“Not too many places to land on that coast up there that aren’t cliffs — and I was out that way most of the night: would’ve been hard for anyone to get past me. If it proves to be the latter?” Kransky’s question was as dark as the preceding statement in tone and intent. He could see the alternatives as well as the CO and liked them as little. Thorne’s eyes locked with his, the expression leaving him with no doubt as to the coming answer.
“If it is the latter, the fucker lives just long enough to give us whatever information we need.” The Australian removed his flying gloves finally and warmed his hands before the stove. “Keep your radio with you at all times… I could need you at a moment’s notice, day or night. I’ll leave the necessary security issues to you… you know what needs to be done.”
Kransky nodded solemnly. “I’ll have guards posted in pairs at each unit — the chance of both being infiltrators — if that’s what we’re looking for — is that much less. I’ll also contact MI5 and have them run deeper checks into the backgrounds of all of the personnel they’ve sent up here — maybe we can find something if we look hard enough.”
“That’ll take a bloody long time, but we don’t have much choice…” Thorne mused, calming down. “With no bloody computers to do the work, I suppose there’s not much to be done about that.”
“Why now, though? Why now, and why like that?”
“That was a probing attack. They could — and would — have sent a damn site more aircraft than that if they’d wanted to take us out properly… and the bloody attack worked to all intents and purposes, even though they didn’t drop a single sodding bomb! We need those fucking fighters Dowding’s been promising us and we need them now — we have to have a constant air patrol running during daylight hours at the very least…” Lifting the handset of a phone sitting on his desk, he dialled a three digit extension and waited for the other end to answer.
“Nick? It’s Max here. I need you to get onto London immediately and tell them we’re coming down to see the Prime Minister!” There was a pause as he listened to Alpert’s quick reply. “I don’t give a flying fuck how busy Winston is… tell them there’s a meeting on at Whitehall tomorrow evening, and that’s not a request!” He hung up immediately, his tone leaving no mistaking that he expected his orders to be followed implicitly as Jack Davies poked his head through the open doorway, grinning broadly.
“Thought I might find you here, boy…!” He stated loudly, still charged on the adrenalin of combat. “Bit early to celebrate in proper fashion with some booze, but now you’re an ace and all, I think I should ‘buy’ you some breakfast down at the mess hall?”
“Err… thanks all the same, Jack, but I might give that a miss actually.” The thought of greasy mess food definitely held little appeal for Thorne’s queasy stomach. “Not really hungry, and kinda busy here in any case…”
“Suit yourself,” the American shrugged, waving his farewell and disappearing again just as quickly before the others could speak.
Davies was met by Eileen a few moments later as he made his way to the mess hall, the commander forced to jog a little to catch up with him. He nodded his greeting as they drew close and he turned to wait for her.
“Mornin’, ma’am…” he volunteered cheerily as he raised a hand to an imaginary hat, still quite buoyed by his morning’s work.
“Aye, good morning to you too, Jack,” she returned dubiously, casting a frowning glance around as if concerned someone might overhear. “You notice anything wrong with Max this morning?”
Davies shrugged. “Not really — a little tired maybe, but he’s got a lot on his plate… I wouldn’t begrudge the man that!”
“Mmm… maybe…” she mused softly.
“Why… there a problem…?”
“Oh, it’s nothin’ really…” the female commander shook her head slowly as they continued to walk. “He just looked a bit bloody shaky getting that bugger off the ground this morning.”
“Aw hell, Eileen, he’s never been that good in the Lightning if you ask me.” The Texan’s bravado and good-natured deriding of Thorne’s flying capabilities had become second nature to all in their little unit, and the source of some amusement at other times.
“No, I’m serious, Jack…” she said sternly, frowning again. “I’ve never seen him have so much trouble getting’ the F-35 airborne before… from the angle I was on it looked like he almost hit a fuel tanker as he took off…” Her intent gaze searched the American’s eyes for any hint of agreement but found nothing, and in the end she simply shrugged and pushed the incident as far out of her consciousness as she could. “No matter — probably nothing…” but the strange feeling of unease wouldn’t go away.
Later that morning, Kransky stood atop the roof of the gun emplacement at Rora Head accompanied by Captain Merrill, another member of his security team, and a pair of guards armed with Thomson submachine guns. It was clear that a man might well remain unseen by the ventilation stack from where normal guards were stationed below. He’d seen for himself how relaxed the temperament had been that morning, and it would’ve been no great effort for someone with appropriate training and nerve to sneak past them before dawn. He cursed inwardly, more annoyed with himself than the guards: he’d also been there at the moment that radar set had ceased functioning, watching from near the summit of the rise behind the emplacement, and he too had seen nothing. If there had been an infiltrator or saboteur, he was as much to blame as any… perhaps more to blame after all, for if he’d actually gone down and taken the guards to task for their inattentiveness, he might’ve detected something awry.
The first technician on the scene after the ‘all clear’ had been Eileen and she was still present, speaking to some of the gun crew who’d come on duty around the same time the system had crashed that morning. Kransky gave her a stare that was far more than a passing glance, and it hadn’t been the first of those he’d aimed in her direction over the last month. The morning was warmer now, and she wore just a light, woollen skivvy of pale blue over a T-shirt and jeans that were a little too snug-fitting to be either modest or unflattering. The informality of Hindsight and the fact that the members of the officer corps were all quite recognisable meant that they wore civilian clothing rather than issue uniforms a lot of the time.
He liked Eileen Donelson — truth be told, he liked her a lot. They’d cemented their growing friendship over the passing weeks, and although even Kransky might’ve recognised the clichéd nature of the phrase ‘if things had been different’, he would certainly have been interested in seeing that friendship go further if ‘things’ were. There were any number of arguments however that suggested he refrain from making any move in that direction.
To begin with, he was loath to get involved with anyone when business was a factor as was the case here: there was a coarse phrase he’d heard Thorne use once that spoke of ‘shitting on one’s own doorstep’, and it covered the problems involved in the potential situation as well as any. There was also the issue of impermanence — there was no telling how long the inaction around them would last, and as he’d told Thorne, he didn’t want any unnecessary complications when he did actually return to the field.