Test Flight

When he had first laid eyes on it, he thought it was the ugliest thing that ever flew on two wings. Two hours behind the stick hadn’t changed his opinion all that much.

But sweet, blissful mercy, how it *flew*.

Elias fought to hold back a loud whoop as he threw the experimental fighter into loops and spins and rolls and dives that might have been –no, that *were*–impossible for a Typhoon to pull off; he would have either stalled or sheared it in half had he tried–not so with this beast, this absolute monstrosity of engineering marvel. He was enjoying himself so much that he almost missed the voice buzzing in his ears.

‘Lieutenant Turner, we are sending up the aggressor flight now,’ said a woman’s voice–it sounded like Doctor Vahlen.

‘*Flight* Lieutenant Turner,’ Elias corrected her after stabilising the aircraft. ‘I’m RAF, not a Pongo.’

‘Right,’ Vahlen said, not entirely sure how to respond to the unfamiliar term. ‘Anyway, I’m sure you are familiar with the rules of engagement for exercises such as these–’

‘Gain a missile lock or a simulated gun kill and make sure not to crash anywhere. Yeah, I know.’

‘Ah. Good. Well in that case I wish you luck.’ She paused, and then added, ‘Oh, and Flight Lieutenant? Please try to exert as little strain on the airframe as is possible, if you please?’

‘Don’t worry doc, the last thing I want to do is break your lovely toy.’

She severed the link, and that, Elias assumed, signalled the start of the exercise.

Radar picked up six contacts, organised in what appeared to be two flights of three. Elias remembered seeing a few Typhoons and French Rafales on the ground, meaning he was up against the two contenders for former second place in the “King of the Skies” category previously occupied by the American Raptor.

Elias felt a predatory grin creep across his face as the sensors inside the cockpit picked up a visual. COFFIN was, admittedly, not a particularly encouraging name, especially not for a state of the art sensory suite built into a flying machine with a top speed of Mach 2.2. With all that it offered, however, Elias felt that he would warm to it.

His arms lay across two armrests–from which he operated the fighter–throttle on the left, a stick on the right. Elias wasn’t entirely sure about that part of the design–as it was much, much easier on the wrist when the stick occupied a more central position inside of the cockpit. Doctor Vahlen had assured him that this was only a temporary arrangement, and that a new method of control was being developed. What that new control method *was* exactly she didn’t say–there had been a note of keen excitement in her voice, however, which Elias had found very interesting.

Not, however, quite as interesting as the prospect of completely schooling the six oncoming fighters.

He eased the plane into an easy descent, skirting the peaks of the French Alps, so tantalisingly close that the slightest twitch on the stick would see him crash and burn a piece of equipment worth considerably more than his own life.

It was the thrill of a lifetime.

He kept low and watched the aggressor flights draw ever closer, silently praying that the stealth capacity was as good as they claimed it was. If it wasn’t, then this would all be over rather quickly. Far too quickly.

And Elias wanted to savour this.

He released a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding as all six contacts passed right over him before splitting up to cover the battlespace, none the wiser to his presence.

His grin was so wide that it started to hurt as he pulled the bird into a sharp, upward pitch and pounced on the closest aggressor, one of the Rafales. He confirmed the lock, and heard a sigh over an open channel.

‘–Sabre Two, he got me,’ a Frenchman said with some considerable vexation.

Almost immediately, the other five aircraft pulled into tight turns and began haring back towards Sabre Two’s position while the “dead” plane rolled to one side and powered away from the airspace, its part in the exercise now over. Elias dipped back beneath the clouds and eased the throttle back, watching and waiting as the other five closed in.

‘I don’t see him anywhere!’ an Italian complained.

‘He can’t be far,’ a Spaniard deduced, ‘someone check underneath the cloud canopy, and watch the mountains.’

A Typhoon and a Rafale peeled off to dive beneath the clouds.

They had just lanced through when Elias struck.

Afterburners roaring, the experimental fight tore through the cloud cover and past the Typhoon. The gun flared and Elias wore a grin that would have impressed a Cheshire Cat as he heard the Italian swear poisonously in his native tongue before breaking formation to return to the airbase.

