“A ‘stealthy’ aircraft…?” Hawk-1’s weapons officer was apprehensive. Although both German, he’d participated in exercises against the USAF and had gained first hand experience of the dangers of coming up against stealthy aircraft in combat. “We were given guarantees there’d be no ‘contemporary’ opposition!”
“Shut up a moment!” The pilot snapped from the forward cockpit, trying to think. “Hawk-Three and –Four: mission is to protect Sentry at all costs. Hawk-Two and I will investigate the unidentified aircraft: give us a bearing, Sentry — we’ll intercept…over…”
“Escort detaiclass="underline" come about to three-zero-four for rendezvous heading. Hawk-One: initial bearing to unidentified target is two-seven-zero…over….”
“No problem, Sentry — two-seven-zero it is…Hawks out.” He switched frequencies. “Hawk-Two, the heading is two-seven-zero…let’s take it to ten thousand and go to reheat.”
As Hawk-Three and –Four peeled out of formation and turned onto a northerly heading, intending to meet up with the Sentry they were tasked to protect, the remaining pair of jets banked as one and turned due west toward the dark horizon. Raw jet fuel pumped into their exhausts as their afterburners kicked in and in moments both were at 10,000 metres and cruising effortlessly at nearly twice the speed of sound.
The impact tore the bottom out of the Spitfire and threw Trumbull hard against his harness, but the fuselage remained in one piece as the ruined fighter came finally to rest just short of the beach in a metre of water. As he climbed from the cockpit, shaken and disoriented but otherwise unharmed, he stepped gingerly onto the shattered engine cowling and took stock of his surroundings in the dying twilight. He’d come down off the Dorset coast somewhere west of Weymouth, and having some knowledge of the area through family holidays as a child, he suspected the section of beach he was looking at was most likely somewhere between Abbotsbury and Swyre.
The beach, which might’ve appeared inviting were it not for the lateness of the day and the icy wind that gusted about him, ran about forty metres up from the water to a narrow, asphalt road and dark, open fields beyond. Trumbull once again heard the roaring of that strange aircraft’s engine and turned to his right to catch sight of the jet as it banked slowly in across the coast from behind him, settling in above the lane bordering the beach at what seemed to be an impossibly low speed. Navigation lights blinked from its body and wingtips, but it was otherwise very difficult to see anything in great detail in the failing light.
Hatches drew back above and below the fuselage, directly behind the cockpit, and a powerful jet of ducted air suddenly blasted downward from the opening, matching the rear exhaust nozzle which at the same time rotated quickly through ninety degrees and added its thrust to the maelstrom beneath the aircraft.
Trumbull continued to watch, dumbstruck as the machine incredibly came to a complete halt and hovered over a small section of the road. Landing gear lowered from beneath its nose and belly and the beach was suddenly awash with stark, white illumination as landing lights came on from somewhere beneath it. The aircraft finally settled itself onto the surface of the road after a slow and somewhat awkward descent as debris, sand and vegetable matter sprayed up all around. As it finally came to rest, the deafening howl of the engine began to fall away to something that was merely painful and the landing lights flicked off again, just the red and green blinking of its wingtip navigation strobes remaining and allowing Trumbull to at least able to stare directly at the aircraft without almost being blinded.
Ignoring the coldness of the water as he jumped in to the depth of his thighs, Trumbull drew the Webley revolver at his belt and strode purposefully toward the new arrival, determined to find out what was going on. He trudged awkwardly across the beach and found himself quite out of breath by the time he’d reached the road, a few metres ahead of the aircraft’s nose. Even from that distance, he could feel the faint pull of suction from the gaping intakes behind the cockpit, and he didn’t want to think about what fate might befall anything unfortunate enough to be sucked inside.
The intensity of the rushing air abated somewhat as the main powerplant spooled down completely and left just a soft whining sound emanating from somewhere within the airframe, a small auxiliary turbine continuing to supply power to the jet and allow it to remain prepared for an engine restart. The bubble-like canopy tilted upward and forward on a large, hydraulic hinge and Trumbull noted that the two-seat cockpit held just one man in the forward seat. The pilot inside wore a large, bulky black helmet with a dark, reflective visor that appeared to cover his entire face above a small oxygen mask. As he rose in his seat, hands holding the left edge of the cockpit for support, the pilot flipped up the visor of the helmet and leaned his head out through the opening created by the raised canopy.
“G’day, mate…!” He yelled in a cheery Australian drawl over the dying howl of the engine. “Squadron Leader Trumbull, I presume?” The attempted lightness of the tone belied the adrenalin-laced nervousness behind it.
“And just who the bloody hell are you?” Trumbull demanded angrily in return, frustrated and feeling completely out of his depth as he waved the revolver loosely at the jet in a rather cavalier fashion. “…And what the bloody hell is this bloody monstrosity?”
“Squadron Leader, there are a hell of a lot of things you won’t understand at this point…” Max Thorne yelled back, never losing his good humour but letting an authoritative tone creep into his voice all the same. “When we’ve more time I’ll be happy to explain everything to you, but right now time is something that we really don’t have.” Thorne turned and reached around behind his seat before throwing down a narrow rope ladder that hooked onto the side of the cockpit. “If you’ll just get yourself up here, we have to be going.”
“There is not a chance in Hades I’m getting in to that contraption!” Trumbull snapped back nervously, not getting any happier about the situation and more than a little bit unsettled by the idea.
“Mate…” Thorne began, the quickly changing tone suggesting the RAF pilot was anything but. “In no time at all, some really nasty pricks are probably going to come sniffing around looking for me and I’d much prefer not to be around when they turn up. I sure as shit don’t want to be stuck on the bloody ground when they turn up! Now I can take off with you or without you, but I am taking off again in about thirty bloody seconds.” His patience eroded by stress and the need for haste, Thorne decided that the genial approach wasn’t working. “…You can either get your Pommy arse up here with me and get a lift to somewhere warm and safe or you can bloody-well freeze it off right here: either way, I’m leaving! Your choice, mate…the clock’s ticking!”
Completely unused to being spoken to in such a manner, particularly by a colonial, Trumbull’s initial reaction was to return the full broadside of his temper, but something in the intensity of the glare Thorne gave him changed his mind. There was a darkness behind those eyes that suggested there were far bigger things afoot than Trumbull’s current situation or displeasure, and instinct suddenly told him it’d be in his best interests to bite back on his anger and comply. With a single, sour nod and not a word, Trumbull holstered his Webley and jogged quickly to the dangling ladder. With a gulp of swallowed nerves, he put one foot on the lowest ‘rung’ and accepted Thorne’s reaching hand of assistance as he hauled himself up.