by James Blatch
“That’s not a conclusion you can draw, Ewan,” said Millie. “You weren’t there.”
Kilton shot him a warning look. “Millie, don’t be foolish. Ewan and his team have had full access to the data, and it showed no issues. That’s it.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Millie.
Kilton sat back in his chair. “You don’t?”
A heavy silence hung in the room.
“What I mean is, I am very surprised. That’s all. Can we have it analysed elsewhere? A second opinion, if you like? With all due respect to Mr Stafford and his team, boss, you set up TFU to be independent of industry.”
“There’s no chance,” Stafford piped up. “We simply don’t have access to another mainframe computer. We have one of the few in the country. Plus, I’m not sure why you would need a second opinion.”
“Because DF Blackton have a vested interest in failing to find a fault.”
Stafford harrumphed, with his shoulders twitching. “What are you suggesting, Mr Milford?”
“I’m not suggesting anything, but let’s be clear. Blackton is playing both gamekeeper and poacher in this scenario, and—”
“I said that’s enough.” Kilton looked straight at him. “No-one respects you around here more than me, Chris, but this has to stop. I’ll remind you that DF Blackton is a distinguished firm and subject to the Official Secrets Act. The very suggestion you are making is slanderous. I’ll also remind you that at TFU we make decisions based on the evidence.” Millie opened his mouth to speak but Kilton held up the palm of his hand. “Actual evidence, not stories. That’s why we carry the data recording unit, Millie, and I might say it is your responsibility to operate that system to the standards required.”
Millie removed his reading glasses and rubbed his eyes.
He placed his specs on the table and sat in silence.
Kilton picked up the pace again. “Now we have fewer than a hundred hours left to fly. We can split that between the Canberra and Vulcans, so I’ll think about bringing in additional crew.”
He turned to Millie. “And we can stay above one thousand feet if you’d recommend it, Millie. You are after all the project leader.”
Millie shook his head in disbelief.
“Am I?”
“You’ve done good work on this project, Millie. Don’t let us down at the final hurdle. I want you and Rob to get up to Woodford to check on the next installation. It needs to be identical so we can move crews between the Vulcans. OK?”
Millie glared at Kilton, who stared back. Eventually Millie shrugged.
Kilton sighed. “Good. Well, that’s sorted. Finally, security. You’ve no doubt noticed that we have unwanted visitors at the zero-eight threshold. A so-called peace camp filled with those who would undermine national security. Our own military security police are working with the courts to take eviction action, but in the meantime, it goes without saying that Guiding Light is the British crown jewels. The power of any new weapon or system is reliant on it remaining secret. If any aspect of the project gets out of the confines of TFU, I would expect arrests, criminal charges and prison for the culprits. It doesn’t matter if you are an air commodore or a junior technician, you will be prosecuted. Therefore, you will remain exceptionally vigilant. There will be no discussion with anyone outside of those directly involved with the system’s evaluation. And, of course, no paperwork or items relating to the project are to go past the front door without express clearance and police escort.”
The meeting murmured its agreement and broke up.
Kilton, Stafford, Johnson and the clerk stood up and headed out. Kilton trailed the group. Pausing at the door, he looked back.
“Millie, you’re months from retirement. Don’t do anything stupid. You need that pension, don’t you? Why risk everything you’ve promised Georgina? You’ve made your case, but it’s over.”
“You’re threatening me, Mark?”
“Just tow the bloody line, Millie. Now’s not the time for one of your displays of petulance.”
He left the room.
As the door swung closed, Rob looked up and made eye contact with Millie for the first time.
“I’m sorry. It happened in the bar. I’d had a few drinks and he cornered me. I felt like he wanted to explore all scenarios and I agreed it was a theoretical possibility.”
Millie looked at his friend. “I’m trying to work out whether you are naive or stupid. Do you understand what’s happening? This is where it starts, Rob. Meetings like this can save or cost lives, for god’s sake. Think about all those rear crews in the V-Bombers, lost because they sent the aircraft into low-level without a proper escape system. What we do here matters.” He banged the table.
Rob looked hurt, pitiful even, like a puppy who needed comfort. “Please understand my position, Millie. I had no choice. Let’s not fall out.”
Millie stood up and gathered his papers. “There’s more at stake here than our friendship, Rob.”
Kilton dropped into the seat behind his desk and studied the small square of paper handed to him by Stafford.
“I’ve bought us some time. Now tell me what all this means,” he said, laying the piece of paper face up on the desk.
Stafford shifted in place. “We looked at nearly two hundred hours of flying records. The problem is definitely there. On that piece of paper are the extrapolated results. The frequency and magnitude.”
“What does that mean in plain English? You said on the phone that in most cases, crews won’t even notice?”
“In most cases, the burst of incorrect height readings will be too brief for the autopilot to react in any meaningful way.”
“In most cases?”
“It’s possible, on very rare occasions, that the flutter could last long enough to affect the actual flight. But they’d have to be very unlucky for it to cause a serious problem. Typically, even if it did happen, they’d observe the deviation and intervene, just like they did two days ago.”
