by James Blatch
As Roger, her desk officer, had explained what would happen—or what was supposed to happen—she felt the weight of responsibility on her shoulders.
But along with the nerves came excitement.
She knew they had chosen her for this role purely on looks and sex, but here was a chance to gain a significant notch on her belt.
To complicate matters further, in the grand tradition of the Security Service, they were working alone. The RAF were not informed, partly because no-one was forthcoming to them about the secrets held at West Porton.
But as long as it went to plan, they would save the TFU’s backside.
As long as it went to plan.
At 7.30PM, two more campers who’d been sent out on patrol disguised as an evening ramble returned with more news. Susie was called over to the wigwam.
It was a still night. The cloud hung low, trapping in the heat of the day and softening the sounds of wildlife and chatter.
“According to Charlotte and Purdy,” said Megan, “there’s an event in the mess tomorrow, which is why it’s shut tonight. They overheard a delivery man at the main gate. More pertinently for us, half the security men have been sent home. Presumably they’ll be working long hours tomorrow.”
“So we’re on?” Susie asked.
“Yes.”
She felt a rush of nerves in her stomach.
They went over the details once more.
Susie went for a lie down and woke at 11PM. She headed back to the wigwam and found the others searching through a pile of black clothes with a torch.
Megan threw her a pair of slacks and a thin polo neck. She winced at the fashion, but accepted them for the practical purpose.
The minutes ticked by. The wigwam was quiet, save the occasional report from the fence. Patrols were still taking place, but fewer than normal.
At 1.45AM, Purdy arrived to report a patrol had driven past and disappeared back into the main RAF station.
Megan stood up.
“It’s time.”
Outside, Susie heard a vehicle reversing toward them. Puzzled, she looked out of the flaps to see the blond man climbing out of a battered Morris van.
“Sampson Parker,” she said, under her breath.
He opened the rear doors and lifted out a large glass container of liquid and a set of trays. He took the items into the tent without speaking to anyone.
David appeared next to her and whispered.
“He’s setting up a darkroom. He wants to develop the pictures here before they leave the site, just in case.”
They stashed the final tools into rucksacks. Susie noted the camera disappearing into Megan’s shoulder bag.
At 2AM, they gathered behind the tent closest to the fence. David handed Susie a black rucksack. She heard the gentle clang of metal tools within it.
Megan led them. “No talking,” she hissed, even though they were all silent.
The group began a fast jog toward the corner of the field, continuing around the airfield fence, following a pre-planned route. They passed a small collection of derelict-looking buildings and aircraft on the far side of the airfield, including a black silhouette of a large tail-dragging propeller aircraft.
Just beyond the buildings, they set to work with the wire cutters. Susie sat back in the bushes with the others, listening to the cracks and pops as the fence wires gave way. The first fence had been easy, but the second, newer fence was putting up more of a fight.
Eventually, the cutting team called softly to the waiting group.
Megan moved forward in a crouch. The cutting team held the wire up as the four of them crawled under. Susie had to remove the rucksack and push it through ahead of her.
Across the runway, orange lights flooded the bare aprons.
They ran.
No sooner had they crossed the peritrack, than Megan fell and cried out.
She had tripped on something; it looked like a light housing protruding from the ground.
“Airfield lights,” said Susie, “they’re everywhere.”
Megan put some weight on her ankle and winced.
“You won’t make it across. Give me the camera.”
“No. I’m fine.” She set off ahead, limping.
They came to the wide runway and scampered across. All the time, Susie and the others scanned the areas in front of them for any sign of movement.
Susie could hear David wheezing. He was clearly not fit enough for this run.
As they crossed the taxiway on the other side of the runway, they came closer to the boundary of the floodlighting.
Megan changed direction. The others followed as they headed for the eastern corner of the field. It was as far as possible from the domestic side of the station, and the darkest area close to the hangars.
They reached the internal fence that separated the airfield from the rest of West Porton, and moved along its line, approaching an enormous hangar from its rear, bathed in shadow.
At the bottom corner of the vast building was a door marked TOILETS.
“Rucksack,” said Megan, clicking her fingers at Susie.
Megan rummaged around and produced a huge set of keys.
“Apparently there are only seven different keys for each hangar door across the entire RAF,” David said.
“We’re about to find out if that’s a myth,” Megan replied.
Susie watched as the first key refused to budge. The second was the same and the third.
The fourth key slipped in and easily turned with a satisfying clunk.
It was a large, cold space; clammy, even on a June evening. It stank of urine and toilet cleaner.
On the right hand wall were a row of urinals; on their left were three cubicles.
In front of them sat the two internal walls, but neither had a door.
Susie walked forward and ran her hand against them.
“They’re pretty solid.”
“No internal door,” said David, pointing out the obvious. “What kind of arrangement is this?”
“Doesn’t matter, we have more keys,” said Megan, and she went back outside.
They followed her along the side of the hangar, hugging the building in the shade, but it was getting brighter. The car parks on the other side of the fence were lit by street lamps.
Susie was at the back and couldn’t see where they were going.
