by James Blatch
“Aye. But this is the empire of Mark Kilton and if he finds it funny, so do we.” Jock gave him a friendly slap on the shoulder and wandered off.
Before he drove off the station, Millie called in at the sergeant’s mess. He stood in the entrance, not wanting to overstep his welcome without a proper invite. But after a quick search it was clear Nigel Woodward wasn’t there. As he drove out, he took a detour to the Non-Commissioned Officers’ married quarter.
Mrs Woodward opened the door.
“Is he in trouble?” She looked terrified.
“I’m not here in an official capacity, Mrs Woodward. In fact, I just want to check he’s OK?”
She led him in. Nigel was in the kitchen, drinking a beer. Mrs Woodward offered Millie a drink; he declined. She shut the door, leaving them alone.
“What happened, Nigel?”
He looked confused.
“Today, in the Argosy? The gas bomb?”
Slowly, the loadmaster nodded.
“Ah, yes. It went well.”
“Nigel. You released a canister over the peace camp. It wasn’t supposed to go there.”
Again, a slow nodding as if he was hearing this for the first time. “That’s right. They told me that.”
“Who did?”
“Oh, you know. Wing Commander Kilton.”
“Nigel, is everything OK?”
“I think maybe I pulled the pins out and then Mr Brunson flew us up quickly.”
Millie watched him for a moment; he was in a world of his own.
“Maybe go see the doc tomorrow, hey, Nigel?”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Just call me Millie, at least here.” Millie patted his arm and stood up.
As he left, Mrs Woodward stopped him at the door. She lowered her voice. “He’s not been right for a while, if truth be told.” She glanced back.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s his memory. He forgets things. He goes through phases. Good days, bad days. This is a really bad one.”
“Forgets things? What sort of things?”
“My name.”
Millie stared at her.
“He doesn’t want to tell anyone, in case it’s the end of his career. He’s worried about the money, you know, if he can’t work.”
“Of course he is. But he needs to see a doctor.”
Mrs Woodward studied the ground for a moment. “The only person he sees is the landlord at The Black Horse. Goes most nights.”
“That doesn’t sound like a good idea.”
“He says it helps to talk to strangers, but he won’t talk to me.” Tears formed in her eyes.
“Strangers?”
“I don’t know. He’s found some new friend. Anything but face the facts. He’s not right, Mr Milford.” She bowed her head. “Something like this was bound to happen.”
Nigel appeared behind his wife.
“Nigel, you’ve got to go to the medic,” said Millie. “You understand?”
“Oh, I expect I will tomorrow.” He disappeared upstairs.
Millie turned back to the loadmasters wife. “Leave it with me. I’ll see what I can do.”
9
Wednesday 15th June
The buzz from the previous day’s mishap was still tangible. The pilots, used to existing in a vacuum of secrecy, seemed to enjoy announcing TFU’s presence to the outside world, albeit via an avoidable accident.
“Everyone in the meeting.”
A voice from behind. Rob.
“Sorry?”
“Kilton wants everyone in the morning meeting. Think we might be about to get a rocket for yesterday.”
“I doubt that,” Millie said as he lifted his frame out of the chair.
By the time they arrived in the briefing room, it was standing room only. Steve Bright stood up from one of the soft chairs and offered it to Millie.
He laughed. “Am I that old now?”
“No offence intended,” Bright replied, and Millie took the seat.
Loud chatter bounced off the walls as the assembled officers of TFU awaited their boss. Millie could just see Kilton’s bald head at the front, deep in conversation with someone or other.
As they waited, Millie pulled out his handwritten copy of the tape readings. He’d had the numbers since Sunday morning and although he was sure the first field was the clock, he was nowhere near deciphering the second, longer field.
15105550114922
15105550114810
The magic moment of realisation once again failed to arrive.
He heard a voice over his shoulder.
“Is that for today?” Steve Bright nodded at the worn piece of paper.
Millie folded it up and cursed himself for exposing the numbers in such a public place.
“No, it’s nothing.”
Kilton called the room to order and handed over to the weatherman.
A tall, thin bespectacled man switched on the overhead projector. It showed a loosely packed series of isobars over the west of the country with a second system to the north-east.
“This chappie is the cause of the current stability in our weather,” the man said, pointing at the system in the north. “It’s preventing anything moving in from the Atlantic. That said, it will be a little cooler for the next few days. Seventy-five Fahrenheit, rather than eighty. But again, precipitation is unlikely. Locally today, light winds at surface level, but check winds aloft carefully, as they will be up to sixty-five MPH above twenty thousand feet. For those of you venturing further north, expect a strong sou’westerly at surface level above Carlisle, all the way to Orkney.
“The copied bulletin will be in the admin office before 9AM.”
Millie watched as the pilots and navigators made notes.
The weatherman shuffled out with his wad of papers. Kilton stood before them again.
“The station commander has asked me to read out the following notice.”
