenly a computer-generated voice breaks the silence. Well modulated enough to be human, it is rendered startling by the absence of the human trait of tentative throat clearing when breaking a long silence.

"Commencing descent phase." - a few seconds delay - "Commencing desc..."

The figure stirred and silenced the voice with a curt "Roger". With every sign of reluctance he came to life, yawned, stretched, opened his eyes and blinked in the harsh white sunlight of the upper stratosphere. He hitched himself back into his seat, sat up straight and looked around his world. He spared scarcely a glance for the interior of the cockpit, the computer would interrupt him soon enough if any parameter went outside its design limits. Twisting and tilting his head this way and that he savoured the feeling of gliding in a glass bubble between the near-black of space and the blue-tinged planet spread out below. This was a view of which he never tired. It always kindled within him a great wave of affection for the often beleaguered-seeming world which he could encircle with such ease. As always of late, it led inescapably to a nagging unease that his view of such beauty should always be from the command seat of a weapon of destruction.

The cockpit was almost totally silent. The thin outside air made just the merest whisper of a high pitched rustle as it flowed over the glass-smooth nose and canopy. A tiny background hum hinted at the myriad motors, servos and instruments all around him. The outside noises from aft the cockpit were swept away as his supersonic speed raced him forward faster than the sound waves could catch up. Only by concentrating hard could he hear a minute sound from the engines, a sound carried and conducted through the structure of the aircraft itself. He leant his head to one side so that his white bonedome briefly touched the canopy. The direct contact conducted the sound more efficiently to his ears so that he could clearly discern the thin wail of the engines.

How well he knew the sounds of his aircraft, particularly those of the two massive, multi-mode engines mounted away back at the roots of the main wings. In normal conditions of sub-sonic flight the engines operated as fairly ordinary fighter engines. In that condition, their noise heard in the cockpit was a muted hum. As the split throttle levers were pushed forward the noise would increase, deepen and become more purposeful. About half way forward the throttles would hit a spring-loaded detent which marked the maximum 'cold' power.

A hard push, and they would slip through into the reheat range. Extra fuel would pour into the after-burner rings in the engine tailpipes, creating vastly more thrust. The price was vastly increased fuel consumption and huge, writhing, orange flames streaming from the tailpipes. These flames could be like a magnet to attract heat-seeking missiles. The noise was the roar of distant blow-torches used by giants. As the speed of the aircraft increased to greater than the speed of sound, the computer would command internal doors and passages to adjust so that more and more of the air from the intakes was directed to flow around the outside of the turbines to the combustion chambers. In this mode the engines ran as turbo-ramjets. The higher the speed, the greater the proportion of the air by-passing the turbines, until at Mach 3 - three times the speed of sound - the engines would be operating as pure ramjets. In this mode the sound was a distant shrieking spine-tingling wail. This was how they were running now. They were right at the very limit of height at which the ramjets could operate. Up where the air was so thin that they could hardly gulp enough in through their massive intakes to provide enough oxygen to burn the fuel. But up where the thin air also meant that the resistance to motion was tiny and the aircraft could travel very efficiently at enormous speeds.

Push the throttles further still and they would pass through another detent, and enter the exo-atmospheric mode. This was for even greater heights where there was insufficient air to support combustion. In this mode the computer would command hydraulic rams to slam shut doors over the air intakes, sealing out what little air was left. And valves would open to gush oxidant, as well as fuel, into the engines. In this state the engines were pure rocket, and their noise was the deep-chested rumble of distant thunder. Although the exo-atmospheric mode was primarily intended for extreme altitudes, it could be used at any time when huge amounts of thrust were required - gargantuan, rolling, roiling rivers of energy that could black-out the crew from the acceleration.

He shook himself and appeared to talk to himself. "Computer. I have control."

The voice-recognition program in the computer analysed the sounds, interpreted them, verified that it was his voice - and no other voice on earth - that had uttered them, and obeyed the command. It switched out of its autopilot mode and left the controls in the capable hands of the pilot.

His left hand eases the throttle joystick back a fraction and he moves firmly against his straps as the aircraft starts to decelerate. The path tilts slightly downward so that from its position high above North Dakota it is aimed at a point in the Arizona desert. Speed 12,000 knots, altitude 180,000 feet, angle of descent 1.8 degrees, distance to impact 1,100 miles, time to impact five and a half minutes.

At this height the density of the air is less than a half of one thousandth of the density at sea level so, even at this speed, the supersonic shock wave is weak. But it is building fast and, if the speed continues unabated, will soon reach cataclysmic proportions.

"Computer. Put the nav map on the bottom screen." Immediately the large screen occupying the whole central area below the flight instruments lights up to show a full colour relief map of the United States from the Canadian border in the north to the Mexican border in the south. A small plan-view picture of the aircraft a little way up from the bottom of the screen indicates the current position. The map slides down the screen in keeping with the aircraft's forward movement and enlarges in keeping with the rate of descent.

Again the computer breaks the silence "Thirty seconds to seventy thousand feet, speed will be Mach 1.23."

The left hand eases the power level back another fraction, increasing the rate of deceleration. Supersonic flight below 70,000 feet over inhabited territory is downright antisocial. The speed and altitude continues to decrease and only the instruments depicted on the screen immediately in front of the pilot give any indication of the speed slipping below Mach 1. A slight forward movement on the power 'stick and the deceleration ceases, leaving the aircraft to continue its descent at a steady 0.95M.

It slides from the cold near-vacuum of the upper stratosphere, through the lower stratosphere into the life-supporting troposphere. Now the sombre black of the high altitudes had given way to the familiar friendly blue that is getting lighter by the second as the altitude falls away.

The computer, monitoring and controlling the myriad sensors, detects a potential danger, "Collision alert. Light aircraft on converging course. Time to impact two minutes forty three seconds."

A curt "Roger" followed by "Computer. Overlay all traffic on the map screen." A dozen or so tiny aircraft appear on the screen, each the correct shape and in scale size. Each tagged with its height and speed and all coloured green except for one which pulses a soft red - the projected mid-air collision co-participant. He reaches up and slides the visor down over his eyes. A thin fibre optic umbilical joins the helmet to the seat headrest.

"Computer. Put flight information and traffic on the HUD." Obediently the computer processes the instrument, navigational and sensor data and feeds it through the fibre optic to the Head-Up Display. A small laser projects the information onto the visor so that it appears as faintly glowing numbers and symbols apparently written on the terrain in front of him. When he turns his head the instrument data turn with him but the sensor data stays in the correct position relative to the real world.

As he scans around, all aircraft within fifty miles are ringed by faint green circles -except the collision prospect, here the circle is red and pulses gently. The brightness and the pulse rate will increase as the distance closes and the danger becomes more acute. The conflicting aircraft is still too distant to be seen by the naked eye so he orders, "Computer. Info on conflicting traffic."

Immediately the computer-generated voice reports "Conflicting aircraft is a Beech Sundowner. Altitude eight thousand three hundred feet agl, speed one twenty five knots, heading one eight seven degrees. Time to impact two minutes eight seconds."

"Roger." Caution is second nature to him. Flying fighters is an unforgiving business and nothing should be left to chance. The aircraft is probably innocent and harmless - but ... "Computer. Report weapon status."

"All offensive weapons secured. Active defence system secured. Passive defence system set to close range." Okay, that collision alert aircraft might be innocent or it might not. Either way his guard is up.

"Altitude / speed alert. Thirty seconds to ten thousand feet."

"Roger." A twitch of the throttles to decelerate to the legal maximum of 250 knots below 10,000 feet.

Suddenly the conflict indicators on the screen and HUD change to green and the computer reports "Conflict alert terminated. Target has changed course and is descending."

"Roger." So much for his paranoia! It was unlikely to be a business traveller, more likely a Sunday morning joy rider out for a loaf around the neighbourhood. When it had turned away from a direct collision course the computer had noted the fact but the alert had continued until the computer had calculated that it was sufficiently far off a collision path for it to be incapable of returning to present a threat.

The black javelin swept over the Sundowner with a thousand feet to spare. The light aircraft was descending as if heading for home and that triggered a thought in his mind. That lucky pilot would land, taxi to the hangar or tie-down area and then stroll in the sun to the club house shack and slake his thirst with coffee or a cold drink. He was suddenly envious of this American cousin in his little Sundowner who could drop in anywhere for that glorious coffee that only Americans seemed to be able to make.

It was just after 9AM local time but it was three hours since he had breakfasted. What the hell! So it was unusual for a fighter pilot to pull up his heavy metal alongside the Cessnas and Pipers and stroll in for a coffee. Well, so what? It was a quiet Sunday morning and he could almost smell that coffee. Besides, this was almost a holiday, wasn't it?

"Computer. Overlay all airfields on the map." A scattering of airfields of varying size were indicated, each tagged with its vital statistics. He knew from visits to the USA spanning many years that stopping for sustenance at isolated airfields was a lottery. Often there were no facilities at all, and even where there were dining facilities they were of uneven quality. Some were plain awful but others were truly excellent. He would much rather take a chance at a small country airfield than go to a large hub where delays, questions and 'plastic' food were certain.

He looked at the map and saw that a small single-runway field lay almost dead ahead. It was as good a choice as any so he ordered "Computer. Radio contact with Barlow Field." The computer obediently looked up its data-base of the world's airfields and switched frequency to that used by the airfield.

He touched the transmit button on the throttles, "Barlow Field. Good morning, can a thirsty visitor get a cup of coffee with you?"

A long pause and the reply came back "Barlow Field to visitor. Good morning sir. Coffee and home baking at the FBO shack at the east corner of the big hangar."

"Ah, roger Barlow, I'll be with you in about five minutes." The airfield was now in sight and he eased the speed back to a whisper-quiet one hundred and fifty knots and ordered "Computer. Configure for landing." The wheels thumped down and the HUD symbols changed to give landing information. It was a nearly straight-in landing and he eased into a gentle left turn to line up. Power back, nose rearing high like a bird of prey, mains touch, reverse thrust, and the nosewheel touches, scurp scurp.

He decelerated hard on the short runway and turned off at the end. The taxiway approached the FBO shack from the opposite side of the hangars and he turned off to park in the shade of the largest hangar. "Computer. All systems to standby. Open canopy, lower port ladder." The bubble canopy hinged up about the rear and a lightweight centrepole ladder extended from a hatch just below the canopy rim. He removed his helmet, unstrapped, stepped over the low rim and descended quickly, then stripped off his g-suit to reveal a pair of nondescript slacks and a short-sleeved shirt. Rolling the suit up into a bundle he tossed it into the cockpit and said "Computer. Close." The ladder retracted smoothly and the canopy hissed shut.

He stood for a moment, stretching and savouring the clean desert air. In a another couple of hours it would be uncomfortably hot but for the moment the sun eased his sleep-stiffened neck like a magic balm. As he started to walk towards the FBO shack he looked around and saw that the whole place had a run-down look. Obviously it had been built a long time ago, probably during World War Two, and there were no aircraft parked outside. He guessed that the old hangars had been built for warplanes and now had more than ample capacity to swallow any 'planes owned by local enthusiasts. Any commuter airliners or business aircraft were likely to be thin on the ground on a Sunday morning. It was pretty much the story of hundreds of other airfields in this great country where there was enough land to spare even for airfields that didn't really earn their keep in financial terms. Long may it last.

CHAPTER 2

The shack was a fairly substantial wooden building with a veranda and it appeared to be the focal point of all human activity on the airfield. He pushed through the swing door and found himself in a large room with a bar counter along one side and a motley collection of tables and chairs scattered about the floor. It obviously did duty as a restaurant, flight planning room and general meeting place for local and visiting crews.

He was greeted by the only occupants, a man in late middle-age and a woman perhaps ten years younger, standing behind the bar between the coffee machine and the Unicom radio. "Howdy, mister, I guess it was you who radioed in a while back."

The visitor nodded so he continued "Welcome to Barlow," he stuck out his hand "I'm Clem Saunders and this is my wife Sarah, we're the FBO here." The friendly, outgoing gesture was so typically American that the visitor smiled warmly in return. After a few hours on the edges of space any human contact was precious but it was hard to imagine any race on earth who could make a returning pilot feel more welcome.

The stranger shook hands with them both, "Hi, I'm Jim Simpson. I'm over from the UK for a month or so," he grinned and wiped his brow , "the heat here is not quite what I'm used to."

The couple chuckled, "I guess not, we were in England a few years ago and it rained danged near every day!"

The visitor ordered coffee and a piece of fruit pie. Whilst he waited he mused over his welcome. Obviously he hadn't been observed as he landed and taxied in. No one could have been this cool after having seen his aircraft drop into such a small field. With a bit of luck no one would notice until after he had taken off. Questions he didn't need!

The coffee and pie were excellent and the couple friendly as only people living in isolated areas can be. He had been sitting long enough so he stood at the bar chatting. "You on holiday or business Jim?"

He stretched the truth far enough to be vague. "Bit of both really, mostly business but I'm going to get in a day or two visiting an old buddy and later I hope to get in a bit of sight-seeing from the air. America is such a wonderfully varied country that it's always a pleasure to rubberneck from on high."

"You're right, I never tire of it myself. What you flying?"

Jim had been expecting the question, there is none more certain when flying folk meet, "Oh it's a UK two-seater. I call her the Witch because she flies like a witch on a hazel broomstick." He smiled in a self-deprecating way, hoping to indicate to these courteous westerners that he didn't really want to answer questions. Better for them to think the Witch was not worth the walk around the hangar for a look. He was relieved when Clem was diverted onto what was clearly something of a hobby horse.

"Yeah, we get a lot of home-builts these days, factory airplanes have just about priced themselves out of the reach of the ordinary guy - at least our kind of ordinary guy. I guess the fat cats back east and in California are still doing fine, though!"

They continued to chew the fat, putting the world to rights on both sides of the Atlantic until Sarah suddenly said "Samantha should be back by now, she's been gone nearly two hours."

Clem grinned, man to man. "Our youngest daughter Samantha is doing her Private Pilot licence check ride and Ma's kinda worried. Cain't get used to the idea that female kids can fly just like guys these days. Our eldest kid, Joe, is a First Officer on 747s with a local airline and our next, Lucy, is married to a local rancher. They were no trouble at all but Sam has been crawling into cockpits since she was a toddler. Before the recession hit flying she used to be forever cadging rides from pilots. Hell, I had to start giving her lessons when she was twelve, she soloed on her sixteenth birthday! The only ambition she's ever had is to be a pilot, not just any pilot either but a test pilot on fighters!"

Sarah smiled a little sadly, "Yeah she’s a worry alright, but not about her having an accident. She's a good pilot and I'm as proud of her as Clem is but it ain't right that a sixteen year old girl should pray every night that she'll wake up a man and be able to fly fighters. I tell her to put more effort into being a lady and she'll be able to marry a rich guy and be able fly as much as she wants." Her smile faded and her eyes showed pain, "How can there be anything but disappointment and bitterness for a girl whose only wish in the whole world is to fly fighters?"

The silence became brooding and uncomfortable so Jim cleared his throat, "Ahem, apart from the problem of her being a girl, is she a good pilot?"

Her father looked up with a fierce pride "The best! I taught her myself an' I tell you she's the best I ever trained." A grin spread across his face, "Sure, I'm biased, and she's been flying a whole lot longer than most kids of her age. But she's flown with lots of good pilots and they all say the same, if she were a guy she'd be as near a dead cert for fighters as makes no never mind! Trouble is, she knows it and it gnaws at her. If she was no good she might give up but I guess she's like the rest of us, when we find something we're good at we want to ride it to the top." He sighed and poured another three cups of coffee and pushed one to the visitor and another to his wife.

They lapsed into thought and sipped their coffee. Suddenly the noise of a light aircraft broke the silence. With a gesture to the coffee pot and a "help yourself" the couple turned through the back room and onto the deserted tie-down area for a better view of the approach and landing and to meet the aircraft. Jim reached absently for the coffee pot, topped up his cup and took it to a corner table so as not to intrude on the family when they returned. He had been touched by the story of the girls dream of being a fast-jet pilot.

He smiled slightly at the thought of how he, as a child of farming parents in the north-east of Scotland, had driven his parents to distraction by his insistence that he was going to fly. He'd done it too, despite the odds. Now he frowned at the thought of how much greater the odds were for the girl. No matter how good she was, she really hadn't a chance in a million. It was true that there had been many women in aviation but nearly always their fame had sprung from the fact that they were women in a men's world rather than as equal participants. Some, like Hanna Riesch and Jackie Cochrane in the West, and Lily Litvak the Rose of Stalingrad in Russia, had been great by any standards but without a war they'd probably barely have been noticed. Even war wouldn't help today. The sort of wars that America might fight in the future would be unlikely to call for women to fly fighters - nor provide the time to train them if they did.

As the aircraft taxied past the shack he noticed that it was a Sundowner. His erstwhile air-miss companion perhaps? Perhaps she'd better not learn how she'd wandered through the sights of the most potent of the breed she coveted. The engine coughed to a standstill and the ensuing silence was broken a moment later by the chatter of excited voices. More voices than could be accounted for by the family.

A young girl in jeans and T shirt burst in through the back door, laughing over her shoulder at her parents and half a dozen men and women who, by their garb, had mostly been engaged in a bit of do-it-yourself maintenance in the hangars. Everyone seemed to be in high spirits and it was clear that the girl was something of a favourite. Jim scrutinised her closely. She obviously had little interest in her appearance and displayed none of the usual trappings used by sixteen year olds to make themselves look more grown-up and sophisticated. She was still very much a child, small, slim and boyish with long fair hair and a mass of freckles. The long hair seemed at odds with the rest of her tom-boy appearance and he wondered whether it was the girl’s own choice or a determined attempt by her mother to retain some femininity in her daughter.

He watched as they clustered around the bar and accepted cans of beer and soft drinks from Sarah amid a babble of good natured banter. The girl was laughing and flying her hands as she described some manoeuvre performed on the test. An old man in a greasy boiler suit banged his hand on the bar and shouted above the noise, "A toast. For Sammy and her brand new licence. May this be only the first of many and may all her dreams come true!"

There was a chorus of "To Sammy!" and they raised their cans and drank. A young blonde giant called "Hey Sam, that means your dreams of coveting my body, not danged airplanes."

The girl laughed "No way, Seth Peters..." she broke off "But I did see a body today that I sure could covet." She waved down the hoots of ribald laughter and became suddenly serious. They listened and she explained, "'Bout half-way through the test an airplane passed overhead and it was FANTASTIC! Jet black and long and lean like a Habu but with forward-swept wings and a forward-swept canard nearly as big as the main wings. It's fuselage seemed to have chines like the Habu but the engines were close to the fuselage." Her eyes had a distant look and her voice went quiet with awe "It made the Habu look OLD!"

Uh huh, so the girl had been in the air-miss Sundowner. Her description could refer to nothing but the Witch. One of the young women broke in with what might have been a trace of jealousy in her voice "Fancy getting to fly it, did you, Sam?" The young girl's face twisted in anguish, then she caught herself and the moment was past. Jim felt a momentary anger at the questioner, Samantha's dream might be an unusual one for a young girl but no one deserved to have their dreams used as barbs against them.

As the banter continued, his attention wandered and he was lost in thought when he became aware of Clem at his elbow with the coffee pot in his hand. "Care for a fill up?"

He pushed his cup out for a fill. "Clem, I have some contacts. If I could arrange for your daughter to have a flight in something fast, would you let her go?"

Clem looked at him sharply and sat down opposite. "Sure," he hesitated, "it might break the thrall, 'specially if it was a bit rough." He looked Jim straight in the eye with an expression of mixed hope and guilt and continued defensively, "I flew F86s in Korea and I know that that kind of flying can be a mighty sweaty, uncomfortable business. A rough ride wouldn't put her off flying but it might make her more ready to settle for something more attainable, and comfortable, than fighters."

Jim nodded agreement and said casually, "Oh, I think I could guarantee that it would be fairly rugged." He gave a conspiratorial grin and added "Just trust me, huh?"

Clem went back behind the bar and Jim waited patiently for a lull in the babble of voices which were still arguing about fighters in general and the mysterious black aircraft in particular. When the lull came, he winked at Clem and directed a loud grating voice towards the crowd, "Women flying fighters?" His voice exuded crushing scorn, "Stick to knitting and cooking and prettying yourself up, kid. Leave the real flying to men!"

There was a stunned silence in the room, as much for his rude effrontery as for what he had said. The girl jerked round, seeing him for the first time, her face white with anger. Her parents both moved as if to head off her retaliation but they were too late. "And why shouldn't women fly fighters? What, tell me, is there about modern fighters that women can't do just as well as men? The controls are powered and everyone knows that women have more endurance and resilience than men!"

He took a sip of coffee and waved the other hand dismissively, "Sure they can FLY, but fighters are to FIGHT!" He adopted a superior tone, "It's not like buzzing around the local area on a Sunday morning you know, kid, the whole idea is to kill or be killed. The few women who have flown in combat did it a long time ago and in 'planes that would hardly count as more than advanced piston trainers today." With the air of delivering a final clincher he added, "Same with driving. Women can drive but when did you last hear of one winning Indy or CanAm?"

The whiteness of the girls face was relieved only by the bright red spots of anger on her cheeks. "It's easy for you to say that! Men control everything about high performance flying." She fought back a sob of sheer frustration. "If we could just get a CHANCE, we'd show you!"

He gave a laugh redolent of contempt, rose and, with a dismissive wave of his hand, walked outside. There was a moment's silence, then all eyes turned to the girl who, on seeing them all staring at her, spat "It's true, we women just don't get a chance. Equal rights? Pah!" Then with a tentative grin she added, "I could beat that old fart anyway!"

Her parents exclaimed at such language but were unheard in the gust of relieved laughter. They were still laughing and joking at her sally when Simpson returned with a khaki bundle in each hand and a stark white flying helmet looped by its strap over his right forearm. His voice cut across the laughter, killing it dead. "Okay kid, I'm calling your bluff. Put that on and let's see what you're made of." He threw the left hand bundle to her and she caught it automatically.

She unrolled it to find herself clutching a combat g-suit. She stared at it and then at the stranger. "You offering me a flight?"

"Yes, put it on and let's go - unless you have to wash your hair or paint your nails, little girl!" He stepped into his own suit, zipped it up and adjusted the lacings of the g-suit. She noticed that the suit appeared to be of the standard NATO pattern but completely devoid of wings, badges of rank or squadron markings.

She hesitated and looked at her parents in mute appeal. Her father nodded and she hurriedly donned the suit. The stranger stepped forward, dropped on one knee and swiftly pulled the lacing up tight. Then he straightened and ran his eye over her. "Tuck that hair into your suit, I don't want it flailing around in flight." He waited whilst her mother helped her tuck it in and zip the suit up tight around the neck. He held out the helmet with his thumbs inside, pulling the sides slightly apart and lowered it carefully over her head. Wriggling it slightly to make sure that her ears weren't curled over he pulled it firmly down. It fitted well enough and he quickly clipped on the strap, pulled it tight and clipped on the loose side of the oxygen mask so that it hung under her chin. "We won't be at oxygen levels so you'll only need the mask for the intercom". Stepping back he gave her a long scrutiny and then, apparently satisfied, turned on his heel and with a terse "Let's go," stalked out the door.

With the mask bumping against her chest she half ran to keep up with him, and was followed by a tail of parents and friends. He strode past the front of the large hanger and turned left towards the aircraft. Behind him he heard a strangled gasp and turned to find the girl transfixed. "My God!" Her voice held real reverence, "My God, that's it! That's the 'plane I told you about!"

The stranger grunted with feigned impatience and resumed his pace. Arriving at the aircraft he said, "Computer. Open, and both ladders." The canopy hissed up and a ladder emerged to give ingress to each seat. He turned to confront the girl, "If you are sick in this aircraft, you'll lick it clean. Understood?" She nodded, unable to speak. He gestured to the aft ladder, "Right, get in." The girl climbed in carefully, unsure of where to put her hands and feet. He climbed up the ladder behind her, "Sit right back in the seat and strap in tight." He leant over her and guided the straps down over her shoulders. It was the standard full harness for parachute and seat and she was fairly familiar with it. She put on the parachute harness first. A strap over each shoulder, a loop up from between her legs, a strap from down by her hips at each side, and a broad belt from one side carrying the buckle. The two side straps went under and up through the loop and into the buckle. The shoulder straps plugged into the top of the buckle. Haul them tight -and then do it all over again for the seat harness. She felt trussed up tight, but not uncomfortable, just part of the aircraft. He showed her the seat height adjusting handle and pulled it fully up so that despite her small size she had a clear view in all directions except directly behind.

He looked at the girl, checking her straps and connecting up the intercom cable. Although the cockpit was pressurised and they wouldn't be going high enough to need oxygen he plugged in the hose so that it wouldn't flail about during hard manoeuvring. Finally, he clipped the mask up to her face so that she would be able to communicate via the built-in microphone.

She found the seat to be massively roomy for her small frame. Its back was raked at 30 degrees and her feet were only a little lower than her bottom. She had met this before in sailplanes where the semi-reclining position was used to minimise frontal area. She knew from reading that the reason here was more ominous. By reclining the seat and raising the feet the ability to tolerate high g loadings was increased. In this configuration a fit pilot could withstand 10g for a couple of minutes. Clearly, for all its long sinuous looks, this aircraft must be extremely agile to need this kind of seating. She looked around the cockpit. It was roomy and airy but strangely devoid of dials and switches. The instrument panel was completely flat and black. Only the be-buttoned control sticks on the armrests of each seat spoke of high tech. Twisting her head around she found that she could see clearly in all directions. The seat headrest was very slim so she could even see the tail fins. Great! She'd never had such super visibility in an aircraft before.

He climbed down and winked at the girl's father. "We'll be back by noon." A swift, raking glance along the length of the aircraft and he climbed swiftly up the forward ladder, swung himself into his seat, strapped himself in and connected up his cables and pipes. "Computer. Up ladders and close." The bubble descended over them and the locking bolts clunked home. "Computer. Cockpit cameras on." A video camera set in the top-centre of the panel in each cockpit switched on and a small colour picture of the girl appeared in the top-left corner of his instrument screen. A similar picture of him appeared on the rear screen. Normally the cameras were switched off but they were invaluable if either cockpit took a hit during a fight. His and his backseater could then assess the situation in the other cockpit and act accordingly. Now they would allow him to watch the girl as she sat behind him.

He clipped on his mask and flicked the intercom switch on, "Can you hear me okay?"

"Yes, loud and clear".

Satisfied, he turned forward and appeared to forget her. "Computer. Bring up all systems. Report status."

A faint hum was heard as the aircraft came alive and the computerised voice reported, "All flight systems correct. All power systems correct. All offensive weapons secured. Defensive systems to close range passive. All parameters set to standard."

He answered automatically, "Roger. Put flight instruments on top screens and map on lower screens." Immediately the screens in both cockpits lit up. Those set up in front of the two seats showed full colour pictures that were essentially high-tech representations of the traditional instrument panel, and the lower screen set at a slightly flatter angle, lit up with a moving map display.

The girl scrutinised the screens intently and was relieved to find that she could interpret the flight instruments without difficulty. The moving map display she had only seen before in books and films but again she had no difficulty in assimilating its information.

He looked out and saw that the small crowd had moved well back. He released the parking brake and eased the power lever forward. Smoothly, like a great black, predatory beast stirring from slumber, the deadly fighter started to roll forward. Without looking at the girl he started to explain the bare essentials. "Ground steering is by the rudder pedals and the brakes by the toe buttons. The throttles are sensitive, more power than you're used to. There is a detent about a quarter of the way forward, that's zero power. Forward from there gives you acceleration, back gives deceleration."

They had reached the taxi track and he started to swing onto it. "'Got to watch it in turns, there's a lot of overhang ahead of the nosewheel." As he turned onto the narrow taxiway, the long nose held them suspended 'way out over the grass. They rumbled smoothly around the rough old track with the cockpit nodding gently in a snake-like undulating motion as the undercarriage oleos absorbed the unevenness.

Stopping at the holding point near the runway he contacted Clem on the radio and went through the ritual of requesting and receiving clearance for takeoff before swinging onto the runway and stopping on the barely visible centreline dashes. He looked in the mirror to see how she was coping with the new experience. She was clearly excited but seemed to be taking an intelligent interest in things. He decided that she wouldn't dissolve in tears if he put the pressure on a little.

"Right, little missy hotshot. Full throttle to the first detent, rotate at 100 knots to 15 degrees nose up and she'll fly herself off at about 150 knots. Climb straight ahead at 230 knots and 2,000 feet per minute until you pass through 10,000 feet. Then accelerate to Mach 0.85 whilst turning onto a heading of 290 degrees and climbing at 5,000 feet per minute. Level off at 25,000 feet." He glowered at her in the mirror, "Got that?"

She nodded, apparently unsure whether he was instructing her on what she was to do or merely telling her what he intended to do.

He snarled with impatience, "Read it back, dammit!"

She did, hesitantly but without error. He looked at her narrowly on the little screen, at least she seemed to be able to think whilst being pressured. He pulled down his visor and ordered, "Computer. Put all traffic and nav info on the HUD." Then, folding his arms and pulling his feet well back from the pedals, he caught the girl’s eye and said, "Okay kid, you have control! Let's go."

She struggled to keep her voice casual. Hell, she'd spent as much time cultivating the casual drawl as she had learning to fly, "You mean, you want me to fly it?"

He rolled his eyes upwards in feigned despair but kept his voice sarcastic, "Only if you think you can cut it, little girl. Otherwise I can just turn around and take you back to Mummy. But make up your mind quick, we're cleared for takeoff but the clearance won't last all day."

The sarcasm brought a flush to her face. Oh, so that was the trick, was it? Make her take control with absolutely no training and then be sarcastic when she made mistakes. Typical bloody man! What he didn't know was that her doubt was not about her own ability to perform well but about whether he really intended that she should takeoff and fly unaided. His sarcastic reply had settled that doubt and had left an iron hard resolve that she would fly as well as any man in the same situation. She slipped her feet into the pedal stirrups and wrapped her fingers around the stubby levers. She'd never handled a sidestick before but she had enjoyed a few training sessions in aircraft with centre sticks. She'd always had a preference for sticks over control wheels, believing that sticks were for fighters and wheels for transports. (Now, though, even airliners were being produced with sidesticks, she thought inconsequentially.)

Everything fell beautifully to hand and she was suddenly both comfortable and confident. The runway had always seemed huge when seen from light aircraft but now, seen from this bubble perched ten feet up on the sharp end of a manned missile, it seemed grossly inadequate. She eased the throttles forward, fully intending to push it smoothly and firmly all the way to the stop as her training had taught her, but was so startled by the acceleration that her hand stopped with the lever only half way home. Her mentor's hand chopped down and slammed the lever fully forward.

Like a great black cat the Witch lunged forward, slamming her into her seat, knocking the breath out of her like a punch to the solar plexus. She had expected the acceleration to be impressive but had completely underestimated the sheer instantaneous savagery of it.

Suddenly everything was happening faster than she had ever imagined. In her dreams she had always been cool and in charge. Now she had a tiger by the tail and was far from in charge. The inexorable acceleration pinning her to her seat was registering 3g on the acceleration meter and every fleeing second was seeing their speed increase by more than 60 knots. A glance at the digital ASI showed it passing 120 knots and increasing at an unbelievable speed. Realising that, since pushing forward the throttles, she had done nothing to steer the aircraft she gave thanks to Heaven that the Witch had tracked straight and true.

His voice grated, "Rotate, damn you, rotate! We're going flying, not driving!"

She eased back on the stick and the nose lifted smoothly in crisp obedience. Afraid of over-rotating she concentrated hard on arresting the rise at 15 degrees, and suddenly realised that the takeoff was over and they were flying. The computer automatically retracted the wheels and configured all systems for flight.

Again the voice grated, "Speed, watch your speed!" Mortified, she snatched back the throttles, too much, damn, this thing reacted instantly. Some frantic see-sawing with both hands and she had the speed pinned at 230 knots - approximately. Then she realised that they were climbing like a dingbat, 12,000 feet per minute and, as she tried to get the nose down the 10,000 feet marker fell behind them. Blast, nose down a bit to get the rate of climb down, add power to get the speed up to Mach 0.85. The increasing speed converted the angle of climb into a higher climb rate and she was again frantically trying to co-ordinate both hands.

Used as she was to flying aircraft with large engine cowlings in front of her, she was holding the sleek tapered nose much too high. The rate of climb was out of hand again. Damn, damn, damn, 30,000 feet and still climbing hard. In desperation she pushed the stick firmly forward and was flung hard against her straps as she bunted over. Fully expecting some pungent expletives from the front seat she was too busy to care and didn't even notice when none materialised. Now she realised that they were still accelerating and that the speed was just passing Mach 0.95. Visions of being accused of laying a sonic boom across the area made her want to giggle. Her, little Sam Saunders, explaining to the court that she had been fighting to get the aircraft to go SLOW enough to stay subsonic! It was just too ridiculous!

Power back a bit more, gently back on the stick and the numbers all started to come together, 0.85M, 25,000 feet and... Sugar! The heading, she had forgotten to hold the heading and was still aimed west. A quick look around to check for traffic and then a gentle 30 degree bank to starboard. Slowly, slowly the nose crept around the horizon.

An acid, "If you don't intend to finish this turn over California then GET THE WING DOWN! You're not flying your Sunday flivver now, kid."

Too absorbed to be stung any more, she fed in more right stick and gently increased the back pressure until at 60 degrees she seemed to be vertical. Her helmet pressed down on her skull and she felt the g-suit explore her lower body as it went about its business. Two eight five degrees, roll out, wiggle woggle, done it! Mach 0.85, 25,000 feet and 290 degrees. A feeling of relief washed over her and she snatched a quick look in the mirror.

Any hope of congratulations were instantly crushed by the stony glare. "Awful, absolutely bloody awful! Women? Yuch!"

She ground her teeth in frustration but refused to be drawn. Instead she concentrated fiercely on flying precisely. In doing so she didn't realise he was watching her, nor see the twinkle in his eye. She had done well. She had kept her head and had stuck to the right priorities. She had concentrated first and foremost on flying the aircraft safely. Getting onto the right heading she had quite rightly treated as being of a lower priority. He'd give her a moment to settle down, get the feel of the aircraft, then put the pressure back on.

He was silent for a couple of minutes. Looking out with an apparent lack of interest, but watching the HUD carefully to assess the precision of her flying. Then he leaned forward and, using a light pen, caused a white marker to appear on the map screen. He indicated the point on the moving map display. "At that point you are to be at 230 knots, 500 feet agl and on a heading of 290 degrees. It should take about ten minutes. Use the time well, get the feel of her. Stay within plus or minus 5,000 feet, don't pull more than plus six or minus three g and do NOT go supersonic. Other than that, do as you think fit."

She acknowledged his instructions in clipped tones. That last "do as you think fit" bit home. She could be damned as much for timidity as for over enthusiasm. Well, rats to him! She would rather, as they used to say, be damned for errors of commission than for errors of omission! She would shake him up a bit! She glanced at him and found his face in stony repose with his eyes closed and his hands folded loosely in his lap. Tentatively she rocked the wings, nodded the nose up and down and very carefully yawed the nose a little from side to side. The controls were light and appeared to be beautifully harmonised but the thing that surprised her most was that the controls reacted instantly. There was no discernible dead spot, no feeling of stability to be overcome, just instantaneous reaction.

Without opening his eyes he murmured, "Lady, if you call that getting the feel of an aircraft you would obviously be best suited to flying an airliner - or an airship!"