‘There he is!’ cried one of the French pilots, ‘I’m in pursuit.’

‘Sabre Three, try to draw him to me, we’ll hit him from two sides,’ said the other.

Elias craned his head to watch the movements of the two Rafales. He’d have needed to roll inverted to catch a glimpse of the two fighters in his old Typhoon but with this plane? The cockpit had sixteen high-definition cameras and other sensors built around the surface, all feeding information to him, primarily visual. With no lag to speak of between the sensors recording the outside world and and the monitors set up in the interior, it gave Elias–and anyone else who got their hands on this bird a full 360 degree field of vision from within the cockpit.

Then there was the jet itself: the sharp angles might look ugly and unwieldy, but when coupled with the coating, they provided stealth capacity allegedly the equal of the American Raptor. Also like the Raptor, the engines provided 2DCD thrust vector capability, granting it damned impressive manoeuvrability at most speeds. Finally, there were the weapons: most impressive was a tactical laser system built into the nose of the craft, which actually opened like a set of jaws in order to fire, plus internal weapons bay for a variety of explosive party favours, and external hardpoints for when stealth wasn’t required. Just thinking about it all made Elias want to drool. Even if it was essentially made of paper where protection was concerned, Elias figured it’d be rather hard to kill something you couldn’t even hit.

Any second now, those missing Typhoons would come roaring from beneath the clouds and then he’d have problems. Nothing he couldn’t handle in due time he was sure, but Elias was certain the idea was to engage and eliminate in the fastest time possible–certainly not feasible with four seasoned pilots hounding him eyeball to eyeball.

Then an idea came to him. And it was so delicious that the Cheshire grin was back and wider than ever.

He held a finger over a tiny, red thumb-toggle on the throttle. If he flicked it, he would be able to manually adjust the nozzle vector himself instead of letting the computers do all the work. If he had it right, he’d have two easy kills. If not, he’d probably short out a few computers, and then crash and die.

Elias thumbed the switch.

‘Three. Two. One…’ he breathed.

‘Flight Lieutenant,’ said Doctor Vahlen, ‘you’ve taken manual control over the engine nozzles. I should remind you that this is only to be done for specific tests, any prolonged or sudden manual adjustments may–’

‘Doc, relax. I know exactly what I’m doing.’

‘No,’ she snapped, ‘I don’t think you do. There are more than fifty computers and subsystems in that plane keeping you in the air. If even *one* of them fails or short-circuits, you will literally drop out of the sky. We have done exactly four tests in which the pilot has taken control and each time–’

‘Noted.’ Elias cut her off and terminated the link, having decided he really didn’t want to hear whatever she was about to say. Or what he thought she was about to say.

‘Well old boy,’ he murmured to himself, ‘Here goes everything; “Victory or Valhalla” and all that.’

Under normal circumstances, the thrust vectoring nozzles allowed for up to thirty degrees shift. When operated manually, however, this went up to forty-five degrees–and it was only thanks to intelligent design that the craft didn’t rip itself in two at that angle.

Or at least that was the idea.

Elias yanked hard on the stick and put all forty-five degrees thrust into an ascending pitch. He fought to keep the fighter stable as it suddenly and rapidly decelerated, gravity crushing him against the seat. For one heart-stopping moment, he feared he’d overdone it and was going to black out.

Then the Rafales ripped past him and he knew that he’d done it.

Releasing a roar that was equal parts relief and elation, he toggled the nozzles and levelled the craft, settling comfortably behind both French fighters. He had a missile lock on both of them in a heartbeat. A chorus of expletives in French followed the confirmation.

‘Sabres One and Three–you’re dead baby,’ Elias crowed once his breathing returned to normal. He blew past the French fighters, cackling with wicked delight as they shuddered in the wake of his jet wash. He performed a sharp, flashy barrel roll and then turned to meet the remaining pair of Typhoons.

‘Easy there Fritz,’ the Spaniard cautioned, the two planes approaching on a steady intercept vector. ‘He’s fast and nimble; we’ll need some fancy manoeuvres to take him out.’

