by James Blatch
“Won’t the chaps resent this, boss?” Speedy asked. “They might feel like they’re being spied on?”
“I don’t care what they think. This is for their own protection. To ensure they don’t make a mistake that could cost us, and them, dear.” Kilton stood. “Right, well, let’s be getting on with it.”
The meeting broke up; Millie stayed in his seat.
He thought back to the recent land-aways. He’d been to Oakington for a meeting with Red Brunson and Wyton a few weeks earlier. He and Rob flew to Warton in the Canberra. On any of those trips, he could so easily have carried an extra bag.
He could have packaged the tapes into a parcel and posted them to his own home address, or directly to Belkin.
But that door was closed now.
And he had closed it.
Susie listened intently. She needed to remember every detail.
Since the gas bomb had dropped, the camp felt galvanised and ready for action.
And she was part of the raiding party. A team of just six.
Megan paced the wigwam.
“We now know what they’re hiding.”
The room went quiet. David stood up.
“Sampson has extracted vital information for us.”
So, the mysterious blond man had a name. But how could he have extracted the information?
“The secret squadron occupies the large green hangar on this side of the airfield,” David continued. “The collection of old aircraft on the other side is a maintenance facility. Much less interesting.”
Megan spoke again. “Sampson has befriended a serving member of the squadron. This man has unwittingly passed on some very interesting information. There’s something fitted to a white Vulcan. A Top Secret project. He believes the project is called Guiding Light. He claims not to know any more than that. He’s probably telling the truth. That’s how secret Guiding Light is. Even people inside TFU aren’t aware of the details. So, we’re going to blow it wide open”
David picked up a camera. “We have two tasks once inside. Take close-up photographs of whatever is on the aircraft, and retrieve any paperwork relating to Guiding Light. For that purpose, we’ll split into two teams.
“We will arm the aircraft team with this camera and a light. The paperwork team will have a rucksack and some tools to open filing cabinets and drawers.”
“We have an extensive set of keys accumulated over the years,” said Megan. “Most hangar doors use the same locks and we’re confident we’ll find a match. But it may take a while to go through them, which means we won’t have long on the inside. Do not restrict yourselves to just Guiding Light. Pick up anything relating to nuclear, biological and chemical weapons.”
“Right, let’s get down to the detail,” David said. He led the group to a trestle table with a hand-drawn map of the airfield and lists of times. Susie was impressed. It turned out all the lying around by the fence had a purpose. They had meticulously noted the times and nature of the security patrols for weeks.
“We’ve identified our best chance,” Megan said. “Overnight on Friday through to Saturday.”
“They call it Happy Hour,” David continued, “but as far as we can see, it starts mid-afternoon and finishes in the small hours of the morning.
“The men are drunk and behaviour around the gate becomes erratic. The guards congregate around the entrance, leaving the rest of the airfield unpatrolled. 2.15AM is our chance.
“The two wire cutters will remain at the fence, so if you’d prefer not to be part of the team that goes all the way in?” He looked expectantly at the group.
Susie raised her hand. But Megan intervened.
“No. She’s small. We need her with us.”
A range of implements were laid out on an adjoining table, from heavy jemmies to tiny Allen keys. David placed an Olympus camera in the centre of the tools.
Millie searched the lockers as requested.
He found a couple of items that shouldn’t be there, including a flight plan annotated ‘G/L’ in Speedy Johnson’s own cubby hole.
Nothing too sinister, but Millie dealt with it quietly, directly with Johnson.
After finishing the lockers, he went out of the airfield door and stood in the June sunshine. Leaning back against the red brick extension that nestled at the base of the large hangar, he took out a packet of cigarettes.
A long draw on his John Player Number 6 went some way to calming him down.
On the apron in front of him stood the Guiding Light Vulcan, ready for its afternoon trip. He looked at his watch and realised he had only forty minutes to prepare.
He dropped his cigarette and stamped it out.
A noise caught his attention. He looked across the runway to see a lumbering Valetta taxiing up toward the eastern threshold.
The Maintenance Unit. The Graveyard.
In that moment he envied them, recovering withdrawn aircraft from around the country and ferrying them to final resting places.
No secrets, no pressure, no paranoid security.
He watched the Valetta lining up on the main runway.
No-one searches their lockers.
And no-one checks their aircraft.
The old men of 206 MU. Those wonderful old men and their eccentric flying machines.
No-one pays them any attention. Kilton would have got rid of them if he’d had his way, but for once he hadn’t had his way.
He went back into TFU, eager to get the afternoon’s flight out of the way before he could head to the bar and seek a quiet corner with some old friends.
The flight went better than expected. Not only did Millie capture two tapes on the way out and way back, but at Jock MacLeish’s request they carried out part of the low-level run a second time, allowing Millie to load and record two more extra reels.
He stood in front of his locker, waiting for two of the chaps to walk past before he opened it up. He now had two stacks of reels up against the rear wall, with his jumper barely covering them. It was time to get rid.
He’d been lucky today, extremely lucky. But that wouldn’t last.