Stung, she cranked the stick to the left and gasped as the left wing snapped down beyond the vertical with unbelievable rapidity. A twitch to the right and they were level again. Intrigued now, she nearly forgot his presence. Used as she was to staid and stable light aircraft the Witch was a complete revelation and she was utterly captivated by the crisp, clean control responses. A twitch to the left and the aircraft rolled through 360 degrees with unbelievable speed and no discernible tendency to deviate from its path. Back on the stick, gently to the left and she described a big barrel roll. Gradually gaining confidence she started handling the controls more roughly and found it to be a sensually pleasurable sensation.

He slitted open his eyes and watched her, noting the rapt expression and the smooth, co-ordinated way she handled the controls. She'd either been very well drilled or else she might indeed possess the Right Stuff! He glanced at the moving map and saw that they were close to the point he'd indicated. "Computer. Contact Nellis Range control." Then "Nellis Range from the Witch. ETA to outer gate is two minutes."

A pause whilst they checked the reservation he'd filed when he'd collected the flying suits from the aircraft, then "Witch from Nellis Range, you are cleared for a two way run."

"Nellis Range from Witch. Roger."

His harsh voice cut through the girl's pleasure, "Kid, you’re ‘way behind again! Get us down to 500 feet and 230 knots - FAST!"

Stung yet again, she snatched back the throttles and, with some trepidation, rolled inverted and pulled. The nose plunged until it was pointing steeply down and they were flung hard against their straps by the deceleration. Rolling out she gauged the distance to run against their rate of descent and deliberately held the dive as long as she dared.

If she thought the steep dive would disconcert him she was disappointed. As they plummeted down, he calmly said, "Computer. Altimeters to agl," and to the girl, "Your altimeter is now reading height above the ground, level out at 500 feet and 230 knots." The change in altimeter setting from the standard pressure setting used at higher altitudes to a ground-proximity reading had wiped a thousand feet off their indicated height and she was suddenly appalled to see how near the ground they were. She was lagging 'way behind the aircraft and beginning to sweat profusely as she yanked the nose up.

The aircraft responded immediately with such effect that she was slammed down into her seat and only the ministrations of the g-suit prevented her from blacking out. She had over-corrected wildly and they porpoised for a moment as she tried to get in phase with the oscillation and damp it out. At last she got her act together and stabilised the aircraft at about 500 feet over the flat desert. She looked at him expecting to be showered with abuse but he seemed as unperturbed as if he hadn't noticed anything unusual.

"Computer. Put the Nellis Range on the map." Obediently the range appeared on the map as a translucent blue cloud some 200 miles long by 80 miles wide. A thick black line snaked from one end to the other indicating the contour-following route. "Kid, follow the line, fast as you like but stay below 500 feet."

Like all young pilots, she liked nothing better than low flying but her father had disciplined her to accept the rules that forbade it. Now she was being encouraged, nay, ordered, to fly low and she accepted with alacrity. The first part of the run was over fairly flat desert and she had no difficulty in flying at 500 feet. She eased the throttles forward and as the speed crept up she became intoxicated with the sheer thrill of it all. Suddenly she realised that the hilly country was approaching with frightening rapidity - a quick glance at the ASI - good Lord, the speed was 600 knots and rising! Quickly pulling back on the power she eased back on the stick to clear the mountains.

"Low level in this ship means BETWEEN the hills, dammit!"

The growl brought near panic as she sought frantically to dip into the maze below. Bouncing them off their straps she brought the speed back to 250 knots and dived into a wide valley that stretched ahead. Trying to stay down below the surrounding tops she raced through the foothills and up over the central chain. An uncomfortable bunt over the top and then out through the foothills on the other side. As the ground fell away towards the plain and her heart slowed its pounding, she breathed a sigh of relief and gradually eased up the speed again.

Less than thirty minutes after entering the range they were nearing its end and she felt absolutely spent from the sustained concentration.

He settled himself more firmly in his seat, cinched his straps a fraction tighter then, "Computer. Low-level penetration info on the HUD for a return run." Immediately the flight information for a low-level attack run glowed on the terrain ahead. He extended his hands and feet to the controls and enunciated clearly, "I have control."

Even as she parroted the standard litany "You have control" her world came apart with murderous violence. She was hammered into her seat as he rammed the throttles forward and hauled up into a savage wingover. The wings rolled past the vertical and the nose chopped down towards the desert floor. She pushed down with her hands and feet in an involuntary spasm to try to get away from the inevitable crash. Amazingly the crash didn't come but the crushing g-forces of the pull-out were hardly any better.

They seemed to be scraping the sand and she willed herself to look at the altimeter. It was flickering around the 100 feet mark. Then her eye caught the Mach meter and she saw that it was past Mach 1.2 and rising fast. She was SUPERSONIC! For the first time in her life she was travelling faster than the speed of sound and she hadn't even noticed it happen! The Mach meter was nudging 2 and the mountains were approaching at an appalling rate. She flinched as they seemed to fill the sky ahead. Suddenly the manoeuvring so far seemed as nothing as her world disintegrated into a gyrating melee of earth and sky with the g-meter flickering dervish-like between +8 and -4. She was flung against her straps, the seat, up, down, sideways, struggling to keep her arms and legs from flailing around. The helmet weighed a ton and was one moment trying to ram her head through her shoulders and the next trying to wrench it off completely.

Fighting to cope with the battering, she strove to observe and understand what was happening. A glance at the ASI showed that the speed had dropped and was now flickering around Mach 1. They seemed impossibly low with terrain towering around them on all sides. Rocks and shrubs flashed by with a stroboscopic effect and the wings spent no more time level than at any other angle. Suddenly the sheer precision of it all rushed in on her. This was no buzz job. This was fine-honed professionalism where there was no bravado, just cool, calculated risk where the danger of flying into a mountainside was less than the danger from a missile.

She glanced at her companion and was momentarily nonplussed at the disappearance of the irascible middle-aged man she'd called a fart. The figure in the mirror was now a cold professional. Still and relaxed, only his fingers, head and eyes moved, controlling the aircraft with consummate skill but with no apparent effort. With sudden insight she realised that it WAS no effort. Flying no longer required any conscious thought, his brain was fully engaged in the tactics of the fight. Thinking, thinking, thinking, out-thinking the defenders, where was the threat, where was the potential to get caught out, where were the back doors, where could prowling defending fighters pounce. Dammit, with no man-made threats to worry about, this was EASY for him!

As they raced up through the foothills, the bunts over the ridges and cols became more savage until suddenly she was startled when he didn't bunt but snapped inverted, pulled, then snapped upright and flattened along the valley floor. Everything was happening incredibly quickly and she felt the exhilaration rise within her. This was FLYING! Through the main range now, always 'way down below the peaks, never, ever on the skyline. Through a deep, curving ravine, banking vertical to pull around the curve, rolling further to inverted to pull down the far side, continuing further to vertical the other way and pulling hard around another curve.

Now the foothills were falling away, the belly was spending more time trying to kiss the sand and the Mach meter was climbing relentlessly. He spoke in calm, relaxed tones, "Computer. Nellis Range Control." Then, "Nellis Range, the Witch will be clear in one minute."

"Ah, roger Witch, you are cleared to depart. Have a good day."

"Good day, Nellis, thanks for the ride." He chopped back the throttles and snatched the nose up 60 degrees. As speed was traded for altitude, he glanced at the girl, "You have control, take us home."

Still feeling sand-bagged by the sheer violence of the physical battering she had received, she responded as if in a dream. Her hands and feet moved to the controls, as she intoned the ritual, "I have control." Gathering her wits with an effort, her eyes sought the moving map to judge the required heading. She rolled smoothly to the left to point the little aircraft symbol to home and at the same time levelled out at 18,000 feet and brought up the power to catch the speed as it fell to 0.85M.

He watched her, appreciating the way she'd come to grips with the aircraft and the way she seemed to think naturally in three dimensions. Most new pilots find difficulty in merging a number of different manoeuvres into one, tending to level out, then adjust the speed, then turn onto heading. This slip of a girl brought them together so smoothly that he doubted that she even thought of them as separate manoeuvres. Was she that rare breed, a "natural" pilot? It would need a lot more time to tell.

The girl settled down to fly the return flight with every ounce of precision she could muster. Concentrating hard on doing a good job, there was still a part of her brain savouring the experience, exulting in it. This was flying, not as she had imagined it but a thousand times better than her rosiest dreams. In the past she had sometimes had dark secret doubts. Could she really do it, could she bear the g-forces, could she keep on thinking ahead when things were happening at lightening speed and she was being bounced off the cockpit walls? Now she knew she could handle these things and the only doubt remaining was whether she could ever approach the skill she'd just witnessed. But the optimism of youth made the doubt tiny and she could only feel the euphoria that here was she, Samantha Sarah Summers, flying a phenomenally potent fighter. Sure, there was a captain in the front cockpit but, she stole a glance at him, his hands and feet were well away from the controls and his eyes were closed. For the moment, that was more than enough.

At fifty miles to go he murmured "Set up the approach at 200 knots."

She took it as a hint and started to slow down and lose height very gently. Gradually the view became more familiar as the speed and height crept nearer the regime she was used to. He stirred to handle the radio call and then lapsed again into an apparent doze. She described a wide, careful circuit at 220 knots, lined up on the runway and eased the speed back to 200 knots. Juggling the controls with minute movements, she got the rate of descent about right and waited with growing apprehension as the runway came closer and closer and he appeared to be peacefully asleep.

She was just trying to decide whether it would take more courage to wake him to call for help than to land the Witch, when he came alive and said, "I have control."

It was with some relief that she answered "You have control" and withdrew her hands and feet. He scarcely seemed to move but suddenly there was no doubt that their wheels would strike the runway numbers. The wheels clunked down and a few moments later there was a slight jar as the mains touched, a brief burst of reverse thrust and the nosewheel kissed the concrete.

As they taxied in, Samantha's mind was suddenly a tumult of thoughts. It had been a wonderful flight, an incredible experience, but now it was at an end. Would she ever again fly in such a machine, taste the power and the freedom? The thought that she might not was beyond enduring.

They taxied in to park in the same place as before and were met by an even bigger crowd than had seen them off. "Computer. All systems to standby. Open canopy. Both ladders."

The hot, dry desert air was like an oven after the air conditioned cockpit and the girl felt her sweat start to evaporate. She scrambled lightly down the ladder and threw an arm 'round each of her parents, hugging them with an urgency she'd never felt before. It was as if she'd had a glimpse of another world and it had made her realise that the home life she'd taken for granted would some day end.

Jim climbed down and ordered the canopy closed and the ladders stowed. He moved with no great urgency, letting the girl transform back into her normal world, understanding her need and half regretting the flight. He knew that all youngsters had to move to the world of the adult some day but he feared that this girl was different, that she was a caterpillar yearning to become an eagle but destined to be compelled by her genes to become a butterfly. Beautiful, graceful, delicate and with the gift of flight but as far removed from the haughty eagle as her Sundowner was from the Witch. He turned and walked to the shack, avoiding the small crowd.

The girl had transitioned back to her old bouncy self, chattering fifteen to the dozen, ridiculously proud of the huge sweat patches over most of her suit. She was trying to describe the flight but was finding that the words eluded her. These people who had known her all her life, the youngsters who had shared her childhood and her flying pursuits, her mother who was so proud of her but so fearful of her future. How could they begin to understand? How could she find a common language to describe her feelings of ecstasy and fulfilment, the neck-snapping acceleration, the crushing g-forces. Yet she tried and they were unsure whether she had really had a mystical experience or whether it was just little Sam being over-the-top enthusiastic about flying. She turned to find her father walking quietly at her side. Their eyes met and he whispered "Now you know, don't you, Kitten?"

Yes, now she knew. Knew why he always had such difficulty trying to explain to her what it was like to fly an F86 over the Yulu River hunting Mig 15s. Trying to explain what it felt like to handle the hottest ship of the day at the dawn of the jet age. She hugged him and whispered back, "Yes I know, Daddy!"

They drifted into the shack, apparently all talking at once. One, the blonde young man who had teased her before, asked. "How far did you go, Sam?"

"To the far side of Nevada."

"But you've only been gone a couple of hours, hell, how fast did you go?"

"Over Mach 2 in bits - at LOW LEVEL!" She laughed, remembering the tumult of that first run up to Mach 2.

Questions and answers groping across a gulf of misunderstanding. She was momentarily chilled by the thought that she had been transmogrified to have more in common with the taciturn stranger than with her dear family and friends.

Clem and Sarah had slipped behind the bar and were handing out cans of beer and soft drinks with no apparent expectation of payment. Jim slipped away to the far end, poured himself a cup of coffee and took it to a table. He was sitting in brooding introspection when he became aware of Clem at his elbow. He pulled up a chair and sat down. "Well, I guess that didn't work too well did it?"

. "No, I'm afraid not. It was pretty rough but she just lapped it up. I think I made it worse, not better. Now she knows what a fast-jet feels like, no aircraft is ever going to feel the same again. I'm sorry, Clem, really sorry." He looked down at his coffee, cursing himself for interfering in the lives of these nice people and not wishing to meet Clem's eye.

The other man suddenly chuckled, "Hell, it was a good try and I'll bet you'd have given your eye teeth for a ride like that when you were a kid. I sure as hell would!"

Jim smiled gratefully, "Yes, I guess I would at that!" The grin slipped, "But it was different for us, being men it was just a matter of whether we could make the grade, not whether we could even get a chance." He shook his head ruefully, "I'll say this Clem, she really is pretty good. Put her through flight school and I'd be happy to have her as my wingman -sorry, wingwoman".

Clem grinned and shook his head, "Don't feel bad about it, fella. You don't know our Sam. She's been a dratted tomboy all her life and airplane mad since she was a toddler. She'd have tried her damndest to get into hot ships anyway, I don't think anything anyone could have done could have made it any worse." He laughed with more than a little pride, "I guess she's just a chip of the old block!"

Sarah brought the celebration to an end by reminding the young people that the school end-of-term party was that afternoon. She shooed everyone out and called to Clem that she was taking Samantha home to get her ready for the party. She promised to be back in time to help prepare a late lunch for the folk working in the hanger.

The girl came over to the men and, still on an obvious "high", handed back the suit and helmet, and thanked Jim for the flight. Then she added, "Sir, I guess you'll be leaving before I get back. Could you please fly over my school as you go?" A shy smile crept across her face, "They'll never believe in the Witch 'less they see her."

He caught himself about to smile back and answered sternly, "You get your head teacher to 'phone to say it's okay and I'll do a low pass." With that she had to be content. The two men sat in silence for a while. Jim cleared his throat, "Ahem, Clem. That girl of yours just might have the makings of a good pilot."

Clem grinned, "'Course she's good, I taught her myself" then more soberly, "but we both know that even for a man there's a big difference between being able to fly an airplane and being able to fight one. For a girl - hell, let's face it, it's danged well impossible to even find if she's got what it takes."

Jim stared out the window and kept his voice carefully neutral, "Well, maybe not. I'll be in North America for a month to take part in some exercises. She could hitch a ride with me if you like."

Clem looked at him sharply, "Hell, she's only a kid, I can't let her traipse off for a month with a man I hardly know! Anyway, Sarah would never agree." He looked embarrassed, "No offence, but you know what I mean."

Jim nodded "Sure, of course I do. Forget it." They lapsed again into silence, but now it was somehow a more companionable one. Eventually Clem roused himself and said he'd things to do before Sarah returned. Jim accompanied him to the door and lowered himself carefully into an old rocking chair on the veranda. The heat and silence of the desert surrounded him, making him drowsy until he eventually drifted off into sleep.

Half an hour later Sarah returned and quietly passed the sleeping figure. She joined her husband in the kitchen and he quietly told her about Jim's offer. "Surely you told him, no!" Her voice was sharp with concern.

"Of course I did - and he understood why." His tone was neutral and he didn't raise his eyes from washing his hands in the big sink.

She was always very sensitive to his moods, and now she stopped and looked at him for a long moment. "You're not sure though, are you." It was a statement rather than a question.

"Well no, not entirely. She's too young to go of course. Still..." The word hung in the air as he reached for a towel. "She is young, but so are all the kids who join the Air Force to fly fast jets. She's nearly seventeen, I wasn't much more than a year older when I joined up. Girls mature earlier than boys so she's probably a lot more grown up than I was -in fact, I'm sure she is. Besides, kids are growing up earlier these days."

"Clem! Surely you aren't saying she should go with him?"

"No, Ma. It's just that - well, if it had been Joe at that age we'd at least have thought about it."

"You know as well as I do that it's not a question of her maturity or common sense. It's just that she's a girl. You know what an Air Force base is like, particularly during an exercise. It's no place for a girl like Samantha. If she arrived in an airplane like that black monster she'd be chatted up by every young pilot in the place." She smiled slightly. "I may not be as young as I used to be but I can remember what you were like 'way back when you were in training."

"Yes, I know all that, but we maybe shouldn't deny her something like this just because she's a female. After all, if she'd been a boy it wouldn't have mattered so much, he could have joined the Air Force if he'd wanted to. It's different for Sammy, I doubt that she'll ever get another chance to fly anything remotely like that aircraft. For her it really is a chance of a lifetime."

"But Clem, it's not just that, it's dangerous too. You know how many crashes and deaths there are every year, I wouldn't be able to sleep at nights if she went."

"Yes, okay. I told you I'd turned down his offer."

She was quiet for a long time, then came to a conclusion. "Okay, I guess the important thing is whether he can be trusted to look after her. You've got some old flying buddies in England, go and 'phone them and try to find out something about him."

He pondered for a moment. "Well, I could try Sandy Smythe, he works in their Ministry of Defence now so he might know. I've got his home number in the office, I'll give him a call." Clem went into the small back room that served as an office and leafed quickly through his address book.

He dialled the number and was answered immediately by a crisp, cultured voice. "Group Captain Smythe."

"Hello, Sandy. This is Clem Saunders calling from Arizona."

"Clem? Is that really you? Long time no see, old boy." There was no mistaking the warmth in the voice. "To what do I owe this unusual honour? If you're coming to England I insist that you come and stay with Pam and me."

Clem chuckled. "No, Sandy, I'm afraid that's not it. I'm calling to scrounge some information. One of your guys, by the name of Jim Simpson, has dropped in and has offered to take young Samantha with him on a flying exercise in Canada. Well, Sam's not quite seventeen so we wondered whether you could find out what sort of a guy he is."

There was a very long silence, then, "A red-headed Scotsman in his forties?" The voice was suddenly very cautious.

"Yes, that's him."

Again the silence drew out, and when he spoke he was clearly selecting his words with care. "He's probably the best pilot either of us have ever seen. Usually flies an odd-looking monstrosity that could take out the Red Air Force single-handed."

"Uh, that's not what I meant, Sandy. What's his character like? Could I trust him to look after a young girl?"

"Oh, yes, of course he's trustworthy. It's just that, well... Dammit, Clem, he's a great fellow but he's a spook!"

"A what?"

"A spook. You know what a spook it. Someone who does spooky things that aren't talked about or reported in the papers." A pause, "And I didn't tell you that, Clem!"

It was Clem's turn to be silent. A spook. The fashionable name for a secret agent - a spy, or at least someone who took part in clandestine missions. "They're often not the sort of folks you'd trust your daughter with, Sandy."

"Don't worry about that, no harm of that kind will come to her if she's with him. But, knowing something of the sort of things he gets up to, she might find out what cordite smells like." His voice was terse and gave a clear indication that the matter was closed, so Clem changed the subject and chatted for a few minutes about old times and mutual friends.

When he returned to the kitchen his expression was thoughtful. "Well, did you find out anything?"

"Yes, I did. Sandy said he’s completely trustworthy, but he also said that he wasn't an ordinary squadron pilot. He said he was a spook of some sort."

Sarah had been involved with the Air Force for long enough to know what a spook was. In her experience it usually meant a pilot who was employed by the CIA and flew on spying missions. Now she digested the news. "So what's he doing over here?"

"I don't know. But he wouldn't offer to take Sam if he was on anything shady. I guess he's here on a genuine training exercise, I suppose even spooks need refresher courses now and then." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully before adding, "According to Sandy he's an ace pilot. I suppose we should have thought of something like this, an airplane with no markings and a flying suit without badges."

"So, what do you think? Should we let her go?"

Clem shrugged. "I dunno. I have to say, I like the fella. In fact, I reckon he might even be a good influence on Sam, teach her some real flying discipline, that kinda thing."

"You'd like to let her go, wouldn't you?"

He shrugged again. "Well, she'd surely like to go, and I've got a feeling she'd be as safe with him as she would staying here at home. Now she's got her licence she'd be out flying on her own every chance she could get." He sighed, "Yes, you're right, I think we should let her go."

To his surprise his wife didn't argue, she just smiled and said. "Yes, I think you're right. It can hardly be more dangerous than the sort of things she usually gets up to!"

Jim slept through the bustle of Sarah preparing the meal. He woke as men and women from the hanger trooped in for lunch and he joined them at the tables. The food was plain but good, and he found himself suddenly hungry.

They were at the coffee stage when the 'phone rang. Sarah answered it and called across the room, "It's Mr Brown, the head teacher at Samantha's school. He says he'd be delighted to have you give a display and would three o'clock be okay."

Jim nodded, "Tell him I'll be there at three on the dot." He looked at his watch and saw that it was already nearly 2PM. He turned to Clem, "I don't like doing any sort of low level display without a bit of preparation first. Have you time to talk me through the local area?"

Clem nodded, "Sure, but you shouldn't have any trouble. The school is on the far side of town and has just open country beyond it. No hazards of any kind." As an afterthought he added, "I'll have a word with Sheriff Rantz to let him know what's happening."

They finished their coffee and Jim led the way out to the aircraft. He indicated with a gesture that Clem should climb into the back seat, then climbed up after him and handed him a helmet so that he could use the HUD, "Put that on and we'll fly it through on the simulator."

As Clem was fitting the helmet and adjusting the visor Jim swung into his own seat and closed the canopy to give the air conditioning system a chance to make the temperature more comfortable. "Computer. Simulator mode, full vision on the HUD." It appeared as if nothing had happened, the view was exactly the same as before. Jim eased the throttles forward and the view changed as if the aircraft was rolling forward. He taxied out and took off as if for real and turned left over the town. The view was perfectly lifelike except that there was no sign of vehicles or other life on the ground.

Clem was fascinated, he had been in many simulators, ranging from the crude systems of his Air Force days, through the modern but relatively simple systems for light twins, to the full blown Boeing 747 simulator his airline-pilot son had flown with him. The Witch lacked the motion cues of the large static simulators but the vision system was superb. He could well imagine a combat pilot sitting in his familiar cockpit practising for a mission before the actual raid. Flying the dangerous parts as often as necessary, trying different routes and different tactics.

They flew slowly over the town and circled the school. As Clem had indicated, the situation was uncomplicated. The school was right on the edge of the small town with the playing fields and then open ground before a ranch building some three miles away. Jim returned to low overhead the airfield and then circled the town to approach the school from the west. He tucked down low over the open country and brought the speed up for a fast run in. They spent fifteen minutes practising a display routine that Jim had done, with local variations, at a number of airshows back home. Satisfied at last he said, "Computer. All systems to standby."

With a suddenness that left Clem momentarily disoriented, they were back in a stationary aircraft on the ground with the birds eye view of the town replaced by a distinctly pedestrian view of the old hanger wall. They walked back to the shack to while away the remaining twenty minutes with a last cup of coffee. Sarah joined them and said "Clem tells me you offered to take Samantha with you." When Jim nodded, she continued, "She's a good girl but she's never been away on her own before. A harum scarum rascal and gets into dangfool mischief the moment she gets out of sight."

She sounded defensive and Jim smiled and held up both hands palms forward. "Please, say no more, I'm sorry I mentioned it. I didn't think about how it must have seemed to have a strange man coming in and offering to take your daughter away for a month."

Clem chuckled, "What Ma's trying to get 'round to is that we talked it over and, well, the kid's got to get off the apron strings sometime, so if you're still willing to take her she can go."

Jim looked from one to the other, moved by the trust they were showing in him. "Sure I'll take her, and don't worry, I'll see she doesn't get up to any tricks!" He smiled, "If she thinks that only good conduct will get her a chance to fly the Witch, I think she'll be as good as gold." He thought for a moment, "I've got to go on to Edwards Base for a couple of days to attend a meeting. How's about if I drop in about noon on Tuesday? If she wants to go with me, we can leave right after lunch. Would that be okay?"

They nodded, "Fine, we'll break the news to her after the party." They walked with him out to the aircraft and stood watching whilst he climbed in and strapped in tight. He checked his watch and flipped his hand, "See you on Tuesday, folks." He closed the canopy, taxied out and took off.

CHAPTER 3

Samantha had stood nervously by her head teacher whilst he telephoned her parents and had thanked him profusely afterwards. He smiled at her enthusiasm and waved her away towards her friends, then he raised his loud hailer. "Attention, please, I have an announcement to make. We have an extra attraction for you this afternoon. A flying friend of Samantha Saunders is going to do a flypast at three o'clock. He says he'll approach from the west so get yourselves out to the sports field in good time. Samantha assures me it's a sight to see!" They all laughed, knowing that to Sam a kite was a sight to see.

The pop music blared and Sam joined in the dancing with all the energy of youth, but she couldn't stop herself from checking the time every couple of minutes. After what seemed like an age the music was switched off and Mr Brown boomed, "Five to three, let's get out there."

Jim climbed gently away from the town and, looking over his left shoulder, had no difficulty in seeing the brightly coloured party in the playing fields. He scanned the area carefully, unscheduled airshows were not to be taken lightly. He called up a large-scale moving map of the area and lowered the visor to get the flight information on the HUD.

Still some miles from the school, he curved around the town and settled down towards the desert floor. He glanced at his watch to check the timing and then pushed the throttles gently forward. The speed surged up to a hair below Mach 1 and he bellied down to a bare 100 feet. Line up to traverse the unoccupied end of the sports field, time spot on and - across the fence.

Samantha made sure she was well clear of the crush and stared steadily towards the west. Everyone, including Sam, expected a sedate flypast as the aircraft headed on its way to its next port of call. It was therefore with a quick catch of her breath that she sighted the black shape approaching at incredible speed. Pushing so close to Mach 1 no sound preceded it as it poured towards them in utter silence. Suddenly it rolled inverted and the two canted fins appeared to slice the grass as it flashed across the field. It was nearly at the other fence when the noise of its passage hit them.

Sam caught her breath in awe. She was well aware that the aircraft had been subsonic, albeit only just, but it had still exuded a sinister deadliness. Yet, only a few hours ago, she had been in it when it had flown like this but at more than twice the speed. She wondered what it would have been like to stand on that deserted range and suddenly see the Witch approaching you like a Mach 2 shaft of doom.

He rolled upright, chopped the power and pulled up to the vertical, converting speed to height. Hard back on the stick to complete the loop and a vertical dive back towards the ground. A vertical roll and pull out to cross the field in the opposite direction. Slow right down and a slow - very slow - roll to let everyone imprint the lean shape of the Witch on their minds.

For the next ten minutes he enthralled his audience with a display of consummate flying skill performed in an aircraft with an unsurpassed flight envelope. His penultimate manoeuvre took him to the west of the field and he turned back to make a final pass. He approached slowly like a great black swan coming in for a landing. As the speed bled off, the nose rose higher and higher as the wings strove to produce lift by trading high angle-of-attack for speed.

Sam watched what she at first took to be simply a slow flying demonstration, but as the speed decreased and the nose rose higher and higher she became uneasy. Beyond a certain angle of attack any wing will stall and at this height a stall would inevitably be catastrophic. The pilot might eject but the destruction of the aircraft will be certain. Higher rose the nose, and slower dropped the speed. Sam stood rigid with fear, her nails digging into her palms, too frozen to even cry out a useless warning. Her mind screamed, "Get the nose down! Full power! Please, please, more power!"

But he couldn't hear and the angle increased inexorably until she knew that it was beyond hope of recovery Even the others around her seemed to sense that something was wrong although only the few who flew understood the danger. Slowly the nose rose to the vertical and it was as if everything was happening in slow motion. She waited in anguish for the total breakdown of control, when the lift of the wings and the thrust vector of the engines went beyond the corrective power of the control system. When that happened, there would be nothing left of the beautiful Witch but a gout of flame in a hole in the desert.

Inside the cockpit, Jim was well aware of the effect that this manoeuvre had on flight-wise observers. Only an aircraft with immense power and effective vectored-thrust control systems could hope to survive once the angle exceeded twenty odd degrees. He gently brought the nose up to the vertical, paused for effect, and then his left hand pushed the throttles firmly forward. The mighty turbines smashed up to full 'cold' power, slamming his head back against the head-rest. Then the throttles were moving through the first detent and he felt the thud as the after-burners lit, followed by another surge of acceleration. Still the throttles moved forward, through the next detent and he heard the clunk as the intakes slammed shut, felt the rumble as a Niagara of oxidant gushed into each combustion chamber, felt the g forces build rapidly as he feathered the throttles carefully to keep the acceleration within tolerable limits. Gaining speed at an enormous rate the Witch hurtled herself at the Heavens and the ASI and altimeter blurred as they sought to display her speed and altitude.

To Sam standing on the ground the effect was simply devastating. When the Witch hesitated on the vertical, it was as if in a last teetering, despairing effort to maintain balance. The next moment, a wave of sound hit them. The rising scream of the turbines, overlaid by the undulating roar of the after-burners, and then replaced by the gargantuan thunder of the exo-atmospheric motors. The towering crescendo of sound travelled through the air and hit them like a solid wall. For an instant, Sam thought the Witch had exploded, then she realised that it was accelerating straight up at a phenomenal rate. She stood in awe as the Witch receded at such a rate that the mind refused to accept that anything could recede that fast, and it created an illusion that the aircraft was shrinking as well as climbing. In less than twenty seconds the dot that had been an aircraft had vanished, and the crowd stood in silent awe at what they had witnessed. The head teacher called for them to return to the building and Sam turned as if in a dream and trailed along behind the crowd.

CHAPTER 4

Samantha arrived home in the late afternoon with a peculiar feeling of unreality. She felt confused, at once elated and depressed. It had been a fantastic day. A successful Private Licence check ride, a flight in the Witch, a party and an air display - all in one day. She was tired but not really sure whether happy or sad. The resilience of youth had ameliorated the shock of it all, but the corresponding lack of wisdom had made its assimilation more difficult.

She went straight to her room to change and eyed herself critically in the mirror. She looked well enough in her party finery but she felt no sense of satisfaction at that. She smiled wryly, maybe she really was weird - nearly seventeen years old and without the slightest interest in how she looked! She stripped and tidied away her clothes neatly. Then she donned an old track suit and trainers and gathered her hair up with one hand and slipped a rubber band over it with the other. The normality of her clothing made her feel more like her old self and she ran lightly down the stairs to the kitchen.

They always ate there when alone and the table was ready set. The meal was ready and both her parents were carrying dishes to the table. They sat down and started eating. Samantha's normally healthy appetite seemed to have deserted her and she pushed her food around her plate in silence. Her parents exchanged looks and her father said, "Penny for them, Kitten."

She looked up and contrived a smile, "Not worth that much, Daddy. I guess I must have eaten too much at the party. I'm not very hungry now."

"Uh huh. Well, if you don't want to talk about it, that's okay." and he resumed eating.

Samantha stirred her food for a moment longer then looked at her father, "It's just that I'm all confused, Daddy. When I flew in the Witch this morning, it was terrific, just absolutely the greatest. But this afternoon when he gave the display at school, well, it was different somehow. When he came towards us in that first high speed pass, I suddenly realised what the Witch looked like from the target's point of view. I've never seen anything so sinister as that long black shape with its strange wings coming at us so close to Mach 1 there was no noise. It was, well ..." she stumbled, hesitated and searched her mind for an apt analogy. "Seeing the Witch there, was like seeing someone playing with an executioner's axe with blood still dripping from it. Oh, I can't explain!"

Her father nodded calmly and she repeated "Oh, I don't know. It's just that when I was in the cockpit, I think I would have done almost anything - attacked any target. Afterwards, on the ground, I sort of saw the Witch for the first time as a weapon." Her voice trailed off as she found herself unable to put her thoughts into words.

Her father finished eating and laid down his fork and knife. "Kitten, what you've done is glimpsed the dilemma of flying military aircraft. You're not the first, there's no pilot worth his salt who hasn't experienced the same confusion. Military airplanes are the best, the most exciting to fly, the greatest flying experience of all. But they fly only because that's the best way to get a gun or bomb to the enemy. If it hadn't dawned on you one day I'd have been disappointed in you for being insensitive, and in your Mom and me for having failed you as parents." He smiled affectionately at his daughter, "Don't worry, Kitten, you'll get used to it. Right now it seems bad because it's new to you and because you have two lives, a big one on the ground and a little one in the air. Later on, if you stay in flying, they'll merge into one. Then you won't have this problem of one life trying to judge the other."

It was now the father's turn to grope for an apt analogy. "Look, if you're half the girl I think you are, you'll never quite lose the feeling. But, well, it's a bit like being a speculator on the Stock Exchange. At first, when a deal comes off and you make a lot of money, you might stop to think that when you gain, someone else loses. Maybe right at that moment there's someone about to jump off a window ledge, just because your astuteness has ruined him. Later though, you realise that it wasn't really your fault, it's just that the world isn't always a place where everybody can get everything they want. You don't grow callous but you do grow to accept that what you do has a bigger purpose and that, as long as you play the game by the rules and by your conscience, you can live with an easy mind." He continued, "No one in their right mind could ever say that war was anything but a grotesque obscenity. Nobody knows that better than someone who has fought in one. But try to see the bigger picture. People say things like 'Better dead than Red'. Well, that's rubbish, I'm sure most Russians enjoy their life just as much as most Americans do theirs. The point is that the struggle to civilisation has been a long and bloody one and it's not necessarily a one-way ticket. We think of fighting Russians but that's just because they are so powerful that they could present the most danger if a fight did start. But don't kid yourself, there are a helluva lot of regimes that are a helluva sight worse than Russia. We, and all other countries, need armed forces to combat them, and to prevent a slide back into the Dark Ages." He finished, feeling that he hadn't quite got through, but hoping that he might have planted a seed that would grow.

Samantha was subdued by her own uncertainty and her father's intensity. "Thanks, Daddy, but I guess it doesn't matter anyway, I don't suppose I'll ever get to fly anything like the Witch again."

Her father accepted a plate of fresh fruit and cream from his wife and said casually, "Oh, I think that would be up to you. Before he left, Mr Simpson said he'd be calling again on Tuesday and that if you wanted to go with him to the exercise in Canada, he would take you."

The girl's torpor dropped from her and she sat bolt upright. "Is that true?" She turned to her mother. "Did he really say that I could go with him in the Witch?"

Her mother smiled, tongue in cheek. "Yes, dear, he did. We said we weren't sure you'd want to spend nearly a whole month on an Air Force Base doing nothing but flying, but we said we'd ask you."

She looked aghast from one parent to the other. "Mom, Dad, how could you say that! You know I'd love to go. If he thinks I'm not very keen he might not bother to come back." She jumped up in agitation. "Do you know where he's staying? We might be able to 'phone and tell him."

Her parents laughed affectionately and her father answered, "Calm down, calm down, your mother's only joshing. Of course he knows you'll want to go and he definitely will return in time for lunch on Tuesday. Tomorrow you and your mother can sort out your clothes and things but right now sit down and finish your meal. Unless of course you feel unwell and might be better to have a few days in bed!"

