squadron bar this evening.”
“I’ll be there, but it can’t be an all-nighter. I’m off up to Milan in the morning.”
“Bianca?”
“Yes. I promised her last weekend, and couldn’t make it because of standby duty. I cannot let her down again.”
“Why don’t you two just get married and solve the problem?”
“She’s not ready yet. She has her business up there. Very successful. And I’m not ready either. We like it the way it is. What about you? Why don’t you marry that little girl of yours?”
Baldassare was horrified. “Me? I’m only twenty-two!”
“And I’m twenty-five. Plenty of time for us both.”
“Are you going up in that roller skate of yours?”
“Careful. You’re talking about the car I love.”
The “roller skate” was a beautiful, wedge-shaped Fiat X 1/9 in gleaming black. Bagni treated it like gold.
“Get yourself a real car,” Baldassare teased good-naturedly.
“We can’t all have millionaire fathers.” Baldassare’s family were industrialists and his father had given him a red Ferrari Dino for his twenty-first birthday.
“Oh he’s not a millionaire,” Baldassare saidwith the ease of someone who was close enough to millions not to care. “Not in cash, anyway.”
“You mean he still needs a hundred lira, or so?”
A
sergente maggiore
came up to them. “Sir,” he began to Bagni, “Tenente Colonnello Croce wishes to see you.”
“Thank you, Sergente. I’ll be right there.”
“Sir. And sir, it was good that you got that Eagle. We all heard it. Well done, sir.”
Bagni smiled. “Thank you, Sergente Magliano. It’s for the squadron.”
Magliano went away delighted. A little stencil of an Eagle would appear on the squadron notice board, to join others of different aircraft types nailed by the squadron pilots during air combat exercises. Among the Phantoms, F-16s—two lucky shots—Jaguars, and Tornado ground attack aircraft, would be Bagni’s Eagle; a true prize.
Baldassare said: “You’re his hero for life. No one else is going to get another Eagle. I’ll bet the old man wants to congratulate you.”
“More like extra duty for something I should or should not have done.”
It was lightly said. Their commanding officer was fierce, but he was also fair.
“You’d better go and find out,” Baldassare advised. “You don’t want him to send Magliano a second time.”
“You’re right. See you later.”
“See you, Nico.”
Croce, a big man with a drooping moustache who had difficulty squeezing himself into the Starfighter, was smiling when Bagni entered his office. The moustache made him look like every schoolboy’s idea of a seventeenth-century pirate.
“Ah. The great ‘E1 Greco’ himself,” Croce greeted warmly. “Come in, Bagni. Come in!”
Bagni moved farther into the room.
“I hate losing good pilots,” Croce went on abruptly.
Bagni stared at him. “We lost someone?”
“No, no. I don’t mean in a flying accident. I’m talking about you. You were excellent today. Not only did you get us our first and quite probably last Eagle, you handled that emergency with the sort of skill and calm under stress that I need on the squadron.”
Bagni was still staring at his boss. “Then who are we going to lose, sir?”
The moustache twitched sardonically. “I have no choice. I’ve been ordered to make you available for transfer to a new squadron. It’s a very new and elite unit, made up of NATO crews. I’m afraid you’re going to have to learn to fly with a back-seater.”
“Tornadoes?”
“Yes, but up-graded—not the ones you’ve seen. These will be very fast and very special aircraft. Someone’s read your confidential file and decided you’re just the man they need. As I said, I’ve nochoice in the matter. I’m proud they want you, but reluctant to let you go.”
“Will there be anyone else from the squadron?”
Croce shook his head. “You’re the only one going from here. I hear there’s a little party in
“I’ll be there, but it can’t be an all-nighter. I’m off up to Milan in the morning.”
“Bianca?”
“Yes. I promised her last weekend, and couldn’t make it because of standby duty. I cannot let her down again.”
“Why don’t you two just get married and solve the problem?”
“She’s not ready yet. She has her business up there. Very successful. And I’m not ready either. We like it the way it is. What about you? Why don’t you marry that little girl of yours?”
Baldassare was horrified. “Me? I’m only twenty-two!”
“And I’m twenty-five. Plenty of time for us both.”
“Are you going up in that roller skate of yours?”
“Careful. You’re talking about the car I love.”
The “roller skate” was a beautiful, wedge-shaped Fiat X 1/9 in gleaming black. Bagni treated it like gold.
“Get yourself a real car,” Baldassare teased good-naturedly.
“We can’t all have millionaire fathers.” Baldassare’s family were industrialists and his father had given him a red Ferrari Dino for his twenty-first birthday.
“Oh he’s not a millionaire,” Baldassare saidwith the ease of someone who was close enough to millions not to care. “Not in cash, anyway.”
“You mean he still needs a hundred lira, or so?”
A
sergente maggiore
came up to them. “Sir,” he began to Bagni, “Tenente Colonnello Croce wishes to see you.”
“Thank you, Sergente. I’ll be right there.”
“Sir. And sir, it was good that you got that Eagle. We all heard it. Well done, sir.”
Bagni smiled. “Thank you, Sergente Magliano. It’s for the squadron.”
Magliano went away delighted. A little stencil of an Eagle would appear on the squadron notice board, to join others of different aircraft types nailed by the squadron pilots during air combat exercises. Among the Phantoms, F-16s—two lucky shots—Jaguars, and Tornado ground attack aircraft, would be Bagni’s Eagle; a true prize.
Baldassare said: “You’re his hero for life. No one else is going to get another Eagle. I’ll bet the old man wants to congratulate you.”
“More like extra duty for something I should or should not have done.”
It was lightly said. Their commanding officer was fierce, but he was also fair.
“You’d better go and find out,” Baldassare advised. “You don’t want him to send Magliano a second time.”
“You’re right. See you later.”
“See you, Nico.”
Croce, a big man with a drooping moustache who had difficulty squeezing himself into the Starfighter, was smiling when Bagni entered his office. The moustache made him look like every schoolboy’s idea of a seventeenth-century pirate.
“Ah. The great ‘E1 Greco’ himself,” Croce greeted warmly. “Come in, Bagni. Come in!”
Bagni moved farther into the room.
“I hate losing good pilots,” Croce went on abruptly.
Bagni stared at him. “We lost someone?”
“No, no. I don’t mean in a flying accident. I’m talking about you. You were excellent today. Not only did you get us our first and quite probably last Eagle, you handled that emergency with the sort of skill and calm under stress that I need on the squadron.”
Bagni was still staring at his boss. “Then who are we going to lose, sir?”
The moustache twitched sardonically. “I have no choice. I’ve been ordered to make you available for transfer to a new squadron. It’s a very new and elite unit, made up of NATO crews. I’m afraid you’re going to have to learn to fly with a back-seater.”
“Tornadoes?”
“Yes, but up-graded—not the ones you’ve seen. These will be very fast and very special aircraft. Someone’s read your confidential file and decided you’re just the man they need. As I said, I’ve nochoice in the matter. I’m proud they want you, but reluctant to let you go.”
“Will there be anyone else from the squadron?”
Croce shook his head. “You’re the only one going from here. I hear there’s a little party in
Similar Books