There were a few titters as the boss theatrically rolled his eyes.
“The standards to which we must aspire were not present in TFU yesterday. The inadvertent release of a container of irritant was a serious error. It places us in an embarrassing position with our neighbours and it has exacerbated an already fractious relationship with the peaceful campaigners, currently exercising their democratic right.” More titters around the room. “While we have avoided the need for a full Board of Inquiry, I expect those responsible to be left in no doubt that we expect and demand more from the officers and men stationed at RAF West Porton.”
Kilton looked up from the wooden rostrum.
“So that’s us told. Please don’t bomb the peace campaigners.”
The men laughed.
“In all seriousness, we do not wish to draw unwanted attention to ourselves, so no more slip-ups, however hilarious they may be. Now, while we’ve avoided a drawn out and pointless inquiry, we are suffering some consequences. We need to step up vehicle searches.” The room groaned and Kilton put his hands up “I know, I know, but they are there to protect our secrets. I don’t need to remind you that many of our projects lose what value they have if exposed. So let’s be patient with the men at the gate who are doing a good job. In addition, the station commander has ordered each unit to carry out a review into their own security arrangements. So, execs, I need you round the table with me tomorrow morning at 8AM. This takes priority, so rearrange flying around it.”
The four squadron leaders in the room, including Millie, grumbled at the unwanted invitation.
Not only was there no conceivable way to get the reels in his locker out of West Porton, but he was now part of the committee ensuring his options would be even more limited.
The meeting broke up, and he trudged back to the planning room.
Glancing at the flying programme, he saw, for the first time since its inception, two Guiding Light flights were scheduled for the same day: one in the morning with him, Speedy Johnson and Red Brunson and a new young navigator, followed in the after
noon by Rob, Jock and Steve Bright.
Frustratingly, Bright would be in charge of the reel changes in the afternoon.
He lingered on Steve Bright’s name, recalling his comment about Millie’s piece of paper.
“Is that for today?”
He looked around, trying to see if Bright was somewhere he might speak to him alone. As his eyes swept the room, Red Brunson appeared and announced their own pre-flight brief.
It took them an hour to plan the trial and another thirty minutes to dress and prepare for the flight. Millie was happy to let the new young navigator look after the hatch.
As soon as the wheels tucked up into the belly of the Vulcan, he flicked the master switch on the Guiding Light panel and started a tape.
By the time he was required to gather height readings, after their descent into the Welsh hills, he had two more reels for his own collection.
During the official stretch at one thousand feet, Millie watched the orange digits as carefully as possible, waiting for a stream of numbers that made no sense. Several times, he’d seen moments of what looked like anomalous readings, but they were too fleeting to be sure.
The aircraft buffeted along the contour of the ground below. It was impossible for him to tell whether they were exactly tracing the ground level or occasionally deviating. The pilots would have a better idea, but only if they were looking.
He glanced across to the new nav. An eerie green light projected onto his earnest face from the radar hood in front of him.
In the dark of the Vulcan’s rear bay, Millie went back to his task of monitoring a system he was certain hid a fatal flaw.
He drummed his fingers on the black top below the panel. The engine noise grew and he felt the nose pitch up as they climbed out of low-level.
He stopped the recorder, labelled the official reels and set it going once more with an unofficial tape.
Millie daydreamed about the moment he could march into the station commander’s office with proof, in black-and-white, that Guiding Light was unfit.
He tightened his straps and locked his chair in place as they joined the West Porton circuit. They were back on time, ready for the Vulcan to be fuelled and prepared for a second trial.
Time was no longer on his side.
The nose gear unfolded with loud clanks, just a few feet below his seat.
The main gear met the runway with a squeal and they taxied in.
Two tasks ahead. Get the tapes to Belkin and decipher that second field.
Inside TFU, Steve Bright was nowhere to be seen.
Millie rid himself of his flying clothes and equipment, and stowed the tapes.
At his desk, he ate the sandwich Georgina had made for him and got on with his paperwork.
At 2.30PM, he finally heard Steve Bright across the room, but he was already with Rob and the others, planning the afternoon trip.
Two hours ticked by before they returned, from Scotland. It would have been a perfect opportunity for him to gather more data.
He watched Bright as the crew arrived back into the planning room, hair matted with sweat. The group stayed together as they changed and headed out to the mess bar.
Millie packed his bag, checking it for secret project papers before following them.
The mess was busy, and his eyes stung from the amount of smoke in the air. He made his way to fire exit and pushed it open, before searching the growing crowd of officers.
Steve Bright was there, in the centre of the room, laughing and talking with a small group.
Millie ordered a drink and joined them.
He sipped his beer and bided his time.
Just before 7PM, the group broke up and Millie followed Bright out into the lobby. Checking no-one was too close by, he called out.
“Steve, can I have a quick word?”
The nav stopped by a portrait of the Duke of Edinburgh in full RAF flying clothing, standing in front of an Avro Anson.