Miraculously her appetite returned and she ate everything that was put in front of her in record time. While doing so she laughed and chattered with excited gaiety, all her doubts of a few minutes before quite forgotten.

The following morning Samantha was up bright and early and set to work with her mother to pack two suitcases. Sarah had been an Air Force wife for long enough to know to a nicety what was, and what was not, acceptable in an Officers' Mess. Her daughter had visited the Mess with her parents on a number of occasions but had never lived there and had certainly never attended a dining-in night. Her mother gave her a crash course on how to behave and found her a willing pupil. She may not have been intrinsically interested in Mess etiquette but her mother left her in no doubt of the likely outcome if she embarrassed her mentor with a faux pas.

CHAPTER 5

When the Witch radioed for landing clearance at 10:00 hours on Tuesday morning, it was Sarah who answered. Jim landed, taxied in and parked in the now-familiar place. He strolled over to the shack to find Sarah alone and clearing up after morning coffee break for the staff from the few small firms on the airfield. She welcomed him warmly and poured him a coffee. "Samantha has gone to Phoenix with her father on a charter to pick up some spare parts. I expect them back about eleven." She looked a little uncertain, "I hope you don't mind waiting, we didn't expect you until nearer twelve."

He assured her that he didn't in the least mind waiting and they fell to chatting about the differences in living between the States and Britain. By the time the drone of the Sundowner disturbed them they were happily conversing as old friends. The Sundowner taxied in and stopped on the tie-down area. The girl had been flying as Pilot in Command in the left seat and the shut-down checklist kept her a little longer in the cockpit than her father. She ran to catch him up and they walked arm in arm to the shack. Jim stood up to shake hands with Clem and then eyed the girl. "Well, are you coming with me or not?"

"Yes please, I'd love to come." she was anxious lest she 'blow it' by saying the wrong thing.

He grunted, "Okay, but get this. You do exactly as I tell you. Step out of line just once and you'll be back here so fast you won't know what hit you! Ok?"

She nodded apprehensively, "Yes, I understand."

"Right, are you all packed? No more than two big cases mind."

She nodded and indicated two medium sized suitcases behind the door. Sarah sent the girl off to get cleaned up and by the time she returned lunch was on the table. They ate a leisurely meal with Samantha all ears as the men reminisced about flying exploits in the earlier days of jet combat. She marvelled at how she learned more about her father's adventures in the space of an hour than she had in all the rest of her life. She also noticed that things left unsaid could bring a quick smile of mutual understanding and how some humorously-told episode could cause a sad, preoccupied expression to flit briefly across the speaker's face.

When Sarah brought the coffee, Clem turned to Jim, "Well, where do you go from here?"

Jim reached down and plucked a bundle of maps from the pocket of his rolled-up flying suit lying on the floor at his feet. He spread a couple out and indicated their present position and their destination in Canada. Turning to the girl he said, "Okay, kid, if you're going with me, you're going to earn your keep, so you can do the driving. Now, this is what we're going to do, so listen carefully. We don't want to hang about, so I want a good clean transit."

He indicated their starting and finishing points. "The distance is about 1,400 miles so it's worth going high for a fast flight. Now, we don't want a noticeable sonic boom reaching the ground. Normally that means staying subsonic below seventy thousand feet. However, if we climb steeply enough our boom will spread sideways and won't reach the ground, so you're going to climb out really steep. Not less than eighty degrees. Ok?"

"Yes, okay."

"Right, you take off on full cold power, pull up to at least 80 degrees and turn onto a heading of 010 degrees. Stay on full power and you'll go supersonic at about 20,000 feet and be at about Mach 2 by the time you pass through 70,000 feet. Keep on going to about 100,000 feet and then pull gently through inverted to keep us feeling our normal weight in our seats. Roll out and level out at 125,000 feet and Mach 3. Okay?" He eyed the girl interrogatively.

She nodded dumbly. He seemed to regard this as routine, whereas everything she'd read indicated that it was a long, long way from that. She knew that flight between 80,000 feet and the 300 or so miles of low earth orbit was the most difficult of all. The air was thick enough to create drag and aerodynamic instability but not thick enough to support the aircraft properly. She knew that the few aircraft in the world that could get up to 100,000 feet did so only in the hands of extremely experienced and skilled pilots; or even only when controlled by the computer of the automatic pilot.

Her father chipped in, "Heck, that's getting a bit extreme, isn't it? I thought you needed space suits and the like for that sort of stuff."

"Normally yes, but the Witch has no need for that, and she handles just the same at 200,000 feet as at 20,000 feet. You see, she's fly-by-light and the stick just commands the computer. At low altitude the computer normally uses only the standard ailerons, elevator and rudders but at higher altitudes it uses thrusters like on a space capsule to give the same control response. Even if you pull a tight turn she'll respond just the same, pull just as much g, because the computer will automatically use vectored thrust to compensate for the thin air."

He turned back to the girl. "The level flight transit time will be about three quarters of an hour and you'll have to start down a couple of hundred miles short of destination. Now, you won't be able to work the reverse of the steep climb trick; it would be far too uncomfortable, so you'll have to plan your descent properly to comply with the law." Again he looked piercingly at her, "Okay?"

"Yes, okay." But thinking feverishly about how to plan such a descent.

He caught her doubt, "Look kid, if you have questions, ask them. Don't just look doubtful and try to flannel your way through. You'll find that forward planning in the Witch is much more difficult than you're used to; everything is happening much faster and the power under your left hand has to be used sparingly when things get tight." He paused, his tone not exactly unkind but certainly uncompromising. "On your last trip you didn't have the benefit of the HUD but from now on it and the onboard computer are going to be your very best friends. If you're going to be any use as the Witch's apprentice, you MUST learn to use them properly."

He switched his gaze to the girl's parents. "Well, I guess we'd better be going. Thanks for your hospitality, and don't worry, I'll see she doesn't get up to any mischief!" He pushed back his chair, reached for the suits at his feet and handed one to the girl. Then he stood up and started to don his own suit.

Samantha hurriedly suited up and went with her father to get her suitcases. They walked to the aircraft and stowed the cases in a hatch just forward of the foreplane. She hugged both her parents, then ran quickly up the ladder to join Jim in the cockpit. They strapped in and called their goodbyes as the canopy dropped into place. He brought up all systems and then said to the girl, "You have control. Taxi to the holding point at the end of the runway. She acknowledged and, with a quick look at her parents, started the Witch slowly on its way.

She was more apprehensive about the taxiing than about the flying. She knew only too well how many experienced pilots had been humbled by running a wheel off the edge of the concrete and bogging down in the soft soil. Easy to do at any time but far, far easier when perched right in the nose of this long, lean thoroughbred. They travelled in a darting series of fits and starts as she tried to get the hang of the responsiveness of this great solid lump of an aircraft on the ground. Eventually, with the help of a fair bit of pedalling from the front seat, they arrived at the holding point. He showed her how to lower her visor and ordered the computer to put the flight information on both HUDs. Then he spent a few minutes talking her through the salient points of the display.

He called for takeoff clearance, then, "Okay Kid, let's go."

She carefully turned onto the runway and lined up on the centreline. Then pushed the throttles firmly forward. This time she was expecting the acceleration but was still caught off balance by the savagery of the thrust in the back. Being able to see the instruments in the HUD without taking her eyes off the runway was a tremendous help and she got the nose up more or less on time. Lift off followed immediately and she concentrated hard on pulling the nose up to the vertical. It seemed totally unnatural and she had to force herself to rely on the instruments when every fibre in her body was screaming that they were already over on their back. After what seemed an age she got the angle stabilised and risked a quick glance to the side to check on the position of the real world.

It wasn't a good idea! The angle and rate of climb combined to produce an unsettlingly disorientating effect. Snatching her eyes back to the front she concentrated on scanning the instrument readings on the HUD and saw that they were already through 30,000 feet and well over Mach 1. As their height increased the light blue of the sky turned to dark indigo as the mass of air between them and space decreased rapidly. At 100,000 feet she eased gently back on the stick and curved from the vertical to the horizontal. A quick sideways movement of the stick and they were right way up, then a gentle climb for a few seconds to get them to their cruising altitude of 125,000 feet. Gently back on the throttles to catch the Mach 3 cruising speed and - they were there, on height, on speed and on course!

She exhaled with relief and realised that she had been holding her breath. Trying not to move too much in case she nudged the controls, she looked carefully around. The view was magnificent but curiously familiar, just like all the photographs she'd seen taken from space. The sky, though, was unexpectedly alien in its blackness. It was a crazy feeling, but in looking up it felt like looking down into a vast black void. She shivered and wondered whether she could ever get used to that. Could anyone with an imagination ever get used to looking into the infinity of space?

He had monitored the climb and transition to level flight very carefully and had been moderately satisfied. Even bearing in mind that the Witch was really very easy to fly, the girl had performed well in a very unfamiliar situation. Now he sat as if asleep and left her get on with the job in hand. She gauged distance on the moving map by eye and decided that she would start down when overhead Winnipeg.

She eased back on the throttles and forward on the stick to try to maintain Mach 3 whilst sliding gently down through the stratosphere towards 70,000 feet. At 90,000 she started to slow down and had to do only a little bit of juggling to get the speed subsonic before passing down through 70,000 feet. After the desert of Arizona this was the far north and there was a lot of cloud about. Without asking what to do she turned gently to and fro to skirt the biggest of them. Gradually she brought the speed back until at 10,000 feet they were whistling along at a pedestrian 250 knots.

He stirred, "Computer. Contact White Lake Base." Then "White Lake from the Witch, ETA in 10 minutes."

The reply was immediate, as befitted a busy NATO Base. "Witch, you are cleared to land on runway 023. Uplinking data." A burst of digitised telemetry sped from the ground computer to the onboard computer and appeared at the bottom of the screen in front of each pilot. The girl was impressed and relieved by this. She had been dreading having to receive, copy and make sense of the cryptic and quickfire military communications. This advanced bit of military wizardry took its place in her mind alongside the HUD and the moving map as being worthy of the highest praise.

When she had heard that the designated runway was 023 she had curved to the left so as to approach the airfield on the required heading of 023 degrees.

He instructed the computer to reset the datum of her altimeter so that it would read height above the runway and she concentrated hard on trying to arrive at exactly the right point in three-dimensional space to intercept the glidepath to the runway threshold. The point arrived and she pulled off a little power and started to slide down the glideslope.

He reached for the controls, "I have control, but follow me through." She kept her hands lightly on the controls as the computer-driven servos moved them to exactly follow his movements. He talked, "Follow the HUD, keep the speed at 225 knots and the glideslope at 3 degrees. Don't stray far off the speed or slope, or it will all get out of hand. Watch the predictor line on the HUD, wherever the end of that line is, is where you're going to hit the ground. Keep it just a little short of the numbers, because it will move forward a bit when you round out." All the time he talked the HUD symbols stayed exactly in place as if frozen. Down, down, down - gently back to flare, cut the power and, thump, the mains were down. A touch of reverse thrust, down with the nosewheel, a harder burst of reverse thrust and turn off at the intersection. They had arrived in Canada - a mere 60 minutes after the Witch had lifted her wheels from the Arizona dust.

He retained control and taxied quickly to clear the runway and taxiway of this busy field. Airliners may complain about wasting time waiting for an aircraft on the ground to get out of the way, but for fast jets the amount of fuel remaining at the end of a sortie can lend real urgency to the situation. Hanging around unnecessarily on the runway can cause hard words later.

Following the commands of the Ground Controller, he swung onto the long hardstanding between the hangars and the tower and parked at the end of a long line of aircraft from a number of nations.

CHAPTER 6

As they climbed out into the cool Canadian air, an official car drew up alongside and a tall, gangling, greying, man got out. He was clad in USAF uniform and carried the badges of Major on his shoulders. Jim turned and let out a hoot of welcome, "Hank Hanchard, as I live and breathe! What the hell are you doing here?" He strode forward to grasp the hand of a friend of very long standing.

"It's been a long time, Jim", he caught Jim's hand in his two large paws and growled, "Hell, man, it's GOOD to see you!" They looked each other up and down, measuring the toll taken by the couple of years since they had last met. Then Hank continued, "I'm the senior visiting commander of the detachments for this exercise, so watch it, bud or I'll have you running round the perimeter track with a rifle above your head!" They both laughed, but then Jim realised that his normally ebullient friend was looking harassed and worried.

"My God, Hank, you look as if you've lost a shilling and found a sixpence!" The long-standing joke between the American from a race famed for its generosity, and the Scot from a race famed for its tight-fistedness fell flat on its face.

His friend's smile of welcome died away, leaving him looking haggard and old. "You've caught us at a kinda bad time, buddy. We've lost four airplanes in the past week, the last one went in just over an hour ago. It was Phil Kilpatrick."

Jim flinched as from a blow. Phil was another old friend, an F16 Fighting Falcon pilot with the USAF and a helluva guy. For all that any military pilot is used to losing friends in accidents, it would be a long time before either of these two men were able to reminisce about Phil without pain.

"What happened? Phil wasn't the kind to do anything stupid."

"We don't know anything yet except that he crashed during a low level run through a twisting mountain pass. The investigators are ..." He suddenly became aware of Samantha standing quietly behind Jim. "Who the hell is this?" His voice held more tension than Jim had ever heard in it and it brought home to him that something even beyond the death of a friend was behind it.

"Sorry, I'm forgetting my manners. This is Samantha Summers from Arizona, She'll be my co-pilot for the exercise." He turned to the girl, "Sam, this is Major Hank Hanchard, an old friend of mine." He caught his friend's eye and continued hurriedly, "I know it's odd to have a kid, and a female at that, for a co-pilot but, well, it's a long story and I'll explain it all later. Right now, how about a lift to the Mess?"

Hank took the hint and curbed his temper. He shook hands briefly, "Howdy Miss Saunders, welcome to White Lake," then, without waiting for a reply, turned and strode to the car.

Jim sensed his friends irritation at the presence of the girl and kept the conversation on generalities during the short drive to the Mess. He and the girl climbed out with their luggage and Hank excused himself saying that he had to return to Operations to follow up on the crash. Promising to be back in time for dinner, he drove off.

The Mess could have been any of a thousand throughout the western world, eastern as well for all Jim knew. He'd spent a couple of previous visits here in the past and led the girl towards the reception area. A smart young woman in Canadian Air Force uniform got up from behind the counter. "Yes, Sir, what can I do for you?"

He gave their names and she confirmed their reservations. They signed in and picked up the keys to adjacent rooms. He nodded to the receptionist and led the way through the winding passages of the old building to their rooms. Samantha had been unusually quiet since meeting the Major but now her usual high spirits started to return, "My God, I'll never find my way around here. You don't have a spare Inertial Navigator tucked away on the Witch, do you?"

He was still too shocked by the news of the death to enter into the spirit of things and answered with a curt, "You'll soon get the hang of it. All the public rooms are on the ground floor and are clearly marked. Feel free to use any of them unless they are marked otherwise. Go in any of the bars, but NO alcohol. Okay?"

Her spirits slipped again, "Yes, okay."

"Right, dinner will be about 19:30 hrs in the main dining room. It's now just after 16:00. Have a bath, get tidied up, whatever women do. I'm going down to Ops. I'll pick you up in your room at about 19:30 and take you to dinner."

"Can't I go with you? I've never been in an Operations Room before."

His voice was preoccupied, "Sorry, not this time. I want to find out about the crash and I can do it better on my own. Everyone will be working flat out and the last thing they need is rubbernecking sightseers." He caught the hurt look on her face. "Sorry, kid, take it easy today and you can start in on it fresh tomorrow morning." With that she had to be content. He dumped his bags in his room and turned round immediately to head for Ops.

CHAPTER 7

He entered Ops to find it a scene of suppressed turmoil. All exercise flying had been cancelled immediately after the crash and all the remaining aircraft had landed safely. Their crews were being debriefed, with special attention being paid to anything that might throw some light on the crash. He sought out Hank and found him in a separate room in conference with the CO of the Base, a Colonel Branson, and the three other visiting Flight Commanders. He knew one of the Flight Commanders, an RAF Squadron Leader, slightly but the others were strangers.

A Major of the Canadian Air Force commanded the Canadian detachment and a Major of the Luftwaffe the German detachment. Hank performed the introductions and then brought Jim briefly up to date. "Phil took off at 14:00 hrs with his number two. Their mission was to do a low level run along here", he traced the route with his finger on a map on the table, "and attack some tanks here." He jabbed a point about threequarters of the way along the range. "In going through here", he indicated a deep valley where the river curved about eighty degrees to the left, "he hit the hillside on the outside of the turn."

Jim eyed the map. He remembered that route very well, it was a right bitch. The valley narrowed and the sides steepened just as you started round the curve. You couldn't see around the curve ahead of you and the effect of the narrowing was that if you maintained a set distance from the inside wall above your head you'd get closer and closer to the outside wall. A bad place for a rookie to be; but Phil had been no rookie. "Any idea what happened?"

Hank sighed wearily, "Nope, his two was pretty busy at the time but he reckoned that Phil didn't just run wide. Maintains he seemed to snatch up, as if he was trying to pull up out of the ravine. They were at about 400 knots, not fast enough to be in real danger of departing so he could have pulled up and out if he'd wanted to."

There was silence as they all played through those last few vital seconds in their minds. All knew Phil and all had flown at least a little in Fighting Falcons. They knew them to be wonderfully agile aircraft with an enviable record for reliability.

Jim looked at Hank interrogatively, "You said this was the fourth in a week?"

"Yeah. Hell, we've never lost one before on these exercises and I guess our luck was about due to run out but, Jeeze, four in one week. It just ain't natural." Hank suddenly froze, his eyes locked on those of his friend. "Jeeze, sabotage!" His voice was a bare whisper. Flying low level was dangerous enough at any time. Once you started doubting your aircraft you were in trouble. Unreliability was one thing but sabotage...? No airman could be comfortable at 100 feet with the thought of a bomb aboard.

"Tell me about the others." "Well, the first one was last Monday. He was on his first tour here, from the Luftwaffe, in an Tornado. He'd done a fair bit of 200 feet stuff back home and the usual 100 feet stuff on a Red Flag in Nevada last Fall so he was okay. They'd arrived only the Friday before so it was his first sortie. It was much the same as with Phil but the terrain was easier." He indicated the area on the map and traced the curve along the valley. "He was flying as a singleton so we don't have an eye witness."

"The second was on Tuesday. He was a Canadian, a second tour man, in an F18 Hornet. A good man, I knew him fairly well. Not the sort to make stupid mistakes. Yet he went in here." He indicated another area and traced another curved path along a valley. "It was easy terrain but he was being tapped by defenders at the time and we just thought he'd been distracted for a moment. His number two was over to the right of the valley and trying to cover his leader's six, so he couldn't be sure of anything but he said he had the impression that he jerked and departed. He struck the floor, not the wall, nearly inverted, so I guess that bears out the loss of control idea."

"The third was on Thursday. He was an experienced RAF man. Nigel Smith, you maybe knew him?"

Jim nodded, "Yes I've met him, a damn good pilot. He was on Tornados when I last saw him a couple of months ago."

"Yep, that's him. A good man but a bit of a press-on merchant. The weather wasn't good that day, a bit of low cloud and drizzle among the peaks. We thought he'd maybe pressed-on just a bit too much." He indicated the path on the map. "Not normally a dangerous spot but with the weather and all, well... His number two damn near bought it as well. Says he was tucked in close because the visibility was poor and that Nigel suddenly seemed to chop power right in front of him. He just managed to miss him and pull up. Nigel went into the hill side."

There was a long silence whilst the men digested what had been said and chewed around the possibilities. The Base Commander took no part in the discussion, just sat with his elbows on the table, his chin resting in his hands, and stared into space. Eventually he stirred and broke in, his tone that of a man clarifying his own thoughts to himself rather than making a case to others. "Any one of these accidents could have been just that; an accident. Okay, so some of them seemed fairly easy meat but we deliberately match the sortie to the ability and experience of the crew, so they were all about equally loaded. Even on a relatively easy run there's damn little left to play with in this game, it only takes a tiny mistake to buy a farm"

The others looked at him in silence, waiting for him to explain what he was leading up to. He became aware of their scrutiny and sat back a little self-consciously. "What I'm getting at is that one, even two, accidents would have gone unremarked. Oh, we'd have investigated and all that but we'd have been prepared to accept that the first was happenstance and the second coincidence. Four is just too improbable to be pilot error or normal malfunctions, particularly since there are three different types from four different Air Forces involved." He looked at the others. "Don't you see what I'm getting at? If it's sabotage, why do four? One, or two, and you've done a lot of damage without much risk to yourself. Four is just too many. The saboteur is pointing a finger at himself. Why do it?"

The others looked at him with a new respect. He was a wily old bird, but then Colonels often were. Then Hank grunted. "Well, I guess that does it. The exercise is postponed until the whole thing has been investigated. All aircraft are grounded until further notice."

The Base Commander and the Flight Commanders nodded reluctant approval. They knew how difficult it was to get training slots on this range and how expensive it was for their countries to send them here but there was no reasonable alternative.

Jim was prepared to concede that such a move made sense for the other aircraft, but the Witch was a different kettle of fish altogether. "Just a minute Hank, I agree with the COs analysis. The fact that there are three different types of aircraft involved from four different countries makes genuine accidents unlikely. The fact that each country sends a self-contained unit with all spares and ground staff makes it even more improbable. But if it's sabotage, is it possible that a saboteur could have got to all the aircraft?"

"Yeah, sure its possible. There's not much likelihood of intruders up here in the wilds of Canada so I guess the patrols maybe aren't as alert as they should be. Would you agree, Fred?"

The Colonel nodded slowly but caught Jim's drift, "Yeah, I guess so. But you know it's not as easy to get in here as it looks. This is a pretty isolated area and not many personnel stray far off the Base. Strangers stand out like sore thumbs in places like this. It's the same on the Base. Each Flight is an entity in itself. They do all their own servicing and are located in different parts of the airfield. It's true that my men do all the security work but the flying is pretty intensive here and I'll bet there's never been a moment on any of the Flights when the ground crews haven't been working. A stranger would be damned lucky to get close enough to an aircraft to sabotage it. To do it on four different flights without being spotted would be bloody lucky indeed. Remember that these modern fighters are not easy to plant a bomb in, you've got to undo God knows how many screws or fasteners to get inside, and then do them up again afterwards."

Jim followed up quickly. "That's dead right. If it's sabotage it might be by getting at the aircraft on the ground, and we certainly need to investigate that. Maybe someone has seen something and hasn't bothered to report it. But there's another possibility. Something might have swiped the aircraft out there on the range."

They looked at him and the German Flight Commander voiced their thoughts. "You mean something or someone might have shot them down? Hell, man, these ships were all doing exactly the things that make them difficult to shoot down. And you'd have to be one hundred percent sure of a kill. If just once you didn't get a clean kill, the cat would be out of the bag. In any case, the wing men didn't see anything. Remember, these guys were all armed with live ammunition, missiles and cannon. Anyone taking a pot shot at one would have been taking a helluva risk. Christ, if he'd been seen they'd have torn him to pieces."

Jim pursed his lips and nodded. "Yes, well, I have to agree that anyone taking a pot shot would be likely to at least have the sense to pick singletons. Nonetheless, I still think that it's a possibility we should bear in mind. After all, it might not be an ordinary missile or shell. It might even be that somebody has got a working Star Wars beam energy weapon in space and has decided to do some real testing of its ability to deal with low flying aircraft."

The Colonel came back on that. "It might, but then again, why show your hand when you could test it against remotely piloted vehicles, or even cruise missiles?"

Jim got up quickly and started striding around the room. "Look, all I'm saying is that the answer might not lie inside the Base. I propose that you ground all the aircraft except the Witch and that I fly the range looking for anything odd and, if that doesn't work, I can try to provoke anybody out there into having a go at me."

"Like hell you will, old buddy!" Hank banged his fist on the table. "If it is something out there, it's been pretty effective so far. You go prowling around on your own and it's likely it'll nail you as well. Even if it's sabotage on Base, if you keep flying they'll likely get you anyway. No deal buddy, one grounded all grounded!"

Jim slumped into his seat. "Look, fellas. Sure, it would normally be crazy to go looking for trouble out there. But not in the Witch. No one touches her except when I say so. She has a defence system controlled by the on-board computer that's on all the time, in the air or on the ground. If anyone goes near her on the ground, I'll know about it. They won't be able to do her any harm and if I choose, I can set the system to blow any intruder to hell. So there is just no chance at all of anyone being able to sabotage her on the ground. It's the same in the air. If you don't believe me, I'll fly over low and slow and you can hit me with everything you've got."

They looked at each other and then back at Jim with renewed interest. This was something new to them all. It was not just idle curiosity. If the Witch was really that good, she would be a fearsome adversary. Jim caught their looks and sensed their interest. He looked at each man in turn. "Look, what I suggest is this. Let's put it around that all the exercise aircraft have been grounded pending an investigation. That would be quite normal. However, let's say that I'm here in a new prototype to assess its suitability for low level work. I'm not part of any flight and I'm not associated with any of the servicing teams. We can say that one of the features being tested on the Witch is its ability to go for long periods without servicing. We can put her in a hanger by herself and mount a 24 hour a day guard. We can even fly in a special guard if you think we should try to give the impression that we suspect sabotage and that the local security forces might be involved." Warming to the theme he continued. "I could start by getting to know the area from a few thousand feet. That would seem normal and would be a good opportunity to carry out a detailed sensor scan. The Witch is loaded with sensors, some passive and some active. I'd keep the active ones to just what you'd expect in the circumstances and use the passive ones to map every inch of the range in minute detail."

"Assuming that I don't find anything with that, I could gradually creep down lower and lower. That again would be absolutely normal. Once I'm down to the sort of levels that the guys who crashed were flying at, I could start working the ranges extensively to see if I could stir something up." He looked at the others for their reactions.

They all looked somewhat dubious but the Colonel nodded. "If you are sure your ship can give you a good chance of survival against any reasonable threat, I guess we ought to take the risk. Providing, of course, that your country is prepared to risk a valuable airplane." He looked at Hank. "Don't you agree, Major?"

"Dammit, sir, it's a helluva risk. I don't know anything about this Witch, but we all know that it takes damn little to trip you up at low level." He caught his friend's quizzical gaze and suddenly grinned. "Okay, okay. You always were a mad bastard, Simpson, and I guess this is not much worse than some of the tricks you've got up to in the past." He shook his head ruefully and got up. "Right, I suggest we keep this to ourselves and, for the present, just say that all the exercise aircraft are grounded pending a thorough investigation. We can all sleep on the Witch story and meet here at, say, 09:00 to put it all together. Okay?"

The others all nodded, got up and made to leave. Hank took a step towards the door, then suddenly checked and swung round. "Hold it, hold it. What about this kid you've got with you? You said something about her flying with you, didn't you?"

All eyes turned to Jim and the CO spoke crisply. "What's this about a kid?"

Jim's reply was succinct and equally crisp. "She's a girl of sixteen, going on seventeen. Her father's an ex-fighter jock and now has a small Fixed Base Operation in Arizona. I dropped in there for a coffee on Sunday and met the kid. She's dead keen on flying, in fact she's determined to be America's first female fighter pilot." He grinned at them and saw an answering response. All pilots have a soft spot for kids keen to fly. "I took her for a run on the Nellis Range and she stood up pretty well, so I had a chat with her parents and offered to take her with me. Unless she decides to stay on the ground, I intend to take her with me as planned. It will be good cover and should make any saboteur pretty confident that we don't suspect any dangers out on the range."

The COs eyes narrowed and his voice was cold. "Son, that's a pretty cold blooded attitude to take with a kid's life. I suggest we think instead of sending her home until this is over." He didn't actually say so but his tone made it clear that he thought it had been a damned silly idea in the first place.

"Sir, let's put it to the kid first. She might back out, although I doubt it. Let's have dinner together so you can weigh her up, then we can have a quiet word with her afterwards." He didn't for a moment think that the tomboy would pull out, more likely she'd be even more keen than ever if there seemed to be some real action in prospect. His voice hardened a little, "I hope that if she does decide to stay, you'll leave the decision to me. I know the Witch and I'm in a better position than anyone to assess the risks." The steel in Jim's voice wasn't lost on the CO and he eyed Jim speculatively. Come to think of it, the joining instructions relating to the Witch and her pilot hadn't been quite normal. He suspected that this red head might have more pull in high places than he had himself. He would check, but a warning bell was ringing at the back of his mind. He wouldn't be at all surprised if he got a 'mind your own business' sort of reply from some organisation referred to only by an acronym. For the time being, he contented himself with a brief nod.

CHAPTER 8

Jim had a quick shower, changed for dinner and went to Sam's room. He knocked and waited to be invited to enter. She was all ready and he could see that she had been writing letters. She caught his glance, "Just a letter to home" she said defensively.

"Good. Just remember not to write anything that might be construed to be of a secret nature. You are here as a guest. Don't abuse the privilege." With that curt sally he led the way down to the dining room.

He found that the CO, Hank and the other three Flight Commanders were seated at a table slightly apart from the other staff. Jim introduced his protégé and they took their places at the table with Samantha immediately opposite the CO. She was clearly nervous and the CO went out of his way to put her at her ease. His kindly, fatherly manner hid a skilful interrogator and Jim was soon amused to see that he was pumping her unmercifully. She was soon in high spirits and the party became a gay one, but she ingenuously told him everything he wanted to know.

As they walked from the dining room to the bar the CO and Jim fell slightly behind the others. The older man smiled ruefully, "I can see what you mean about her being keen! You’ve got a live one there, and no mistake! I suspect that if I tried to send her home I would have to get the guard to carry her off bodily. Put the question to her anyway but I'll leave it up to you to deal with it."

With the grounding having been made known, there was no need for the aircrew to moderate their drinking and most of the crews got down to some serious elbow bending. All had lost team mates in the past few days and were glad of the chance to forget for a while in the traditional way of flyers the world over. It was not by any means a celebratory party, but neither was it a wake.

Once the word got around that Samantha had flown in aboard the weird looking Witch she became something of a celebrity and clearly enjoyed the novelty. Some of the young crews were keen to buy her drinks but Jim made it clear that the no alcohol rule was absolute. When they pleaded good naturedly, he deliberately stirred in a little gossip by saying that whilst the other aircraft might be grounded the Witch would be flying on the morrow.

Jim stayed on non-alcoholic drinks and chatted with the CO and Hank until about half past nine. Then he got up and, catching the girl's eye, beckoned her over. The group she was with were becoming somewhat roisterous and it took her a moment to extricate herself. She clearly didn't want to leave but followed him out meekly enough.

He led the way to his room and told her to be seated. "Okay, kid, what I'm going to say is to go no further. Is that clear?" She nodded. "Okay. Now, when we arrived you heard Hank say that there had been four fatal crashes on the range in the past week. They might have been pure accidents but it's unlikely. Sabotage is a more likely reason. Whatever the reason, all aircraft have been grounded pending a full investigation."

"How long will that take?"

"Hard to tell, weeks probably."

Her face fell and he relented a little. "For reasons that I won't go into, the grounding doesn't include the Witch. I'm going to continue flying and you can come along with me if you like." She made as if to speak and he held up his hand in a peremptory gesture. "Hold it! Before you say anything hasty, just think for a minute. Three different types of aircraft, from four different nations, serviced by four different teams, have crashed in the space of a few days. It is therefore not likely that the cause was aircraft malfunctions."

"The crews ranged from fairly experienced to extremely experienced, and they were all first class. So, it's unlikely to have been normal pilot error."

"The point is, Kid, that whatever the cause, we can't rule out the possibility that the Witch could be equally vulnerable." Knowing the Witch as he did, he knew this to be a gross exaggeration but he wanted to give away as little as possible until the girl made up her mind one way or the other. "You can go along if you like but let's have no childish heroics. If you fly you may die! Don't just consider yourself either, think of your parents. I doubt that they'd sanction your going but if we go in, at least I won't be there to do any explaining." His voice was deliberately cold and uninterested. "You don't have to make up your mind right now, sleep on it and tell me in the morning."

She had no doubts. The reminder about her parents had been a low blow but they had always impressed on her to do what she felt she had to do and be unafraid. "I don't have to sleep on it, Skipper. I can tell you right now. I want to fly with you."

For the first time in dealing with her he grinned. "Okay Kid, on your own head be it! Now let's get down to business, and remember you are to talk of this to no one." He sat down on the bed and made himself comfortable. "Right, the odds against the crashes being genuine accidents are simply astronomical so there is almost certainly foul play afoot. All the other aircraft are grounded because it is simply too dangerous for them to fly. The Witch has self-defence systems undreamt of by the other crews so we can fly her with little risk."

"Only the CO and the four detachment commanders know what we intend to do. Now you are included and you have a role to play, so you must keep your wits about you. We are going to spread it around that sabotage is suspected and that we believe the sabotage to have taken place on the Base whilst the aircraft were on the ground. Perhaps the ground crews or the Base security forces were involved, or perhaps some component common to all the aircraft was tampered with at the factory." "However, we actually think that there is a fair chance that the skulduggery is happening out on the range. To be blunt, someone is shooting down our aircraft as they fly at low level. Now, that would be a pretty clever trick. After all, the whole idea of flying low is to make it hard to shoot you down. If we are right, the implications go beyond the few crashes we've had here, someone might have developed a system that would mean that low level no longer confers safety. It's therefore imperative that we get to the bottom of it. To do that, we're going to go out there with the Witch to investigate and, if necessary, to present ourselves as a target to lure them out into the open."

He paused for comment but she just looked at him expectantly. "Okay, the thing we must try to do is to convince the baddies that we haven't the slightest inkling that there's any likelihood of sabotage taking place out on the range. If they think we're looking for them out there they'll catch on pretty quick that the Witch is something special. Once they get that idea, they'll probably scarper. We don't want that. There's too much at stake to simply want to scare them off, we must find out how it's all done. So remember, if anyone suggests to you that we might get zapped out there, pooh pooh the idea on the grounds that the wing men saw no sign of any attack. Okay?"

She nodded and he continued, "Okay, I want to get two things into the minds of the saboteurs." He held up one finger. "One. I want them to think that we believe the danger to lie back here on the Base. I've already locked the Witch away in one of the single-aircraft Hardened Aircraft Shelters. There's only a few of them, not nearly enough for all the aircraft, but they're designed to survive anything but a near miss from a nuclear weapon. It's therefore quite reasonable for us to say that no one can get at the Witch if she spends all her time either in the HAS or flying. The fact that you're flying with me will reinforce the impression that we're confident that we're in no danger from sabotage." He grinned at her. "What they don't know is that the Witch has a defensive system that would give any saboteur a hard time whether in the air or on the ground. Let's keep them thinking that way."

He held up a second finger. "Two. I want them to get the impression that the Witch is an extremely valuable prototype, so valuable that we can't afford to lose any time in getting her low- level capability proven on the range. With luck, that will induce them to make a supreme effort to nail her. You see, when a prototype crashes, there's always the possibility that there's a design fault, so the resulting investigation is likely to cause huge delays in getting the type into service. That prize should be big enough to winkle them out into the open."

She was flushed with excitement. Here was real thrills at last. Not only flying in a fighter but hunting trouble as well!