“Typically? What do you mean by that?”
“With a lot of bad luck, they might be in just the wrong position as the error occurs. At night, for instance, very low, fast, in a tight bank or maybe they’re not monitoring the flight at the time, but…”
“But what?”
Stafford took a seat on the other side of Kilton’s desk. “I don’t think we have a choice here, Mark. As I told you yesterday, we saw this in the lab, early on. The laser itself fluctuated briefly, but minutely. They called it a flutter. As we designed and built the full scale versions, the magnitude of the flutter stayed the same and so became insignificant. And we thought it had just gone, refined away by a better build. But apparently not. The problem, Mark, is that we don’t know what causes it. Our best option is to redesign the programme that sits between the laser and the autopilot to tell false readings from real ones. At the moment, how to do that is beyond us. And even if we did redesign it, that would mean starting again on the flying trials. High altitude, not connected to the autopilot while we build up the readings. All those hours flown again. To get back to where we are now, from my experience of how long it took to get here, I’d say we’ll need six to nine months in the workshop, and another six to nine of early airborne trials.”
“A year and a half? Out of the question.”
“Then, you carry on.” Stafford lowered his voice. “Nothing’s without risk, Mark.”
Kilton propped his elbows on the desk and interlocked his fingers.
“We pause now, Stafford, we lose it. The Yanks will have their breakthrough soon enough, and when they do, they’ll drop the order.”
“That would finish us. We’ve sunk too much into this.”
“That’s not my problem, Stafford. You made your decisions.”
“Wouldn’t it finish TFU, too? You don’t exactly bask in the support of your superiors. I think a lot of them would love to topple this secret empire you’re building. On the other hand, you deliver a multi-million pound contract for the gov
ernment…”
Kilton picked up the piece of paper and looked at the handwritten numbers. He turned it over in his hand for a few moments.
“The point is, Guiding Light gives us an advantage over the Soviets. You heard Leivers. It could end the Cold War, and then how many lives are saved? Millions.” He stood up. “Let’s not get bogged down by the risk to a few unlucky crews.” He screwed the square of paper into a tight ball and pushed it deep into his trouser pocket. “How many people know about this… flutter?”
“The team are aware it exists, but they believe it’s insignificant. Only me and a junior technician know the truth, and he won’t be a problem. We’ll incinerate the printouts and demagnetise the tapes. There’s hardly anyone working at Cambridge, anyway. I’ve moved the annual shutdown forward to accommodate the production. The mainframe goes into maintenance tomorrow.” Stafford got to his feet and picked up his briefcase. “Of course, Mark, there’s your crew here. Not much gets past Millie.”
“Leave him to me.”
“Just like the old days at Tangmere, the troops always feared you. I feared you, come to that.”
Kilton smiled. “Just like Tangmere, Stafford, we’re at war. The only people who need to be scared are the enemy. And those who get in the way.”
Millie sat down at his favourite admin desk underneath the clock. Staring at the wall, he allowed the adrenaline from the meeting to subside.
After a few minutes, the admin officer appeared.
“Audit?”
Millie nodded and followed him over to the secure cabinets for the weekly check.
“Shouldn’t take long,” Millie said, looking at the bare shelves.
He noted the two tapes from yesterday’s flight and checked the paperwork against the list. Everything had to be accounted for.
The only contents of the cabinet they didn’t count were the number of blank tapes.
He crouched down to check the bottom shelf. Only about twenty left. They would need more.
The junior officer locked the cabinets and Millie called the department at DF Blackton from his desk.
As the call connected, he had a thought and quickly glanced around the office. No-one was nearby.
“Yes, hello, it’s Squadron Leader Milford. RAF West Porton.”
“Hello.”
“Yes, ah, a quick one. We sent over about one hundred and seventy hours of records on magnetic tape yesterday, I believe?”
“Yes, that’s right. We ran them through the computer until the small hours.”
“So I understand. I haven’t actually seen the results, and as the project leader I would like to study them if possible. Would you be able to send them over?”
The man at the other end laughed.
“The results are about two yards high. Not sure we could easily send them anywhere.”
“I see. But were there any conclusions?”
“Let me check, one of my junior colleagues stayed late. Hold on a mo.”
The phone handset clunked down onto a hard surface.
Ewan Stafford appeared out of Kilton’s office.
Millie placed a hand over the receiver and watched as Stafford headed to the door, his path taking him just behind his desk.
Jean came running out of the office.
“Mr Stafford, can I get your travel receipts?”
Just two yards behind him, Stafford and the secretary got involved in a discussion about petrol prices.
“Squadron Leader Milford?”
“Hello, yes?” Millie turned toward the wall in front of him and leaned over the desk, desperately trying to put some distance between him and the Blackton MD.
“It’s David Richards here. I’m the manager of the computer room. I understand your enquiry, but you will have to speak directly to Mr Stafford.”
