The pilot didn’t look convinced, and even Dawson, crouching down at the rear of the cockpit, appeared somewhat nervous.
Beleshayov continued his turn, rolling out on north. For the moment he ignored the Cessna and instead checked the F-16s. They were still in battle pair, about three thousand feet above him and turning right, clearly following him as he moved away from the Turkish coastline.
Beleshayov eased the throttles forward slightly, and the MiG-29 began accelerating. He wanted to convince the two Turkish pilots he was returning to base. Then he could execute a quick turn, take out the Cessna and head for home.
He checked his radar. As he’d hoped, the F-16s hadn’t accelerated to keep pace with him, but had continued turning, hopefully to head back to their base inside Turkey. The worst scenario would be for them to remain in their present location, flying a holding pattern, until he’d cleared the area completely.
He checked his radar again: the Cessna was some ten miles south, the F-16s six miles south-east. Beleshayov had just one chance to get it right. He throttled back the MiG-29 to an indicated airspeed of just over two hundred and fifty knots, and held the aircraft on a north-easterly heading while he began his combat preparations. it
The tactic he’d devised was a simple, one-shot option. He’d decided not to use his R-60M missiles against the Cessna, since the Aphid is a Mach 2 missile using an all-aspect infrared guidance system and with active laser proximity fusing, and Beleshayov doubted if the comparatively low heat emissions from the Cessna’s engines would be enough to guarantee a lock. But they would certainly come in handy if the Falcons did decide to join the party.
Instead, he was going to haul the MiG-29 round in a tight starboard turn, and then kick in the afterburners to close the distance to the Cessna in the shortest possible time. Once the target was within range of his cannon, he’d engage it and then head north, hopefully before the Turkish pilots could do anything to stop him.
‘Zero Six Eight. From command, situation report.’ The controller sounded irritated.
Beleshayov made a quick check of his navigation computer, then thumbed the transmit button. ‘Zero Six Eight is position north forty-two ten, east thirty-eight zero five, heading north-east at Flight Level two five zero and preparing to engage the target. Target bears one nine zero range fifteen, three thousand below. Two number Turkish foxtrot one six interceptors bearing one five zero range nine, three thousand above.’
As he finished this report, Beleshayov pulled the MiG-29 into a tight right-hand turn and eased the throttles forward. As the Fulcrum steadied on its new heading, the intercept controller responded. ‘Zero Six Eight. Roger. Stand by.’
What exactly was that supposed to mean? Beleshayov wondered as he checked the range of the Cessna. He didn’t want to be travelling too fast when he fired, because he had to be able to change direction quickly, before the pilots of the F-16s could react. The faster an aircraft is flying, the wider the radius of any turn. Beleshayov was planning on engaging full military power and getting the hell away from the area the moment he’d shot down the air ambulance, and that meant the tightest possible turn to the north-east.
His finger was actually resting on the firing button when the voice of the intercept controller sounded in his earphones.
‘Zero Six Eight. From command. Abort, abort, abort.’
Beleshayov instantly moved his finger, but he didn’t immediately alter course. ‘Confirm abort?’ he demanded.
‘Zero Six Eight. Abort confirmed. Break off and return to base immediately.’
‘Roger. Zero Six Eight is aborting.’
Beleshayov deselected the Master Arm switch and hauled the MiG-29 round to starboard, away from the two F-16s which had already left their holding pattern and were heading towards him. The moment the Fulcrum was established in the turn, he engaged the afterburners and waited for the kick as they cut in.
Seconds later, the MiG-29 punched through the sound barrier and began opening to the north at almost one thousand miles an hour. The F-16s followed him for nearly two hundred kilometres — Beleshayov watching them carefully on his radar — but the pilots made no move to intercept him. No doubt the Turks would file a protest with Moscow during the next few days, but that wouldn’t be his problem, since he had just been following orders.
As he headed back towards Primorsko, now sub-sonic to conserve fuel, Beleshayov reviewed his actions, and those of the intercept controller, and came to the conclusion that the Cessna must have been just too close to the Turkish coast. And, in truth, he was pleased. The idea of shooting down an unarmed aircraft was repugnant to him, no matter who or what the air ambulance had been carrying, and he was also keenly aware that, if he had completed the intercept, he would likely have been attacked in his turn by the two Turkish fighters, and might not have survived. All in all, it was a pretty satisfactory outcome.
A long way south, the three occupants of the Cessna looked down at the town of Tirebolu, on the Black Sea coast of Turkey, and experienced a similar sense of relief.
Chapter Ten
Paul Richter walked into the Al-Safir restaurant in the Sheraton and paused to look round. The huge picture windows offered a stunning view of the Arabian Gulf, and several tables were already occupied. He spotted Carole-Anne Jackson in the far corner, and walked over to join her.
‘Hullo again,’ he greeted her. ‘Where’s Bill?’
‘He’s gone to pick up Tariq.’ She smiled. ‘Is your room OK?’
Richter nodded. ‘Fine, thanks. I’m trying hard not to get used to this five-star living. I’ve got the reality of my normal life back in London to look forward to when this lot’s over.’
‘And that, I suppose, is not exactly fine dining at the Dorchester? That,’ she added, ‘is about the only hotel in London I’ve ever heard of.’
‘On my salary, I can’t afford to even buy a coffee in the Dorchester, far less eat there.’
‘It sounds like your salary scales are remarkably similar to ours. Where do you actually live?’
‘I’ve got a top-floor alleged mansion flat — really just a converted attic — in a pretty scruffy area called Stepney. Have you ever been to London?’
‘No… Well, yes, I did visit, but back when I was about sixteen. It was a typical American school-kids’ “do Britain in five days” trip. A day and a half in London — Westminster and the Tower of London, if I remember right. Then Stratford-upon-Avon and Edinburgh’ — Richter smiled slightly at her pronunciation — ‘and a bunch of other places. But I’m sure I’ve never been to Stepney.’
Richter glanced up to see Bill Evans approaching, accompanied by a short and stocky man with dark skin and a thick mop of black hair.
‘Hi, Paul,’ Evans began. ‘This is Tariq Mazen, one of our local colleagues. Tariq, this is Paul Richter, from London.’
The new arrivals sat down as a waiter approached, menus in hand. After they’d ordered, Evans leant forward confidentially. ‘Tariq is the man who brought us the report about the mystery patient in the hospital. I’ve already explained to him why you don’t think the sighting can be genuine.’
‘It might be,’ Richter conceded, ‘but it’s far more likely just a case of mistaken identity.’
Mazen nodded. ‘I agree,’ he said, ‘but we still had to check it out.’
‘One question,’ Richter asked. ‘Why did you come to us instead of the Americans? They’re the people most anxious to find this man, and they’re the ones offering the reward.’