He chuckled at her expression and waved an admonishing finger. "Now, Kid, don't get too carried away. This is a serious business and we won't only have to watch our step in the air. We'll have to keep our wits about us on the ground as well. You can bet that our flying whilst the rest of the crews are grounded will make us a hot topic of conversation. Don't get drawn into deep discussions with them. Make a joke of it and kid on that they're seeing saboteurs where none exist. Tell them that it's just that as pilots they can't quite cut it, whilst we, of course, can! That sort of thing, rub it in but keep it light hearted. Okay?"

Her eyes sparkled. "Gee, yes. I do amateur dramatics at home, I'll act them into the ground!"

He laughed. "Okay, kid. Off to bed now, I'll call you at quarter to seven for breakfast at quarter past." He glowered in mock seriousness. "And make sure you shower and wash behind your ears!" As an afterthought he added, "Dress for flying, we should be airborne by mid morning."

She was laughing as she skipped along to her own room.

CHAPTER 9

Sam was already up and dressed when he thumped on the adjoining wall the next morning. He showered, shaved and dressed then collected Sam on the way to breakfast. She was in high spirits and he did nothing to dampen her enthusiasm, the chirpier she looked to better would be the impression of safety conveyed to observers.

The booze-up the previous night had taken its toll and only a handful of permanent Base staff were in evidence. Jim and Sam breakfasted alone. Between bites she asked endless questions about the Witch and he answered absently. He was already planning the day’s activities and found the chatter to be an unwanted distraction. Eventually he pushed his plate aside and cut in on yet another question. "Okay kid, enough idle chit chat. We'll go first to Ops for a self briefing. We'll likely run into a lot of people who want to chat. The fact that we'll be the only crew flying will mean that everyone will have loads of time to blether. Don't be rude but make it clear that we're busy. Only the CO and the four detachment commanders know anything about our intentions - make sure it stays that way! As far as anyone else is concerned we're just going to put a new prototype through its paces on the range." He looked thoughtful for a moment. "Look, try to cultivate the habit of saying as little as possible. That way you're less likely to slip up. Keep to that rule even with the CO and the detachment commanders. It's almost certain they're okay but we'll work on the 'need to know' principle. There's always the possibility that we've been infiltrated. Even if they are what they seem the fact still remains that a secret shared is no secret at all. So discuss nothing other than between ourselves. Okay?"

"Anything you say, Skip." The whole idea of secrets and spies obviously appealed to her youthful imagination and she agreed with unfettered enthusiasm. They left the Mess and decided to forgo the offer of transport, electing instead to walk the half mile to the Ops block. She'd got the message that her chatter wasn't welcome so she occupied herself during the walk with absorbing as much as possible about the layout of the Base.

The passes they'd been given on their arrival were scrutinised at the main gate and again on entry to Ops. Security was tight and high-profile. Jim went straight to the office of the Head of Operations and was relieved to find that the CO had remembered to issue orders that they be accorded all facilities. The main Ops briefing room had been put at their exclusive disposal for the duration of the grounding and they were left in no doubt that they had merely to ask and they would be given. Jim wondered what explanation the CO had given to account for this VIP treatment. Probably part of the plan to make the Witch look very important. Still, they'd better get together soon to cross-check their stories.

They entered the briefing room and locked the door. To Jim it was just another Ops briefing room, little different from any other in the western world. To Sam, however, it was another holy of holies which she had seen only on film, and she wandered around looking at the posters on flight safety and security.

One wall of the room was covered by a huge map of the area and Jim picked up a small torch that was used to shine a tiny arrow shaped marker onto the map. He gestured to Sam to be seated and used the torch to sweep the little arrow along a broken line on the map. "The range is the area inside this broken line." He swung the torch to indicate a point off to the right. "The Base is over here." "We'll start by just looking around the area from a highish level, starting at about 40,000 feet. At that height we'll see pretty well the whole range at once. Then we'll do a sweep round the outside of the range and map all the terrain for a distance of about fifty miles outside the range boundary. We'll behave more or less as any crew would do if they were doing what we say we're doing. After that we'll wander about apparently randomly. Actually it won't be random at all, it will be to a precise plan to allow our sensors to look into every ravine. By lunch time we should have recorded a detailed computer map of this whole area."

He swept the little arrow around a big oval on the map. "After lunch we'll analyse the data to try to spot any funnies. To do that we'll have to use the Witch's onboard computer, it's by far the most powerful computer on the Base anyway. Now, we could get the computer to run an analysis and then view the results in here but it would look a bit odd if we did." He tugged his bottom lip doubtfully. "What we need is somewhere quiet where we can sit in the Witch and go through the data interactively."

"Couldn't we do it parked in the HAS?"

"Yes, I suppose we could but it would look a bit odd if we locked ourselves in there for hours on end. I guess we could say we were doing some sort of routine servicing or checking but that might raise questions after our having said that we don't need a servicing crew because the Witch is designed to operate for long periods without servicing." He suddenly grinned at her. "They might think we were up to something, it would ruin your reputation - and maybe mine as well!" He sobered quickly. "No, what we need is to slope off to somewhere quiet where we aren't likely to be seen. That would be easy enough but if there are bad guys both out on the range and here on Base they might compare notes and wonder where we'd got to." He sat and chewed his lip, deep in thought.

Sam interrupted tentatively. "Couldn't we say we that we were combining the low flying on the range with some cold weather trials up north? That would be an excuse to go and land somewhere else. It's pretty unlikely that the bad hats are all over the place."

He looked at her for a moment, passing the idea around in his mind. "Good thinking kid! We could say that we're checking out some of our low flying sensors over ice and snow before doing any serious low level work amongst the peaks. Yes, I like it. Good thinking."

She flushed with pleasure. "But where would we land? Wouldn't we be taking a risk if we were seen at an airfield? Even if there aren't any bad guys there the Witch is so unusual that the word might get back."

"No problem, the Witch can VTOL so we can put down anywhere. A nice remote valley in the far north would be just fine."

She looked at him in some wonderment. "Can it really? Can it really do that?"

"Mmm?"

"Can the Witch really take off and land vertically?"

"Oh sure, why shouldn't it?"

"Well, I've never heard of anything faster than the AV8 being VTOL. Gee, it's fantastic."

"No kid, not fantastic, just technology. Now never mind that." He peered intently at the map. "Let's see, where could we go for a few hours well away from human habitation? There's certainly plenty of wide open spaces up there but I don't see anywhere in particular. Och well, never mind, we can just fly north until somewhere suitable shows up on the sensors."

"Do you think the saboteurs are Russians? Because if they are won't they track us from their spy satellites?" This kid had a good mind and was thinking clearly.

"No, I don't think that will be a problem. It's very unlikely that the sky will be clear enough for their optical sensors to get a look at us and their Radar systems will have a hard time detecting the Witch. We'll easily detect any active systems and be able to counter them. As for the passive systems such as infra red, we can make sure we don't have a signature they can detect."

"Okay," he looked at his watch, "We'll go now and do a survey from fairly high, making no attempt to disguise what we're doing. Then we'll come back for lunch and afterwards return to here for another self-briefing - that would be expected. We'll take off again about 14:00 hours and start north at fairly low level. At first we'll behave normally but we'll monitor for anything scanning the area - there always will be something scanning so that in itself won't be suspicious. After a couple of hundred miles we'll just fade quietly off the Radar map and look for an isolated spot to hole up for a few hours."

The girl was beginning to get used to the capabilities of the Witch and the way her pilot took them for granted but her eyes had grown round at the thought of something as lethal as the Witch being able to fade from sensor view at will.

They got up and strolled to the reception desk to call for transport to take them to the HAS. Since the Base was virtually shut down they were given a car to themselves. They drove to the HAS and Jim took a magnetic card from his pocket and used it to unlock and open the large end door. "Computer. Open up and lower both ladders." He motioned the girl to climb aboard, "Think you can drive her out, kid?"

"Well - yes I think so. But will the computer do what I tell it?"

"Yes, I've instructed it to voice print you so it will obey you for all normal commands."

Sam clambered aboard and settled into the seat which was already becoming familiar. "Computer. Bring up all systems." Then she released the parking brake and eased on a touch of power to roll slowly out of the HAS. Immediately the tail of the Witch cleared the HAS door, Jim again inserted the magnetic card and tapped in the door close code. He waited until he was sure that the door had shut and locked correctly, and then he climbed aboard.

"Okay kid, you have control. Take us out."

Feeling more nervous about making a fool of herself on the radio than about flying, the girl called the tower for taxi clearance and then taxied carefully out to the holding point. "Witch to tower. Takeoff?"

"Witch you are clear to takeoff."

"Roger." With more confidence now she swung onto the runway and pushed the throttles forward. The surge of acceleration thrilled her even as she concentrated on rotating and lifting off at exactly the right speeds. She levelled off at 40,000 feet and Mach 0.8. Looking at her companion to see what he wanted next she realised that he was already busy with the computer.

Seeing that she had time to listen he said, "I'm going to put the moving map on the top screen in front of you and put the sensor picture on the lower screen. Are you happy to rely on the HUD instead of using the instruments on the screen?"

She grinned happily, "Sure, the HUD is just great."

"Okay, I've set the sensor scan to record passively over the whole electro-magnetic spectrum. We’ll also use synthetic aperture mapping Radar to paint a Radar picture of the terrain. We won't use anything more clever than that yet, just in case any hostiles are monitoring." He drew her attention to the colour picture on the lower screen. "The bottom picture is being generated live from the sensor data but it's being shown just like a TV picture. We might spot something on it but I doubt it. Any funnies are more likely to show up when we look at other parts of the spectrum. If the computer notices anything unusual, say a hot spot or a regularly shaped object, it will highlight it, but I hae my doots."

She looked at him with a puzzled expression and he grinned. "Hae my doots means I have my doubts. It's Scottish. I'm a Scotsman you see!" She nodded, not sure that she was any the wiser.

They spent the next two hours wandering apparently aimlessly around the area. In fact, the girl was concentrating hard to follow precisely the command bars on the HUD as it guided them through the convoluted search pattern created by the computer. At about 12:30 they reached the end of the search and he waved her onward, "Home, James, and don't spare the horses."

They had lunch with the CO and the detachment commanders. Samantha concentrated studiously on her food - that wasn't hard since she was ravenous after her morning of intense concentration. Jim reported their activities as being just a familiarisation trip around the area and then concentrated on getting everybody's stories synchronised. He stressed that any elaborate production should be avoided. All that was needed was to treat the flights of the Witch as they would those of any other prototype on proving trials. As such, it was not a particularly uncommon situation. The only additional constraint was that they should make sure that they didn't give any hint that the Witch was actively looking for trouble.

On the drive back to the HAS the girl ventured a comment. "You didn't tell them very much about what we were doing, did you?"

"No I didn't. I told you that it was a case of 'need to know'. Even if these guys are all straight arrows they can't do anything to help us so there's nothing to be gained by confiding in them. Just you remember that."

They took off and headed towards the range at 20,000 feet. Then Jim said, "Computer. Fade out over twenty seconds." Then to the girl, "Our Radar and infra-red signatures etc will gradually diminish over a period of twenty seconds. After that we'll do some random wandering before heading north."

Five minutes later they were on a heading of 355 degrees at 90,000 feet and were cruising at Mach 3.0. Another half hour and they were slipping down into the troposphere with their passive sensors looking for an uninhabited isolated valley. Eventually they spotted one and he took over control to creep in and land vertically close against the western side in the shadow of a high ridge.

The girl had flown twice before in helicopters so the vertical landing was half familiar. Nonetheless, she had been intrigued at how unnerving it had been to slow right down in the gloom of the valley. Shutting down all flight systems, he instructed the computer to monitor the surrounding area for movement and for any radio or Radar emissions. Then he set to work, replaying the morning's data.

The computer merged and processed the vast amount of data collected in their meandering flight into a single detailed digital map. This map could then be used as a full three-dimensional 'world' on the HUD to fly over and through in a simulation. Every nook and cranny was faithfully reproduced in space over the full electro-magnetic spectrum. When viewed in the visible part of the spectrum it looked like a superb full-colour relief model. In the infra-red portion of the spectrum the picture had been constructed to show hot as red and cold as blue. And so on, all the way from neutrons to long wave radio signals.

They started by viewing the whole area from directly above as one vast picture. Starting from the very low frequency radio images they moved slowly and smoothly through the spectrum looking for any anomalies. They saw nothing untoward.

Next they carried out the same exercise, but on a vastly magnified scale, on each of the crash sites. Again they drew a blank. Perhaps there would be marks in the ground or in the snow. They used every trick the computer knew to enhance such features. But all they raised were tracks made by the range personnel.

Finally, they scrutinised every major approved route through the range. Again, zilch, nothing, the big zero.

It was now after 17:00 hrs and their eyes were aching. Jim washed his face with his hands and yawned. "Ah well, perhaps tomorrow ... . Let's get back." With practised ease he lifted off the valley floor and rose very slowly to peek over the top of the surrounding cliffs. When he was sure there was nothing showing on the sensors he accelerated to normal flying speed and handed over control to the girl. "Take us home, kid." With that he closed his eyes and appeared to nod off.

CHAPTER 10

The next day they began playing the role of proving a prototype at low level. Starting at 500 feet, they howled along the easier routes through the range. Each time Jim would do the first few runs down a particular route, every fibre alert for danger. Then, when he was satisfied that nothing seemed to be intent on zapping them, he would school the girl to follow the same route whilst he concentrated on viewing composite pictures of the past and current runs. All the time he insisted that she keep the speed much higher than the normal attack aircraft would. Whatever was down there, it was just that bit more difficult to nail an aircraft that was well supersonic than one that was subsonic.

Other than a break for lunch, they spent the whole day traversing the range at low level then returning to the start point at a few thousand feet to do it all over again. All the time the sensors probed and the computer sifted and recorded. And they found nothing.

That evening they dined with the CO and Hank, and had to admit that they'd drawn a blank. News from the Base was no better. The investigators and security men had scoured the place and had checked every aircraft in minute detail. They too had drawn a blank. After the booze up of the previous night, Mess life had returned to normal with more interest being shown in snooker than in serious drinking. Even Samantha seemed to have lost her zest and, tired from a hard day, she slipped away to soak in the bath and then have an early night.

The three men chatted in a desultory fashion about when the grounding order might be rescinded and then they too retired to bed early.

The rest of the week and the weekend continued in similar vein. Jim and Samantha flew a solid six hours a day and covered every conceivable path through the range time and time again. They gradually crept the height down to 250 feet when Sam was flying and Jim flew every course at least once at 100 feet. They also spent many hours hidden away in their arctic valley analysing the sensor data. Other than growing more and more weary, especially Sam, they were getting nowhere.

It was still early days for the investigators piecing the crashed aircraft together. That would take months to complete. However, even at this early stage, they were almost certain that there had been no explosions of any great size before impact. Of course, any explosions could have taken place in small, delicate systems and the damage would have been next to impossible to spot in the aftermath of the crash. Yet, the impression was growing that the aircraft had been in perfect health up until the moment they disintegrated against the bleak Canadian rock.

The hunt for evidence of sabotage back at the Base was similarly fruitless. As would be expected on such top line exercises, every aircraft was in excellent shape. Likewise, every member of the aircrew and ground crew appeared to check out one hundred percent. The whole kit and caboodle was exemplary and a credit to all the countries involved. It was just a pity that there was the small matter of four mangled aircraft and six dead aircrew to spoil it.

On the Monday morning a meeting was convened at 09:00 hrs in the Operations Room. It was chaired by the CO and attended by the commander of the crash investigation team, the commander of the sabotage investigation team, the commander of the security team and the four detachment commanders. Jim, as a civilian, was invited along as a matter of courtesy. Apart from confirming that he had been flying the range extensively without mishap for some days, he listened and kept his own council.

Samantha made the most of a long lie in and awoke refreshed. The decision of the meeting was that the exercise should resume but that the investigation and security teams should stay on duty and keep everything sewn up tight.

It was noon by the time the meeting finished and the afternoon was taken up with gathering up the threads of the dislocated exercise. The flying ban was lifted and a number of aircraft that had been worked on were air tested. The exercise would resume in earnest the next morning.

The Witch had remained locked up in the HAS since Sunday night but long before dawn, and before even the Control Tower was manned, she had slipped from her lair and climbed quietly away on minimal power. As far as her crew could tell, no one on the Base had the least inkling that she was riding shotgun far above the range as the sun rose. Her passive sensors were tirelessly scanning the range and, for the first time, her awesome armament was armed and ready for action.

The day dawned fine and the first flight of defenders took off on time at 09:00 hrs. As they climbed out on their way to take up their positions on the range the first flight of attacking aircraft was starting engines. Soon they too were airborne and heading for their targets in loose fighting pairs.

As they approached the range they cast away their height and tucked down into the protective folds and crevices of the earth. The power went on and in a dozen cockpits a dozen finely honed professionals forgot their earthly concerns and became the controlling brains of some of the finest fighting machinery ever wrought by man. It was the turn of the RAF to play defenders and the USAF to play attackers. Away ahead of the attackers a trio of ADV Tornados were patrolling thousands of feet up with their sophisticated Radars sniffing for trade in the valleys below. Lower down the more agile Hawks were being controlled by the Tornados like a school of piranha controlled by sharks.

Any invader was in for a hard time. No heavily laden attacker could hope to survive a close range brawl with the agile Hawks. Yet they couldn't escape either. Wherever they turned the look-down shoot-down Radar of the Tornados would track them and guide the Hawks to the kill. Their only hope was to cut and run, using their superior speed to outrun the subsonic Hawks. But to run fast they would have to come up out of the ravines - and when they did they would be moving into the element of the deadly Tornados whose long-range, Radar-guided missiles were able to kill from afar.

The attackers were not by any means defenceless, though. To them the solid granite walls of the valleys and ravines were like shields. Opaque not only to shells and missiles but to the probing beams of Radar as well. Twisting, turning, following the folds of the land like the skirmishers of old. If one pair got tapped by the defenders they would divert from their true route and draw the defenders away from their fellows. And the defenders had to do more than hunt. If they slipped in behind one attacking pair the next pair of attackers were likely to become the hunters in their turn. Gone were the days of defenceless bombers, these attackers might be too heavily laden to out manoeuvre the defenders, but their armament included deadly Sidewinder infra-red homing missiles.

Even the attackers being hunted could sting with deadly effect. If all else failed they could drop their retarded bombs. These were bombs with special vanes or 'chutes to slow them down to allow a low-flying aircraft to drop them and have time to get out of the way before they exploded. If the dropped them when being hotly pursued low down they would explode and throw a mass of rock in front of the low flying hunters. Very difficult to dodge!

Everything but the flying was make-believe, but every cut and thrust would be simulated and every kill probability computed to the nth degree.

High above, the sensors on the Witch showed the game below in all its high speed complexity. Every thrust and parry and feint was mirrored by the little model aircraft twisting and turning on the map on the lower screen. Each little model drew a fine thread of colour behind it so that the path followed by every aircraft could be traced in minute detail.

For all the surveillance, the crash happened just the same. One moment a model Fighting Falcon was curving through a narrow canyon on the Witch's screen and the next a burst of infra-red energy formed a blood red full stop at the end of its marker thread.

The wingman pulled up and radioed the code indicating another crash. Yet, even before he had absorbed what had happened and started to pull up, the Witch was already in a punishing, corkscrewing descent. Down, down, down to the lip of the canyon and then a slow vertical descent to the crash site. They didn't touch down, merely hovered and searched the inside of the canyon with the full panoply of their passive and active sensors. For ten long minutes they pirouetted around the crash and poured ever increasing amounts of electro-magnetic energy into the canyon to try to raise the contrast until something, anything, would show. But nothing did. All around, the grim granite walls revealed nothing more to the scientific battering than they did to the unaided human eye.

As the standby search and rescue helicopters homed in like threshing dragonflies the Witch rose smoothly and effortlessly to follow the recalled aircraft back to Base.

CHAPTER 11

They landed and taxied quickly to the HAS. Samantha settled down to pore over the recordings of the last moments of the life of a pilot and his aircraft whilst Jim ran to the car and then hastened to Operations to question the wingman.

He found the CO, the detachment commanders and the investigating team commanders gathering in the Operations Room. they took their seats and the CO called for an orderly to bring in the wingman. He was young and clearly very shaken. The CO indicated that he be seated and then asked him to describe what had happened.

"We had been following the planned route but were tapped by a couple of Hawks as we crossed Bretts Lake. We turned off to starboard to draw the defenders away and followed the river up into Snake Canyon. It's well named because it twists about all over the place. It's quite narrow so I had closed up to the trail position behind Phil, Captain Gardner that is. We were batting on and staying down low but it wasn't particularly demanding. There's a long curve to port which goes on for about a hundred and twenty degrees, about half way round that Phil ran into the outer wall. He hadn't a chance, just blew up in a big ball of fire. I pulled up and radioed for help." He stopped and held himself erect with a visible effort.

The CO cleared his throat sympathetically. "Did you get any impression of how your leader came to hit the wall? Did he appear to lose control or anything like that?"

"No not really, at least, nothing violent. We were curving round with a steady back pressure on the stick, pretty much a stabilised turn, and it was just as if he suddenly released the stick. My impression was that the aircraft just suddenly straightened out and ran into the wall. Of course it all happened pretty quick but I'm certain that we weren't just creeping wide."

"I see." The CO spoke slowly, "Were the Hawks, or any other aircraft, within sight of you at the time?"

"I don't think so. My impression was that they were far enough back that they would have been well around the curve. Of course, they could have popped up a bit and had us in sight over the top. I guess you'd have to ask them."

"Okay, that's fine." He looked around the table. "Does anyone else have any pertinent questions? No? Right, son, you know there will have to be an inquiry about this. Go and find somewhere quiet and write down everything you can remember from the time you got up this morning. Put everything in, impressions as well as facts. Keep that as an aid memoir for yourself. Then write a more succinct report covering the briefing and the flight."

As the wingman left, the CO called for the orderly to bring in the Hawk pilots. One of the pair had followed the Fighting Falcons at low level but the other had indeed climbed a little and had glimpsed the crash. However, it was no more than a glimpse and he could neither confirm nor deny the story told by the wingman.

When the Hawk pilots had departed, Jim described his own actions and observations. He then suggested that they have a brief recess whilst he returned to the Witch to collect a video cassette of the relevant period and returned with it to Ops.

When he arrived at the HAS he found Sam deep in concentration perusing in detail an enlargement of the crash area taken just moments before the crash. She could find nothing unusual. They spent ten minutes editing a section of the recording from the time when the Fighting Falcons turned up river to a few minutes after the crash. The computer used the full sensor spectrum to create the pictures but the finished product looked just like a very good quality TV film. Jim saw no compelling reason to reveal the extent of the Witch's sensing technology.

They returned to the Operations room together and Jim plugged the cassette into a video cassette recorder brought in for the purpose. They played the sequence over many times and scrutinised the enlargements in great detail. All they found was that the wingman's impression had been correct. The aircraft had been curving along the centre line of the canyon in a beautifully controlled turn and then its path had suddenly straightened out. It had remained at the same steep banking angle but the enlargements showed the tailplane to flick from a pronounced up angle to the zero angle of attack position. It looked for all the world as if the pilot had simply let go of the stick.

The enlargement, even with the computer enhancement, was just about at its limit but it appeared that the pilot, seen through the big bubble canopy, had flinched at just about the time the curve was broken. But they couldn't be sure, and any abrupt movement by the pilot might have been caused by the problem rather than being the cause of it.

The discussion continued for some time and the possibility was raised for the first time that perhaps it was the pilots, rather than the aircraft, who were being got at. But what could possibly have this sudden effect? It must be g-related in some way since all the crashes had occurred whilst turning hard. It had been well understood for decades that high g forces could cause a blackout. When the g force is lessened the victim quickly recovers consciousness. Of course, even a momentary loss of consciousness would be fatal in these conditions, recovery wouldn't be rapid enough to allow the pilot to avoid the wall. Yet these were all experienced men with a high g-tolerance, and in none of the crashes had the g forces been particularly large. Even if the g-suits had suddenly failed the pilots would still have retained their faculties.

A more recently discovered phenomenon was also considered. This was called G-induced loss of consciousness, G-loc for short, and manifests itself as a sudden blacking out a short time after a prolonged bout of high g. It was only recently that fighters had become available with enough agility and power to maintain high g levels for long enough to create the problem, and the Fighting Falcon could certainly provide all the capability to induce G-loc. But they had not been sustaining anything like the g levels needed to cause this condition.

By noon it was clear that they could proceed no further without more evidence. The flying ban was reinstated and a call was put out to the Institutes of Aviation Medicine in the countries involved to send their experts to the Base without delay. Jim and Sam drove to the Mess in grim silence but when Sam turned towards the ladies room to freshen up before lunch Jim told her to meet him in the foyer in ten minutes.

When she returned she saw that he was already out at the car and was manoeuvring a large cardboard box into the back seat. He gestured for her to get in and then drove in continued silence to the HAS. He took the box from the car and stowed it in the forward hatch of the aircraft. They took off and he instructed the girl to head south-west at 80,000 feet and Mach 3. As the moving map showed the territory unwinding beneath their wings he suddenly pointed to a range of mountains just south of the border. "Take us down into there."

She slowed and descended into the wilderness country of the High Cascades National Park and he instructed the computer to scan for signs of life. There was little about and they had no trouble in finding an isolated lake set in a high wooded valley. At one end there was a clearing and he took over to VTOL down to a gentle landing. The girl looked at him for an explanation but his face was too forbidding for her to venture any queries.

When he climbed out she hesitated and then did likewise. He opened the hatch, hauled out the box and carried it down to the water's edge. The girl trailed along behind. He sat on the grassy bank and opened the box. She craned forward, not knowing what to expect, and giggled when she saw it contained nothing more exciting than two packed lunches. He opened a Thermos flask and poured two cups of coffee. Then he picked up a thick sandwich and began munching morosely whilst staring with unseeing eyes across the lake.

Sam studied her companion. She expected him to be shocked and depressed; she felt that way herself, but she was surprised to see that he appeared to be very angry. She threw away the last dregs of her coffee and asked timorously, "Why have we come here?"

He blinked away some dark thought and turned to her. His voice was surprisingly mild. "Sorry, kid. I should have explained. I just wanted to get away to somewhere quiet to think." He looked around. "I've been in the Cascades half a dozen times in the past and have always found it to be one of the most tranquil places on earth. So I guess I just ran here to lick my wounds."

"Your wounds? What do you mean? It wasn't your fault that the Falcon crashed."

"Well, maybe not directly, but another man has died and were still no further forward. Damn! damn! damn!" He crashed his fist into the grass in time with his words. "I know there's all sorts of possible reasons but I just have a feeling that these aircraft are being nailed by some murderous bastard out there on the range!" Immediately regretting his outburst and his swearing in front of the girl he jumped to his feet in frustration and started striding out along the lake side.

She ran to catch up and persisted, "But how could anything have shot down that aircraft? We recorded the whole thing and we saw absolutely nothing."

With a visible effort he slowed his pace and quelled his frustration. "Look kid, maybe the aircraft were sabotaged on the ground, or maybe the pilots were got at. Maybe ... but the whole thing just doesn't gel. Dammit, look at the facts. Sure, sabotage does happen, mostly perpetrated by twisted individuals with real or imaginary grievances. Sometimes it's terrorists and occasionally other countries are involved, usually third-rate powers. Oh, the super powers are by no means lily white but they work from cold logic, not spite."

He continued, "Now, who could it be in this case? If it's a solitary rabid dog he is BLOODY good - nobody could have been that successful on luck alone. What could his purpose be? Well, if we regard him, or her, as being unbalanced perhaps we shouldn't waste too much time trying to work out motives. But, regardless of motive, how on earth could he do it? The first few, yes, he could perhaps have got away with sabotaging the planes, nobbling the crews or shooting down the planes in flight. But, dammitall, surely to Christ he couldn't do it again after the tightening up. I just can't believe that a solitary individual could have done this. Well, perhaps he could have drugged the crews but I doubt he could have got at the aircraft on the ground and it would be just too incredible for any loner to shoot down five of the best military aircraft in the world. And he wasn't anywhere near the scene of the crime this morning. I guarantee there were no living creatures bigger than a mouse on the surface within thirty miles of that crash. Not only that, there was no aircraft in the skies within two hundred miles of us this morning. Neither was there any satellite that was there at the time of any of the previous crashes. Nor any high-powered beamed energy weapons from space or anywhere else. Nor any outburst of energy such as would be needed to down a Falcon."

His agitation had returned and he ground his teeth in frustration. "The same things apply to terrorist groups or hostile countries. The only thing they've got that an individual doesn't is more resources. But, dammit, even if you credit them with limitless money and the best technology in the world it's still hard to see how it could be done. Look, let's discount the sabotage and nobbling aspects for the moment, they're other people's problems. Let's just concentrate on how you could possibly down a top line military aircraft out on that range."

They walked side by side as he talked. "Right, the range is well known and anyone could easily work out likely routes and pick suitable points to lay ambushes. But, I don't believe there was a living person within dozens of miles of that crash this morning. The only way he could have escaped our sensors would have been to be underground but surely there couldn't be an underground hideout at every crash site."

He warmed to the theme. "Okay, let's accept that there was no one out there on the ground. What other alternatives are there? I suppose it could have been another aircraft, perhaps even one of those on the exercise. But there certainly weren't any bogies around today, no way could any aircraft have hidden from us."

She broke in tentatively. "But couldn't it be a stealth-technology aircraft, or one with good electronic countermeasures?"

He dismissed the suggestion with a wave of his hand. "No. Some of these things are pretty effective but there is just no way they could have snuck past the Witch today." He was so positive that she subsided into silence. He picked up the thread of his discourse. "Besides, even if there was an aircraft around, how could it have shot down the Falcon? We know that none of the defenders were carrying live weapons. The attackers were, but only air-to-ground ones, and they were only low-yield practice ones. Anyway, even if they had been carrying live air-to-air weapons, we know that none of the exercise aircraft could have been carrying anything that could have done the job. If they'd fired a missile or cannon we'd have seen it. Besides, when it hit the Falcon we'd have seen that too. Anyway, all exercise aircraft returned with their ordinance intact so they couldn't have fired anything."

His head was down and his hands thrust deep into his pockets. "I suppose it could have been some sort of beam weapon. If some invisible aircraft or satellite had fired such a weapon we just might not have picked up the beam on our sensors. Even then, though, we'd have picked up the burst of energy as it hit the target. And the aircraft would have broken up in flight." He hesitated. "I guess we just might have missed it though. It would all depend on the power and back-scatter angle of the beam. Perhaps it could have been a fairly weak beam that hit the pilot, but that would be one helluva shot."

"No." He shook his head. "I just don't believe another aircraft or a satellite was involved."

She broke the silence. "Well, you seem to have proved it was impossible, so now what?"

"I don't know, kid, I just don't know." He sat down on the bank and started throwing pebbles into the water. Eventually he continued. "I suppose it's just possible that the place could have been mined."

"Mined? You mean like a minefield? Things that go bang when you step on them?"

"Well, sort of. What I was thinking was that the surest way of shooting down a low flying aircraft is to have some sort of gun right in its path. We've already said there were no people down there but that isn't necessary these days. The most effective of all these systems are the automatic ones. You just switch them on and when anything flies near them they burst into life automatically. If such a thing shot from really close range we might not have detected anything, it could have been shielded from us by the Falcon itself. The problem is, where did it go afterwards - and how did it detect the Falcon in the first place?" He lay back and stared up at the clear blue sky. "Another thing, why did nothing have a go at the Witch? I deliberately made our Radar cross-section pretty much the same as any of the victims and everything else about us was just as obvious. No active devices, Radar or Laser, scanned us, that's for sure." Another long pause. "Suppose, just suppose, that such a weapon could be hidden so that we couldn't detect it. Maybe down a long small-diameter borehole. And just supposing it could down its target without blowing it up. Now, how could it detect its target in the first place? How could it do it in such a way that we didn't detect it? What could it do that would detect one of the aircraft hit but not the Witch?"

"Ach!" He rolled over in disgust and beat the ground with his clenched fist. "You know, if the skulduggery did take place out on the range, the oddest thing of all is that the Witch wasn't attacked." He paused. "I suppose somebody could have radioed to turn the weapons off when the exercise was postponed and turned them on again when it restarted. But, hell, the Witch, or any other prototype for that matter, would have been an even more valuable target. No. If it was some sort of automatic system it should have gone for the Witch just as voraciously as it went for the others." He rolled over onto his back and folded his arms across his face.

The girl also lay back and, with the sun warm on her face, pondered the problem of detecting and hitting an aircraft at very close range. She visualised standing on the floor of that canyon and having the Fighting Falcons racing around the curve towards her. The growing noise, rising to a crescendo as they passed overhead. Then the down shift in frequency due to the Doppler shift as they raced away. Another image crept unbidden into her mind. The image of the Witch racing towards her across the school playing field. Silent as a ghost, undetected except by vision until it was past. Abruptly her eyes sprang open and she sat bolt upright. "I know what was different! I know how it could detect the approach of these other aircraft but not the Witch!"

He slid his arms up off his face and turned his head to look at her. "Well, do tell, kid."

She hesitated, not wanting to appear foolish. "Well, it could have used sound. The Witch was always supersonic or very nearly so. We'd have been past before it heard us. All the other aircraft were sub-sonic, in fact a lot sub-sonic if the reports are anything to go by. It could have heard them coming in good time." She stopped, her eyes pleading for confirmation.

He remained looking at her but chewed his lower lip thoughtfully. "Yeah, I guess all the victims were running pretty slow. The first one was right at the start of the exercise and he would have been taking it easy to settle in. After the first crash the others would have been a bit more circumspect so they were probably going a bit slower than usual." He nodded his head as if to confirm his own thoughts. "Yes, it could have detected their approach by sound." He saw the girl's face lighten with pride and continued. "But, and it's a big but, would it be feasible to fire on the basis of sound alone?"

She jumped in quickly, eager to follow up her theory. "Suppose it just used the sound to detect the approach and then fired an infra-red guided missile. That would home on the heat of the aircraft without any need for Radar or anything like that."

He sat up. "I don't think it would be all that simple, kid. It couldn't judge the position of the aircraft very accurately, aircraft type and speed would cause wide variations. And if a missile had done anything other than gone straight up from underneath we'd certainly have detected it. I don't think you could guarantee to do that from sound alone. Remember, it seems damned unlikely that it has ever fired and missed." He was silent for a while and then continued thoughtfully. "The last I heard of using sound location to detect aircraft was some experiments carried out about the beginning of World War 2. It was junked when Radar came along. However, acoustic detection methods have been developed continuously since then for underwater warfare. With computers and things they are just as sophisticated in their way as Radar." He got up. "Kid, that was good thinking. It's too early yet to be sure but I think this needs following up. Come on, partner, we've got work to do." And he chucked her on the shoulder with a fist before striding away towards the aircraft.

Partner! He had called her partner! He may still call her by that hated name, kid, but he had also called her partner. Her heart was full as she ran to catch up.

As they arrived back at the Witch he looked at his watch and saw that it was late afternoon. He hesitated for a moment, then he turned to the girl. "Let's stow our lunch stuff in the hatch and get back." They quickly gathered up their lunch accoutrements, checked to ensure that they had left no litter to despoil the wilderness, and climbed aboard. "Okay kid, as a reward for your brilliance, you can take us out of here and back to the Base." He grinned at her and watched carefully as she made her first vertical takeoff. He made no comment about her performance but then one didn't praise a partner, did one?