He closed the locker and dropped off his flying clothing.
By the time he got back to the planning room and entered the official tapes into the system, it was 5.20PM. He headed to the mess.
Just inside the front door was a notice informing all that the bar would be closed tomorrow night in preparation for the Summer Ball on Saturday.
“No Happy Hour?” said Speedy as he passed the notice with Rob. “It’s a disgrace.”
“Well, it’s the VIP reception,” Rob replied as Millie caught up with them.
Speedy frowned. “What VIP reception?”
Rob looked taken aback, as if he’d said something he shouldn’t have.
“The local dignitaries. Just a few drinks. I believe it’s instead of inviting them to the ball which got rowdy last year. Station Commander’s idea.”
“Really, and who’s invited?” the senior pilot said.
“I’m only going because I’m mess secretary now.”
“You kept that quiet.” Speedy gave Rob a slap on the shoulder as they arrived in the bar. “So you are a high flyer. Remember us won’t you?”
“Well done, chap,” Millie said and shook his hand.
“Thanks, Millie.” Rob beamed back. He and Johnson continued over to a group of pilots at the far end of the bar, leaving Millie on his own.
He looked around the room.
The MU boys usually occupied a circular table in the far corner, but it was empty.
He ordered a scotch and drank it by himself. The nearby group of test pilots laughed loudly at their own jokes.
By 6.30PM it was clear the Graveyard men were not showing up.
Millie cursed under his breath, remembering there was no bar tomorrow night.
His locker was full of incriminating evidence, and he still had no way to safely transfer it to Belkin.
11
Friday 17th June
&
nbsp; The cold woke Susie up. That was a first. She’d arrived during the heatwave but now the nights carried a chill.
Her watch said 6.10AM. She wound it for the new day and dressed.
As the village church bells struck 7AM, she was back at the village phone box, dialling a familiar London number.
A man’s clipped voice answered. “Yes.”
“It’s Susie.”
“Ah, Twiggy. How the devil are you?”
“What did you call me?”
“We’re calling you Twiggy now. She’s a model, was on the front page of the Express yesterday. Looks like a boy, curious isn’t it? Anyway, you fit the bill.”
“You think I look like a boy, Roger?”
“Well, you have short hair.”
“Right, well, how about shutting up and taking down some notes?”
“Keep your short hair on. Let me get a pen.”
She tapped her foot.
“Go ahead, Twigs.”
She sighed. “They’re planning a raid on RAF West Porton. This secret squadron I mentioned, it’s the target. Apparently it’s called Test Flying Unit, and there’s a project called Guiding Light. They seem to know what they’re doing. TFU may have a leak.”
“It sounds like you know more about West Porton than we do.”
“I thought we knew everything?”
“It’s time to stop believing what they told us in training, dear. Even Her Majesty’s Security Service hits a brick wall sometimes. We do know something about TFU. It’s independent of the squadron structure. Set up last year to handle the sensitive stuff. But, and this is odd, we know very little more. The unit has a direct line of command to Whitehall, so our usual sources aren’t much help. What we do know is one of their projects has Downing Street’s attention.”
“Guiding Light?”
“That, we don’t know. But you might be right. We do however know the identity of your mysterious blond gentleman.”
“Sampson?”
“Yes, well, that confirms it if you’ve heard that name as well. Sampson Parker. A dangerous sort. Got a bunch of ne’er-do-wells all the way into Faslane last year.”
“The Polaris subs?”
“Indeed. They ended up doing some damage a few feet away from Britain’s independent nuclear deterrent. He was clever enough to stay outside the wire, so they couldn’t pin anything on him. But you say he’ll be on the raid tonight? That could be useful.”
“No. He’s not part of the raid itself. Just seems to be the brains behind it.”
“Same MO as Faslane. Disappointing. The plan was to let the raid go ahead and nab him red-handed.”
“That might still be possible. He’s due to receive what we find and take it off site in the small hours.”
“I see. Well, I’ll pass that up the line and they can decide what should happen. Good work. You’ll need to check in later. Let’s say 4PM, unless something changes significantly at your end.”
A Land Rover lurked in the shadows, in the corner of the TFU hangar. It was used by the engineers and mechanics to ferry parts and people around. The junior engineering officer was happy to let Millie borrow it for a run across the airfield.
He climbed in and found the key was already in the ignition, next to a note telling drivers to inform air traffic control before they drove on the active taxiways.
Millie cursed but then noticed a large radio built into the underside of the dashboard.
He followed instructions pinned next to the ignition switch to pre-heat the coil for thirty seconds, glancing around the hangar, hoping no other officers noticed him.
The vehicle spluttered into life and he edged out onto the apron.
A Victor taxied nearby, and he was suddenly aware of the small vehicle’s vulnerability.
Switching on the radio, he heard the end of a sign-off from the Victor crew. He waited for them to finish and keyed the press-to-transmit button.
“Tower, this is the TFU Land Rover. I need to cross the airfield to the Maintenance Unit.”
