“Good to see you, Maxwell,” one of the group clustered there ventured. The man appeared to be in his late forties and wore the red tabs and rank of an army brigadier. Neither man saluted; they embraced instead, and Trumbull could’ve sworn for a moment that he caught the glint of tears in the officer’s eyes. “I was scared you weren’t going to make it for a while there…”
“No chance of that, mate,” Thorne reassured, not quite as solemn but also sensing the magnitude of what they’d accomplished. “Only this morning, remember?”
“It’s been a year for me!” The brigadier exclaimed as they parted fully and he grasped the Australian’s shoulders at full arms’ length. “…A whole bloody year!”
“A lot longer than that for both of us, I reckon,” Thorne observed sombrely…thinking that for him it really had only been that morning they’d seen each other last. “Better get onto the LDV too, by the way…the crew of one of those Flankers managed to eject and they’ll be wandering about the Dorset countryside right now up to all sorts of shit. I want those arseholes caught ASAP and brought up here for interrogation: who knows what they might be able to tell us!”
“Bluddy ‘ell…!” The remark came from beside Trumbull as the two NCOs who’d pushed up the steps regarded the jet before them with awe. “Beggin’ your pardon, sir…” the sergeant added as he realised the squadron leader was watching them.
“That’s quite all right, sergeant,” Trumbull reassured with dry sarcasm, clapping his arms about himself at the wind that whipped about the airfield on that cold, coastal night. “That’s just what I thought!” He gave a bemused smile, repeating silently to himself: yes, that’s just what I thought!
A second later, he realised that Thorne and the officer were now walking off together across the concrete taxiway, heading toward a control tower that stood a few hundred metres away. He darted forward in order to catch up, joining step with them a metre or two behind.
“How’re we going for time?” Thorne inquired as they walked. “With all the extra carry on I’ve been a good deal longer than expected.”
“Somewhat, yes…” the other man nodded, consulting a wristwatch. “We’ve about twenty minutes, I’d say…enough time to get to the tower and have a grand seat.”
“Excellent!” Thorne stated emphatically, and the RAF pilot could hear the anticipation in the Australian’s voice. “The Raptor should be able to cope in the unlikely event anything else unpleasant turns up. I’d hoped to get back with enough time spare to top up my tanks and be up again to escort them in…” he threw a cocked thumb back at Trumbull “…but ‘Muggins’ here buggered all that up…” Which returned attention to the squadron leader as they walked on. “Nick, this is Alec Trumbull — Squadron Leader Trumbull, may I introduce Nicholas Alpert — brigadier, it appears.” He gestured to the tower they were approaching. “If you’ll bear with us we’ve some important things to prepare for and we’re on a tight schedule. You’re welcome to tag along, but we won’t be able to answer any questions until we’re done. Okay?”
“I can wait, I suppose…” Trumbull replied dubiously, noting the honesty in Thorne’s tone. He could wait…for a little longer.
The tower rose a good twenty metres above the ground and the stairs to the top were a fair climb at any pace, leaving all three men breathing heavily. The platform itself was large and well set up — fully glassed and enclosed from the elements — while a pot-bellied stove crackled in one corner providing a little heat. Even in summer, Trumbull had no doubt it might get quite cold at night in such an exposed position, particularly near an ocean so close to the Arctic Circle.
“Only about five or six minutes now, I’d say…” Alpert advised as they stood in the tower, staring out at the long, well-lit runway “…if they’re on time…”
“Yeah, well they’d better fuckin’-well turn up on time!” Thorne growled, tension now also starting to show on his face. “You lot displaced ten minutes before I did!”
“…And they certainly jumped okay again after I bailed out,” Alpert stated, trying to reassure them both. “Lit up the sky like Blackpool on a Saturday bloody night…they’ll be here.”
“What on earth’s going on here, if I may ask, sir?” Trumbull finally ventured softly beside Thorne as they waited, able to remain silent no longer. Although he’d not yet ascertained the Australian’s rank, there was no doubt in his mind the Australian was in charge judging by his interaction with the officer they’d just met.
“Just watch, mate,” Thorne grinned back, anticipation of the reaction he knew he’d get from Trumbull overcoming his nerves and fears for a moment. “All will become clear in a few minutes…” he chuckled a little to himself, then again added rather unhelpfully, as seemed to be his wont: “…well, clearer than they are now, anyway.”
“Well it doesn’t take a genius to work out we’re waiting on an aircraft of some sort.” Trumbull replied, only a little miffed, and that more at the realisation the Australian was having fun at his expense rather than any lack of explanation.
“We’re having a few friends drop in…”
“I can hardly wait…” Trumbull retorted dryly, but was prevented from saying anything more by the flash.
It was a brilliant burst of illumination far off above the horizon that momentarily lit up the anchorage and islands all around for great distances off to the north-west. As the sky returned to darkness once more, several tiny sets of lights were now visible where it had been, and although no larger than pinpricks they were obviously quite powerful. Setting the frequency of the main radio set into a console facing the runway, Alpert lifted a large microphone to his lips and keyed ‘transmit’.
“Icebreaker calling Phoenix Flight: come in please… over.”
“Icebreaker, this is Phoenix Flight reading you loud and clear.” The reply brought visible sighs of relief from Thorne and Alpert. “Phoenix-Two and –Three are status A-Okay and ready for landing. Is the area secure…over?” Trumbull found it intriguing that the voice appeared to be that of an American, considering the United States weren’t even at war…
Canadians, he reasoned logically in an instant, obviously Canadians rather than Americans! Trumbull’s experience with Americans wasn’t broad enough for him to pick that the voice had carried a distinctly Texan tinge that placed its owner’s origins a long way from Canada.
“The area is secure, Phoenix-One.” Alpert replied. “Harbinger was required to see off some uninvited guests earlier but everything’s fine now…over.”
“Doing my job for me, Max?”
“Someone has to make sure it’s done properly, Jack!” Thorne laughed, taking the mike from Alpert. “Don’t worry, mate: there’s still a few ‘nasties’ left out there for you.”