They were back in the Mess in time to shower and change then go to the bar for a drink before dinner. He had warned her to say nothing of the afternoon's events and they exchanged only commonplace pleasantries with the other denizens. Hank joined them just in time to go in for dinner. He brought them up to date with the crash investigation but, in truth, there was little to tell. The pattern was depressingly similar to the previous four crashes and Hank was in a morbid mood at having lost another of his flight. After dinner Jim and Sam watched a couple of hours of television before turning in early.

CHAPTER 12

The next morning they breakfasted early and slipped quietly off towards the range. Sam did the flying whilst Jim studied a map of the range on the big screen. Five red dots glowed balefully, marking the crash sites. His eyes followed through a number of other routes, searching for one that provided similar terrain. There were plenty of curving valleys and canyons so he selected a path that took them through three of them and, using a light pen, traced the route on the map. A brief instruction to the computer ensured that the command bars on the HUD would lead them unerringly along the route. He also commanded the computer to turn on all passive sensors and start recording. When they neared the range Jim took over control and dropped down to 150 feet.

Their run would be roughly east and the sun was in their faces, making it difficult to see clearly. Jim instructed the computer darken the canopy to eliminate distraction from the sun. The glass of the canopy slowly changed from completely clear to a progressively darker shade, like light-sensitive sunglasses. When the sun appeared as no brighter than the moon on a clear night, he instructed the computer to put full vision on the HUDs. They could still see perfectly clearly but instead of direct vision they were seeing a picture received by the sensors and re-constituted into a picture by the computer. This chance decision almost certainly saved their lives.

He eased the speed up to Mach 0.8 over the first part of the run and thereafter adjusted his speed to approximately match that of the victims in similar terrain. They entered the first curving canyon at just on 400 knots, following an imaginary line drawn mid-way between the walls and tensed with anticipation. Suddenly the computerised voice burst into life "Alert, alert ..., then a brief burst of brilliant red light shone in their faces. They tensed, assuming that what they had seen was sunlight reflecting off some sort of gun sight. But nothing happened, and as they left the canyon they started to relax a little and were suddenly aware of the computer repeating its litany. "Alert, alert. We have been scanned by a very low power laser and have been hit in the cockpit area by a burst of laser energy in the green frequency range of the visible light spectrum." A pause, "Alert, aler ... .

Jim's curt "Roger" cut off the message. He slowed right down and eased up to just above the mountain tops and then rolled left to describe a big circle. "Well, kid, it looks like you were right. I'd guess we were scanned by Ladar back there. Let's go and have a look."

Sam was puzzled. "Did you say LADAR? What's that?"

"Oh, you know how RADAR is an acronym for RAdio Direction And Ranging? Well, LADAR is a similar acronym for LAser Direction And Ranging. Even the most precise Radar beams have a beam that diverges quite rapidly so if you aimed a Radar beam down that canyon some of the energy would spill over the top and bounce off the rocks. Enough to be detected by a wingman tucked in close, or even by some receiver a long way away along the line of sight. Lasers, though, have extremely narrow, nearly parallel, beams. One fired from one end of the canyon could easily be much less than a centimetre diameter at the other end. So there's no spillage of the beam to where it might be detected. Anyway, even if it wandered all over the wingman's aircraft it wouldn't be detected. You can get laser detectors, they're used to detect when a possible target is being illuminated by a laser designator, but there wasn't any on the exercise aircraft."

He looked at screen showing the girl and, seeing her uncertainty, explained patiently. "You can get bombs, missiles and shells which have laser receivers in their noses. Someone on the surface or in the air can aim a laser at a target. The bomb, or whatever, picks up the reflected signal and steers towards it. It's extremely accurate. The point is, the beam that actually hits the target is a very thin one so you need lots of detectors spread over the surface to detect it. But, once the beam hits the target it scatters off all over the place, not just in a narrow beam, so the bomb or missile can easily detect it."

She nodded, watching him on her screen, so he continued. "The thing is, a target designator has to be fairly powerful so that the scattered reflections are strong enough to be picked up by the bomb. Ladar doesn't need to be nearly as powerful since it's looking only for the reflections that are bounced straight back at the transmitter. Hence, we didn't detect any laser emissions yesterday morning, the Ladar beam simply wasn't strong enough." He glanced at her again. "Ok so far?"

She nodded. "Right. Well, none of the exercise aircraft have any laser detectors on them. Oh, they have their own target designators with their own receivers but these are tuned to a very precise frequency. As long as this Ladar is using a different frequency there is just no way the aircraft could have known they were being scanned." He paused and then added casually. "But the Witch is a wee bit more up-market. I would guess that our noise was detected, and that set the Ladar scanning. It would probably scan across at maybe 80 feet above the floor at where the aircraft would come into sight. Then scan back a foot higher, then a foot higher still, and so on but never directing the beam over the top of the canyon walls. It would keep doing that until it detected an aircraft and then narrow its scan to cover just the aircraft. These things are so precise it could draw a beautiful three-dimensional picture of the front of the aircraft. Having zeroed in like that it could fire some other weapon."

"Yes, but it didn't, did it? If anything was fired at us it must have missed completely, and if you were right in what you said earlier, it never misses."

"Well, I don't know. We were hit by a short burst of laser energy. Trouble is, according to the computer, it wouldn't even blister the paint let alone down an aircraft." He sounded doubtful. "The computer said it hit the canopy only. Could it have been aimed at the pilot?"

"But it didn't do us any harm did it? Why should we be any different?"

"The energy of the beam wasn't great enough to damage the aircraft but it was a lot more than the flash of light we saw. The darkened canopy would have stopped most of it. If it hadn't been for that I guess we might have been blinded, but I've no idea how badly. Another thing, the computer reported that the beam was green light, which is the frequency our eyes are most sensitive to, and it passes easily through glass. If it had been infra-red, a lot of the beam would have been stopped by ordinary canopy glass."

"Well, couldn't that have caused the crash? If the pilot was blinded he might have run into the wall."

"Ye...es, I suppose so. But these guys would all have had their visors down. These visors are a bit like the light-sensitive spectacles you get. You know, the stronger the light the darker the glasses get. The visors are like that but they respond much quicker. They're to protect the wearer's eyes from nuclear flash so they have to darken in a fraction of a second. Mind you, I can't remember the figures but I've a feeling that they might not react fast enough to cope with a pulse of laser light."

As they were talking they had described a big circle and were once again approaching the canyon. They eased to a halt just above the canyon wall and surveyed it carefully. He instructed the computer to replay the sensor data on the lower screen and slowed it to a crawl as they entered the canyon. A bright spot appeared at the far end of the canyon, that would be the source of the Ladar scan. Then there was a momentary brighter spot, that would be the heavier burst. After that there was nothing. He commanded the computer to overlay the sensor data on the HUD and replayed the short sequence again. This time the bright spots showed up on the actual terrain. He stopped the recording there, then moved the aircraft slowly forward towards the source.

They crept forward slowly and quietly, keeping to the inside of the curve. As they drew nearer they could see that the source was located in an area of scree, a vast jumble of broken rocks of all sizes. They crept in closer and closer but still nothing unusual showed up on their sensor-generated vision. Eventually they came to a halt hovering less than ten feet from the position indicated on the HUD.

The girl strained to pick out any man made artefact from the rocky jumble. "Surely this can't be the right place, there's nothing there."

"It's the place alright. The point is, where the hell has it gone?"

They drew back a little and again re-ran the sequence on the screen, this time greatly enlarged. And now they did see something! They saw a thin rod, probably an inch or so thick, shoot up from behind a rock like a periscope being raised by a submarine. It had a lump on the end of it and it was from this that the Ladar beam emerged. They watched it in very slow motion and were surprised to see that the bigger pulse of laser light came from the same lump. They were even more surprised to see that the whole thing then vanished! They played it again, expecting to see that the rod had just withdrawn again very quickly. But it hadn't, it had simply disappeared! They crept forward again and peered down on the exact spot. As far as they could see there was nothing there.

Feeling more and more baffled, he instructed the computer to flood the area with an electron beam and analyse the returns. This time there was an indication. There were deposits on that bit of rock that weren't in evidence on the surrounding area. "Question is. Is it worth trying to get there on foot? It's pretty tricky terrain and we'd probably break a leg. Might be booby trapped too. Still, I doubt that, why draw attention to the area after you've destroyed the evidence." He made up his mind. "Hell, we wouldn't see anything more anyway. What we need now is some expert help."

As they lifted out of the canyon and picked up speed he looked at his watch, did a quick mental calculation, hesitated a moment, then, "Okay, I don’t think we can do any more here at present so we’ll mosey back to Base for lunch. Then I need to talk to a guy in the U.K."

They lunched alone and told no one of their discovery, then they took off, ostensibly to continue their search. Once away from Base, Jim said, "Computer. Patch me through to Ossie Oswald, at the UK Joint Services Research Labs".

There was a pause as the computer computed the position of the nearest communications geo-stationary satellite and electronically aimed a micro-wave communications antenna at it. A brief burst of information sped up to the satellite orbiting 28,000 miles above the south Atlantic and was instantly relayed down again to a receiver dish at Goonhilly Down in the south of England. From there it sped through the fibre optic links and cables of British Telecom to cause the telephone to ring on the desk of the secretary of a Doctor Oswald.

There was a pause then the ringing tone started, and stopped almost immediately and a crisp voice said. "Doctor Oswald's office. Can I help you?"

He smiled, visualising the prim spinster with the dry sense of humour. "Hi, Lottie. It's me, Jim Simpson. Has Ossie bothered to come in to work today?"

He chuckled at the indignation in her voice. "Certainly he has! Do you wish to speak to him?"

"Yes please, Lottie." Almost immediately another voice was heard. "Hullo Jim. What bloody trouble have you brewed up this time that you need the experts to bale you out?"

Sam watched Jim’s picture with interest as his eyes crinkled with amusement. "Gee Ossie, I did want an expert but they were all working. They suggested that I could while away the time speaking to an idle sod like you instead."

There was a great guffaw of laughter and then. "Bad as that is it? Oh well, when will you be arriving?" This with a note of weary resignation.

"Be with you in an hour old son, tell Lottie to get the coffee on."

"Will do. See you. Tattie bye."

The line went dead. He chuckled to Sam, "That was Ossie Oswald, he's a scientist with the Ministry of Defence near London. We're going to have a chat with him. Now shovel on some coal and get this bucket up there and moving." He instructed the computer to lay in a course and a few minutes later they were climbing out steeply on a Great Circle course towards Britain.

Sam had never been abroad before and was excited at the prospect but apprehensive at arriving in Britain without her passport. Jim assured her that they wouldn't be going anywhere near any international point of entry so a passport would not be of much use anyway. It hadn't escaped her attention that once again they had, as Jim put it, quietly faded off the world's sensors so she assumed that their visit was to be more or less clandestine.

They touched down on what had been a war-time airfield and was now used only by visiting VIP aircraft. They were met by a chubby character with a bushy beard. He welcomed Jim as someone with whom he'd shared riotous times. "Well damn me, and how's my old mate carrot top?"

Jim shook his hand and punched him on the shoulder. "All the better for seeing you! Still putting on weight I see!" This got him a mock swipe in the stomach and he doubled up laughing. "Spare me, spare me. Pick on someone your own weight."

Ossie was about to reply when he noticed Sam. He froze and his eyes flicked to Jim reproachfully. Jim held up both hands. "Relax Ossie, this is a friend of mine. I want to consult you about a problem and she's part of it."

Ossie relaxed but his manner was less ebullient as he shook hands with the girl and welcomed her to England. He hustled them into the car and drove quickly to a squat office block and ushered them inside. He led them to his office and waited patiently whilst Jim and Lottie exchanged mock insults. Then Lottie noticed Sam and burst out laughing at the girls expression. "Don't mind us, child. We've known each other longer than either of us care to remember." Then, unable to resist a final dig, "Longer than he probably CAN remember!"

They moved into Ossie's ample office and seated themselves around the table. Sam noticed that Lottie brought the coffee like a good secretary but then sat down at the table like a full equal. The men seemed to expect nothing less and it made Sam wonder whether a secretary was quite the same thing in England as back home. Jim started to explain the situation clearly and succinctly, leaving nothing out. Sam was surprised at this and it must have shown on her face. Jim broke off and laughed. "Relax kid, Ossie and Lottie have been party to more secrets than you've had hot dinners. You can speak freely."

He continued his dissertation and led his friends through events and his line of reasoning. Sam flushed with pleasure when he made it clear how crucial her suggestion about the use of sound had been. She was particularly pleased at the way Ossie smiled at her to indicate that his initial reservations had evaporated. Eventually Jim finished with, "Well folks, what do you think?"

Ossie refilled the coffee cups. "Well, I follow your reasoning and I agree with it. Let's have a look at the film."

Jim handed Lottie a video cassette and she got up to plug it into a VCR at the end of the table. The tape covered their whole transit through the canyon plus a blown up section showing the peculiar laser device. They spent half an hour running sections time and time again but no one made any comment.

Ossie suddenly stabbed the OFF button and leaned back in his chair. "Most interesting!" He looked at Lottie. "Well?"

She nodded. "I agree, an explosively driven laser. Most ingenious."

Ossie turned to Jim and Sam. "Ingenious indeed, folks. I'd bet some of my own money that that thing was an explosively driven laser where the input of light comes not from an electric bulb but from an explosion."

He saw understanding dawn on Jim's face but that Sam was still looking puzzled, so he explained. "A laser works by feeding ordinary light into it. The lasing part puts all that light into step, so to speak, and stores it before letting it out either in short, powerful bursts or in a continuous, coherent beam."

She nodded, she'd heard of lasers at school and had read about them.

Ossie continued. "Well, normally the light comes from an electric light bulb but that's only for convenience, it can come from anything. In this case it seems to come, the final flash anyway, from a chemical charge. Now, that is neither new nor difficult. The clever bit here is that the whole thing seems to be the chemical charge. When it explodes there's just nothing left!" He looked back to Jim. "Making it blow up is one thing, but making it blow up with all its energy going into the laser pulse! By Christ, that's clever!"

There was a long silence as Ossie and Lottie sat deep in thought. Jim and Sam sipped their coffee and waited. Lottie broke out of her reverie. "I suppose it's possible. There must be some bits that aren't explosive, the electronics to detect the sound and control the scanning, the batteries, etc. Still, it's amazing what you can make from plastic explosive material if you really try. You could vaporise all the other bits in the explosion."

Ossie nodded. "Sure, that's true. But how the hell do you get the explosion to put nearly all its energy into the laser beam so that the explosion itself doesn't show up on Jim's sensors? My God, to make a regular shape like a sphere do that would be pretty slick! To do it with a thing that shape ... well, to say it's clever is the understatement of the year!" He sighed and turned to Jim in mock exasperation. "I knew it, I just knew it! Why do you only come here with bloody impossible riddles?"

"Oh come on Ossie, all you two ever do is crossword puzzles anyway. Where else would I go with a riddle?"

Lottie had been scribbling equations on a pad and now she looked up and snorted. "Well, there is one thing I can tell you. The current pattern helmet visors would not have reacted in time to stop that flash." She frowned. "And I'll tell you another thing, too. That flash wouldn't just have dazzled them for a moment. It would have blinded them permanently, but it might not have been painful. Below a certain power level the retina of the eyes would have been destroyed bringing instant, but relatively painless, blindness. At higher powers, the outer surface of the eye would also have been burned and that would have been absolutely excruciatingly painful!" Her voice was suddenly grim and Sam had difficulty recognising the joking secretary in this cold professional. "It's a moot point what would have been worse. Having the light suddenly go out would be devastatingly disorientating. On the other hand, the eyes are really just extensions of the brain and a powerful flash would have been the equivalent of sticking a red hot poker onto the most sensitive bundle of nerves in your body. You just can't imagine the pain it would have caused! The whole brain would have been overwhelmed by it, no one could possibly think of anything, never mind fly an aircraft, once they'd been hit." She visibly forced herself to relax. "The really devilish part of it is that the amount of energy needed is so small that there wouldn't be a mark on the aircraft. More than that! Even if the victim had been lying naked on his bed at the time there might have been no mark on him except inside his eyes! No burning of the skin, no swelling, nothing!" Her voice hardened again. "I'd like to mete out the same treatment to the bastard behind this!"

Sam flinched at the intensity, it had been more like a curse than a swear word. Their talk then turned to the next step. Any remaining devices could be destroyed by using the Witch like using a flail tank to destroy mines. However, that would be a temporary palliative. They needed to get hold of a specimen to find out how it worked and try to determine its origin.

This question of origin bothered Ossie. "You know, I just don't know anywhere that could make a thing like this. Even if they could, why would they do it? What use could it be? I can see it would be a great weapon to have dotted around in time of war to kill low flying attackers. I can even accept that a Ladar would be accurate enough to recognise the type of aircraft and only shoot down enemy ones. But why make it so covert? If you're planting them in your own valleys, why have them so well hidden? All this business of having an extending head adds enormous complication. It must make them a hundred times more expensive."

Sam chipped in tentatively. "But couldn't they be planted in enemy terrain to shoot down their aircraft over their own land. You know, so their bombs explode there instead of here."

"We...ll, perhaps. But the aircraft wouldn't be flying so low at that stage. They have to be low so that the laser can fire straight in the windshield."

Jim broke in. "Look, we can only speculate at present. What we need is to get one of these things into the lab. Now, how do we do that? I could try to put up another one and shoot that rod in half before it could fire. Do you think that would help?"

Ossie looked dubious but Lottie was more positive. "It might. The Ladar must be purely electrical, it must be sure of a target before it starts the chemical reaction off. If you sever its head there's a good chance it won't know it's got a target. I say it's worth a try." She looked around the table. Nobody had a better idea so they decided to give it a go.

Jim, though, was still far from happy. "Okay, so we go out and decapitate one and it doesn't explode. Then what?"

"Why, dear boy, you bring it here of course." Ossie sounded surprised.

"Like hell, I do! I'll shoot its head of and I'll fly close to have a look at it. But if you think I'm going to walk up to that thing you've got another think coming! I'll bet anything you like that the sod who designed that thing is just the same sort of devious sod you are. Look me straight in the eye, Ossie old pal, and tell me you wouldn't booby trap it to hell and gone!"

Lottie gave an explosive snort of laughter and Ossie had the grace to look shame-faced. "Well, okay, maybe it would have the odd wrinkle but if you use your keen pilot's brain I'm sure you'll have no trouble at all."

"Are you indeed? Well just you forget it, old pal. These bloody things look as if they were made by real experts. I want a real expert to unmake them. Surely, in this den of weirdoes you have some nut who likes playing with these contraptions."

Ossie looked at Lottie and she read his thoughts. "Charlie is in today. I saw him going over to the lab."

Jim's voice was sharp. "You're not suggesting old Charlie Crowe are you?" He stared at them. "You are, aren't you? Christ almighty, I thought that crazy old devil had retired."

"He has, and then again he hasn't. He's still a consultant and is usually at hand to keep the young whippersnappers on their toes." Ossie turned to Lottie. "Try to get him on the 'phone and ask him to come over." Lottie was gone only a few minutes and returned to say that Doctor Crowe would be right over. Sam noticed that all three of them looked distinctly less sure of their own importance than they had a short time earlier.

The door burst open and a huge barrel of a man swept in without ceremony. "Lottie. Ossie." He nodded at them. "Well, well, well, and if it isn't wee Jimmy frae bonnie Scotland. And what heathen troubles have you brought to this quiet seat of learning?"

Sam couldn't suppress a chuckle as Jim exploded. "Seat of learning my backside! There are more murderous cut throats within a hundred yards of this office than there are in all the gaols of Britain put together! And, God help me, you're the worst of the bloody lot!"

The old man laughed uproariously and appeared to notice Sam for the first time. "And what have we here? A young lassie, and in a flying suit too."

Jim performed the introductions and old Charlie gave all the appearance of being a genial old uncle. Sam sighed inwardly. If they were going to involve this old buffer the whole place must be some sort of a loony bin.

Charlie plunked his great bulk down. "Right my children, tell your troubles to old Charlie."

Jim caught Ossies eye and nodded slightly. Ossie launched into an explanation. His voice had a military crispness and the scientific jargon and acronyms made it sound like another language. When he finished speaking he picked up the remote control unit for the VCR and played the tape.

Sam found herself surprised at the way old Charlie's affable bonami evaporated as he listened and watched. It was replaced by a professional hardness that showed a sharp and ruthless brain behind the little blue eyes. She thought wryly that it was becoming a familiar sensation. Every time she met someone in this business she seemed to get the wrong impression at first. She wondered whether she was just a poor judge of character or whether these people hid their true characters behind a front of normality to all but their friends and colleagues. All at once she felt humble at being admitted into their secret world.

Ossie snapped off the VCR. "Well, there you have it, sir." And waited.

The old man looked down at his hands resting on the table then swept his gaze around the table. "That thing is very clever indeed. Much too clever for its designer to allow it to fall into enemy hands. Therefore, I'd be very surprised if it wasn't booby trapped. However, since they want the whole thing to disappear when it's used they probably wouldn't want to add a lot of extra bits which would have to be got rid of in normal operation. My guess would be that the booby trap would simply cause it to go off. If that happened it would be a danger only if you were right in line with its beam." He swivelled round. "Lottie my dear. I think you should try to book me on a flight to Winnipeg first thing tomorrow morning." He turned back to Jim. "Is Fred Branson still the CO?" Jim nodded and Charlie looked at his watch and swung back to Lottie. "Phone Fred Branson at home and tell him I've a mind to revisit old friends now I've retired and I'd like to invite myself to stay with him for a while. Tell him when I'll be arriving." It never seemed to occur to him that it might be inconvenient for his old friend.

Jim and Ossie both made to speak but Charlie waved them down. "Forget it. I know what you're going to say but forget it. I'm going to Canada to visit an old friend. What could be more natural than that? If a young Disposal chap went it would set all sorts of wagging tongues."

Jim and Ossie looked at each other and raised their hands in gestures of submission. The old so-and-so didn't change!

When Lottie returned to say that all was well they briefly discussed the agenda for the next few days. Jim and Sam would return to Canada immediately and make no mention of their visit. The next day they would fly as usual but wouldn't go near the range. The day after that they would go hunting ETs. (Sam had named them that because their long necks and blob heads reminded her of the film character ET.) When they had successfully decapitated one they would fly Charlie to the scene and stand well back whilst he proved how harmless they were.

They took leave of Lottie and drove back to the aircraft. Ossie was an obviously worried man as he shook hands and wished them luck. Sam was puzzled by this and put the question to Jim.

"Oh it's not because he's worried about us. A thing like this could be leading to a whole new dimension in battlefield tactics. Ossie will be doing a lot of hard thinking trying to sort out the pros and cons." He smiled. "Don't worry, kid, these three are pretty smart cookies!"

Sam wasn't altogether sure what that meant but she said no more and turned her attention to taking off and setting course back to Canada. As they climbed out she observed dryly. "Nice place England. I must try to see it sometime."

Jim smiled and closed his eyes. "Quiet chauffeur and drive!"

But she wasn't to be silenced, after all she was a partner now, wasn't she? "What about this old codger, Charlie? Can he really defuse one of these things or were you all just humouring him?"

Jim's eyes remained shut but a chuckle escaped him. "Don't let his favourite uncle pose fool you. That old codger has been defusing explosive devices since time began, and the fact he's still around proves how good he is. There's a story that the Chinese had a helluva time inventing gunpowder; because every time they made a bomb, along came Charlie and defused it before they could prove it worked! Don't kid yourself, when it comes to things that go bang in the night that old codger is a legend among the cognoscenti of the seven continents. Now drive and let this old codger sleep."

Sam grinned and complied but as she went to bed that night she reflected on her changed circumstances. A couple of weeks ago she had felt the world had dealt her a foul blow, now she was up to her pony tail in adventure and loving every minute of it.

CHAPTER 13

The next day the Witch took off on her usual schedule and flew towards the range. However, they stayed high and contented themselves with rummaging the hills and valleys with their remote sensors whilst Jim took it on himself to give Sam some serious flying instruction. She was delighted with the instruction, but even more delighted with the way her mentor opened up to her. He talked at length of the tricks of the flying trade and demonstrated many manoeuvres from the fighter pilot's book of survival. Often he would demonstrate and then insist that she practise the manoeuvre many times before moving on to something else. It was hard, demanding work in its way but somehow they both regarded it as a lull from the real work. As a result it was a happy and contented pair who spent the morning and afternoon in the clear skies above the range. But the sensor scans never paused and at the end of the day they were certain that no human had set foot within fifty miles of the range.

There was no sign of the CO at the Mess that night but just after dinner an orderly sought out Jim to say that the CO had telephoned to invite him to his home for a drink. There was no mention of Sam and her face fell. However, Jim appeared not to notice the omission and merely stood up and said. "Come on kid, our masters call."

They drove the couple of miles to the COs house and were met at the door by Fred Branson himself. He invited them in to the room where his wife and Charlie were sitting. Introductions were made and if anyone was surprised to see Sam they were too well bred to say so. Mrs Branson did, at one stage, try to remove Sam to another room and Jim hid a smile as he watched the young minx adroitly misunderstand the invitation and stay put.

Eventually Charlie's social graces wore thin and he abruptly changed the subject. "Well, what are you going to do about getting me one of these gadgets of yours?"

"We'll be at the range about 09:00 hrs and, with a bit of luck, we'll put one up in the first half hour or so." Tongue in cheek, Jim added. "Then we'll see what Sam's shooting is like."

Old Charlie scowled but before he could say anything Mrs Branson burst out. "Surely you're not going to take this young child with you! Why, I'm surprised that her parents let her fly in military aircraft at all!"

"Oh but I love it, Ma'am." Said Sam at her most ingenuous.

"Never mind that. I hope neither of you are going to be doing any shooting. That's a job best left to the computer." Old Charlie was more irascible than ingenuous.

They took their leave early on the grounds that they would be flying in the morning. On the way back the holiday spirit of the day persisted with Jim teaching the girl some Squadron songs. Some of them would have made Mrs Branson bristle even more than the flying did. They were still singing as they marched through the Mess arm in arm towards their rooms.

They were on the go early and were out at the HAS long before take off time. Jim spent some time selecting a route which had, so far as they knew, not been flown this exercise. He then turned his attention to programming the weapon system computer so that it would react automatically to being scanned by the Ladar. That was straightforward enough. Setting up the system to ensure that a fine beam of sub-atomic particles from the centre beam energy weapon would neatly decapitate the device was a little more tricky. However, it was soon done and they took off on schedule.

By 09:00 hrs Jim was at the helm and they were descending into the range at the start of their run. Following the pattern of the previous run the canopy was dimmed to maximum darkness and the speed kept down to that typical of the other aircraft.

Sure enough, half way round the first curving valley the computer reported being scanned. Since there was no flash they assumed that they had successfully beheaded the device and popped up to curve around for a look. They crept up to the place indicated by the HUD and were disappointed to see only the head of the device lying there. The main part had obviously self-destructed. They were tempted to pick up the innocent looking head but caution decided that they would be wiser to call in Charlie. As Jim put it, having the thing blow up in their face would be as nothing compared with the scorching they would get from Charlie if they interfered with his toys.

Jim had arranged to pick up Charlie openly on the pretext that he was simply giving an elderly countryman a ride in an aeroplane to have a look at the famous range from the air. They left Sam with the CO and flew at a very sedate pace towards the range. As they approached the valley Jim dropped down low and slow and came to a halt right side on to the device and just a few yards from it. Old Charlie scrutinised it for a long time through his binoculars and then abruptly asked to be put down. Fortunately the terrain was less forbidding here and Jim was able to set the Witch down on a flat slab of rock twenty five yards from the device.

When Charlie had climbed laboriously down Jim lifted off again and hovered over the device. If it blew old Charlie to kingdom come at least the Witch's cameras would ensure that the next demolition expert wouldn't make the same mistake. More fearful than he'd ever been for his own life, Jim watched Charlie and marvelled at his courage. And his arrogance as well, for what else could lead him to believe that he could keep on winning in a war that didn't take prisoners.

Charlie kept his hands strictly to himself and used his eyes to examine the device from close range and every conceivable angle. He was in no hurry and spent fifteen minutes just looking. Eventually, he reached out his hands and, as Jim held his breath, grasped the device and raised it slowly, without tilting it, until he could examine its underside. Then, apparently satisfied, he stood up and, with the device in one hand, waved Jim down to the landing site with the other.

Charlie was all set to bring the device into the cockpit but Jim would have none of it. "Not bloody likely! If that thing goes off I don't want it in here."

"It won't go off. Look, there's nothing to go off." He held it up for examination.

Jim was not impressed and instructed the computer to open the forward hatch. "Bung it in there Charlie. If you want to stay with it, you get in there as well." Charlie scowled but did as he was told and then panted up the ladder into the cockpit. Before he could gather his breath Jim cut in. "Every man to his own trade Charlie. You don't tell me how to run an aircraft and I won't tell you how to defuse a bomb."

Charlie, disdaining to answer, merely grunted and then looked pointedly out the canopy to the side. Jim grinned broadly and climbed smoothly away towards the Base. They taxied straight to the HAS so that Charlie could retrieve his prize away from prying eyes. That would cause no comment since Jim had made it his unvarying practice to park in the HAS, even at lunch times.

They found Sam waiting for them, more eager to get back to the aircraft than to see the device. Before opening the hatch Jim questioned Charlie again about the danger it might represent. Now that he was going to get his toy back, old Charlie was once again his genial self. "No problem, my boy. The thing is obviously made of material designed to disintegrate but I don't believe it's an explosive as such." He rubbed his hands in anticipation. "Come on now, let's be having you."

With some misgivings Jim motioned Sam to stand well back and opened the hatch. Charlie scooped up his trophy and then, pulling a Marks and Spencers plastic bag from his pocket, dropped the device in. "I've arranged with Fred to have the run of the armoury so let's go."

Jim was more than happy to leave the old boy to his own devices in the armoury and heaved a sigh of relief as he and Sam drove off towards the mess. "Kid, you may have to be daft to want to become a pilot but, by Christ, I reckon you need to be a raving lunatic to want to become a Bomb Disposal type! That old codger has enough courage for a couple of squadrons of aircrew!"

It was still only mid morning and, after a cup of coffee, the pair went for a walk to fill in the time until they heard from Charlie. He joined them for lunch and even before he spoke they could see that he was in high spirits. "Fascinating, just fascinating!" He said when they were alone. "That thing is made entirely from different types of low-yield plastic explosives. The lenses, fibre optics, wires, scanning coils, the lot. Obviously it does the Ladar bit and then the base explodes. The burst of energy within the base must be almost totally light, which travels up the stem and out through the lens. The explosion would travel slower than the light pulse so, as the light was shooting up the stem the explosion would be eating up the stem behind it. A few tens of milliseconds after the explosion was triggered there would be nothing left. Whoever made that thing was an out and out genius!"

"Okay Charlie, so it's great. But who did make it?"

Charlie came down to earth so fast you could almost hear the thud. "That, my boy, is a good question. I don't know. Look, there are perhaps a dozen labs around the world who could make these materials if you told them what you wanted and gave them perhaps a year to develop them - and a great deal of money, of course. However, the real genius is in shaping the charge so that it explodes rapidly to produce the burst of light but is so perfectly controlled that it doesn't blow the thing to bits. If it did, you'd find bits lying about like the bit you shot off today."

"Yes, but who, Charlie?"

"I don't know. It's most puzzling, the computer work that went into this is on a par with that needed to design one of the Star Wars beam energy weapons. Who would spend money on that scale to make this thing? The big bogey man Russia springs to mind, and they would certainly have the capability. But just because they could, doesn't mean they would." He looked at Jim and his voice was very serious. "I've been dismantling Russian hardware for a long time and this just doesn't feel like one of theirs. It's hard to explain but Russian hardware is always, well, sound, logical, sensible. This thing is almost frivolous. What would be the point of developing a thing like this and then throwing away the surprise element when the super powers are more or less at peace now?"

He shook his head and considered for a moment. "No, it doesn't look Russian. Who else? British, German, French, American, Israeli, Swedish? But why would they knock out NATO aircraft? Third World countries? God, it would take their entire Gross National Product for years to develop a thing like that."

Sam stepped into the silence. "Sir. Is it possible that some big country developed it to be used only in time of war and someone else stole it?"

"Well, that would certainly be a more rational explanation than anything we've come up with so far. The thing is, why would anyone design such a thing in the first place. I suppose it could have been designed as a sort of anti-aircraft mine. Something that could be distributed in large numbers around targets to destroy low flying enemy aircraft. But then why would it be so sophisticated? After all, a large part of the development cost must have been the disappearing trick, but why bother if you are using them in your own territory?"

He stared into the distance as he pondered, then said, "Maybe the intention was to sow them from the air near enemy airfields and low flying areas. They would likely have been discovered fairly soon but even a few expensive aircraft destroyed would have been a significant blow. And there would have been more to it than that. At a stroke, it would have meant that low flying would have required the use of expensive sensors instead of human eyeballs."

He sighed and shook his head. "Maybe this wasn’t even the original design. It might have been for a system with a much more powerful burst of laser energy, maybe powerful enough to actually destroy aircraft." He paused. "That would certainly be a formidable weapon. Some country might have designed it as a self-contained anti-aircraft system. Perhaps hundreds spread over a wide area of enemy territory by dropping them from aircraft or planted by sympathisers. They could get their basic aiming information from a few airborne or satellite Radar stations with each device having its own Ladar for precise aiming and enough clout to disable or destroy an aircraft. It would be puzzling to say the least to have your aircraft shot down over your own land and no evidence left to show what did it."

He warmed to the theme. Maybe it started out like that and they couldn’t make it work properly so they reigned in their ambitions and settled for the ones we see here. Or maybe someone stole the original design and scaled it down to the power of these beauties. The telescopic antenna would have been a reasonably ordinary engineering feat. Yes, that could indeed be the way of it."

He suddenly focused his watery blue eyes on the girl. "Not such a dumb blonde are you?"

Sam didn't answer but Jim cut in. "If you accept that scenario, could you now make a guess at the country of origin?"

"I'm only guessing mind, but I'd guess the original design was American. It has all the earmarks of a clever gismo that might come in handy some day. One that was built because it was possible rather than because it was needed. That, and some of the design polish, says American."

"But who actually built them?"

"Well, it could be almost any one of a couple of dozen different countries. Places like Libya, Iran, some of the South and Central American countries, they could do it." He hesitated in deep introspection. "And yet, I wonder ... . He shook off the mood and smiled at his companions. "Well, never mind that for now. What I need is the other bit. So could you two take your airyplane and go and get me another?"

"Oh sure, we can try to raise another. But how do we stop it self-destructing?"

"I suspect that the thing that set off the last one was the head falling off and hitting the rest of it. I suggest that this time you blow its head off altogether. Surely you can manage a little thing like that to make an old man very happy."

They left him chuckling and headed back to the airfield. Their next run was much like the previous one, except that the computer was programmed to vaporise the head of the device in one swift burst of energy. They curved round a narrow canyon, the Ladar signal was detected, the Witch fired. All exactly according to plan. They sidled up to check that the device hadn't exploded and were pleased to see it sitting there, headless but otherwise unharmed.

Charlie was like a Billy Bunter schoolboy as he climbed aboard the Witch. Fat and podgy, full of excitement, little eyes sparkling and double chins quivering. However, by the time they had slowed to a hover over the device he was once again the hardened professional. This time he was even more circumspect in approaching the device. He first donned a heavy armoured cloak, a helmet with full-face visor, and a pair of heavy gloves. No protection against a real explosion, but if he was right, sufficient to protect him if the device exploded. Then he approached slowly and quietly and spent a long time observing. When he eventually picked the device up he did so very carefully, taking great care not to tilt it in case it had some sort of anti-handling mechanism.