Millie followed instructions to use the southern taxiway and wait at the western threshold. As he got closer to the end of the runway, he looked out of the right hand window at the peace camp.
A group of the protestors were gathered outside a white wigwam in the centre of the field. From this range, Millie could see their faces: young men and women. In other circumstances, he would describe them as fresh faced, but it looked as if rough living had taken its toll.
He pulled up in front of thick white lines that marked the boundary of the runway and called the tower again, as instructed. They told him to wait.
Millie opened the door and stood next to the vehicle. Looking back down the runway, just visible above an undulation that took it a few feet down, was a distinctive white tail.
Through the heat mirage, the shape of the Victor emerged, just as it lifted into the air.
Millie plugged his ears as the four jet engines climbed overhead.
The radio crackled into life with clearance to cross and five minutes later he found himself in the drab interior of 206 Maintenance Unit.
The walls were covered with faded photographs of ancient aircraft. Millie squinted at a black-and-white print of a biplane that had two machine guns mounted in front of an open cockpit.
“That’s a B.E.2C, Millie.” JR’s voice over his shoulder. “And no, none of us are quite that old. We keep it up as a reminder.”
“A reminder of what? The good old days?”
“Not exactly,” JR said as he led him into what passed as a planning room, complete with old leather chairs that looked like they’d been thrown out of an officers’ mess as unserviceable. “The B.E.2C was a death trap. Too slow and too difficult to manoeuvre. It should have stayed as a reconnaissance kite, but they kept sending the RFC pilots up to their inevitable deaths. Worth remembering the type of organisation we work for.”
Millie sank into a red armchair.
“So, to what do we owe this rare privilege?”
“I need a lift. To Abingdon. Soon. Preferably Monday.”
JR nodded. “You have about twenty aircraft over there, don’t you? And more pilots than Pan Am. Any particular reason you need a lift from us?”
Millie looked around the room. There were five others in various corners, a couple of men in conversation by the kettle. No-one seemed to be listening in.
“I need to fly below the radar on this one.”
“I see.” JR studied him. After a moment’s pause, he looked across to the couple at the kettle. “Beanie, how’s the Anson behaving?”
“Purrs like a cat on heat.”
“That sounds like a doubtful claim for that heap of rust, but I’ll assume it will get to Oxford and back?”
“A very good chance of success.”
JR turned back to Millie. “What time would sir like his carriage?”
“As easy as that? You don’t need an authorisation?”
“We’re masters of our own destiny here, sort of. We work for Support Command and our boss flies a desk in Brampton. As long as we don’t start a war, he’s happy not to be involved in day-to-day.”
“Must be lovely.”
“It was until TFU turned up. I suspect our days here are numbered.”
Millie sighed. “It’s all a little different over there.”
“Indeed. Anyway, what time on Monday?”
“How about 9.30?”
“Fine. I’m sorry but we’ve lost our own airfield gate, since the security hysteria, so you must drive around the peritrack. If you’re here before 8AM you don’t need to clear it with ATC.”
“Thank you, JR. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”
“Think nothing of it, Millie.” The old pilot stood up.
Millie raised himself from the depths of the armchair. JR stepped forward and offered him an arm. For all the age lines writ into his face, JR was nimble.
As they walked out, JR stopped at the front door. “You can always t
alk to me, Millie.”
“Thank you. For now, I think it’s best I keep you in the dark.”
“Your decision, old chap.”
Millie headed back across the airfield, careful to give a Twin Pioneer a wide berth as one of the MU team started her up.
Back in the planning room he retrieved a folder from a cabinet labelled TFU GLOSTER JAVELIN ACQUISITION.
At his desk he dialled the number for 64 Squadron at RAF Duxford.
“64 ops, Flight Lieutenant Digby.”
“Hello, it’s Squadron Leader Chris Milford from West Porton here. We’re having one of your Javelins, I believe?”
“Are you? What squadron again?”
“Test Flying Unit.”
“Ah! The unit that dare not speak its name. We were told not to discuss it.” The man laughed.
“Yes, well, it’s not a secret that we’re having one of your aircraft and I just need to make sure we have an engineering plan in place. Can I pop over on Monday to chat with your senior engineering officer?”
“I’ll have to check the SENGO’s around. Stand by, please.” The man went off the line briefly, before reporting back that the appointment had been accepted.
After the call, Millie made sure they marked him as out of TFU on Monday for a meeting at Duxford. They would expect him to take the train, so he went the extra mile and asked for a rail permit.
There was a problem with the raid plan.
Two more campers were dispatched to confirm the news a lanky young man had brought back from his patrol: the officers’ mess car park was empty, save a few tradesmen’s vans. There was no sign of the usual drinking jamboree.
It was now 6PM, and they had to face facts: the routine they had meticulously noted over previous weeks was not being followed.
Susie’s 4PM call delivered some surprising news of its own. The fourth floor at Leconfield House was happy to let the raid go ahead. They wanted to catch Sampson Parker with incriminating evidence.
He would be a high profile success for the Service, if everything went to plan.
