Jon Stock - Games Traitors Play

Marchant was bluffing now, but he was confident that Shushma hadn’t been with Spiro for long in Madurai, that it had just been a ruse by Fielding to get him into the right mental place. And Lakshmi wouldn’t have allowed any harm to come to Shushma, he was sure of that. Despite everything, he realised how much he had come to trust her.

‘So you lied to me about my mother too,’ Dhar said.

‘I had no choice. Unlike you. What is our exact target? Why the dirty bomb, the air-to-air missiles?’

‘Do you know why I agreed to bring you along today?’

‘Tell me.’

‘Because I discovered that Fairford is close to Tarlton, where our father lived, where you grew up with your other brother. I wanted you to show me the village as we flew over, point out the house. It is 18.5 kilometres due west of the airfield.’

Marchant was taken aback by the way Dhar’s mind worked. Everything was thought out, had a reason. For a moment, his task seemed hopeless, but he had to turn around the jihadi juggernaut.

‘I can still show you. Tarlton’s a beautiful place. We used to play in the orchard, Sebbie and me, throw apples into the long grass behind our father’s back, pretend the rustling sound was approaching tigers. He was always fooled — at least, he said he was. Do you know what his wishes were? Why he asked Primakov to bring you and me together? He wanted you to work for MI6. He didn’t expect you to change your views on America — he shared many of them himself, as I do. It’s what unites all three of us. He just hoped to explore some common ground. Find out what each side wants from the other. We need a back channel into the global jihad , just as you need one with the West. It’s what our father most wanted, Salim.’

After another long pause, Dhar eventually spoke. ‘I’ll be of no use to anybody if I don’t go through with this today. The jihadi who almost shot the US President, who almost — ’

‘Almost what? Tell me the precise target.’

But before Dhar could speak, a deafening noise above the cockpit made Marchant duck. He turned around and saw a jet fighter disappearing into the distance.

‘What the hell was that?’ Marchant asked.

‘Another SU-25. From the Georgian air force. And only thirty seconds late. Inshallah , our time has come.’

The Aerospace Battle Manager on duty at RAF Boulmer had been tracking the solitary Russian jet for some time now, ever since the Finns and Noggies had flagged up a warning. It was heading from the north-east directly towards the UK’s ADIZ at 600 mph, and was running out of time to alter course. In a few minutes it would be flying over the Humber estuary. Of equal interest was another trace heading towards the coast in exactly the opposite direction. He had run a check on its assigned squawk transponder code, and it appeared to be an authorised aircraft flying out of the Royal International Air Tattoo at Fairford. It was north of its permitted flyzone, but what concerned him more was that it was on a near-collision course with the incoming jet.

He had been off-duty when his colleague had cocked up over the MiG-35s, but everyone at RAF Boulmer had been dragged over the coals afterwards. So he didn’t hesitate to call up Air Command at High Wycombe and recommend that two Typhoons be scrambled from RAF Coningsby to intercept, identify and report. Their reaction made him break out into a cold sweat. There were no incoming or outgoing military jets showing up on Air Command’s Recognised Air Picture for the region.

The crowd at Fairford was loving the Raptor display, particularly in the main hospitality marquee, where the Georgian delegation was now drunk on the spectacle as well as their wine. Each manoeuvre was accompanied by a thumping soundtrack: ‘Saturday Night’s All Right for Fighting’, by Nickelback, for the high-speed pass; ‘Come Back Around’, by Feeder, for the J-turn.

‘Major Brandon will now utilise the awesome vector thrust of the twin engines to literally rip the aircraft through the vertical and back to a level flight,’ the commentator continued. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the power loop.’

The mood was no less ebullient in the static display behind the Georgians. A child in a pram wearing big red headphones arched his back and clapped with joy as the plane made another fly-by in a weapons-bay pass. An American crew in their flying suits was perched on the wings of a Lancer B1 Bomber that had flown in overnight from Texas. They were enjoying the sunshine, heads rocking to the music as they admired their compatriot’s performance.

‘Supercruise speed?’ one of them asked.

‘1.7,’ another replied, shielding his eyes from the sun as he tracked the plane into the distance. ‘He’s yanking and banking the hell out of it today.’

The commentator came over the loudspeaker system again as the Raptor turned sharply at the western end of the runway.

‘The pilot will be experiencing something approaching 9G as this fine fifth-generation fighter sweeps through a flat 360,’ he said. ‘On his return to the display line, Major Brandon will perform a slow high-alpha pass at 120 knots, then hit the afterburner and accelerate into a near-vertical climb to 10,000 feet in a manoeuvre we proudly call the “muscle climb”. After that he will be rejoined by the SU-25 Frogfoot, which should be heading back towards the airfield from the east any time now — providing it hasn’t run out of gas.’

Fielding rang through to Armstrong as he watched the Raptor climb vertically into the sky at the end of the runway. He remembered seeing the Vulcan do something similar in the 1970s.

‘Can you hear me? It’s Marcus. Any news?’ Armstrong was sitting at the COBRA table in the underground crisis-management centre, monitoring developments.

‘Air Command has just given the order to scramble two Typhoons from Coningsby,’ she said. ‘There’s been a similar systems error with the Recognised Air Picture. They’re not taking any chances this time. It seems a rogue Russian jet is heading your way fast.’

‘It’s Dhar,’ Fielding said quietly.

‘A ground sighting in the Midlands suggests it’s a two-seater.’

‘Dhar and Daniel Marchant.’

‘I hope to God you know what you’re doing, Marcus. The Typhoons have orders to shoot it down.’

The Aerospace Battle Manager at RAF Boulmer was relieved that the two Typhoons had been scrambled, but he was still dealing with the most stressful day of his professional life. The Russian jet was now deep inside British airspace, flying fast and low towards southern England, but what had happened to the outgoing Georgian aircraft? It seemed to have vanished moments after it had passed the Russian one, just off the coast. What was more, the incoming Russian jet was broadcasting exactly the same transponder squawk code as the one that had disappeared off his screens.

He put an emergency call through to the coastguard, informing them that a plane had gone down ten miles off the coast of Grimsby, and then he rang Air Command again.

Major Brandon glanced down at the crowds as he flew over them in a dedication pass. After banking, he looked across the airfield towards the east. Frogfoot One had enjoyed its farewell tour of the British countryside and would shortly be rejoining the air show for the finale, a dogfight that would leave no one in any doubt about the superiority of the Raptor. He didn’t really know why the Georgian pilot was bothering to show up again for a humiliating few minutes. It was just a shame that he was only carrying dummy weapons today. Two clicks over the r/t alerted him to someone else on frequency, and he saw a familiar shape closing from the east at his altitude.