‘I agree,’ the German murmured. ‘Have anything in mind?’

‘Bob and weave?’ the Spaniard offered with an optimistic lilt.

‘It’ll do.’

The pair broke formation and circled around as if to entrap Elias. As if to show exactly what he thought of that, Elias hit the afterburners and picked a direction at random–left–and screamed towards his chosen victim. He rushed past, avoiding a stream of virtual tracers from the Typhoon’s cannon. He heard the German hiss in frustration even as he pulled the plane into a tight turn and settled behind the European fighter.

‘Bob and weave! *Bob and weave!*’ the Spaniard yelled.

‘Too late,’ Elias declared, homing in on the tail of the jinking Typhoon and gaining a lock with relative impunity.

‘This is bullshit!’ the German cried. ‘How the hell are we supposed to gain a lock on something our instruments won’t detect? I can see it, but I can’t *see* the fucking thing!’

‘I believe that’s rather the point of stealth,’ the Spaniard muttered drily.

‘Glad you feel that way, boss, because you’re dead too,’ Elias chirped, punctuating his declaration with a stream of tracers that would have lacerated the last Eurofighter from nose to tail. Elias grinned.

‘Well, I believe that concludes our little demonstration. Flight Lieutenant Turner, if you would follow the others back to the runway please?’

‘Sure, sure,’ Elias confirmed and turned to follow the Spaniard and the German back home, pulling ahead and waggling his wings at them. It was juvenile but Elias was riding what was quite possibly the largest high of his entire life.

‘So…’ the Spaniard piped up after a moment, ‘how is it?’

‘Hm? You talking to me?’ Elias asked.

‘Who else would I be talking to?’

‘You and Fritz were rather chummy towards the end there.’

‘Needs must.’

‘I can hear everything you two say, you know,’ the German added testily.

‘Anyway!’ the Spaniard said, raising his voice a fraction, ‘that jet, this Eurofighter FALKEN… how is it?’

Elias considered his response for almost a full minute.

‘Mate… it’s like nothing I’ve ever flown before,’ he breathed, his tone reverent. ‘It’s just… you know what? You’ll find out when it’s your turn.’

‘I look forward to it.’

‘You really, really should.’

The German made a noncommittal grunt and the rest of the flight was undertaken in silence.

***
As Elias had expected, Dr Vahlen was there waiting for him when the European pilots made their way back into the hangar, her lips pressed into a thin line of disapproval. She then proceeded to lay a verbal smackdown the likes of which he hadn’t experienced since Phase One. The word “idiot” was thrown around a lot, along with a copious amount of rather unflattering sounding German. The fact that the FALKEN was in one piece mattered little. Elias had never understood that sort of thinking. Without taking a risk, without pushing it to the absolute limits, how could they know what was possible and what wasn’t?

In the end, Elias had to be rescued by one of the men who had brought him there; Wing Commander Borne. Vahlen let them both go, though the pilot had felt her smouldering, venomous glare on the back of his neck the whole walk back. Elias suppressed a shudder; the woman appeared harmless and dainty but she could be terrifying when sufficiently roused. It was little wonder she was in charge of the R&D department for the Eurofighter FALKEN programme.

The rest of the demonstrations took place over the rest of the week. Everyone, barring Sabres Two and Three, managed a turn. And each of them utterly demolished their respective aggressor flights. To his fury, Elias found he had only the third fastest clearance time when the final results came in. The German pipped him by two seconds, while the Spaniard reigned supreme by a whole ten. The Italian trailed behind while the only Frenchman who had gotten behind the controls was a thousandth of a second from Elias’ time. For his part, the Brit had grumbled about breaking it in for the others.

When the time finally came to leave, Elias found himself strangely reluctant to go. He found himself thinking back to his all too brief time in the cockpit of that marvellous engine of war, and without ever meaning to, his eyes would wander and drift in the direction of the hangar where it resided.

‘You all right there, Flight Lieutenant?’ Borne–a slim, dark-haired man in his forties with a smart, approachable countenance–asked him as they boarded the transport that would take them back to England.