Moving very slowly he carried it across to the slab of rock they used as a landing pad and gently set it down. Then he waved Jim over. When Jim opened the canopy Charlie climbed up the first few rungs of the ladder and poked his head in over the edge. "I suspect this thing has some sort of anti-handling mechanism that will trigger it if we jar it. Can we carry it back very carefully?"

Jim was far from happy with the situation but it was a fact that the Witch could provide a more jar-free ride than any helicopter. Nonetheless, it would have been sheer lunacy to allow an explosive device inside the cockpit. He didn't even want it inside the hold, the Witch's self-defence system wouldn't protect her from an internal explosion. Eventually he came to a decision. "Okay Charlie. I'll tell you what. We'll set it upright on the very tip of one of the foreplanes and fasten it in place with sticky tape. We can fly very slowly and if it does explode it shouldn't do any great harm." He handed the tape to Charlie and let him get on with.

It took a couple of hours to fly back to Base and land at the door of the HAS. But at least the thing arrived intact. Charlie called his armourer friend who arrived with a special armoury vehicle and the two of them departed with the device.

Sam was again waiting for them and Jim looked at her and expelled his breath noisily. "Well kid, I'm not sorry to see the back of that contraption. And that insensitive old sod as well. D'y know, he spent the whole trip back telling me about people he had known who had blown themselves to bits fiddling with things like that! I knew it probably wouldn't harm the Witch very much but I didn't go a bundle on the way Charlie carried it around. It made my hair stand on end just to watch him. He may be an awkward old sod but I'd hate to see anything happen to him at his time of life."

Charlie didn't appear for dinner, nor in the bar later. Jim and Sam spent a quiet evening in the bar chatting with Hank. They were all rather subdued, unconsciously waiting for a bang to announce the demise of old Charlie. But the bang never came and when they went to bed they imagined Charlie and his armourer crony painstakingly unlocking the secrets of the killer device like a pair of ghouls robbing a grave.

Next morning, when they entered the dining room, they were surprised to find Charlie consuming a vast breakfast. He was unshaven and dishevelled but in high spirits. "Hullo, hello. We've just finished. Fascinating, just fascinating."

"Oh, have you unlocked its secrets and made it safe then?"

"But of course, dear boy. At least, it's being made safe now. You see, it had an anti-handling capability all right but it wasn't a separate mechanism. Much cleverer than that. The main charge was simply made very unstable. It was like nitro-glycerine, a slight jar and bang. We were damned lucky it didn't go off getting it here. Not to worry, I've left it with some stabilising chemicals diffusing into it through a hypodermic needle. It will still be capable of exploding but it will need a detonator to set it off."

"That's great Charlie, congratulations! The old dog hasn't lost his cunning, eh? I take it you now know how it works, but do you know who made it?"

"Mmm." He waved his fork as he chewed vigorously, then swallowed. "Funny thing that. I would be prepared to swear that it was made in America. And not by some private individual either. By one of the biggest arms manufacturers in the world." Having dropped his bombshell he returned his attention to his plate. Despite further questioning Charlie would say no more, other than to tell them to be in the Ops room at 09:00 hrs and he would fill them in.

When they arrived they found the CO and the commander of the security team already there with Charlie. Charlie gestured them to seats around the table and then took his place standing at the end. "Samantha, gentlemen, this won't take long. For the benefit of Major Ganyan of security I'll start with a little bit of background. As you all know, five aircraft have been destroyed, one at a time, out on the range. Jim and Sam between them worked out how the aircraft were being downed and set themselves up as a target in order to get a film of the device in action. Unfortunately, they found that it disappeared the moment it fired at them. They took their film, and their ideas, to some colleagues of mine in England and I was called in."

"When I arrived, Jim and Sam again went looking for trouble but this time they shot first. The result was that they shot off part of the device, this is it here, but the rest again disappeared. The third time they went looking they again shot off the top but this time without causing the rest to disappear." He was obviously enjoying the puzzlement of the security officer. He reached under the table and picked up an old Tilly lamp which he set on the table in front of him. "The rest of the device is still being made safe so I brought a model instead. This lamp is almost exactly the same size and shape as the device when its head is raised. Not very big when you think that it has already cost six lives and a hundred million pounds worth of damage."

He brushed both hands around the globular fuel tank. "This part is a sphere of plastic explosives with a rim around the bottom to form a base to sit on. The stalk," he ran his hand up the feed tube and the vaporiser tube, "is a fibre-optic light-guide and the top consists of a mirror to turn a beam of light through ninety degrees, plus an electronic steering mechanism to make the light beam scan."

He lifted off the top of the Tilly and held up the real head in its place. It was about the size and shape of an ice cream cornet lying on its side and joined to the vertical tube at the apex of the cone. He ran a finger up from the base along the side of the stalk and out along the cone. "The charge in the base explodes, a pulse of light travels up the tube, out through the cone and strikes the target. Now, that's the basic principle but there's more to it than that."

"It works like this. It is positioned quite precisely at the end of a steep curving valley or canyon so that it's in exactly the right place to hit an approaching, low-flying warplane head on. To make sure that it isn't seen by anyone on the ground or in the air, it's tucked down out of sight behind a rock. The stalk is retracted so that the head is right down near the base and well hidden behind the rock."

"An aircraft enters the valley at the far end and its noise is detected by a pair of little microphones mounted like mouse ears on the top of the head. When the aircraft is detected, the effect is to make the stalk extend under electrical power so that the head pokes up above the rock. When the stalk is fully extended a very low power laser beam is generated down at the base of the stalk. Again, this is purely electrical. The beam travels up the stalk and out through the cone. Inside the cone is an electronic steering arrangement which deflects the beam rapidly to make it scan the whole cross-section of the valley. When the beam strikes the aircraft it is reflected back and is picked up by a ring of sensors around the cone."

"Immediately the aircraft is detected by the laser beam, the scan pattern changes and it starts to scan the front of the aircraft in very fine detail. So fine, in fact, that it can detect the windshield of the canopy. When that happens, the charge is fired and a strong pulse of light is generated and fires straight into the eyes of the pilot, blinding him so that he crashes."

He paused for theatrical effect. "Now comes the clever bit. The whole thing, lenses, electronics, batteries, everything, is made of explosives of different types. The main charge is a very fast burning type designed to produce nearly all its energy as light. It is contained in what amounts to a tank, also explosive but much slower burning. The stalk and head are made of similar material. So, the pulse of light shoots up the stalk and out in an instant. Then the slower burning parts explode rather gently and completely self-destruct. Ergo! An anti-aircraft gun that disappears! Incidentally, if the Ladar fails to target the aircraft correctly, the head retracts and the device reverts to its waiting mode. Clever, eh?"

The security man looked stunned. "Good God man, that's a warlike act! What on earth could make the Russkies do a thing like that? Why, international relations are better now than they've been for decades!"

"Ah, just so. Except that this thing wasn't built in Russia."

"Well where, man? Do you know?"

"Oh yes, I know. No doubt about it. It was built by the UAB Corporation, one of the biggest armaments manufacturers in the world and one hundred percent American. Of course, what I don't know is who planted them out there." Charlie looked at the security man with a trace of a smile. "Well, I've done my bit. Over to you security gentlemen now, I think. I'll take the bits home with me tomorrow and you'll get my report in due course." He sat down and carefully reassembled his Tilly lamp.

Sam was very troubled, somehow the thought of a warlike act by another country was easier to bear than the thought of fellow Americans being behind the crashes. She sat and listened whilst Jim analysed the situation in much the same way as he had in England. He concluded with the thoughts uppermost in all their minds. "Who designed these things? How did UAB come to manufacture them? Who placed the order? UAB has an excellent reputation for integrity and loyalty so I expect that they thought it was a legitimate contract from their own government. They would recognise the potential of these things and wouldn't have anything to do with them without checking with the American government first. However, all these covert devices, by their very nature, spring from spooky outfits so it might not be impossible that someone could place a false order. It would be interesting to see how it was paid for, though."

They talked a while longer and then the CO summed up. He turned first to Jim and Sam "You have done excellent work to uncover this, I don't know how we could ever have done it without your help. However, there's still a whole lot of questions to be answered before any of this can become public knowledge. I'll take it right to the top in the Air Force and ensure that our security forces get together with the American security forces to try to track down the culprits before they get wind of anything and disappear like their devilish machines. In the meantime, we'll all continue to behave as if we're still looking for the cause of the crashes. I cannot emphasise enough," he looked hard at Sam, "that secrecy is absolutely vital!"

For the rest of the week Jim and Sam continued, as far as any onlooker was concerned, with their public mission of proving their aircraft. In fact they did a great deal of flying all over northern Canada and spent a couple of lazy days down in the Cascades.

CHAPTER 14

On the Monday, the CO called Hank, Jim and Sam to his office. "I have to inform you that the security agencies have been busy and have had some success. As we thought, the original research and development was funded legitimately by the American government as a speculative sort of venture. Their idea seems to have been that such a device could be effective in some circumstances, mostly clandestine I believe. The device was duly developed and tested but it was about twice the size of the ones used here and was capable of shooting down an aircraft from a range of a couple of thousand feet. By shooting down I mean that it would actually damage the aircraft, not just blind the pilot. Anyway, as far as I know, no follow-up order was ever placed. It seems to have gone on the back burner against a time when a use could be found for it."

"About three months ago UAB received an order, purporting to come from the CIA, for two hundred and fifty of the devices, but modified to the form we've met here. It was just the sort of weird gadget these covert organisations love to play with so UAB had no reason to doubt the genuineness of the order. In any case, all the paperwork was perfect and the CIA isn't the sort of organisation you check up on. In the event, all two hundred and fifty were made and were collected by supposed CIA transport just two months ago." He smiled grimly at the thought of security organisations having problems. "Unfortunately that's as far as they've got. They suggest that the people behind it are a group of hard-line hawks, perhaps with a financial interest in the arms industry. The last thing these people would want is a reduction in the arms race. The assumption is that they were trying to disrupt the growing friendliness between the super powers by causing these crashes. I can only hope to God that they haven't planted some of the contraptions on some Russian range to stir up trouble from both ends!"

"So what happens now? Do we have an exercise or not?" Asked Hank.

"Not yet. But the security forces want our help in trying to clear this up. They drew a blank in the States and then turned their attention to this end. Their assumption is that some group took these devices from the factory two months ago, shipped them up here and then went out onto the range and planted them. The point is, the business of planting them would have been much more complex than you might think. In fact, it would need an experienced ground attack, fast-jet pilot to know exactly where to place them." He looked at Hank. "They have screened everybody with any connection with this Base and have come up with three suspects. I'm afraid they're in your team Hank."

"Don't tell me. Let me guess. Murphy, Lomax and Turner. Am I right?"

The CO looked surprised. "Yes. Dead on. But how did you know?"

"I didn't know anything, but if I had to pick three bad apples it would be those three. They're all bloody good pilots, the best in my detachment, but they're also the oldest and oneriest as well. They were passed over for promotion years ago and were kept on only for their flying. They stick together, well maybe you'd expect that on account of their age, but they're always a bit wealthier than captains have a right to be. I've never had anything on them but I've always considered them to be a bad influence on the younger crews who look up to them on account of their flying record."

"Yes, well, the CIA seem to take the same view. They've got nothing definite on them but various troubles seem to have followed them around wherever they've been posted. USAF property going missing, black-market dealing, that sort of thing. There was a couple of cases where they were suspected of being involved in spending leaves flying embargoed military kit to unfriendly Third World countries but nothing was proven. Anyway, they seem to be a bad lot and, in the absence of any other suspects, it's suggested that we try to flush them out."

"Uh uh, and how were you proposing to do that sir?"

The CO looked slightly irritated. "I don't know! They're your men, you know them, what do you suggest?"

Hank smiled sheepishly. "Sorry sir. 'Fraid I haven't a clue." The CO looked at Jim who had been wearing a thoughtful expression for some time. "Well, what about you?"

Jim hesitated. "I suppose the aim is to prove that they're involved and then catch them. If that's the case I might have a glimmer of an idea." His tone strengthened and he turned to Hank. "If you wanted to pick three top guns for a vital and dangerous mission could you pick those three without raising their suspicions?"

"Hell yes. They're the most experienced guys I've got, they've all had combat experience in 'Nam and they haven't much in the way of family responsibilities. One's a bachelor and the other two were divorced years ago, their kids are grown up. Besides, they're all as big headed as hell, they'd expect to be chosen for such a mission. Believe me, they may not be my favourite people but they haven't an inch of yellow between them."

"Okay, hows about this. Suppose we say that we are coming to the conclusion that the aircraft were downed by something out on the range. We can tell them that the Witch has done a lot of flying over the range but never below, say, five hundred feet. (We can check with Charlie but I suspect that the devices wouldn't detect anything that high.) We can say that we weren't attacked but that we did a lot of sensor scans and detected nothing unusual." He grinned at Hank. "We can say that we've decided to go out and try to flush out whatever it is that's doing the damage and that the intrepid Major Hanchard has volunteered to be the guinea pig!"

Hank sat up with a jerk. "You've gotta be kidding, buddy! If you think I'm going to be blinded trying to trap these bastards you've got another think coming! I've got a better idea. Just let me take my trusty Colt automatic to these guys and I'll bet that by the time I've blown all the appendages off one or two of them the other will have squealed!"

Jim chortled at his friend. "Gee Hank, you'll be giving Sam the idea that all fighter pilots aren't brave and tough and loyal! You know I wouldn't put a li'l ole pal like you in any danger."

"Like hell you wouldn't! I've had more close shaves working with you than in the whole of the rest of my career. Just what had you in mind, old buddy? - jus' so I know what I'm refusing!"

Jim became more serious. "I'm assuming that these guys won't want us to find out enough about the devices to be able to give a description to the CIA. Once we did that it wouldn't take long to track them to UAB and then to their fellow baddies. What I propose is that we invite them to be present when we find one."

Jim quickly outlined his plan and, after some discussion, it was agreed to give it a try. At least, Hank and the CO agreed, Sam was sulky and obstinate at being excluded from what she regarded as 'the fun'. Eventually she gave up arguing and flounced off to the Mess. "Huh! I told you back home. It's always the same, you men only let women take part when it suits you. It's just not fair!" As the door slammed behind her the men looked at each other and Jim mutely rolled his eyes ceilingwards.

At 10:30 hours the CO, Jim, Hank, Murphy, Lomax and Turner gathered in the Operations Room for a secret briefing. The CO mounted the podium and recapped on the circumstances surrounding the five crashes. He described in detail the steps taken to uncover sabotage on the Base and admitted that not one clue had been found. He continued. "Gentlemen, we have come to the conclusion that it is extremely unlikely that the cause of the crashes lies either in the sabotaging of the aircraft or the drugging of the crews. We are therefore left with the possibility that something shot them down out on the range itself." He paused to let this sink in and was gratified to note that the three suspects exchanged quick glances.

"There are two things against this. First, Jim Simpson has spent days flying through the range along many routes and has had no trouble at all. However, he was only in the early phases of proving a new aircraft and was never lower than 500 feet agl. All the others that crashed were much lower, certainly less than 300 feet. Second, some of the crashes took place with other aircraft in the near vicinity and none of them saw anything untoward."

He paused. "However, we have nothing else to go on so we're going to carry out an experiment. Major Hanchard has volunteered to fly a number of missions through the range to try to flush the danger out into the open. Needless to say, this is extremely dangerous. He has therefore requested that his three most experienced pilots fly chase to cover him, that's why you're here gentlemen. Each of you will be fully armed with cannon, a pair of Maverick air-to-ground missiles and a pair of Rockeye Cluster Bomb Units -we're confident that no outside aircraft are involved so you won't need air-to-air missiles - and your orders are to shoot first and ask questions afterwards! If Major Hanchard's aircraft is fired on, even if you don't see where the shot comes from, you are to plaster the area with cluster bombs and then pull up to look for targets for your Mavericks."

He paused and indicated Jim. "You'll be wondering why Jim Simpson is here. Well, his aircraft has an extremely sophisticated sensor fit, even superior to that of an SR71. Being a prototype, his aircraft is very valuable but his government has agreed that he should fly as Hanks number two to record everything that happens. It's a risk but, on the other hand, it has always been the lead aircraft that's been hit. He will, however, be flying unusually close to get the best pictures possible. He assures us that no movement or energy release within a mile of his aircraft will escape detection. If his computer detects anything it will automatically transmit a shrieking tone. When you hear that, he'll have got the data and he'll get out of your way by climbing like hell. If Hank's undamaged he'll clear out to altitude and take on the role of controller and observer."

He looked at Murphy, Lomax and Turner. "It will be your job to protect Major Hanchard as much as possible but your number one priority is to ensure that Simpson returns with the evidence. Be under no illusions, if he is shot down it will be years before another aircraft is available with that sensor capability and with the ability to fly low enough to be useful."

He handed over to Hank to deliver the mission briefing and went to issue orders for the four Fighting Falcons to be armed to the teeth. The briefing finished at 12:00 hrs and takeoff was set for 14:00 hrs. Jim and Hank waited until Murphy, Lomax and Turner drove off and then walked to the Mess together.

Hank was as brave as they come and could shrug off the possibility of being killed with equanimity but the thought of being blinded obviously held little appeal to him. "By Christ old buddy, you'd better shoot fast and straight today! If you don't you needn't ask me to lend you my white stick - 'cause you won't get it!"

Jim laughed. "You needn't get at me, you knew what you were getting into when you volunteered for your old woman's’ Air Force!" He ducked swiftly to evade a blow to the head, then continued more seriously. "Don't worry, the Witch will take care of you. Besides, the first two runs will be along the routes where we've already sprung two ETs. I doubt that we missed any others, up to that point anyway. When you get to the point where I was hit I'll sound the alarm and climb like the clappers. With a bit of luck the bastards will go for the Witch to try to destroy her sensor data, and I'll pull them up and away from you. That will give you a chance to stay low until they're after me and then hit them from behind."

"Yes, well, I'm not at all sure I fancy having a M61 cannon rammed up my tailpipe either so make sure you take them all up with you!"

"My my, you are a little worrier today. I guarantee they'll leave a mere sprat like you alone and go for the Witch. I'll pull up hard, out-power them in the climb and then make mincemeat of them. Okay?" When his friend still looked doubtful he clapped him on the shoulder and continued, "Don't worry old son, I won't let anything nasty get anywhere near that noble American tailpipe of yours."

They found Sam at a table on her own so they joined her. She had brightened up a little and had the grace to apologise for her conduct. "Okay, I'm sorry, I know I behaved like a brat. But, darn it, I've been in on this since the start and I'd just like to see it through. It's not as if I would be in any real danger or anything like that."

Jim smiled patiently. "We've been through all this before, kid. Having you aboard would make Murphy and CO smell a rat. Even if they didn't, they might not make a move to down us in case they hurt you. And, need I remind you, the whole idea is to get them to have a go at us."

Sam held up her hands in mock surrender. "Okay, okay, okay. You can't blame a gal for trying, can you?"

"Kid, the one thing you certainly are is trying!" Jim laughed.

Sam changed the subject. "There's one thing I don't understand. How would Murphy, Turner and Lomax avoid shooting themselves down. Their routes would be pre-planned for them and they could be paired with any other pilot. So how could they avoid the ETs without giving the game away?"

Hank answered. "Easy as pie, kid. They simply misjudge things a little. They know where the ETs are so they go in hard and overcook it just before the danger point. When that happens all they can do is pull up quick, sort things out and then drop back down later. Far from giving the game away, they would appear to be real tough guys for driving so hard." His lip curled a bit. "Oh no, they wouldn't give the game away, they're up to every trick in the book."

CHAPTER 15

The crew bus dropped off Hank, Murphy, Lomax and Turner at the USAF flight line and then continued on to the HAS to drop off Jim. It drove off as he opened the door and, as its noise faded, he heard a slight noise from around the side of the HAS. Wishing for a moment that he carried a sidearm like his American colleagues, he quickly ducked around the opposite side and doubled silently around the HAS. When he turned the corner at the back and peeped around to where he had heard the noise there was no one in sight. He quietly crept along the side and looked into the HAS. Sam was standing in front of the Witch scratching her head in puzzlement. He crept up behind her. "And just what are you doing here missy?" Jim swore afterwards that she jumped at least a foot clear of the ground.

"Why you, you,... there was no need to scare me like that! I was out for a jog and thought I'd just stop by to say good luck."

"Oh aye?" He eyed the rolled up g-suit and helmet tucked under her arm, and the fact that she was wearing flying boots. "And what are these for? Just taking them out for a bit of fresh air and exercise, I suppose. Well, thank you very much for your good wishes, but don't let me keep you from your exercise, you'll get stiff if you cool down." His face was dead pan.

"Please Skip, please let me go. I could crouch down and they would never see me. Please!"

Her voice was so plaintive that Jim wavered, and fell. "Oh hell, okay you minx!" He wrinkled his nose. "My God. I not only have to put up with a disobedient, incorrigible kid but a smelly, sweaty one at that. Phew!"

"Men sweat, women merely glow!" She laughed gaily as she suited up and then shinned up her ladder into the cockpit.

Jim climbed in and instructed the computer to dim the canopy. The glass of the canopy slowly changed from completely clear to a progressively darker shade, like sunglasses. When he was satisfied that it was dark enough to hide the occupants he instructed the computer to stop. He explained. "Nobody will be able to see you once we get going but you'd better duck down for a moment while I taxi out and shut the door."

They took off just after the four Falcons and held loose formation until they neared the range. Jim set up the computer to deal with any attack from ETs on the ground and to automatically destroy any missiles or shells fired past the Witch at Hanks aircraft. Then the 'guardians' held back a little and Jim slipped in between them and Hank.

Hank dropped down to low level and increased his speed to match that of the previous victims. He peered over his shoulder and was comforted to see the large twin fins of the Witch showing above his tailplane. The Witch was at low trail, riding just slightly below Hank to get a clear shot at any ETs. As an added precaution he pulled down his darkened visor - if things went wrong and he took a hit from an ET the visor might be enough to save his sight. It made things a bit darker than he would have liked but he knew the terrain well and it seemed a small price to pay compared with his horror of being blinded.

They swept into the long curving canyon and when Jim estimated that Hank had reached the danger point he commanded the computer to transmit the alarm. Hank reacted like a startled cat, with the Witch only moments behind as she carried through her role of supposedly filming the danger.

Hank followed the plan and broke hard left and hugged down low. As he turned he twisted his head round to see if there was anything on his tail. What he saw was the nose of a Falcon hauling hard to try to line its guns up on him. The other three Falcons hit their missile buttons to get rid of the heavy air-to-ground missiles and Cluster Bomb Units. They were no use to them now and their weight would take the edge of their ability to manoeuvre. Firing them was the only way to get rid of them, and the aircraft come alive as the rocket motors lit and the missiles blasted off their rails. For a few moments it was like the fifth of November with rockets and bombs shooting everywhere.

The Witch went high. Sam had been expecting a hard manoeuvre but had completely underestimated the ferocity of real combat conditions. She blacked out as if the light had been switched off, still conscious but unable to see as the g-forces pulled the blood away from her brain. Jim grunted as he tightened his abdominal muscles and strained to keep the blood from pooling in his lower body. Even then his vision dimmed, colours faded and his peripheral vision narrowed.

The trio behind obviously took the bait hook, line and sinker. They acted instantly to forestall any radio messages from Hank or Jim which might give the game away to the listening radio operators at the Base. One - it was later found to be Lomax - broke hard left as they had planned and went for Hank. The other two pulled up hard and spread out slightly as they followed the Witch.

As the Witch reached the vertical, Jim eased the stick forward to climb straight up, and increased the power just enough to stay out of gun range but not enough to make his attackers lose heart. To keep them in view he twisted his head round to peer over his left shoulder and spiralled slowly to the left. Damn! He had expected to see all three Falcons boring up behind him. Instead there were only two. Scanning quickly around he saw two Falcons mixing it at low level. Hank was on his own until he could take care of the pair on his tail.

The two Falcons didn't have enough power to climb straight up indefinitely, and Jim watched carefully to spot the first sign of them pulling over the top and starting back down. When that happened the Witch would be down on them like an eagle among pigeons. As he watched, one Falcon broke off its climb and his first thought was that they were fighting as a 'loose deuce' pair with one trying to force the Witch into a defensive turning manoeuvre whilst the other withdrew and set up to make a lethal slashing attack at the Witch's exposed underside. They didn't know what they were up against with the Witch but they were very experienced fighter pilots and would know that a properly coordinated two-against-one attack would give them a tremendous advantage. Well, let them try it, the Witch was just loafing along and could out climb a Falcon with no trouble at all.

Then he realised that the Falcon that had broken away was still showing only its tailpipe. It was running away! Murphy for sure! He was leaving his colleagues to fight it out whilst he made his escape. The other Falcon - later found to be Turner - was beginning to run out of steam and Jim saw him pull abruptly over the top of the loop and start down. In an instant, he pulled the Witch over the top of the loop and pounced. The nose pointed straight down and Sam saw the Falcon far below and accelerating away. The Witch accelerated hard in pursuit and the Falcon swam into the centre of the HUD gun sight. But Turner, although in a bad spot, was still in there and pitching. He had no idea what weapons the Witch might be carrying but he hadn't seen any sign of missiles so he assumed that she was equipped with a standard aircraft cannon. On that assumption, he started a gentle diving turn to the right and watched carefully over his shoulder to try to spot the moment when the range and alignment would be right for the Witch to open fire. At that instant he abruptly turned hard towards the Witch, forcing Jim to pull even harder to line up his sight.

Again Sam was caught by surprise and was hammered down into her seat, her helmet weighed a ton and she was fighting hard to hold her head up and stay conscious. With dimming vision she saw the small dot in the centre of the sighting circle steady on the canopy of the Falcon, waver, and then move to the root of the starboard wing. Then Jim touched the firing button on the stick and a pulse of energy launched from the centre beam-energy weapon in the nose and travelled towards the Falcon at the speed of light. Sam saw the wing, and the fuel it contained, flare into a white-hot ball, and then the Falcon was spiralling down like a demented sycamore seed as the massive aerodynamic forces sought to tear it apart. An ejection seat shot out and a parachute deployed.

The moment he pressed the firing button, Jim's mind was elsewhere. Scanning around to find Hank, he saw the two Falcons as bright blips on the HUD. Turning towards them he touched the transmit button, "Hank. I'm on my way."

Hanks voice came back, grunting with the g he was pulling, "Butt out buddy, I'm busy. This one's mine."

"Attaboy Hank, busy hands are happy hands. You go git him boy!" Despite his flippancy he was diving hard to be in a position to give help if it was needed. As the Witch drew near they could see that the fight had developed into a low-level flat scissors. The two aircraft would pull hard towards each other, with each trying to get in a shot as the other swept past its nose. Then they would roll and turn hard in the opposite direction so that they would curve back towards each other again. Neither dared turn away from his opponent because to do so would present his vulnerable back to the waiting cannon. Both tried to time their approach to the cross-over so that their opponent passed directly across their nose. There was only a fleeting moment to fire but with the mighty M61 Vulcan cannon it could be enough.

With two identical aircraft and two evenly-matched pilots it was extremely hard for either to get any advantage in the scissors - and just about as difficult to break away to gain an advantage in any other way. As they watched, the other aircraft passed in front of Hank, but jinked downwards so that he couldn't bring his guns to bear. It was a standard defence and Hank had been expecting it. With the Witch now in the vicinity to give support if needed, he could be more adventurous, and the moment he fired he pulled the nose up hard and did as the Witch had done earlier - he started on a manoeuvre to out-zoom his opponent. It took Lomax just a moment to get sight of Hank again, and he broke hard to follow him up. The brief delay and the hard pull-up both helped Hank. The delay put the other Falcon at extreme gun range but, more important, the hard pull-up drained some energy so it wouldn't be able to zoom quite as high. Nonetheless, it would be touch and go, and the tiniest differences in flying technique could make all the difference.

Sam knew enough about what was going on to hold her breath in fear. Jim was untroubled. He knew Hank of old, and knew that he was a superb pilot. More importantly, he knew that Hank had a hidden advantage. When they had planned the mission they had foreseen that this situation might arise. They had therefore made sure that all the other Falcons were filled up with all the fuel they could carry. Hank's, on the other hand, was given only a half load. He still had plenty of fuel for the mission but in a zoom climb like this that extra fuel would be weighing down Lomax like a brick in a pole vaulter's shorts.

Curving slightly to keep Lomax in sight, Hank blasted upwards on full re-heat. He watched his speed carefully and saw it slowly bleed off - and knew that Lomax's would be bleeding off just that bit quicker. Suddenly Lomax pulled over the top, and Hank hauled after him. Being faster, Hank could turn harder and came down on Lomax when they were both still inverted. He put the pipper of his gun sight just ahead of his opponents nose and pressed the button. The twelve-foot-long, six-barrelled, rotary-action cannon screamed into life. Electric motors spun the barrels and fed the shells into the breech at a prodigious rate. One hundred rounds of twenty-millimetre, high explosive shells spewed from that gun every second - and they gutted the Falcon as swiftly and decisively as a fish-wife’s knife gutting a herring.

Sam watched in frozen fascination. She saw the shells start hitting at the nose-cone and travel back like a sparkling river of fire to the tail pipe. Aluminium panels, fuel pipes, hydraulic pipes, engine casing, turbines, flame cans - all were ripped, wrenched, torn apart and flung into the wake. Then, for a fleeting moment, the smoke and debris cleared and she had a clear view of the torn belly and the savaged entrails of the dying fighter. Then the aerodynamic forces tore it apart.

As they circled over the stricken aircraft she was astonished to see a parachute open below. Lomax must have known he'd lost the fight when he ran out of speed in the zoom. He had probably ejected before Hank’s shells started reducing his aircraft to scrap.

Jim radioed. "Good shooting ole buddy. There's life in the old horse yet!." Then. "Sorry we can't wait for you in your chug-a-lug little airyplane but we gotta go south to catch the other guy."

Hank's. "Roger. Don't let the bastard get away!" floated after them as the Witch picked up her cutty sark and ran like the witches in Tam O'Shanter. Sam braced herself against the acceleration as the Witch turned to the south, lifted her long, lean snout and - went.

They were heading over fairly unpopulated territory so Jim didn't dwell on the niceties of the social acceptability of supersonic flight below 70,000 feet. The sensors had Murphy's Falcon pinned on the HUD like a moth on a mounting board. A hundred miles ahead, Mach 1.5 and 50,000 feet. Murphy was heading for the States with all speed commensurate with reasonable fuel economy. Jim did a hasty bit of guesstimation and decided that Murphy's present course would run him out of fuel round about the Dakota Nebraska border. Could it be that he was heading for somewhere in particular or was he just getting as far away from the scene of the crime as possible? An animal running for familiar territory in time of danger? Nothing in Murphy's record indicated that he would be likely to panic when the going got tough so the odds were that he was heading for some sort of sanctuary.

They were overhauling Murphy at a rate of about a thousand miles an hour so they should be up with him in five or six minutes. Time to watch and think. "Well Sam, where would you guess he was heading for?"

"Gosh, I don't know. But he can't have fuel for much further can he?"

"Nope. I'd guess another ten minutes or so."

Sam leaned forward to peer at the moving map. "That would take him over ranching country. If he came down there he would have a long walk unless he knew someone who lived there." Her voice sharpened. "You don't suppose some of the others in this business could live around there do you?"

"Could be, could be. I think a wee 'phone call to the Pentagon would be in order." He thought for a moment. "Computer. Link me to General Tizard at the Pentagon." The computer immediately made micro-wave contact with a military communications geo-sat and from there to a dish on the Pentagon roof. In a matter of seconds a 'phone was ringing. It was snatched up after a couple of rings. "General Tizard!"

"Hi General. Jim Simpson here. I have news of our Canadian caper. Two have been downed on the range but the third is heading south. I'm trailing him and expect him to run out of fuel in north Nebraska in about ten minutes. Is he likely to have any buddies in that area?"

"Wait one!" The General's voice was standard military cryptic. Jim eased back on the speed so as to keep his quarry about twenty miles ahead. Two minutes elapsed in silence, then. "Affirmative. A possible principal has a ranch in that area. I will have a team there in less than an hour. Can you keep the area under surveillance?"

"Affirmative, General. Out." He addressed Sam. "Well kid. It looks as if he's heading for about here." he stabbed at the map and a point glowed at that point on both screens. "The question is, will he land or eject? Either way he'll have to start down soon."

No sooner had he finished speaking than the computer reported that their quarry was losing height rapidly. The Witch remained high but crept forward until she trailed by only about fifteen miles. Jim explained. "We'll stay high enough to be unseen but close enough to destroy that aircraft if he ejects and leaves it to continue south until it runs out of fuel. We don't want it to crash on some poor, innocent bystander." They eased over to the west so that they could look down on the Falcon. It was too hazy to see any sign of even a vapour trail but it showed up clearly on the HUD.

Suddenly the single target became three - an aircraft, a canopy and a pilot in an ejector seat. Seconds later they became four as the man and the seat separated. Jim started down rapidly. "That's it. He's ejected right here." He marked the spot on the map with a stab of his finger.

They closed with the Falcon well out of sight of its erstwhile occupant. It was cruising serenely along at 20,000 feet and 400 knots. Obviously Murphy had engaged the autopilot before he banged out so that the final crash would take place well away from his own landing point. Jim turned to Sam. "Well, kid, do you fancy your hand at a bit of target practice?"

"Oh yes please!" Her face glowed with anticipation as he lifted his hands to indicate that she had control. He instructed the computer to put targeting information on both HUDs and to set weapon beam energy level for complete destruction. "Okay kid. Close in until the target just fills the ring on the HUD. Make sure you're steady on the target - we don't want any big bits falling on the ground. When you're ready just press the button on top of the stick. Okay?"

"Yes, okay." She breathed in deep concentration. Closer and closer, dead astern, no side-slip to confuse her aim. Slowly the Falcon swam into the centre of the HUD and grew in size. She moved the controls minutely to keep it in the middle of the aiming circle and eased very gently back on the throttles to match speeds. Satisfied, she held her breath and gently thumbed the button. Immediately the Falcon disappeared in a brilliant white-hot ball of fire. She pulled aside sharply to avoid flying through the fireball and scarcely noticed Jim returning the weapon system to standby.

"Well kid, and do you hold with this shooting business?"

"Oh yes, it was great. Do you think I could do a bit more when we get back to the exercise?"

He laughed as he took over control and turned back towards the ejection zone. "We'll see kid, we'll see! My God, if all women are as blood thirsty as you it's no wonder that we men have had such a rough time over the years!"

The computer had continued to track Murphy as he descended and a brief command put his landing position on the HUD. Another command concentrated a sensor search in the general area. It clearly showed the man, and a vehicle racing towards him. Jim cursed himself for neglecting to monitor all radio traffic. Clearly Murphy had radioed ahead and a recording of the interchange might have been valuable evidence for a trial. They stayed high and watched as the vehicle stopped, picked up Murphy and then started back to whence it came.

Looking ahead they could see that it was headed for a large complex of buildings which were presumably the headquarters of a very sizeable ranch. The vehicle draw up at the largest building and two men get out and entered the building. The Witch continued to describe large, lazy circles centred about the ranch buildings, but they observed no other movement. After about half an hour the computer reported that four helicopters were approaching from the south-east. Another fifteen minutes passed as the helicopters crawled closer, then the Witch started a slow spiralling descent.

