Free Trophy by Julian Jay Savarin Page A

am,” he began, his tone of voice clearly warning anyone against such a dangerous course. “Axel Hohendorf is almost certain to command his own squadron one day, yet when I practically handed him his double K, he was as indifferent as it was possible to be without being rude. Oh he made all the right noises, of course. But for a man as passionately committed to fast jet flying as he is, it was a strange performance. His mind was somewhere else and don’t… don’t repeat it is to do with his wife.”
    “With respect, Chief, it must. She wants him to leave the Service and fly with her father’s airline. And as if that’s not bad enough, she carries on with …”
    Wusterhausen raised a restraining hand.“That’s between the two of them. No. It’s something else. Something is digging at him. There are good pilots, competent pilots, mediocre pilots, and bad pilots. None of the last are on my squadron, I’m pleased to say. We have many good ones, but one genius. Axel Hohendorf. He has the instincts of the old, pioneer flyers, combined with a total empathy with today’s high-tech machines. It’s a rare gift and because of that, I trust his instincts. If something’s on his mind, I expect him to tell me, no matter how trivial it may seem to him. And yet he refuses to admit it. Have you any idea why that could possibly be? As his back-seater
and
a family member you’re closer than most of us.”
    Ecker was in a quandary. Should he mention Axel’s comments about Willi Beuren? Clearly Axel himself had not mentioned it to the boss, and would not forgive him for going behind his back with this. It was up to Axel to do the telling, especially as he himself was not at all sure that Willi was at risk.
    “I’m sorry, Chief,” Ecker said, “but I really don’t know. It could be any number of things. I could be shooting in the dark and say the completely wrong thing. For example, I know he’s thinking of selling his house and moving into the Fliegerhorst. He’s been living in that house by himself ever since his wife moved back to München. Something like that is bound to prey on his mind. But I wouldn’t swear it’s the most serious matter he’s giving thinking time to.”
    “I happen to agree with you,” Wusterhausen said. “I am sure it is not the proposed sale of the house. Besides, given his workload on the squadron the house must be a positive haven of quietness.”
    “He misses her, even if he doesn’t say so.”
    Wusterhausen shrugged. “You know the man better than anyone on this unit. All right, Johann. I’m letting you off the hook for now … but don’t let it get really serious before you tell me. Are you receiving me?”
    “Loud and clear, sir.” Ecker stood up. “I can tell you one thing. Whatever’s on his mind, it’s not affecting his flying.”
    “If I thought that,” Wusterhausen said, “I’d have grounded him weeks ago.”
    Hohendorf was lucky. He made it to the Hamburg tunnel ahead of the main rush and was delayed only by five minutes. As he headed out on Autobahn 1 towards Bremen, the cassette of one of his favorite singers, Dinah Washington, was interrupted in the middle of “September Song” by the
Verkehrsfunk,
the traffic advisory service.
    As the tape was paused by the radio station giving the information, a female voice told him that an accident was causing a seven-kilometer jam between the Soltau-Sud and Dorfmark exits. Dinah Washington came back on as the message ended. He had no cause for worry. His ultimate destination for the day was in Westphalia, the family home near Tecklenburg,where he’d be spending the night with his mother, and the traffic snarl-up was away to the east on another autobahn, between Hamburg and Hannover.
    As he listened to the song and the Porsche hurtled fast along the relatively traffic-free motorway, he suddenly remembered that Anne-Marie had never liked this tape, and this song in particular. He sighed as the song ended, but hit the replay