Trumbull moved slowly around into Thorne’s field of vision to provide himself a clearer view of the performance, but it mattered little as the man’s eyes were closed tight and his head lay tilted slightly to one side as the unmistakable note progressions transported Thorne’s mind away to a time and place far from his present location. The faint smile and complete relaxation showing on the Australian’s face was quite a different look to that which Trumbull had become more accustomed to seeing of the man over the last two days. It was clear that Thorne loved what he was doing with a passion that moved beyond mere technical ability, and although he missed the occasional note here and there through lack of practice, it was clear that he was quite skilled with the instrument.
Making as little noise as possible and not wanting to disrupt the performance for a moment, Trumbull slid into a seat on the opposite side of the circle of armchairs. The tune Thorne played was mesmerising…like nothing he’d ever heard before…and yet it was also entirely different to the other pieces of ‘so-called’ music he’d heard playing on Thorne and Lloyd’s iPods previously. He’d wanted to speak to Thorne about what they’d discussed earlier that day but seeing this completely unexpected side of the man was so incredibly interesting, and he was happy to wait and continue listening.
After just sixty seconds of playing that seemed beautifully longer to Trumbull, the music came slowly to a end and with a final, flourishing strum of the strings, Thorne’s eyes opened and his peaceful smile instantly became a slightly embarrassed expression as he pulled back slightly in surprise at finding the pilot watching him.
“Bloody hell…!” He exclaimed with a start, immediately going quite red as he realised Trumbull had been watching him the whole time. “Ever heard of knocking? You’re like a bloody ninja! We need a friggin’ bell around your neck!”’
“Sorry, Old Man…” Trumbull ventured apologetically. “Didn’t mean to pry…”
“Nah, it’s all good,” Thorne lightened up, waving a dismissive hand and giving a grin as the crimson began to fade from his cheeks. “Just gave me a bloody start, that’s all.”
“That music was amazing…you play beautifully!”
“Ahh, I’m not that crash hot…I just do what I do and enjoy it. Just having a break for an hour or so and taking the opportunity to clear my head a bit.”
“I suspect you’ve had a rather tiring day, Max,” Trumbull observed kindly, smiling. “Difficulties of command, perhaps…?”
“Yeah, you might say that,” Thorne nodded slowly, placing the guitar gently on the seat beside him to his right and stretching as he adjusted his seating position. He stared out through the windows and noted that the sun was now quite low on the horizon, shadows lengthening almost to infinity. “Were you looking for me in particular?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact I was,” Trumbull admitted with a smile. “I wanted to speak to you about what we discussed earlier…”
Evan Lloyd was within five minutes of finishing his shift on duty as the beeping alert signal rose from the control unit of the BRT. At first he’d hoped — in vain — that it might simply be an RAF patrol flight or some such that the equipment had incorrectly determined as threatening, however it took just a second or two to determine it was nothing of the sort. The radar had detected an aircraft approaching from the north at extremely high speed, and as Lloyd checked the contact’s information in more detail he came up with some unpleasant figures. It was flying at very low level and at supersonic speed, and had only been detected at a range of forty kilometres or so. Its low altitude and direction of approach meant the main islands of the Orkneys had masked a large part of its approach, and Lloyd’s rough calculations suggested they had less than two minutes before its course would take it directly over Scapa Flow.
“Christ on a fuckin’ bike!” He hissed in vehement surprise and jammed his finger against the nearby switch for the air raid sirens while grabbing for the speaker/microphone clipped at his left collar that was attached to the radio transceiver at his belt.
The conversation Thorne and Trumbull were about begin was cut off quite abruptly as the unnatural wail of air-raid sirens rose all over the base. A radio similar to Lloyd’s lay on the seat to Thorne’s left, and it burst into life a moment later.
“Tower here for Thorne…” Lloyd’s voice crackled from the speaker/mike as Thorne reached for it.
“This is Max, Evan…” the Australian replied, instantly recognising the voice and the urgent tone. “Talk to me…”
“We’ve got a single bogie heading in from due north at better than Mach-one, staying right on the deck all the way.”
“Shit!” Thorne swore, then asked: “Range and ETA?”
“Around thirty klicks out and closing fast — no more than ninety seconds at current speed.”
“Got that, Evan — make sure the Tunguskas are ‘linked and sync’ed’ and pass on the details to the conventional air defence units as well — they’ll need to know, even if they won’t be much use. Get yourself to a trench as soon as you can, mate — we don’t need any heroes today!” He turned to Trumbull as the radio went dead, snarling: “That means us too! We’ve got about sixty seconds to find some cover.”
Both men were bolting for the door in a moment, Thorne ahead by a second or two. Even as they burst from the building and headed for the nearest slit trench, it seemed to Thorne they were already too late. Men were running about everywhere, manning AA guns or diving for cover as were they, but all Thorne could think about were the four aircraft parked out on their hardstands. There was no way they had enough time to protect them, and the loss of any of those planes would damage the Hindsight Unit immensely.
As they dropped into the nearest trench, Thorne caught sight of the nearby Tunguska air defence vehicle behind the main buildings and hangars, squatting in the recessed emplacement atop of its mound of earthworks. Its turret was rotating to point northward under guidance from the main radar unit, patiently awaiting any target within range. All any of them could do now was to wait and see.
The pilot and weapons officer of Hawk-3 were little more than passengers as the black Sukhoi’s automated navigational systems took them through a pre-planned flight path at Mach 1.1, just 100 metres above the surface of the earth. That type of low-level penetration mission, whether carrying weapons or the reconnaissance pod that was slung beneath the aircraft’s belly at that moment, was exactly the type of operation for which the Su-30 multi-role fighter had been developed and exactly what its avionics and software had been designed for.
Terrain following radar (TFR) kept the Flanker at a set height above the water as they’d hurtled on across the empty expanses of the North Sea at faster than the speed of sound, coming in from the east before finally turning southward and trailing a thundering sonic boom across the northern islands of the Orkney chain. Intelligence gathered by Kriegsmarine maritime patrol aircraft prior to the war meant the crew already knew what areas of the base needed to be investigated and therefore, barring any unforeseen circumstances, there’d theoretically be no reason for them to deviate from the pre-programmed flight-plan at all.
“They can see us now…” Weapons Officer Hauser observed. “ELINT is picking up emissions from a NATO-type search system strong enough to return a signal. Distance to target less than thirty kilometres now.”