given a chance to try it out, to stretch herwings, and she enjoyed that. When she came back on air, her voice had lost its tight, formal edge and reached out with greater confidence. ‘Russian Bear, you are cleared. Straight in Runway Two Six. Report ready to copy weather.’
The voice repeated the instructions, still dull and as heavy as an uncooked pudding, very Russian.
‘Surface wind two-five-zero,’ the controller said. ‘Twenty-three knots. Visibility six miles. Cloud broken two thousand five hundred feet. QNH on one-zero-one-seven.’
The voice copied the information.
‘Russian Bear, this is Kinloss. Do you request radar assistance?’
‘Kinloss, Russian Bear. No. Thank you. We know where you are. And we see you have sent two of your flying traffic policemen to show us the way. We will be with you soon.’
‘Russian Bear, this is Kinloss. Glad to hear it. We’ll put the kettle on for you.’
‘Kinloss, Russian Bear. Thank you. Just a few thousand feet of runway, that is all we need. But tea would be very good, too.’
The controller turned to her station commander. Funny that he’d been here, just at this touchy moment, she thought. ‘English breakfast with a nip of vodka it is, sir.’
He glanced at his watch. ‘Then you’d better hurry, they’ll be here in twenty minutes.’
‘I’ll alert the ground emergency services, of course, just in case, sir.’
‘And I suggest you tuck our Russian friends away quietly in one of the hangars. They’ll want to lick their wounds and repair their hydraulics in private.’
‘We let them do just that, sir?’
‘This is a diplomatic situation, not a military one, Flight Lieutenant. We give them whatever assistance they need, then get rid of them.’
‘Yes, sir,’ she replied, an edge of deflation creeping into her voice. No medals, then. No souvenirs for the mess.
‘You did well, Jayne.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ She brightened, utterly unaware of the part she’d taken in a dance of shadows. The station commander’s presence was no coincidence, his orders had come straight from the air marshal in Whitehall. No discussion, no explanation, in fact he had almost as little idea of what was going on as the flight lieutenant, but station commanders tucked up here on the Moray Firth had to be adaptable. During World War Two one of his predecessors had found food supplies so hard to come by that he’d dropped a bomb into Burghead Bay to stun the fish. Nobody had asked too many questions, they’d just got on with it. Now he had been asked to give sanctuary to the crew of a Russian bomber until Sunday–and that’s precisely how long he’d been told they would need to fix their problem. Sunday. The air marshal was a most gifted man but even he couldn’tknow how long it would take to fix a Russian leak, which meant that hydraulics weren’t the problem at all. What the real problem was, the station commander hadn’t any idea, and neither, perhaps, had the air marshal. Oh, and the station commander was also asked to lend the Russian crew his private car. That’s what had kept him bouncing on his toes the entire evening.
He was still wrestling with his thoughts when the Bear landed, its four huge engines trailing smoke. Once it had taxied safely to a halt the emergency services were stood down as the follow-me vehicle led the lumbering bomber to its haven in a hangar that would normally house one of the RAF’s Nimrod MR2 reconnaissance planes. The Bear and all those on board would be secluded there, for as long as they needed.
It was only once he had seen the Russian bomber safely tucked away that the station commander returned to his quarters. He glanced at his watch; he was five minutes behind schedule, but that wasn’t bad, given the circumstances. He picked up a secure phone, dialled a number, and as soon as it was answered said only one word.
‘Bingo.’
That was the agreed signal, a word opaque enough to confuse anyone trying to listen in.
The voice repeated the instructions, still dull and as heavy as an uncooked pudding, very Russian.
‘Surface wind two-five-zero,’ the controller said. ‘Twenty-three knots. Visibility six miles. Cloud broken two thousand five hundred feet. QNH on one-zero-one-seven.’
The voice copied the information.
‘Russian Bear, this is Kinloss. Do you request radar assistance?’
‘Kinloss, Russian Bear. No. Thank you. We know where you are. And we see you have sent two of your flying traffic policemen to show us the way. We will be with you soon.’
‘Russian Bear, this is Kinloss. Glad to hear it. We’ll put the kettle on for you.’
‘Kinloss, Russian Bear. Thank you. Just a few thousand feet of runway, that is all we need. But tea would be very good, too.’
The controller turned to her station commander. Funny that he’d been here, just at this touchy moment, she thought. ‘English breakfast with a nip of vodka it is, sir.’
He glanced at his watch. ‘Then you’d better hurry, they’ll be here in twenty minutes.’
‘I’ll alert the ground emergency services, of course, just in case, sir.’
‘And I suggest you tuck our Russian friends away quietly in one of the hangars. They’ll want to lick their wounds and repair their hydraulics in private.’
‘We let them do just that, sir?’
‘This is a diplomatic situation, not a military one, Flight Lieutenant. We give them whatever assistance they need, then get rid of them.’
‘Yes, sir,’ she replied, an edge of deflation creeping into her voice. No medals, then. No souvenirs for the mess.
‘You did well, Jayne.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ She brightened, utterly unaware of the part she’d taken in a dance of shadows. The station commander’s presence was no coincidence, his orders had come straight from the air marshal in Whitehall. No discussion, no explanation, in fact he had almost as little idea of what was going on as the flight lieutenant, but station commanders tucked up here on the Moray Firth had to be adaptable. During World War Two one of his predecessors had found food supplies so hard to come by that he’d dropped a bomb into Burghead Bay to stun the fish. Nobody had asked too many questions, they’d just got on with it. Now he had been asked to give sanctuary to the crew of a Russian bomber until Sunday–and that’s precisely how long he’d been told they would need to fix their problem. Sunday. The air marshal was a most gifted man but even he couldn’tknow how long it would take to fix a Russian leak, which meant that hydraulics weren’t the problem at all. What the real problem was, the station commander hadn’t any idea, and neither, perhaps, had the air marshal. Oh, and the station commander was also asked to lend the Russian crew his private car. That’s what had kept him bouncing on his toes the entire evening.
He was still wrestling with his thoughts when the Bear landed, its four huge engines trailing smoke. Once it had taxied safely to a halt the emergency services were stood down as the follow-me vehicle led the lumbering bomber to its haven in a hangar that would normally house one of the RAF’s Nimrod MR2 reconnaissance planes. The Bear and all those on board would be secluded there, for as long as they needed.
It was only once he had seen the Russian bomber safely tucked away that the station commander returned to his quarters. He glanced at his watch; he was five minutes behind schedule, but that wasn’t bad, given the circumstances. He picked up a secure phone, dialled a number, and as soon as it was answered said only one word.
‘Bingo.’
That was the agreed signal, a word opaque enough to confuse anyone trying to listen in.
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