he had no time for them, it made him feel almost pure.
It was possible that Wu had told too much, had revealed their plans, so Mao had insisted that those plans be brought forward. But we aren’t ready, Fu had argued. Neither are our enemies, Mao had replied, and we must give them no opportunity to prepare. It must be now! The generals wouldn’t care for it, when they were told, but once the plan succeeded they’d be scrambling over each other’s backs to grab a slice of the credit. It was about to start, the great adventure, the moment when China would stand tall once more, their enemies crushed like ripe fruit and their skins left for the birds.
Fu swatted at the mosquitoes hovering around his face. There was no time to waste. As the sullen-faced generals disappeared inside the compound, Fu quickened his pace. More ducks scattered in alarm, seeking the cover of the bulrushes. He smiled as he watched them. In just a few hours, there would be nowhere left for anyone to hide.
Late Thursday night. Moray, North-east Scotland.
‘Mayday. Mayday. Mayday.’
The air-traffic controller at RAF Kinloss on the north-east coast of Scotland sat up sharply. It was going to be one of those nights. The station commander was on the prowl, breathing down everyone’s necks, making one of his unannounced checks, and now this. There’d been an unidentified aircraft nudging into restricted airspace somewhere to the north and a couple of the new Eurofighter Typhoons from the Quick Reaction Alert force had already been scrambled, but the emergency signal dumped the matter directly into her lap. She tugged nervously at the sleeve of her blouse.
‘Mayday. Mayday. Mayday,’ the voice repeated. The voice had a dull, dough-like accent.
‘Aircraft calling Kinloss, your Mayday acknowledged. Squawk seven-seven-zero-zero, pass details when ready.’ 7700 was the international distress shout that would alert everyone to the pilot’s difficulties.
‘RAF Kinloss, decline Squawk. Keep situation between ourselves, please. This is Russian military. We are Bear. We have major loss of hydraulics. Request straight-in landing.’
The announcement caused her to catch her breath. This wasn’t some idiot in a Cessna who’d got himself lost in cloud but a big, ugly Russian Bear. Old enmities die hard and the officers’ mess at Kinross was still full of bits that had fallen or been blown from some ancient Soviet warplane, and now she had the latest version, the whole thing. It was a chance for her to shine–and in front of the station commander. Even an experienced controller with the rank of flight lieutenant was allowed to enjoy a moment in thespotlight. She sipped at her tea; the meniscus gave an expectant shiver. ‘Roger, Mayday Russian Bear. This is RAF Kinloss. Pass your message.’
A silence, as though he were teasing, until: ‘Kinloss, this is Russian Bear. I say again. Major loss of hydraulics. We are one hundred sixty miles–I repeat, one-six-zero miles–north-east of your position. Descending.’
‘Mayday. Stand by.’
The station commander was hovering, trying not to interfere but inevitably drawn like a moth to this Russian flame. The controller didn’t need his advice–had she ever taken advice from any man on this station that hadn’t by the morning seemed limp and ridiculous?–but there was no harm in acknowledging the group captain’s presence. She turned and raised an eyebrow.
He bounced on his toes, as he did when concentrating, hands clasped behind his back. ‘What do you think, Flight Lieutenant? Shall we make it a bit of an exercise? Hold off on the D&D boys and see if we can handle it ourselves?’
She took his point. Distress & Diversion, along with a variety of other support services, would normally be brought in to assist with Maydays, but in a full-scale emergency–with the country under attack, for instance–they might not be available. In these circumstances Kinloss would be on its own, so she was being
It was possible that Wu had told too much, had revealed their plans, so Mao had insisted that those plans be brought forward. But we aren’t ready, Fu had argued. Neither are our enemies, Mao had replied, and we must give them no opportunity to prepare. It must be now! The generals wouldn’t care for it, when they were told, but once the plan succeeded they’d be scrambling over each other’s backs to grab a slice of the credit. It was about to start, the great adventure, the moment when China would stand tall once more, their enemies crushed like ripe fruit and their skins left for the birds.
Fu swatted at the mosquitoes hovering around his face. There was no time to waste. As the sullen-faced generals disappeared inside the compound, Fu quickened his pace. More ducks scattered in alarm, seeking the cover of the bulrushes. He smiled as he watched them. In just a few hours, there would be nowhere left for anyone to hide.
Late Thursday night. Moray, North-east Scotland.
‘Mayday. Mayday. Mayday.’
The air-traffic controller at RAF Kinloss on the north-east coast of Scotland sat up sharply. It was going to be one of those nights. The station commander was on the prowl, breathing down everyone’s necks, making one of his unannounced checks, and now this. There’d been an unidentified aircraft nudging into restricted airspace somewhere to the north and a couple of the new Eurofighter Typhoons from the Quick Reaction Alert force had already been scrambled, but the emergency signal dumped the matter directly into her lap. She tugged nervously at the sleeve of her blouse.
‘Mayday. Mayday. Mayday,’ the voice repeated. The voice had a dull, dough-like accent.
‘Aircraft calling Kinloss, your Mayday acknowledged. Squawk seven-seven-zero-zero, pass details when ready.’ 7700 was the international distress shout that would alert everyone to the pilot’s difficulties.
‘RAF Kinloss, decline Squawk. Keep situation between ourselves, please. This is Russian military. We are Bear. We have major loss of hydraulics. Request straight-in landing.’
The announcement caused her to catch her breath. This wasn’t some idiot in a Cessna who’d got himself lost in cloud but a big, ugly Russian Bear. Old enmities die hard and the officers’ mess at Kinross was still full of bits that had fallen or been blown from some ancient Soviet warplane, and now she had the latest version, the whole thing. It was a chance for her to shine–and in front of the station commander. Even an experienced controller with the rank of flight lieutenant was allowed to enjoy a moment in thespotlight. She sipped at her tea; the meniscus gave an expectant shiver. ‘Roger, Mayday Russian Bear. This is RAF Kinloss. Pass your message.’
A silence, as though he were teasing, until: ‘Kinloss, this is Russian Bear. I say again. Major loss of hydraulics. We are one hundred sixty miles–I repeat, one-six-zero miles–north-east of your position. Descending.’
‘Mayday. Stand by.’
The station commander was hovering, trying not to interfere but inevitably drawn like a moth to this Russian flame. The controller didn’t need his advice–had she ever taken advice from any man on this station that hadn’t by the morning seemed limp and ridiculous?–but there was no harm in acknowledging the group captain’s presence. She turned and raised an eyebrow.
He bounced on his toes, as he did when concentrating, hands clasped behind his back. ‘What do you think, Flight Lieutenant? Shall we make it a bit of an exercise? Hold off on the D&D boys and see if we can handle it ourselves?’
She took his point. Distress & Diversion, along with a variety of other support services, would normally be brought in to assist with Maydays, but in a full-scale emergency–with the country under attack, for instance–they might not be available. In these circumstances Kinloss would be on its own, so she was being
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