From 10,000 feet they had a clear view of the four giant Chinooks sweeping in to perform a battlefield descent on the buildings. Two provided top cover whilst their fellows landed, disgorged their cargo of Marines and lifted off to take over the covering role. The first two dropped down on the opposite side of the buildings and repeated the manoeuvre. Slick and effective, the lessons learned the hard way in 'Nam had a heavily armed patrol on the ground and four minigun-equipped helicopters back in the air in a matter of minutes.

It was all over in a few minutes and the force commander came on the radio. "Ground force to Witch, ground force to Witch. Do you receive me? Over."

"Witch to ground force, go ahead."

"Everyone in the bag. Thanks for your assistance. Over and out."

Jim took a last look at the scene below. "Well, I wonder how much success they’ll have sorting that mess out in the courts. I dare say some of it will be too sensitive and too embarrassing to come out in public so the big fish will probably get away with it. Och well, not our problem. You have control, kid. Take us back to Base."

CHAPTER 16

Jim and Sam dined with Hank. Their exploits were still sub-judice and the absence of Murphy, Lomax and Turner had been explained, as planned by the cover story, as a detachment to another Base. Nobody was very interested in exactly where they had gone - they weren't that popular.

Any overt display of celebration would have caused comment but they pushed the boat out to the discreet extent of having a bottle of wine with their meal. Sam was rationed to one glassful but was too intoxicated on the events of the day to complain. Although she had seen a few brief moments of real combat - and it had certainly made a lasting impression on her - she hadn't really had a chance to learn much. Now that the exercise was restarting she was determined that she was not just going to sit back and be a passenger. She accepted that she was far too ignorant of fighter tactics to be able to do any of the flying during the exercise proper - but she was going to learn any way she could! The first thing she wanted was a proper run down on just what had happened during the fight with Murphy, Loamx and Turner. She had been there and had seen it but she hadn't a clue what had been luck, what had been good flying and what had been clever tactics. Of course, she could just have asked Jim, but she was growing wise about that. He would answer her questions, sure, and would try to bring out what she really wanted to know even if she didn't know the right questions to ask. However, she had learned that the way to really find out about things was to ask the questions when there were other pilots present. That way she could get them talking amongst themselves and could listen in to the real thing instead of being talked down to.

After her poor start with Hank she had got to know him quite well and was sure he liked her - he certainly teased her enough. Keeping her face straight she made her first move, "Ahem, Hank, what actually happened in your fight with Lomax? We only saw the last bit and I wondered how you managed to win - you being so much older than Lomax. I know you cheated a bit by having less fuel but I'm still surprised you managed to get him. Was it just that we came to give you a hand and distracted him?"

Jim guffawed and Hank looked at her for a long moment, trying to make up his mind whether she was being serious or not. She looked right back at him without batting an eyelid. "Wa'al just let me tell yo' somethin' brat. I won 'cause I'm a better pilot than Lomax ever was or ever will be. Yo' see brat, any sucker can fly an airplane but fighting one separates the men from the boys."

"Gee, is that so. And did you take so long over it just so that I could get a chance to see how you did it?"

Hank looked at her earnest young face shining with innocence and burst out laughing. "Why you little horror, you're trying to take the Micky out of your elders and betters! Just you wait 'till we get this exercise going again and we'll see who's old and decrepit!"

Sam couldn't keep her face straight any longer and broke into a wide grin, "But it's true, you said yourself that Lomax was a terrific pilot so how did you manage to get him off your tail at the start? Surely he should have got you easily there." She grew serious again, "Please Hank, tell me how you did it."

He could see that she really did want to know so he looked at Jim a trifle ruefully, "Where did you say you picked up this bag of questions? Just so I know to give that place a miss!" Turning back to Sam he grinned and started to explain, "Well, to tell the truth, when it's one against one and the pilots and aircraft are pretty evenly matched, old Lady Luck does play a fair part. You're right, he should have got me right at the beginning. Fortunately, neither Jim not I was born yesterday and we believe in loading the dice in our favour as much as possible. If you remember, Jim gave the alarm when we were turning fairly hard to the left and just coming up to a side valley on the inside of the curve. We chose that particular spot for that very reason and had planned to hit the panic button at exactly that point."

He forked in a mouthful of steak and chewed thoughtfully, "I was tucked in close to the left hand wall on the turn and, if you give it a bit of thought, you'll see that they couldn't draw a bead on me without turning inside my curve. To do that they'd have had to go high to miss the wall - and then they'd have had a problem getting back down at me. You see, they were really too close to get me - they should have been lying further back - but we'd given them no choice, they were supposed to be closed up to hit something on the ground and if they'd fallen back it would have given the game away."

Sam nodded but kept quiet. "Well, when the alarm went I was ready to go and hauled hard left to go down the side valley. I shaved the corner as close as I could so that if any of them followed me there would be a good chance they'd cut the corner and hit the wall. As it happened, Lomax didn't, but I think he must have got a bit of a scare because he went 'way wide." He grinned, "I know because I was screwing my head off trying to see if there was anyone after me and he was so wide I nearly didn't spot him."

There was another long silence as Hank caught up on his eating, but Sam didn't say anything. She knew that once pilots started on this sort of chat they would keep on going as long as nothing interrupted them. He continued, "I rolled level to pull up and give you a hand. I was just taking a last glance behind when I spotted him getting rid of his missiles. Nasty moment, I can tell you. If I'd started up he'd have had me on toast. Anyway, I saw him just in time, rolled right and hauled hard around a handy mountain. When I was out of sight behind the mountain I hauled up and tried to barrel back on top of him. Of course, he saw me in time to dodge but the point was that he couldn't get a shot at me and he was off my tail. After that we were evens."

He broke off when the waitress brought his sweet course, and then resumed, "We crossed over and he was going to the right and me to the left. I guess either of us could have got away at that point but he still wanted to get me and I sure wanted to get him. So I rolled right and he rolled left, still low down, and we came back towards each other in a scissors." He looked at Sam to see if she was understanding, "It's called a scissors because the two airplanes cross close to each other like the blades of a scissors. Anyway, we came back together and he'd managed to turn a bit tighter than me and things looked kinda ugly for a moment." He grinned, "But I jinked and he fired a short burst but missed. Then he turned right and I turned left and we came back for another pass. We kept doing that for a while, in fact we were still doing it when you turned up. Neither of us could get enough of an advantage to get a good shot in and we were too low for either of us to be able to do much in the way of vertical manoeuvring."

Another spoonful of food slid down untasted. "On the last pass before you arrived I got a good snap shot at him and he had to jink hard to get off the hook. That jink threw him off course a bit and bled off a bit of his speed. That gave me a slight advantage and I could have got a better shot at him on the next pass if I'd tried. It would still have been a snap shot, though, and a crafty so and so like Lomax would likely have wriggled out again. So, I suckered him." He paused for effect, "Instead of pulling as tight as I could I eased off a little and picked up some extra speed - hard turning plays hell with your speed - and let Lomax think we were still pretty even. I gave him a quick burst as we passed - I missed but it took his mind off things for a moment - then I climbed with everything I'd got."

He laid down his spoon and used both hands to demonstrate, "I pull up," he raised his right hand, "and Lomax is left with a choice, he can run and try to get away when my back's turned, or he can stay and fight. But if he stays he has no real option but to go up after me. If he hangs around low he's giving me all the cards, I've got the height and the speed. So he starts up after me," he raised his left hand to follow his right, "but now I have the advantage. I was going faster than him when I started up, and he had to pull harder to double back towards me so he lost still more speed."

He chuckled, "And as you observed earlier, I cheated by being lighter than he was. Mind you, it was still a bit risky, he just might have got close enough to get a last-ditch shot at me by hanging onto the climb until he stalled out." He ran his hand ruefully through his hair, "Tell the truth, brat, I was kinda glad he didn't have Sidewinders aboard, these heat seekers would have had me nailed against a cold sky and I would never have seen my pension."

He became serious again, "Anyway, you saw the rest. He ran out of steam before I did and elected to pull over the top of the loop before he ran completely out of speed. I had more in hand so I out-turned him and caught him with his britches down." He crumpled his napkin, pushed back his chair and got up. "And that's about it Kid. It just goes to show that when all else is even a good helping of low cunning wins the day!" He jabbed a thumb towards Jim, "Ask him, he wins that way more than most!"

Jim snorted. "He's right Kid. We're all good at some things and have to work hard to learn the rest from others. I taught Hank how to fly properly, and he taught me all about low cunning!"

Sam stepped in between them and caught their arms. "Yes, but how much of it was just sort of brawling and how much was pre-planned?"

Hank looked at Jim and turned his eyes ceilingwards in mock despair. Jim chuckled unsympathetically, "Go on old buddy, you're doing a great job - not very well but it's a great job!"

"Huh. I might have known you'd be no help."

"I like that. I spend all day with this brat, getting my ears worn off by her endless questions and you complain when she asks you a few. If you were half the pal you make out to be you'd take her off my hands every evening."

Hank took Sam's arm and guided her into the lounge bar, "Come on Kid, we'll find a table and that miserable old dog can get the drinks in."

Jim went to the bar and got beer for him and Hank, and a Coke for Sam. As he joined them at the table he was just in time to hear Hank starting in on what sounded like a long lecture. "... so I'll fill you in on some of the basic tactics so that you know what to look for." He took his beer without looking up. "Now, any fighter pilot in any major Air Force is a good flyer, he has to be or he wouldn't even be fit to start learning the real job of fighting. That means learning tactics and practicing, practicing, practicing until it's second nature."

He took a slug of beer. "The fight I had with Lomax was unusual in a bunch of ways. We were flying identical aircraft so we both knew the exact capabilities and weapons load of the other’s hardware. That's not unknown but it is pretty unusual. We were both trained by the same Air Force at the same time so we both knew the same tactics. That's very unusual. And we had flown in the same squadron off and on for years so we knew each other's strengths and weaknesses - as people as well as pilots. That's almost unheard of. I knew that Lomax was a better long-range shot than I was, so I knew to start jinking at longer range than normal. On the other hand, he knew that I was fitter than he was and could handle more g. So he knew to avoid tactics that relied on g tolerance. So we both tried to use tactics that favoured ourselves - but we had to modify these tactics to cope with the other guy's tactics."

He sipped his beer. "But all that's unusual. Normally you go into a fight knowing only what experience or Intelligence has told you about the other guy's airplane and weapons. You know nothing about the guy himself except maybe something about the reputation of his outfit. When you start to fight you're feeling the other guy out, so you use tactics that are offensive and aggressive but you watch your defence too. If he seems second-rate you get your head down and go for him. If, though, he is walking all over you, you go all defensive and try just to keep your skin whole or try to butt out."

"Even on an exercise like this you're not likely to come up against someone you know very well, squadrons usually work together as they would in the real thing,"

Jim leaned back, cupped his hands behind his head and smiled as he watched Sam hanging on every word. "So what sort of things are we going to be doing for the rest of the exercise?" She half turned to include Jim in the question.

"Well, because the Witch is computer controlled we can program her to behave exactly like any aircraft that we've got data on. So we'll spend some of the time doing ground attack runs programmed like an SUKHIO SU-24 Fencer or a MIG-27 Flogger. The rest of the time we'll be defending like a MIG-29 Fulcrum or a MIG-25 Foxbat. In either case we'll be up against some stiff opposition. Remember, the Witch won't be her real self, she'll be sort of detuned and will be much more an even match for the Falcons and Tornados and the like."

"But surely ordinary two-seaters like the Tornado won't be much of a problem will they?"

Jim and Hank exchanged glances, and Hank took up the story. "Don't kid yourself, Sam. In the old days - like in the Second World War and in Korea - two-seaters were grossly inferior to single-seaters. But not now -just look at how the Phantoms chewed up the Mig 21s in Vietnam. It used to be that the airplanes were so light, and the engines so puny, that adding the size and weight to carry another man made them easy meat for a single-seater. Now airplanes are heavy anyway so the extra weight doesn't matter much - and with modern engines power isn't a problem either. No, in a lot of situations a two-seater has the upper hand."

Sam still looked puzzled so Jim chipped in, "You see, the disadvantages of a two-seater are that it is more expensive, bigger, heavier and a bit less agile. The extra size can be a problem in a visual fight where it's easier to see at long range. Against that, it has the advantage of having an extra crew member. He can off-load the non-flying chores from the pilot, operate the Radar and other sensors, and provide another pair of eyeballs."

He paused to take a slug of beer and Hank took over. "About ninety percent of aircraft that are shot down don't even know the enemy that hits them is around until there are weapons in the air. Either they get hit when they don't know there's anybody around at all, or they concentrate on one and get zapped by another. Having a bigger airplane probably makes you more vulnerable to the first since you are probably spotted first and the other guy can come at you out of the sun or try to creep up on you from your blind spots." He chuckled, "Having an extra pair of eyes doesn't help so much there - there's nothing more conducive to a really good scan than knowing you're on your own!"

"It's when you're already mixing it that a second pair of eyes really helps. When the pilot is concentrating on one it's difficult for him to keep an eye on any others - the back-seat man can watch them and call the shots to the pilot. And he can use the Radar much better, scan for bogies, lock on Radar guided missiles, and things like that." He finished in a very serious voice, "Believe me, Kid, flying a single-seater is great in peace time, but when the going gets dangerous a good crewman can be good insurance."

This was news to Sam who had thought that two-seaters were only good as bombers and trainers - the Witch excepted of course. She looked at Jim for confirmation and he held up a hand palm outwards in the Indian peace sign. "Don't take our word for it, wait and see for yourself. Of course there are situations where the size, lightness and agility of a single-seater will give the loner a huge advantage, but there are others where just the opposite is true. As Hank says, when it comes to the crunch you have to try to assess the opposition right at the beginning so that you can go for him or turn tail and get the hell out to live and fight another day." He caught her expression and continued, Oh yes, if the odds are stacked against you, you run for Mama - fast. It does your country no good to lose valuable assets just ‘cause the driver was brave but stupid."

He sighed theatrically. "Of course, I'll have the worst of both worlds, a two-seater and a useless crew member." He turned to Hank and winked, "I don't suppose you could lend me an experienced crewman for the exercise could you?"

Sam jerked up straight, "Aw, come on, Skip! Don't do that, I can watch for airplanes and ... and ... things, you just tell me what to do." She was close to crying, and the two men hooted with laughter.

"Ha! Gotcha that time Kid!"

She was furious for a moment, and then joined in the laughter. "Just you wait, you two. I'll get you for that."

Then they started talking about the exercise itself and Jim and Hank described how the attackers would try to get past the defenders to get at the target, and how the defenders would try to destroy the attackers. Hank was commander of an interceptor/ground attack squadron so he was right up to date with the tactics involved for both defence and attack. He started to explain to Sam how attack and defence worked in general and how it would work in the particular case of the exercise. "You see, Kid, you'll find that important targets are protected in depth. That is, there will be guns and surface-to-air missiles concentrated close to the target and there will probably be a combat air patrol - called a CAP - of small, agile short range fighters patrolling near the target. They might have Radar or they might be purely visual. They'll more than likely be armed with guns and short range dogfighting infra-red homing missiles."

"Further out in the direction the attack's likely to come from there'll be more fighters. They'll be patrolling at an altitude of a few thousand feet and using Radar and old fashioned eyeballs. They'll likely be armed like the CAP ones but might have Radar homing missiles as well."

"Further out still will be the long range ships with the real fancy Radars. Because they are so far out they have a lot of sky to search and will patrol much higher so that their Radar can see further. These Radars will have what's called Look-down capability. That means that they can detect low flying aircraft against the background clutter of Radar echoes from the ground. They'll probably also have Shoot-down capability. That means that they'll have Radar-guided missiles that can stay locked on to the target despite the background clutter."

He took a long swallow of beer. "So, when you're working in the attack role you'll have to outfox or outfight each of these layers of defence in turn. Now, this is what will happen."

"You'll start out fairly low to stay below the height that ground-based Radar is likely to detect you. That will be maybe five hundred feet - going lower than that is too tiring and too hard on fuel to do for long. You'll have your Radar Warning Receiver switched on and it will tell you when you are being scanned by an interceptor's Radar. And you'll be twisting your head every which way to make sure nobody with a bad attitude is creeping up on you."

"You'll be scooting along trying to appear inconspicuous and hoping nobody will notice you. Suddenly, your RWR will start making a noise like a motor bike in your headphones. That means that one of the long range guys is out there and you're being groped by his Radar beam. No need to get too worried yet because the low pitched note tells you that he's still got his Radar in scan mode. That means his Radar is scanning a great wide cone in front of him, just trawling for something interesting. He probably hasn't seen you yet but it's worth ducking down a bit to make it that bit harder for him to spot you. If you're lucky, the noise will stop and he'll probably have turned away to look elsewhere. Don't relax though, he might be a crafty devil and have switched off his Radar so that he can sneak up on you visually."

"If he does spot you on Radar and decides you look interesting he'll switch his Radar to track mode. This narrows down his beam to a fine pencil so he can scan you much faster. You'll know when that happens because the note in your headphones will rise to a higher pitch."

"Now things are getting serious. He's got you on Radar and has singled you out for attention. From now on you'd better be so far down in the weeds that the daisies look like trees, because he's out to get you. He might decide to take you whenever he gets within missile range or he might decide to get closer for a look at you - he might want a peek to make sure you're not a friendly."

"If he decides to take you from afar you probably won't be able to see him. However, to do that he'll have to use a Radar homing missile and he'll have to lock the missile's own Radar onto you. When that happens your RWR will detect the missile's Radar beam and you'll get another tone. Now the old fertiliser is well and truly on its way to the fan and he might launch the missile at any moment. You're right down in the dirt and dodging behind every mole hill and pebble you find to try to get the missile to lose its lock. Jim will be working like a one-armed violinist and you'll be tying your neck in knots to try to get a sight of the missile - or missiles, he might have been crafty and fired more than one." He chuckled, "Don't worry, Kid, if it ever happens to you for real your eyes will be as big as saucers at that stage so you should see it okay!"

He took another drink. "Until you see it, all you can do is to try to shake loose its lock by putting rocks between you and it. If you're lucky it will unlock and whiz off into a mountain or something. If not, you'd better see it before it gets you! As long as you spot it in time you still have a chance. You can spoof it by pulling up a bit so that it gets you silhouetted against the sky, then you dump some chaff and go back down hard. With a bit of luck it will lock onto the chaff and let you off the hook. If that doesn't work all you've got left is to try to unlock it with a really tight turn at the last moment. You'll never out-turn a missile - it can stand a lot more g than you can - but you might manage to duck out of its beam and unlock it. Believe me, if it gets to that stage and you get away with it you won't be troubled by constipation for a while!"

He grinned at her rapt expression and drained his glass. "Don't worry, Kid, remember this is just an exercise, nobody will be slinging real hardware at you. Now, hang about while I get another round in."

Sam turned to Jim. "You're not saying much."

He smiled, "You just listen to Hank, he's more up to date on this sort of thing than I am - and he's been through the Top Gun school so he really knows his stuff. You've seen him in action but you can't imagine just how good he is until you go up against him. I've no doubt we'll be getting a few close up views of his air intakes before this exercise is over!"

Hank took up where he left off before he'd even sat down. "Now, having shaken off that first guy but you still have a few of his mates left to fox before you get to the target - and it gets worse. For a start, it's unlikely you'll meet them one at the time - they nearly always fly in pairs. They'll be patrolling in Combat Spread - that means in line abreast up to a few miles apart. They'll be far enough apart that there's a good chance that you'll detect one of them scanning you, but not the other. If they've got their wits about them - and they will have - the second guy may switch off his Radar and be guided to you by his buddy. That way he'll hope to creep up on you undetected whilst you're wriggling to get out of the Radar lock. If he gets a good lock on you, the first guy might even launch a missile at you just to keep you busy whilst his buddy lines up to jump you if the first missile misses."

He paused, "If they're not dead sure you're an enemy, the first guy will probably make a fast pass at you without firing and call out your ident to his number two. If they time it right, the second guy's missile will be off the rails and in the air before the first guy is past." He smiled contentedly, "Ah yes, Kid, it's the greatest game on Earth!"

He leant forward, "Now, if the defenders really latch onto you there will probably come a time where you have to give up on the target and just try to fight your way out. To have any chance of that you'll have to dump your bombs or air-to-ground missiles and take them on. That's when things start to get really interesting. If you're on your own your only real hope will be to try to disengage and get the hell out of it. For that to work you'd better be a lot faster than the opposition or you'll have a missile up your tailpipe before you've got very far. If you can't run for it all you can hope for is to get them before they get you - and if you're on your own you'd better have brought all your luck with you, 'cause you're gonna need it."

"If you get one of them on his own you might be okay - but they nearly always hunt in pairs. Forget about the old World War Two movies where the wingman sticks close to his leader. Nowadays they split up much more. What you're likely to find is that one comes for you and, whilst you're trying to stay out of his sights - or get a shot at him - his buddy comes in on your blind side and carves you up. The idea is that one will be actively attacking you whilst his mate is manoeuvring to limit your options and be in a position to take over the attack when the first guy starts to lose the advantage."

"As a general rule, the nearer you get to the target the smaller, lighter and slower will be the defenders. But don't let that fool you, they'll also be more agile and if they're missile armed they'll give you a real rough time. If they've only got guns you will probably be able to out-run them to get away or out-climb them to get at the target. But if they've got missiles, you'd better make sure you get well away from them before they can line up on you or you'll have a Sidewinder for company. And if you try to climb to make the best of your speed and power, you won't only make it easy for his missiles, you'll be setting yourself up for every SAM site in the area."

He took a long swallow, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and continued, "So much for the attacking role. During the exercise you'll also do your turn at defending and that will let you see the other side of the coin. If you're 'way out you'll be able to take your time and set 'em up pretty much as you like. If you're close in to the target you won't have any time to spare. You'll just see 'em and go for 'em - just take 'em from any angle as they come. Often that will mean meeting them head on - and with a closing speed of well over a thousand miles an hour your reactions had better be quick! If you just pick them off as they go by there's not much more to say. But, if they turn and fight you'll have great fun and really learn something!"

He paused for another swig. "It's the long range stuff that really calls for tactics. You patrol in a big race track pattern - a long straight run away from the target you're defending and towards where you expect the attack to come from. You do that leg fairly slowly so that your Radar is pointing in the right direction for as long as possible - not too slow though, you need enough speed to keep your manoeuvrability up in case you get bounced. When you reach the limit of your patrol area you turn around and go like the clappers back to your starting point. Then you turn around, slow down and scan out again. Of course, when you're on the way back you can't be scanning for attackers, so your buddy does that for you -when one's going back the other's always going out."

He looked at Jim who had been nodding in agreement. "Once you get a sniff on your Radar you have to work out how to take him. As old Jim will show you, there's all sorts of tricks of the trade. You can go straight for him and try to nail him from long range with a shoot-down Radar guided missile - but your target will detect the missile's Radar and will pull some tricks of his own."

"Another trick is to kid on that you haven't picked him up on Radar and turn your set off to make him think you've gone away. Then you go after him using eyeballs and passive sensors like infra-red. That way he doesn't hear you coming and if you're lucky you might get him with a Sidewinder or cannon. The trouble is, when you’re down there having fun you’re not doing the job you came for - watching the door for baddies coming in."

He drained his glass and thumped it down on the table. "There's no end to the tricks and tactics in air fighting, they're evolving all the time. Just you keep your eyes open and your brain in gear and you'll learn a lot, Kid." He leered horribly, "And if you come up against old uncle Hank he'll shoot your ears off before that red headed apology for a pilot knows what's hit him!" Still laughing, he looked at his watch, "Well folks, it's ten o'clock and I'm for bed, it's going to be a busy day tomorrow."

Jim stood up, "Guess you're right ole buddy, come on Kid, some of us need our beauty sleep."

Sam trotted along meekly, satisfied that her cunning had got more out of them than any amount of straight questions.

The next morning all three were called to the COs office. He was in high spirits. "I have to congratulate you all." He turned a stern eye on Sam. "Even you, young lady. Although I distinctly remember ordering you to stay put!" He held up a hand as Sam made to protest. "I know, I know, you wanted to be in on the final act! Anyway, you showed courage, initiative and enthusiasm. These are all good qualities in a pilot so I don't suppose I should complain. I'm just glad I wasn't left with the job of breaking the news of your demise to your parents!"

"You all did a first-class job of work and I'm able to tell you that initial interrogations have provided a great deal of information. As far as we're concerned, the best news is that Murphy was found to have a map showing the locations of all the ETs planted on the range. Only twenty were planted, all the rest were found in a store room on the ranch. With the five that caused the crashes, and the three the Witch dealt with, that leaves just another twelve out there which we will have to sweep up before we can get back to the exercise. It hasn't yet been decided how best to do that." He looked hopefully at Jim.

"Sure, I'll go and deal with them. There's no point in trying to defuse them or anything, the Authorities know exactly how they were made. I suggest that I go out and fly the range in the Witch and just set them off. The data I collect will provide interesting evidence on how well they perform."

"Thanks Jim, I'd hoped you'd say that. When do you reckon you might finish?"

"Oh, now we know where they are I'd guess we'd be finished by mid afternoon. We could restart the exercise tomorrow morning."

"Good. You do that and Hank and I will spend the rest of the day getting this exercise back on the road. I'll be damned glad when it's finished, it seems to have been going for ever!" He spoke with heartfelt emphasis.

As Jim had predicted, they had little trouble in springing the rest of the ETs. They deliberately used different speeds and heights and approach paths to try to map the performance of the devices. They would probably never be used again in anger but the data would no doubt prove valuable to designers and defenders alike.

Spirits were high in the Mess that night. No one had any specific news other than that the exercise was on again, but rumours spoke of a great security coup that had solved the mystery of the crashes. Sam joined in the high jinks with a will but betrayed her own involvement by neither word or deed. Occasionally, when some well-oiled pundit made wild statements about the nature of the coup, she would catch Jim's eye and giggle when he winked solemnly at her.

CHAPTER 17

With two thirds of the programmed exercise schedule already gone the whole thing took on a feverish air. Some who had seen combat likened it to war in its busiest periods. In that it lent a degree of realism which exercises normally lacked. The Witch was much in demand for her ability to simulate the performance of other types of aircraft. Since her performance was in all respects superior to any aircraft in current military service she could perform any manoeuvre they could. The pilot, as in all fly-by-wire or fly-by-light aircraft, didn't control the aerodynamic control surfaces or engines directly. Instead, the controls he manipulated merely sent signals to the onboard computer to demand a particular action. It was the computer that then decided what to do and sent signals to the appropriate servos. By simply modifying the data in the computer the Witch could be made to emulate the flight performance to any chosen aircraft. Therefore, on one sortie she might be programmed to perform like a Mig 27 Flogger in its ground attack role. On another she might be a Mig 29 Fulcrum in an air superiority role. Of course, the quality of the pilot and the tactics employed could make an immense difference but it was still very valuable for pilots to pit themselves against an aircraft with the strengths and weaknesses of a possible enemy.

They spent their time alternating between the ground attack role and the air defence role. Sam quickly found that Hank's lesson on tactics made it all much more comprehensible - but she soon found that it was a great deal more complicated out on the range than it had sounded in the bar. Their first mission was as a SUKHOI SU-24 Fencer - which is a specialised deep-penetration strike aircraft. They were alone but there was a pair of Tornadoes a minute or so ahead and another three pairs strung out behind. This was a mixed blessing - they were more likely to be detected but, with a bit of luck, they would slip through whilst the defenders mixed it with the others.

They started exactly as Hank had said, five hundred feet and just under the speed of sound. Radar on standby so as not to alert the defenders, and eyeballs working hard. It wasn't just a case of looking casually around, they were twisting around in their seats as far as their straps would allow and Jim would twist and roll the Witch so that they could see directly behind. Sam quickly found it to be very tiring but Jim searched with the easy, unceasing motion of an automaton.

Sam had been taught that she should keep a good lookout, but it was a civilian lookout. She looked for other aircraft to try to ensure that she didn't run into them and that they didn't run into her. Most of her flying had been done in light aircraft where it was difficult to see behind so her lookout scan tended to be to the front and sides only. She had noticed before that Jim's scan was a disciplined methodical search all around - and that he didn't just look for aircraft close enough to pose a threat of collision, but sought to see them at the greatest possible distance. Often he would detect them by noticing a smudge of engine smoke, a trace of contrail or a glint of sun on a shiny surface.

She tried hard to emulate him and found herself becoming tense with excitement, feeling that all the defenders must be looking for them and that they must stand out like a sore thumb as they screamed along. Then she realised that their noise was unheard by the defenders. They were travelling like a hungry timberwolf avoiding danger on his way to a kill. Loping along, all senses alert, turning easily aside at a whiff of danger, and turning back onto course as it faded. Travelling quietly, almost furtively, but never fearfully. Always able and willing to fight but avoiding such conflict if it might jeopardise the mission. Undeviating and chillingly single-minded. Yes, she liked the thought, and could picture the Witch slipping through the valleys like a lone wolf on its way to a kill.

Then came the 'scree scree scree, in the headphones. Jim immediately turned to fly at ninety degrees to the direction of the Radar beam and dropped down into the nearest valley. Look-down Radars were usually of the Pulse Doppler type and they separated the aircraft from the background clutter by detecting that the aircraft was moving. By flying crosswise, it appeared as if they were stopped and the Radar became much less effective. It worked, and the noise stopped. They immediately swung back on course and popped up to five hundred feet. This happened another twice and Sam was beginning to think that it was all much easier than Hank had said. Next time, though, she found just how wrong she was.

The 'scree, scree, scree' kept going for a couple of hard-flying minutes, and then changed to a shriek - the hunter had switched to track mode. Another twenty seconds and it had changed again, and Jim muttered just one word, "Lock!" and went for the weeds. Try as he might, he couldn't shake loose. Sam kept searching for the interceptor but was having a hard time with the g forces hauling her helmet first one way and then the other. Then she saw it, just a brief glimpse before Jim rolled the other way. She twisted around to look over the other shoulder, and saw another one. This time it was close enough for her to recognise it as a Hornet. "Two Hornets, one right behind, and the other 'way out to port."

He grunted acknowledgement, "Right, I've got 'em. No chance of making it to the target, we'll try to butt out." With that he broke hard left and went head-on for the one out to port. He flipped on the Radar and the Hornet was encircled by a glowing green ring on his HUD. A touch of a button on the throttles and the ring turned to red to indicate a weapon lock. He touched the firing button and the gun camera captured the moment. When they got back that would be assessed as a kill. Still turning hard, he looked over his shoulder and found the other Hornet boring straight in - no arguments, they had been wiped out.

Sam took over to fly back to base, very disappointed that they'd been 'shot down'. Jim was more philosophical about it, "Cheer up, Kid, you can't win 'em all. These guys aren't amateurs you know, they're the best there is, it's no disgrace to get your snapshot on their gun camera tape."

About one time in three they managed to make it to the target - and sometimes they even managed to get out again. Sam noticed that they had the best chance of success and survival when they teamed up with another aircraft for mutual support. Even if they got bounced, with two of them they could usually fight their way out. The attacking role was always exhilarating, but she really preferred it when they were assigned as a long range interceptor. Often there would be long periods when they were just patrolling, but there was always the excitement of the hunt. They would fly towards the incoming attackers at a reduced speed to increase the amount of time that their Radar was looking towards the threat. Then, when they reached the edge of their patrol area, they'd turn around and accelerate to get back to the starting point as quickly as possible. Whilst they were flying back their team mate would be heading out, maintaining the cover. It was so different from the attack role. There it had all been violent weaving and twisting - she thought again of the wolf weaving to follow the lie of the land. Now it was much more gentle. She thought now of the Witch as a big cat out hunting - not a lion which hunted in a group, more like a tiger, cougar, or leopard. She could picture the big cat flowing smoothly over the ground, fur shining and muscles rippling. Not going anywhere in particular, just moving silently along with every sense at hunter’s pitch. Alert to danger, but supremely confident of handling anything that might arise. Suddenly it detects some faint sound or scent and its muscles tense like steel bands. No precipitate action, just a cautious stalk until the prey is in the perfect position for the kill. Then caution is thrown to the winds and a fury of teeth and claws is propelled by a bundle of muscular energy to explode on the prey. Yes, the Witch was like that, everything smooth and gentle as her Radar searched ahead, then the stalk, and the flurry of hectic action culminating in the kill.

Sometimes the patrolling would seem interminable and she'd be beginning to think they'd missed them all - then their Radar beam would brush lightly against something that moved. The faint echo would be analysed by the computer, the motion detected, and a tentative dot would appear on the Radar screen. Sometimes it would flicker and fade - on those occasions she'd want to switch on the Witch's own sensors, but Jim would laugh and accuse her of wanting to cheat. He'd steer towards the dot and use experience and intuition to stalk it. Then, suddenly the blip would be there and he'd move in for the kill. Sam would then see the other side of the fight - and could imagine what was going on in that other cockpit as the note changed from scan to track, and then from track to lock.

Sometimes it seemed as if their target didn't know they were there, and they'd get a quick, easy 'kill'. Other times their quarry would fight like a cornered wildcat. On those occasions the following waves of attackers would come up on the fight - or others on the way home would dive in looking for a slice of the action. Those were glorious occasions with the air full of fighters and the whole fight becoming a 'fur ball' of twisting, turning aircraft. It was hard, tiring work, but to Sam it was marvellous and the time passed far too quickly for her.

The crews were scheduled to start on their homeward journeys during the weekend so Friday was the last day of the exercise. The Witch was detailed to play the role of a defender during the morning and Jim and Sam flew two gruelling defensive sorties before lunch. In the afternoon it was back to the attacking role but this time Jim flew alone and, to give the defenders something to chew on, the Witch shucked off her disguise and became herself again. Normally the range was unmanned whilst flying was taking place but a small team of film makers had arrived the previous day. Their aim was to shoot some film for later inclusion in promotional movies.

The CO had suggested to Sam that she might like to visit them and she had agreed readily enough, not so much to see the filming but rather to see what the various aircraft looked like when simulating war. She therefore accompanied them when they flew to one of the attack areas by helicopter before the afternoon sorties started.

The film crew had been surprised when they realised that their visitor was not a male Samuel but a female Samantha, and a youthful and pretty one at that. They were hard put to see how a young girl in a flying suit could fit into their film but they filmed her anyway.

Sam was enthralled by the noise, spectacle and sheer aggression of the attacks. The targets were a number of old tanks spread out at awkward-to-hit points around the broad but rugged valley. Even then, the scoring with bombs, rockets and shells was good. The film crew were amazed at Sam's knowledge of not only the aircraft but the crews and the weapons they were using.

Jim had been engaged in other parts of the range for most of the afternoon but towards the end of the flying programme the radio announced that the next run was to be by the Witch. Sam turned to the film crew and raised her voice. "Okay fellas, just watch this one!"

All eyes were on the east end of the valley and no sound announced the arrival of the Witch. She appeared, rolling out of a vertical bank to port, and steadied with her belly less than a hundred feet from the valley floor and her Mach meter flickering around 1.5. Despite her knowledge, Sam's throat constricted at the sheer menace exuded by the lean, four-winged shape. An unseen pulse of energy flashed from the Witch to one of the tanks and it disappeared in an incandescent ball of white light.

As the Witch looped up into the blue sky to retrace her track to the start of the run, Jim's voice came over the radio. "And now - for my last trick - a fast run!"