“What is it, Millie?”
“What did you say when you stood over me earlier?”
Bright looked perplexed.
“When?”
“In the met brief.”
Bright shook his head. “No, sorry, can’t remember.”
Millie looked around again before retrieving the piece of paper from his pocket.
“Oh, that. Yes, I just wondered if that’s where we were going today, but clearly not.”
“I don’t understand. What did you mean?”
Bright looked at the paper again. He pushed Millie’s hand further away as if to try and focus on it.
“Coordinates, aren’t they? Lat and long.”
Millie looked back at the digits.
15105550114922
15105550114810
“Really? I don’t recognise them.”
Bright shrugged. “Well, maybe not. At least I’m not sure what the ‘1’ at the beginning is. But ‘51 05 55’… What’s that?” He tilted his head up toward the ceiling. “Somewhere north of here? Midlands? And… He studied the paper again. “‘1 49 22’. That’s west. Maybe Cheltenham? Trust me, Millie, I’m a navigator and I know latitude and longitude when I see it.”
Millie stared at the figures.
“I see. But like you say, there are too many digits.”
“It’s your note, Millie. Can’t you ask whoever gave it to you?”
He wasn’t sure what to say, and so said nothing. Bright smiled and took the sheet from his hand, scrutinising it.
“Look, there’s a ‘1’ at the start and a ‘1’ in the middle before the long. No idea what that means, sorry chap.”
He handed the paper back to Millie, leaving him alone, staring at the numbers.
More people arrived from the bar and he pocketed the sheet before heading to his car.
As he drove up to the central road that ran through the station, another car pulled alongside him.
Steve Bright motioned for Millie to wind his window down. He leant across and wound down his own passenger side window.
“Probably the hemisphere!” he shouted.
“What?”
“The ‘1’s on your sheet. Probably represents north, south, east or west. Maybe ‘0’ would be south and the opposite east or west?”
“Right.”
Bright laughed. “Normally there would be letters to show the hemisphere. North, south, east, west. But maybe your example uses numerical labels. Where did it come from, anyway?”
There was a beep behind them as someone else pulled out of the mess car park.
“Never mind,” Bright finished and wound up his window before pulling ahead.
By the time Millie arrived home, even Georgina seemed to notice his raised mood.
“Good day at the office, dear?”
“Something like that. Don’t look so surprised. They do still happen, occasionally.”
He took her hand and pulled her close.
She laughed. “Millie, whatever’s got into you?”
He kissed her and tilted his head. “Shall we go down to the Railway Hotel for dinner tonight?”
This time she raised both eyebrows. “Well, I had a pie out, but it’ll keep.”
“Excellent. Saves on washing up.”
“Are you going to let me know what we’re celebrating?”
“As you note, my dear, just a good day at the office.”
10
Thursday 16th June
Each time he approached the main gate, Millie studied the security officers as they busied themselves with the car in front. The routine involved a cursory look into the boot, but occasionally he saw a man lean in and give a more thorough search.
The same went for the interior of the vehicle itself.
He simply couldn’t risk transferring the tapes through the checks. There had to be another way.
At TFU, he took his seat at the meeting to help tighten security even further.
“We need to be certain our system is watertight,” Kilton began. “No papers going
astray, everything accounted for. The cabinets, for instance. How secure are they?”
“They’ve got padlocks,” Speedy Johnson offered.
“They look weak. Beef them up.”
Speedy added a line to his to-do list, and Millie made a mental note not to answer questions in case he got lumbered with an impossible task.
But Kilton looked directly at him. “And what about the lockers?”
“What about them?”
“Are they secure, Millie? What do people keep in them? We need to do an audit.”
“An audit?” His heart thumped.
“Yes. Search them all. Make sure there’s nothing compromising and remind people they’re for unclassified jumpers and hats, not secret project paperwork.”
A familiar prickly heat crept up his neck.
Kilton stared at him.
“Well?”
“Well what, sir?”
“Wake up, Millie! Can you carry out the audit?”
“You want me to? To search people’s lockers?
“If it’s not an inconvenience. Yes, please.”
“Yes, boss. No problem at all.”
“Right, have I missed anything?”
“What about when we fly out?” Millie said.
“What do you mean?”
“Land-aways for instance? We carry secret equipment and its paperwork all the time. What do we do at another airfield? I mean, it’s unlikely, I know, but one of us might accidentally carry classified documents to another station, leave them in a meeting room, or even on the aircraft while we brief or…”
Suddenly, he saw it: the only way to get the reels out of West Porton and avoid the security forces at every gate.
He could fly them out.
Except, like the world’s most colossal idiot, he had just alerted Mark Kilton to the option. The only loophole he could conceivably have exploited was about to be closed.
Kilton looked impatient. “You OK, Milford?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, you’re absolutely right. We need a procedure in place. From now on, all land-aways must be authorised by me personally. A security officer can sign classified material out of the building and back in again. Excellent idea.”