“Oh, I don’t want to bother him. I was just after the results from last night.”
“Mr Stafford has them and I understand he reported to you this morning. If there’s anything else, you will have to take it up with Mr Stafford directly. I’m sorry I cannot be of any more help.”
The phone line went dead.
To his left, Stafford disappeared through the swing doors toward the car park.
Slowly, Millie replaced the receiver.
For two full minutes he barely moved, one finger lightly tapping the desk.
The admin officer interrupted him again. “When are they coming?”
“Pardon?”
“The blanks? You ordered them?”
“Oh, no. Sorry, Peter. I’ll do it now.” Peter shot him a quizzical look. “That was another call I was on. I’ll phone Blackton straight away.”
He jotted down some numbers. The last hundred hours covered just over three hundred and twenty-one tapes, about twenty minutes per reel.
They had another hundred hours to go.
Another three hundred and thirty tapes should cover it. He underlined the number.
“But then, what’s the point?” he muttered quietly to himself.
He looked across to Mark Kilton’s office in time to see Rob and Speedy going in. Scanning the rest of the office he saw Jock MacLeish, Red Brunson and others, all in flying gear, ready to go.
Millie looked back down at his notes.
One hundred hours.
Three hundred and thirty reels.
He called up the Blackton computer department again, and ordered four hundred and fifty blank reels.
The afternoon meetings were a distraction, as he and a small team went through future projects: a stronger braking parachute for the Vulcan, rough landing trials for the Argosy, a larger fin for the Blue Steel missile.
He made sure he paid attention to the important bits but as the clock approached 4.45PM he became anxious to get back to the planning room.
By the time he returned, Rob had left for the day.
“Damn.” He picked up his case and checked it for any documents that shouldn’t leave the building, then drove straight to the Mays’ small married quarter.
“Millie! Come in.” Mary beamed at him.
“Thank you, Mary. Is Rob home?”
“Not yet.”
“Oh? I was told he might be.”
“Well, the mess has become a bit of a habit for him.”
“Fair enough. But I would like to have a quick word. Would you mind sending him around when he turns up, as long as it’s not an inconvenience to you, of course?”
“I’ll send him over after dinner if he’s back in time.”
Millie drove the short distance to his own quarter, agitated that a conversation he wasn’t looking forward to would have to wait even longer.
Georgina was in the garden, table and chairs arranged for another al fresco dinner.
She smiled at her husband. “Make hay while the sun shines, Millington.”
By 7PM he was into his scotch, a Glenmorangie. He was savouring it on his tongue as a cough came from behind. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t get a response at the front door,” Rob said, after emerging from the side passage.
“Robert!” Millie smiled at him. “How the devil are you? Whisky or gin, dear chap? Please say whisky.”
“Not one of your more adventurous ones, please. I need my stomach lining intact.”
“As you wish!” Millie went into the house and poured a second scotch, fishing a mixer out of the dresser cupboard.
When he returned, Rob and Georgina were laughing.
“I was begging Rob to bring over that gorgeous wife of his. It’s the weekend.”
“It’s Thursday, dear,” said Millie.
“That’s what I told her,” Rob said, “but she says Thursday is now officially the start of the weekend.” He winked at Georgina. “And I’d like to agree. Why do we fly on Fridays, Millie?”
“Something to do with serving Her Majesty and preparing for war, I believe, Robert. Here you are. Glenmorangie mixed with ginger ale. Sacrilege in some parts of Scotland, but perfectly acceptable in Wiltshire.”
As he handed over the drink, he nodded for Georgina to leave them alone.
She took the hint. “Right, well, the dishes won’t do themselves. I guess my weekend is on hold. Shout if you need anything, boys.” She disappeared into the house.
They sat quietly for a moment. In the distance, the sound of laughter floated through the air along with the now familiar sound of music.
Rob cocked his head.
“The peace camp,” said Millie, and gestured toward the trees at the back of the garden.
“Oh. Yes, I’ve seen them on approach. Kilton’s not happy.”
“When is he, Rob? When is he?”
Rob put his drink down. “I’m sorry about this morning, Millie. Kilton got the better of me when I was worse for wear in the mess. But I also think he’s right.”
“You do?”
“It doesn’t really matter whether I did or didn’t nudge the stick—”
“Can we both agree that you didn’t?”
“The point I’m making is that we don’t have any firm evidence and it’s a bit much grounding the project so quickly. We can’t give in at the first bump in the road. We need Guiding Light, Millie. There are countries relying on us to deliver it. NATO needs us. You have to keep going. In any case, it’s Kilton’s orders, so we have no choice now. Unless you’re planning on doing something silly?”
“Has he sent you here on an intelligence gathering mission, Rob?”
Rob put down his drink. “You asked me here.”
“I did. And I wanted to talk to you because, well, I suppose you’re right. We have no choice but to press on, despite the evidence we witnessed with our own eyes. But I intend to do my job, to examine Guiding Light thoroughly and pass it fit for production. Or not.”