"Christ! A fast run! And what the hell was that, might I ask?" the leader of the film team exclaimed.

Even Sam was momentarily non-plussed but she kept her voice casual. "Oh, you ain't seen nuthin' yet, man."

As the Witch curved down towards the start of the run Jim commanded, "Computer. Battle stations for a low level interdiction." That simple, and little used command, transformed the Witch from peace to war. The display on the HUD changed dramatically to present the pilot with a simpler world in which to fly. And the detents on the throttles were automatically withdrawn. From now on the throttles would vary the power of the awesome engines from 'cold' turbines, to re-heat to exo-atmospheric in one smooth sweep as demanded by the pilot's left hand. And control responses changed too. Gone was the normal gentle stability that made her such a delightfully easy aircraft to fly. Now the control responses were on the very verge of instability so she would respond instantly to the slightest touch.

When flying low at any speed the variations in terrain shape, texture and lighting can be very deceiving. As the speed increases the deception increases and the brain is left with shorter and shorter times in which to make decisions. The picture on the HUD was designed to combat this problem. The view showed a scene reminiscent of an arcade game. The real terrain was still there but the overlaying HUD image was much brighter and more stylised. Thus, instead of a natural wild valley the pilot would see a big yellow V-shape with a flat bottom. The width and slope would more or less match the real world but would be much smoother. The degree of smoothing would depend on the aircraft speed, if it was slow the shape would show great detail, if fast only the smoothed out shapes that could be followed at such a speed would be shown. The yellow walls would have black lines running down them, these were designed to aid perception by providing a consistent guide to perspective. As a further aid, any tendency to fly too close to the floor or wall would cause that part of the floor or wall to change colour towards red. Similarly, any tendency to fly too high and into the danger of being detected would be indicated by the 'ceiling' turning purple. Finally, sensor and map data were combined to give the illusion of seeing through the mountains so the sensation was that of following a path carved through glass. There were therefore no nasty surprises in store around corners. The whole effect was to present the pilot with a world simplified to such a degree that his ability to control the aircraft to the highest possible level of manned performance was optimised.

Jim settled firmly into his seat and started to drop down towards the surface of the lake. He radioed, "The Witch is ten seconds from the starting gate."

Sam's voice came back. "Okay, okay, let this be a real wild one!"

Jim smiled inwardly at her desire that 'her' aircraft should put on a good show and he joined in the spirit of things. "Roger. Five seconds, four, three, two, one. The Witch is running wild!" And wild she was. As he pushed the throttles forward it was an altogether harder, fitter Witch that responded. The acceleration was stupendous and he had to be constantly aware that he could cause himself to red-out on linear acceleration alone. Progress was a series of savage darts. Slow to a speed where a curve could be taken right on the edge of blacking out, straighten and accelerate hard. But the term 'slow' was relative. Everything was happening far faster than previously, and only the HUD picture made it comprehensible.

As he turned the bend into the target valley he accelerated hard and the Witch surged forward like a great black beast. Three bright white stars appeared to mark the three remaining tanks. This time he made no attempt to point the aircraft at the targets. The weapons system was slaved to his vision and he had merely to look briefly at a star and touch the button for the target to disintegrate. Look - fire, look - fire, look - fire. Then he was gone, pulling up hard whilst reducing power. Laying a massive sonic boom across the wilderness.

On the ground, Sam had been expecting a run carried out with just a little more vigour than before. She had interpreted Jim's reference to 'running wild' as a little bit of end-of-exercise high spirits. She was therefore as stunned as the film crew when the Witch exploded into the valley. Even the shape was hard to see, the aircraft being almost entirely enveloped in its own private cloud of mist. The pressure changes through the supersonic shock waves were causing the air pressure around the fuselage and wings to rise and fall sharply. Where the pressure fell to much lower than atmospheric the air was no longer able to hold its water vapour, which condensed out nearly instantaneously. The result was a shimmering, ghostly, three thousand mile an hour cloud with bits of aircraft sticking out of it. Eerie! At close on Mach 4 the closing speed was simply paralysing. The aircraft was past almost before she could turn her head to follow it, and the boom of the disintegrating tanks had reached her a moment before the supersonic shock cone generated by the Witch's passage assaulted her senses.

As the echoes of the sonic boom died away they heard Jim's laconic comment. "That's it, folks. The Witch is a pussy cat again."

Sam wrenched off her ear defenders and lunged towards the radio. "Aw c'mon, Skip. Don't shoot off back to Base. Come and pick me up."

"Oh alright, brat. Be with you in a couple of minutes."

He touched down near the blockhouse and Sam ran forward and hurled herself up the ladder. She was talking before her head showed above the coaming. "Gee, Skip, that run was fantastic! How fast were you going?"

"About Mach 4 as I passed you."

"Please, do it again. I didn't think it was possible to go faster than you did the previous run. Please, show me how you did it."

She sounded so earnest that he burst out laughing. "Okay kid, but it was a bit of an unfair trick really. I'll show you how it's done and you can try it yourself." He again went to battle stations and explained the significance of the HUD display and the greatly increased agility. As they approached the starting point he handed over control and radioed that they were about to begin another run.

The voice of the chief of the film crew came back. "Will the Witch be wild again?"

"Well, she'll be fairly annoyed anyway. We'll see what the Witch's apprentice can do!"

Even treating the controls with great respect she found herself barely able to control the new wild Witch. However, the quick reactions of youth stood her in good stead and she was soon flying much faster then on any of her previous sorties. On a number of occasions her exuberance got the better of her skill but the computer was always there to ensure that the Witch avoided the terrain, albeit with sometimes crushing accelerations. It was like the ultimate in arcade games, fast decisions translated into lightening actions and all with the savage accelerations to hammer home the fact that this was for real.

She passed the film crew at over Mach 3 and pulled up into a wild climb as she slowed to subsonic speed. Jim looked at the image his companion on the small screen and saw that she was absolutely bursting with excitement. "That was great! Just the greatest thing ever!"

As they started back to base a Fighting Falcon tucked in tight on their port wing and Hank waved at them. His voice came over the radio, "Okay Kid, you've got the Witch and I've got all the wisdom of age, so c'mon and let's see what you're made of." As an afterthought he added, "And that carrot top in the front seat can just keep his hands in sight so I know there's no cheating going on!"

Jim chuckled and hooked his hands comfortably into his straps atop his shoulders. "Okay Kid, go ahead and take him on - to compensate for his experience you can use reheat if you want."

"C'mon Kid, let's go topsides and get to the kickin' an' scratchin'." With that Hank kicked in afterburner and pulled the nose up.

Sam was a bit slow off the mark but soon caught him up and slid in behind him. Jim commanded the computer to activate the gun sight and gun camera. The aiming information appeared in Sam's HUD and she quickly laid the pipper on Hanks tailpipe and pressed the gun button on the stick and the radio button on the throttles, "Rat-a-tat-tat, gotcha, gotcha!"

The words hadn't left her mouth when Hank had rolled inverted and pulled - and she was looking at empty sky. She hesitated, not sure where he had gone or what to do next. She started to roll over to follow him but she was too late. Hanks voice crowed over the radio, "Rat-a-tat-a-tat, gotcha!" and flashed past from underneath, pulled over in a graceful loop and slid past her again. "Okay Kid, have another go. I'll count down from five and when I reach zero I'll break hard left, see if you can follow me."

He started to count - five four three two one ZERO - and broke left. Sam was waiting for it but was still a bit slow. She pulled round after him, and Hank pulled tighter and tighter. The g-meter climbed steadily until they were going round and round pulling a steady 6g. The strain was terrible and Sam had to fight to hold her helmet up against the pull.

After half a dozen revolutions Jim grunted, "Okay Kid, I've got the hang of this manoeuvre now, for Christ's sake try something different!"

"Yes but what? If I try to straighten up he'll get me for sure."

"Use your advantages, Kid. You've got more thrust than he has so roll level, light the burners and go straight up. Keep going until I give the word and then pull over the top and go straight down at him. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Right. GO!" Without releasing the back pressure on the stick, she rolled upright and pushed the throttles through the detent. She felt the distant thud as the afterburners lit and was slammed back into her seat by the acceleration. She concentrated on going up absolutely vertically whilst Jim peered over his shoulder at Hank. When he judged them to be far enough ahead he gave the word, "Pull hard, throttle back - GO!'

She did as she was bid and, as the nose dropped, Hanks Falcon swam into the sight. She was just about to fire when he twisted aside and away. Jim's voice came to her, "Tch, tch, too slow, too slow." This time she didn't wait for instructions, she just went for Hank bald headed. She remembered being told that you should never turn away from your opponent so wherever Hank turned she strove to keep the Witch pointed straight at him. Every time - no matter how hard she tried - at the very last second he would twist aside as if by magic and she'd find herself filming empty sky. Time and again she'd think she had it made - and every time he’d slip out of her gun sight and she would get another close-up view of the nose of the Falcon. Her morale wasn't helped by Jim's comments either. At every pass his laughter became more ribald until he was laughing uproariously at her despairing antics.

Suddenly Hank's voice came over the radio, "Bingo". He was low on fuel and it was time to go home. He tucked close in on the Witch's wing and they flew back to base, shoulder to shoulder in silence. Sam felt too humiliated to speak but she knew that she'd just seen a master at work.

Hank landed first and, whilst he was still rolling out, Sam brought the Witch in to a perfect landing. Jim instructed her to follow Hank to the flight line instead of going to the HAS. As she drew to a halt she saw Hank jump off his ladder and stride towards her. He waited until the canopy hissed open and called up to her, "Ahem, I was a bit surprised that you lost back there, you being so much younger and all!" and burst out laughing.

She stuck out her tongue, "Just you wait Hank Hanchard, one of these days I'm really gonna wax your butt!"

He flapped his hand at her in delight and walked off towards the other crews. It was only then that she noticed that the Base photographer was busily engaged in recording the end of the exercise for posterity. "Stay where you are, kid." said Jim as he climbed out, and she assumed that he wanted a word with some of the crews before continuing to the HAS.

He strode over to the CO and drew him a little aside. "It's a fine day and all flying is finished so, with your permission, I'd like to send the kid solo."

The CO looked at him for a moment, made to reply, changed his mind, then said. "If you think she can hack it, go ahead, Jim."

Jim returned to the Witch and climbed up far enough to look into the cockpit. "Okay kid, go off and do three touch-and-go's, then spend fifteen or twenty minutes in the local area before landing and parking back here. No more than 'cold' power, and no nonsense, I'll be watching!" Then he jumped down and walked back to the CO, leaving Sam with her mouth hanging open.

It took a moment for his words to sink in and even then she could still hardly believe it. At last, she was going to fly a fighter - ALONE! Forcing herself to be slow and meticulous, she called the tower for permission to taxi and then eased carefully forward and taxied slowly along the line of fighters and onto the perimeter track. Some of the crews, assuming that she was taxing to the HAS, waved to her as she passed but she was too engrossed to notice. Around the long peri-track, much slower than usual. At last she reached the end of the runway and requested permission to takeoff.

Back at the flight line a number of the crews had noticed that she had taxied past the HAS and was approaching the main runway. They started to get agitated, knowing full well that there is nothing more dangerous than an amateur wandering across an active runway. Eventually one of them called out. "Jim, do you see where your aircraft is?"

Jim turned to answer but the CO beat him to it. "Relax fellas. Sam is going off on her first solo on type. I know it's a bit irregular but she's an exceptional young lady. I was going to save it for my after-dinner speech but I guess I'd better tell you now. The security people have lifted the blanket on the crashes and I can tell you that a lot of you probably owe your lives to that girl." He went on to tell them in his clipped, quickfire way how Jim and Sam had solved the mystery and how Sam had played a key role. He had just finished talking when the Witch rolled slowly onto the runway and nodded to a stop on the centreline.

As one, the crews sprinted quickly around the control tower to get a clear view of the runway. Sam carefully carried out her takeoff checks and then eased the throttles forward. Unlike the light aircraft she had previously soloed, the absence of the weight of one man made no discernible difference to the performance. The Witch accelerated rapidly but predictably and she lifted off smoothly as she had done so many times before. Climb gently, ease back on the power, a gentle turn cross-wind, straight for a moment then another gentle turn onto the downwind leg. She was momentarily tempted to extend the downwind leg to give her a long straight-in run to the landing but she discarded the thought almost as quickly as it had come. Much better to stick with the standard pattern she was familiar with. Another left turn onto the base leg, and then the final turn onto the approach. She was tense and the empty seat heightened her awareness but it was all so familiar that her hands controlled the smooth slide down the glide path whilst part of her mind was feverishly trying to foresee nonexistent problems. Down, down, down, then a gentle flare and the mains brushed onto the concrete. As is so often the case, her first solo landing in type was utterly flawless.

Pausing just long enough to ensure that the mains were solidly on the runway, she pushed forward the throttles and took off again. Twice more she brushed the wheels on the runway and then, with some relief, lifted the Witch away from the Earth and into her element. As she climbed away she was able to look around for the first time and to savour the moment she had longed for most of her short life. The fifteen minutes seemed but a twinkling as she turned and swooped in controlled, gentle manoeuvres. She was tempted to indulge in more dynamic manoeuvres but the thought of all the eyes on her stayed her hand. However, she recalled the CO's words about the importance of initiative and enthusiasm and decided that a flypast would be forgivable.

She eased away from the Base a little and then turned in and dropped down low. She called the tower to advise them of her intentions and received their permission so she eased on the power and aimed for a point midway between the runway and the tower. Carefully keeping her speed down to Mach 0.9 she tucked down to 200 feet and concentrated on holding a straight and level path. As she streaked past the tower she had a glimpse of the crews and then she was throttling back and pulling up to join the circuit for a full-stop landing. As she taxied in to the parking area she saw that a large crowd of air and ground crews were waiting to welcome her but she was concentrating too hard to respond to their waves. She turned neatly onto the end of the row, slowed to a stop and went through the shutdown checks. Then she opened the canopy and looked down on the crowd with her face split by a grin stretching from ear to ear.

As she stood up she realised that the photographer was clicking away and that, unaccountably, made her more flustered than the flying had done. She had got only half way down the ladder when a group of the young aircrew snatched her up and bore her shoulder-high to the Mess bar. For once Jim just smiled when a glass of some alcoholic beverage was thrust into her hand. There was time for only a couple of drinks before the CO ordered the bar closed and suggested that everyone might care to go and prepare for dinner.

CHAPTER 18

In all her time in the Mess, Sam had dressed in the most casual manner that was regarded as acceptable by mess etiquette. Tonight she had other plans. She had shown them all that she was as good as a man at flying and tonight she would leave them in no doubt that she was a woman.

When Jim knocked on the adjoining wall and left his room he actually walked past the apparition in the corridor and went to knock on the door of Sam's room. He was quite startled to hear Sam's voice behind him. "Ha! Fooled you. Didn't recognise me out of a flying suit did you?"

He turned and looked her up and down. "Well, well, well. Would you just lookee here!" Her perfume wafted towards him. "'Course I would have recognised you right off but I'm used to a sweaty smelly brat so the scent kinda threw me!"

She blushed and grabbed his arm to pull him quickly towards the dining room. It was already fairly crowded and Jim commented wryly that they didn't have the burden of having to wait whilst a precocious brat painted herself up. She dug him in the ribs and drew herself up to her full five feet two inches as she walked to the chair being held out for her by Hank.

After the meal the CO stood up and rapped the table for attention. "I'm not going to waste your time with long speeches, we've got a party to get on with. However, I have a few words to say about this exercise. It started with tragedy and we all lost friends and colleagues. Nonetheless, it could have been far worse if it hadn't been for the efforts of our friends here." He gestured to Jim and Sam and then went on to tell the story of their efforts and discoveries. He sat down to loud applause and shouts of "Speech! Speech!"

Jim stood up. "I'm not much given to making speeches - and the bar will soon be open! However, I would just like to say this. My part in all this has been very small, I merely acted as the transport manager and brought along a good aircraft crewed by this beautiful and talented blonde. It was Sam who made the great breakthrough when she worked out how the devices were being triggered. So, ladies and gentlemen, with no more ado, I give you the talented, the beautiful, the courageous, the incorrigible - Arizona Kid!"

There was a great roar of applause but Sam scarcely heard it. All this time he had called her 'the kid' and she had hated it. All this time she had taken it to be descriptive of her youth. Now it was the Arizona Kid - with a capital K - like Billy the Kid. Not a derogatory term but a nickname she could be proud of. They picked her up, carried her into the bar and set her on the counter. A huge bottle of champagne was produced and glasses filled. Jim felt a tug at his elbow and turned to find the photographer holding a large envelope. He took it and stepped out into the corridor to look at the selection of large prints. Quickly leafing through them, he selected one with the canopy rising to reveal Sam grinning hugely at the end of her solo flight. Replacing the others in the envelope, he returned to the bar and circulated discreetly getting all the crews to sign the photograph. Then he wrote on it, "The Arizona Kid. On the occasion of her first solo in the Witch." The last signature he collected was that of the CO and he leaned forward to make himself heard above the noise. "Sir, I thought you might like to present it to her."

The CO climbed up on a chair beside Sam and shouted for silence. "Quiet everyone, I have a presentation to make." He held up the photograph for all to see. "In honour of Samantha's first solo in the Witch I would like to present her with this photograph signed by all the crews on the exercise. As you can see, she looks quite happy about the event!" This was greeted by gales of laughter. He held up his hand for silence. "I give you a toast to the Arizona Kid! She has had many adventures with us and has learned to fly like a fighter pilot, now we must teach her to drink like one!" He raised his glass. "To the Kid!" Everybody drank and Sam blushed with pleasure.

As the evening wore on the party became rowdier and rowdier and the participants drunker and drunker. Jim and a few of the older hands drank sparingly but Sam was no exception as she was let off the leash for the first time. By midnight she was becoming more than a little merry and then suddenly all her zest left her and she started to go limp. Jim caught her as she went rubber-legged and escorted her quickly to her room and put her to bed. Then he locked her door and returned to do a bit of catching up now that his baby-sitting role was over for the night.

The next morning they slept until 9 o'clock but even then Sam was reluctant to get up. Eventually Jim unlocked her door and went in. "Come on, Kid, what ails you this fine bright morning?"

She passed her hand over her tightly shut eyes. "Ooh I feel awful. I daren't open my eyes. I don't think they line up with the holes in my face any more!"

He laughed. "Don't worry Kid, it's only a hangover. You'll have to get used to them if you want to become a real pilot."

"Please! Don't speak to me about flying or drinking. Never, never, never again am I going to drink! If I have to do this I won't fly, I'll do something else. I'll be a hairdresser, work in a supermarket, anything but this." She collapsed back on her pillow but he caught her hand and pulled.

"Come on. Up you get. Surely I'm not going to have to dress you as well."

Suddenly she was aware that she was stark naked under the blankets. "I don't remember coming to bed. How did I get here? Did you do it?"

He chuckled at her panic stricken horror. "Sure I put you to bed. I think your mother might have asked questions if you'd gone home with a dress that had been slept in. Besides, when I left you there seemed to be every chance that you'd be sick all over it before the night was out! Don't worry, kid, the state you were in last night no self-respecting man would have looked at you. Drunk? As a newt! I didn't so much undress you as simply pour you out of your dress into your bed. My God, if you ever give me the slightest trouble in future I'll just tell your mother about the state you were in!" He turned to leave. "If you're not up, showered and dressed in fifteen minutes I'll come back and paddle that bare bottom of yours like its never been paddled since you were a child."

Exactly fifteen minutes later he knocked on her door. "C'mon Kid, we haven't got all day."

"Just coming - and please don't do everything so loud." She emerged looking like death warmed up - and not very far, either.

Neither spoke as they made their way to the dining room but Jim couldn't suppress a grin at the way Sam held herself erect and closed her eyes as she gingerly felt for each step as they descended the stair. As they neared the dining room the smell of cooking made Sam slow her advance but Jim cupped her elbow in his hand and ushered her along.

There were a fair number of people about but greetings were subdued and Jim diplomatically chose an unoccupied table so that Sam could be spared the burden of conversation. He brought them each a cup of coffee and gave Sam hers black. He watched in amusement as she raised it unsteadily with both hands and took a gulp. When she finished, he said nothing but got up and refilled her cup. By the time she had finished that too she had almost returned to the land of the living. "Okay Kid, what would you like for breakfast? Speaking from experience, I'd advise you to have something but stick to toast unless you really feel like something more substantial."

Her bloodshot eyes were almost panic stricken as she made a couple of unsuccessful attempts to make a sound. Eventually she croaked. "Just, -just dry toast please."

The noise of eating toast was excruciating and she had her eyes screwed shut when she was startled by a series of bright flashes. She jerked her eyes open and found herself confronted by a grinning photographer.

Jim explained. "I thought you made such an attractive picture this morning that I called the photographer whilst you were getting up. I think I'll keep a print myself to remind me of you, and we'll give the rest to Alcoholics Anonymous. If the sight of you doesn't put people on the wagon nothing will!"

The photographer grinned at Jim. "I'll add this one to the list and have them all ready for you when you arrive at Ops."

After breakfast Jim guided Sam back to her room and set her to work to get packed. She pawed ineffectually at a few clothes and then slumped on the bed with her head in her hands. Jim looked at her in near awe. "By God Kid, I know you sank a few last night but you must have sneaked a lot when I wasn't watching. I have just never seen such a hangover as you have! I think you'd better lie down and I'll do the packing."

Sam lay totally still except for the occasional moan whilst Jim quickly packed her cases. Leaving her to rest he carried all the cases down to the car and then drove to the airfield to load them aboard the Witch. Then he went to Ops to arrange his departure and to take his leave of the staff. His final call was on the CO and he apologised for Sam's indisposition.

"That's okay, Jim. I thought last night that she'd be in for a rough daybreak." He laughed. "Please give her my regards and thanks." They shook hands and Jim made his way to the reception desk to pick up an envelope of photographs. He skimmed quickly through them and burst out laughing at the one taken at the breakfast table. There were six copies so he turned on his heel and went back to the COs office. "Thought you'd like one of these as a memento of our bright eyed, bushy tailed embryo fighter pilot."

The CO took one look and then caught Jim's quizzical gaze. Then they both collapsed in immoderate mirth. Eventually the older man managed to wheeze out a few words. "Guess this sums up this bitch of an exercise more than anything. It will have pride of place on the Ops room wall as a warning against the demon drink!"

It was nearly 11:00 hrs by the time Jim roused Sam for the second time that day. She was slightly recovered but still distinctly fragile and Jim forbore to make any comment as he guided her to the car and drove to the airfield. They parked the car by the Witch and climbed aboard - Sam with some difficulty. Jim looked at her for a moment and decided that the time had come to be cruel to be kind. "Okay Kid. Snap out of it and get us to Arizona inside an hour."

"Please. Won't you do it just this once?"

"No I won't. As a pilot you may well find that a flap blows up the morning after you've had a skinfull. Part of the job is having the grit to be able to cope. So c'mon, roust out and get on with the job."

She glared at him balefully for a long moment and then gathered her wits with a visible effort. Her taxiing was rather erratic and her takeoff somewhat ragged but she gradually settled down into the familiar routine. Her greatest incentive to flying smoothly was to minimise the appalling discomfort of g on a hangover.

An hour after takeoff they were descending towards Barlow Field and Sam became something of her old animated self as she radioed ahead for permission to land. She had left home a very uncertain tyro and was returning an altogether more confident young woman. Her touchdown was smooth and her taxiing deft and confident.

As they climbed out Jim chided her. "You see, you may feel bloody awful but if you have to perform you can do a reasonable job. Never forget, though, when you are hungover your performance is always badly affected so make sure you always have at least twelve hours between bottle and throttle." He grinned and pulled a photograph from the envelope he had carried on his lap all the way. "Especially if you look like this!"

She glanced at the photograph with little interest, and then suddenly realised what it was. "Oh my God, is that me? Do I still look like that?" Her hands fluttered over her face and hair, trying to shore up the ravages.

"Don't worry Kid, you're more or less back to normal. Now get out and go meet your parents." He gave her an affectionate push.

The homecoming was an emotional one and if her parents noticed the bags under her eyes they said nothing. They had a stand-in at the shack for the day and drove home for lunch. Fortunately it was a help-yourself salad so Sam's impaired appetite went unnoticed. She was in high spirits and talked twenty to the dozen as she tried to tell her parents about all the adventures she had had. Her parents smiled fondly at her enthusiasm and Clem periodically winked ruefully at Jim as she described some aeronautical manoeuvre.

Clem and Sarah cajoled Jim into staying for dinner and he found the idea of dozing in the warm desert sun to be irresistible. Sarah had some cooking chores to do and Clem excused himself saying that he had some 'phone calls to make and had then to go back to the airfield for a couple of hours. This suited Jim fine and he strolled out to the garden and stretched out on a lounger with a sigh of contentment. Sam, however, had other ideas for him.

"Skip, how about one last flight in the Witch before you go?"

He opened one eye briefly. "Go away, you've flown today already."

"Please. I so wanted to enjoy that last flight and I felt ill for the first half of it. Please let me have one more before you go."

She sounded so plaintive that he smiled inwardly but kept his eyes closed. He well understood her feelings. How many times had he crept away to savour that last flight in some type that he'd been particularly fond of? Still with his eyes closed and looking half asleep he murmured. "Oh okay. Cadge a lift with your father and have your flight. Just remember to behave yourself or I'll give your mother the photos. I suggest you tell your father before you go or he'll have half the State out looking for you if he thinks you've pinched the Witch. Come back with your father and don't keep him waiting. Now, I want to sleep so go away." He was aware of her still standing there and waited for her to speak.

"You mean, I can go solo?"

He could hear the hope in her voice and grunted with sham annoyance. "Kid, in my experience, the only way to take your leave of an aircraft is on your own. If that doesn't suit you, tough! I'm comfortable here and I'm not moving."

"Well... Gee, thanks!" He heard her scamper into the house, then voices and then Clem called to check that Sam could indeed fly alone. Jim reassured him and Clem had sent enough students solo to understand that the decision rested between the instructor and the student.

Jim dozed for a while and was awakened when Sarah emerged from the house carrying a tray of chilled drinks. "I think I'll join you for a quiet hour in the sun before I start preparing dinner." She sat down on a deck chair and adjusted the parasol to keep the sun out of her eyes. Jim realised that what she really wanted was to talk about what Sam had been up to for the past month and he made it easy for her by hitching himself up and starting on an amusing and highly expurgated version of her activities. They had been talking for about ten minutes when they heard the noise of an approaching aircraft. Jim recognised the sound of the Witch and kept his eyes on Sarah's face as she glanced up casually.

She started to look down again and then suddenly jerked her head up to get a better look. "That's your aircraft! Who's flying it?" She sounded very agitated and Jim cursed Sam for her thoughtlessness in flying over the house.

"Oh it's only Sam. Don't worry, she's been flying the Witch all day every day for the past month and has flown solo before. She just wanted to say her farewells to the Witch before I left." He saw she was little mollified and added. "Don't worry, the on-board computer is a better check pilot than any human, it won't let anything happen to her."

Her eyes scarcely left the Witch which was circling slowly over the area. Obviously Sam was enjoying the feeling of cruising over her home town in a fighter. Her mother's frown eased a little. "At least she's taking it easy."

Jim made no reply, knowing Sam as he did he could place little reliance on her present sedate manoeuvres being anything but a brief interlude. Sure enough, one more circle and then he saw the nose start to rise and braced himself for what was to come. The nose continued to rise until it was pointing straight up and then the power went on. He could visualise Sam being flattened back against her seat, her elastic young cheeks distorted by the acceleration as the Witch blasted into the blue. He waited for Sarah's agitation to increase but was surprised to see her shake her head ruefully. "I might have known it was too good to last. What an unnatural child I have!"

Jim laughed with relief. "Well yes, but she's a pretty good kid nonetheless. She's spent most of the past month at low level so I guess she's just going up to have a look at the sort of world you can't see from a Sundowner. I gave her strict instructions to behave herself and to come back with Clem so she'll only be another hour or so."

CHAPTER 19

Sam had gone to the airfield with her father in a state of barely suppressed excitement. For the new pilot, flying solo is an exciting business at any time but flying solo over your home town has an added spice. When they arrived at the field, Clem walked with her towards the Witch. He had sent her on her first solo in the Sundowner but this was different. He eyed the massive and lethal Witch and inwardly realised that even he, with all his experience, would hesitate to take it on. Yet here was his young daughter, not quite seventeen, walking confidently and unhesitatingly to do just that. There were many things he wanted to say, much advice he wanted to give, but he held his counsel and contented himself with resting a hand on her shoulder and squeezing gently.

She called for the computer to open up, and climbed lithely aboard. She went quickly through the checklist with the canopy open. Then she looked down at her father from the great height of the cockpit and called softly. "It's okay, Daddy. Don't worry, I'll be back in an hour."

He grinned and shrugged his shoulders in mock resignation. She took off quietly on minimal power and eased into a wide circle to starboard. She had flown over her home town countless times, many of them solo, but this was so different. The superb visibility from the bubble canopy made loafing around the nearest thing to floating free. Everything seemed so quiet and peaceful, even the sound of the Witch herself penetrated into the cockpit only as a gently shoosh of air over the canopy. For four circuits she savoured the gentle, effortless ease of just mooching around. Then she put her wool gathering aside and set out to do the things she might never get the opportunity to do again.

She had spent so much time at low level that it was nearly second nature to her, but the dark sky of high altitude beckoned irresistibly. Taking a deep breath, she hauled the nose up to the vertical and slammed the throttles through the first detent. Ah! The exquisite pain of the g-forces as they pinned her to the seat. The exhilaration of the never-ending flow of power as the Witch clawed through the life-sustaining troposphere and up, up, up into the high stratosphere. A gentle pull through and a roll off the top and she was level. Throttling back just a little, she let the speed build up as she raced over states in minutes.

She leant her head slightly to one side so that her helmet touched the metal side of the seat and she could hear the sound of the engines transmitted through the structure. She listened rapturously as the muted hum of the turbines was gradually overlaid the purer note of the ram jets until the spine-tingling wail took over completely. Her eyes became moist and a lump rose in her throat as she thought that she might never again in her whole life get to do anything like this. She watched the Mach meter through misty eyes until the speed stabilised at just over Mach 4, then she swallowed hard to clear the lump from her throat pulled savagely on the stick to reef into a hard turn to starboard, wings vertical and the world going grey as the g-forces drained the blood from her brain. The diameter of the circle would have been a cross-country flight in the Sundowner.

She completed the 180 degrees of turn to retrace her steps and eased back the throttles to let the speed slide back to a pedestrian Mach 2. Relaxing, she surveyed her kingdom. The warm sunlit earth far below, the noticeably curved horizon and the awful darkness of space. Slowly she rolled the aircraft and watched the sandy desert and the indigo space rotate around the nose of the aircraft. Throttling back still further, she let the nose drop and commenced a long spiralling descent to the desert floor.

Levelling out at a few hundred feet she slipped quietly through the shimmering heat towards home. Having no need for oxygen at this height, she unclipped her mask and let it dangle under her chin. Her expression was one of wonder. She could never quite believe the sheer range of personalities of this wonderful aircraft. Here it was, wafting along so gently and peacefully it was like being in a soap bubble drifting in the breeze. Yet, just a slight shove on the throttles would transform it into a roaring berserker that would reach for the distant horizon, grab it by the lapels and yank it in for a head butt. A grin of pure joyous contentment spread all over her freckled face.

A road appeared and she diverted a little to follow it. It was one of her friendly signposts when out in the Sundowner, made more friendly by the fact that it skirted the ranch of her best friend. How often she had circled Lyn's house until the family had come out and waved. Almost without thinking, she did the same now. Approaching the ranch she slowed further and exploited the Witch's superb handling to pull into a tight turn crossing directly over the ranch yard. She laughed delightedly as her friends erupted from the house, far quicker than when the Sundowner purred over. The big bubble canopy left her in full view and she waved vigorously. For a moment they just stared, then Lyn must have linked the strange aircraft she'd seen at the school party with her friend Sam. In any case, the family suddenly started cavorting and waving.

Sam completed another couple of circuits and then widened the circle to take her a little way from the ranch. Grinning with devilment and the thought of sampling the forbidden fruit of a buzz job, she turned hard towards the house and opened the throttles. Careful to stay subsonic, she hurtled over the yard, hauled up into a steep climb and rolled and rolled and rolled. Just wait until she saw Lyn again. Would she have a tale to tell!

Clem was watching as the Witch joined the circuit and came round to a faultless landing. His heart swelled with pride as his daughter taxied in and parked. Her wide grin and cheerful wave said it all. How he remembered his own flying youth!

She climbed down and hugged her father breathlessly. Casting her eyes up at him mischievously she whispered. "Daddy, they say sex is the greatest thing of all, and if it's better than that I just can't wait to try!"

Just for a moment he was shocked, then he cuffed her playfully around the ear. "Just you dare my girl! You think that black monster is dangerous but you ain't seen nothing until you've seen a father paddling a wayward daughter!" They were still laughing as they walked to the car with their arms around each other.

Dinner was cheerful but it had an end-of-an-era spectre hovering over it. The adults kept up a witty conversation but Sam became more and more morose. Later they all drove to the airfield to see Jim off. They walked towards the Witch but, by unspoken mutual consent, stopped some twenty yards away. Jim shook hands with Clem and kissed Sarah lightly on the cheek. "Take care you two, and keep that young minx on a tight leash!"

"Sure will. See you take care now, and call in anytime."

As her parents stood watching, Sam accompanied Jim to the aircraft and followed him up the ladder when he climbed aboard. Her face was level with his own and he saw that tears were coursing down her cheeks. She had difficulty speaking. "Skip. Thanks for everything, it was all just great." She thrust her hand over the coaming. "Goodbye Skip."

He smiled at her dishevelled appearance. "What's all this 'goodbye' business? It's 'au revoir' surely - or have you had enough of flying the Witch?"

"You mean, you'll be back?" Her answering grin was watery but hopeful.

"Sure I'll be back. I must be getting old but I find I quite like having a co-pilot to handle the chores - even a brat like you!" He sobered a little. "Now look Kid. Keep up your flying but be damned careful for a while, not all aircraft are as forgiving as the Witch, and all aircraft bite fools. Work hard at school and aim to go for an aeronautics degree. Okay?" She nodded and he continued in a firmer voice. "But don't become besotted with flying and studying. The part of your life you're going through just now is the most magical part of all. Enjoy it, live it to the full and be happy." He handed her an envelope. "Here's the photos of your reprehensible, drunken behaviour. Let them be a reminder to you not just of the flying but of the fun too. I suggest you hang three side by side, your solo in the Witch, your fun at the party, and the morning after the night before. Between them they should teach you all there is to know about life!" He ruffled a hand through her hair then pushed her gently down the ladder. "Au revoir Kid, see you around."

She caressed her hand along the foreplane and had to drag it away as if from a loved one's grasp. She turned and watched him taxi away, scarcely noticing when her parents closed up on each side of her. The Witch started to accelerate down the runway and her long slender snout rose questing to the sky. She lifted off, the wheels snapped up and she executed a single, sensuous slow roll of farewell. Then the sound of the engines deepened, the long flames from the after-burners stabbed out and the nose rose to near the vertical. And Sam watched the climb until the twin spots of light merged and faded into the clear blue of the desert sky and only the rumble of the mighty engines remained. With tears blurring her vision she stood until the last of the echoes had faded and the desert air was still.

The End