your honor later on in the squadron bar. Am I invited?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Good. I’ll see you later.”
“Yes, sir. May I ask where this new unit is to be based?”
“Scotland.”
“Scotland?
My God—at this time of year?”
“It’s not exactly the Arctic, Bagni.”
“No, sir. But it might as well be. My blood belongs to the Mediterranean.”
“Your blood belongs wherever the AMI sends you. Besides, the actual posting won’t come through for several months yet. They’re still building the base, apparently.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Bagni …”
“Sir?”
“Not a word to anyone. As far as you’re concerned, the subject is classified.”
“Tenente Baldassare was with me when Magliano brought the message.”
“If he wants to know why I sent for you, I’m sure you can give him a suitable answer.”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right, Nico. That’s all. See you in the bar.And by the way—” Croce leaned forward across his desk. “That was truly magnificent flying today. Your personal score on the board is now two Phantoms, two Jaguars and now, the Eagle. Impressive trophies.”
Bagni smiled briefly, nodded, and went out.
A full hour after he had left Tenente Colonello Croce, Bagni still sat in his room at the Mess, facing the wall. The day had been mild, but in winter darkness came early. He had not turned on the lights.
He stared at the unseen wall, hands gripping the sides of the chair as his terror during the landing was at last allowed to surface. There had been other rooms, and other chairs.
After a while he sighed deeply, left the chair, and turned on the lights. Then he began to prepare himself for the night’s revelry in the squadron bar. He stared at the face in the mirror, and paused in the act of brushing back the dark curls of his hair.
It was a Roman face with a high forehead, strong planes and a proud nose. His dark brown eyes were lustrous in the reflected light. He was not a big man. At five inches under six feet, his body was compact and seemed just right for the small Starfighter cockpit. Yet there was an elegance about him that belonged to a much taller man. Seen together with Baldassare, it would be easy to mistake them for brothers, for they had the same unhurried manner.
Bagni frowned at his image in the mirror. Hehad forgotten to ask the Colonello about making Baldassare his permanent wingman. Given the news about the posting to the special squadron, it probably didn’t matter now.
He rubbed his face with his hands. A new aircraft to get used to and someone else to think about as well, in a back seat. It was bad enough to have an unquenchable terror of smearing himself all over the runway, without being responsible for another man’s life as well.
He stared at the reflection. “Tell the Colonnello,” he said to the face before him. “Tell him you won’t do it. Tell him why.”
He could just imagine Croce’s reaction to that admission. He sighed. As with all past occasions when the matter came to haunt him, he knew he had an even greater terror: that of being grounded.
A shiver went through him, like the shedding of a skin. The persona of “El Greco,” dogfighting artist, was back. He shut the door to the room on his terror, and went to meet his waiting colleagues.
In Schleswig Holstein, it was 1300 hours. Half an hour before, Axel von Hohendorf, leader of a pair of Tornadoes, had swept along the main runway to go into a classic fighter break before landing. The second aircraft was again crewed by Beuren and Flacht. Their day’s mission had been a series of attacks on simulated dense concentrations of coastal surface-to-air missile batteries, with Beuren’s aircraft impersonatingan electronic combat and reconnaisance Tornado. Hohendorf had been detailed to attack the SAM sites after Beuren’s ECR Tornado had first cleared the fire control radars.
The attacks had been successful, with Hohendorf taking his aircraft ultra-low along the designated
“Of course, sir.”
“Good. I’ll see you later.”
“Yes, sir. May I ask where this new unit is to be based?”
“Scotland.”
“Scotland?
My God—at this time of year?”
“It’s not exactly the Arctic, Bagni.”
“No, sir. But it might as well be. My blood belongs to the Mediterranean.”
“Your blood belongs wherever the AMI sends you. Besides, the actual posting won’t come through for several months yet. They’re still building the base, apparently.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Bagni …”
“Sir?”
“Not a word to anyone. As far as you’re concerned, the subject is classified.”
“Tenente Baldassare was with me when Magliano brought the message.”
“If he wants to know why I sent for you, I’m sure you can give him a suitable answer.”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right, Nico. That’s all. See you in the bar.And by the way—” Croce leaned forward across his desk. “That was truly magnificent flying today. Your personal score on the board is now two Phantoms, two Jaguars and now, the Eagle. Impressive trophies.”
Bagni smiled briefly, nodded, and went out.
A full hour after he had left Tenente Colonello Croce, Bagni still sat in his room at the Mess, facing the wall. The day had been mild, but in winter darkness came early. He had not turned on the lights.
He stared at the unseen wall, hands gripping the sides of the chair as his terror during the landing was at last allowed to surface. There had been other rooms, and other chairs.
After a while he sighed deeply, left the chair, and turned on the lights. Then he began to prepare himself for the night’s revelry in the squadron bar. He stared at the face in the mirror, and paused in the act of brushing back the dark curls of his hair.
It was a Roman face with a high forehead, strong planes and a proud nose. His dark brown eyes were lustrous in the reflected light. He was not a big man. At five inches under six feet, his body was compact and seemed just right for the small Starfighter cockpit. Yet there was an elegance about him that belonged to a much taller man. Seen together with Baldassare, it would be easy to mistake them for brothers, for they had the same unhurried manner.
Bagni frowned at his image in the mirror. Hehad forgotten to ask the Colonello about making Baldassare his permanent wingman. Given the news about the posting to the special squadron, it probably didn’t matter now.
He rubbed his face with his hands. A new aircraft to get used to and someone else to think about as well, in a back seat. It was bad enough to have an unquenchable terror of smearing himself all over the runway, without being responsible for another man’s life as well.
He stared at the reflection. “Tell the Colonnello,” he said to the face before him. “Tell him you won’t do it. Tell him why.”
He could just imagine Croce’s reaction to that admission. He sighed. As with all past occasions when the matter came to haunt him, he knew he had an even greater terror: that of being grounded.
A shiver went through him, like the shedding of a skin. The persona of “El Greco,” dogfighting artist, was back. He shut the door to the room on his terror, and went to meet his waiting colleagues.
In Schleswig Holstein, it was 1300 hours. Half an hour before, Axel von Hohendorf, leader of a pair of Tornadoes, had swept along the main runway to go into a classic fighter break before landing. The second aircraft was again crewed by Beuren and Flacht. Their day’s mission had been a series of attacks on simulated dense concentrations of coastal surface-to-air missile batteries, with Beuren’s aircraft impersonatingan electronic combat and reconnaisance Tornado. Hohendorf had been detailed to attack the SAM sites after Beuren’s ECR Tornado had first cleared the fire control radars.
The attacks had been successful, with Hohendorf taking his aircraft ultra-low along the designated
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