‘Yes sir,’ Elias answered absently, ‘just… thinking.’

‘You’ve been doing that rather a lot over the last few days,’ Borne noted, ‘the Air Commdore’s starting to get worried.’

Elias looked at Borne, who wore a wry grin. He said nothing and shook his head.

‘That good hmm?’ Borne asked.

‘Sir,’ Elias said after a moment, with a note of finality, ‘I think once we have some more of those ugly bastards flying over our cities, we’ll all sleep a lot, lot sounder.’

‘Yes, the Air Marshal and I were also impressed by the showings.’

‘So we’re pitching into Eurofighter again?’

‘I’d argue it’s a safe bet that we will.’

Elias nodded in satisfaction and leaned back against his seat. A thought suddenly came to him and he pushed himself forwards.

‘Why were the French here? I thought they pulled out of Eurofighter for their Rafale’s.’

‘There’s no “thought” about it Flight Lieutenant–they did. I believe Doctor Vahlen and her team sent them an invitation to secure additional funding. Fighter jets–particularly those like what we saw over the last week–are expensive beasts.’

‘Worth every bloody penny if you ask me sir,’ Elias stated with a little more steel in his voice than he meant to inject.

‘You’ll find it tough to argue with either myself or the Air Marshal,’ Borne reassured him. ‘Unfortunately, fine an aircraft as it is, the Typhoon was rather more expensive than we bargained for. I imagine many in Parliament will be understandably wary of the possible expenditure as the Eurofighter FALKEN programme moves along. It’ll be an uphill battle to convince them all that this is worth backing in full.’

Elias made a face and grunted sourly.

‘Yes, politics,’ Borne said with a nod and a wry expression, ‘but with any luck it won’t be long before we have the support we need to pitch in. The Typhoon is a fine plane, but surely even the most thick-headed cabinet minister will see that we cannot maintain peace in Europe with an ageing fleet or Tornadoes and a fighter that is merely “almost” as good as the American Raptor.’

He paused for a moment to take a breath before continuing, ‘Our friends across the pond are already experimenting with new designs as we speak–three or four if I remember correctly. I’ve also read a handful of reports over the last few weeks of aircraft profiles spotted over the Russian border which don’t match anything in their considerable arsenal we know about. Bloody hell, even the *Japanese* have this Shinden thing which outstrips our fighters in all but speed, and even then, not by all that much.’

‘The way you talk, it almost sounds like we’re being left behind in the dust,’ Elias murmured.

‘We are,’ Borne affirmed. ‘The Eurozone needs to do more than simply catch up–it needs an *edge*. I believe Doctor Vahlen and her team in the Eurofighter FALKEN programme can give it to us.’

Elias said nothing. He and five others had flown the thing themselves and each of them had fought off *six* fighters–all of which were rated supremely when it came to air-to-air engagements–at once. What was more, they had won, and won *decisively*. It was still in the early stages of its life and had already proven itself. Elias couldn’t help but wonder what it would be capable of when it finally entered production for the member-nations (which he felt would almost certainly include France this time).

An hour into the flight the Air Marshal came and sat with them. The man was roughly an inch taller than Elias, with a greying and receding hairline that was mostly hidden beneath a peaked, highly decorative cap denoting him as one of the RAF’s top brass. He also possessed a hawkish expression that made him seem constantly suspicious of the world around him, which Elias found more than a little unsettling as it focused on him.

‘So Mr Turner,’ he began; his tone steady and firm. It was the voice of a man unused to being ignored or disobeyed and Elias found himself unconsciously straightening in his seat, ‘what exactly did you make of it then? I’ve heard from Colin here,’ he motioned with his head towards Air Marshal Borne, ‘and can quite easily gather that he’s very impressed, but I’ve yet to hear the full story from you. So… tell me–and I want the honest truth lad–what do you make of the FALKEN?’

Elias blinked, unsure of himself for a moment. Then the question registered, and with it came all the memories: the sights, the thoughts, the *sensations*.

And Flight Lieutenant Elias Turner smiled.