Samantha halted in front. Susie bumped into her and whispered an apology. Ahead, she could see Megan looking back and holding her finger to her mouth.
Then Susie heard it.
Men talking.
No, not talking. Singing.
They pressed themselves against the hangar and silently shrunk to the ground.
The men appeared at the far side of the car park. Arms around each other, three of them.
With horror, Susie realised that two of the three cars directly opposite were facing them.
“We’ve got to move,” she hissed at Samantha.
No reply.
“The lights. The car lights!”
Slowly, Samantha shuffled forward, stretching out on the ground, following Megan and David’s lead.
She did the same, lying as flat as she could on her front, arms stretched out along her side.
The drunks were close now. The singing had been replaced by a chirpy discussion.
“I’ll drive,” announced a slurred voice.
“No way,” replied the other two in chorus. “Americans can’t hold their drink.”
The first man protested, but appeared to give in.
The car started, followed by a grinding of gears. Susie raised her head. The car was facing them, but the headlights were off.
The car backed away, did a clumsy three-point manoeuvre and drove out of the car park, lights still off.
She let out a breath.
The others took off again, and she leapt up to follow.
The next door yielded to another key and once inside they found an unlocked internal door that opened into a
corridor. They turned left, but this led only to another enclosed office. Turning around, Susie found herself at the front of the band of activists. As she moved forward, she came to an additional door, but this had a glass panel which revealed the inside of the actual hangar.
Her eyes stared at millions of pounds worth of modern military aircraft.
A Victor faced them with its sad eyes; beyond that, under its tail, a Hawker Hunter. Beyond both of them: a huge white Vulcan. Aircraft took up every inch of the hangar.
She tried the door; it was locked.
Megan appeared and ran through her collection of keys.
The fifth one she tried made another clunk as the lock sprung open.
The four of them entered.
“They’re huge,” Samantha said. “I hadn’t realised.”
“Shhh!” Megan hissed.
Susie watched as she retrieved the camera.
Megan turned to Susie and Samantha. “Find the offices. Remember, anything that looks secret.”
They set off and walked past a yellow ladder hanging down from the underbelly of the Vulcan.
The internal door between the hangar and the offices that ran along the front of the building was unlocked.
After walking down a corridor lined with pictures of experimental aircraft, they came to a large room with high desks.
The orange light from the apron threw strange shapes on the walls.
Susie read the sign on the nearest office door.
CO ‘TFU’.
And above a hatch at the far end of the room: ROYAL AIR FORCE TEST FLYING UNIT.
At the opposite end of the room was a bar, complete with tea urn and kettles. On the left side ran a wide corridor. Susie investigated.
It contained rows of lockers, each with a name. Bryan Dillain, Chris Milford, Frank Vansertima, Speedy Johnson.
Two of the wooden doors were unlocked and half open. She peered inside and saw only jumpers and odd items of clothing.
Susie moved on, monitoring Samantha across the room.
She walked between the map tables, back toward the hatch.
Alongside the internal wall that enclosed what appeared to be an admin area were a row of padlocked cabinets. Each was labelled SECURE CABINET with a number.
“Bingo,” said Samantha.
Susie examined the flimsy padlock. None of the keys they had would fit it.
She retrieved the bolt croppers from her rucksack and handed them to Samantha. But the teeth were too big for the small metal loop.
Susie examined the lock again; it was held on by four screws that had been painted over.
She rummaged in the rucksack and produced a couple of screwdrivers.
It only took a couple of minutes before the fastening fell away and one side of the cabinet opened.
Inside, in the gloomy light, there were folders and a pile of cardboard sleeves. Samantha picked up a wad of folders and leafed through them. She held one up for Susie to see.
GUIDING LIGHT – TOP SECRET
Susie nodded, and Samantha stuffed it into the rucksack.
Susie picked up one of the cardboard sleeves.
Inside was a reel of magnetic tape.
“Do they make music here? Is that their secret?” She slung the tapes into the rucksack and moved to the next cabinet.
As they removed the first screw in the next lock, they heard an engine noise.
Both women froze.
A vehicle door slammed close by.
“Shit,” Samantha said.
Susie looked back along the room to the tea bar. She pushed the cabinet doors shut, but had to leave the lock hanging off.
“Follow me.” She ran in a crouch across the full length of the room, just as a door swung open on the airfield side.
The two women reached the bar as the beam of a torch swung over the surrounding desks.
They tucked themselves in. Susie was out of puff but desperately trying not to pant.
She clutched the rucksack, now full of stolen documents, and opened her mouth wide to breathe as quietly as possible.
Samantha, who was nearest the edge of the bar, leant out.
“I think he’s gone into the hangar,” she whispered.
“Nothing we can do.”
They waited.
After what seemed an age, they heard footsteps back in the room. The torchlight swung about again.
The footsteps grew louder.
The women’s hearts thudded in their chests.
The man shuffled up to the tea bar; Susie could hear his breathing.
She rolled her eyes up, without moving her head. If he stepped behind the bar, they were caught.
A hand appeared. She almost let out a whimper.
The hand settled on the tea urn, followed by a disappointed grunt, and the footsteps receded.
A minute later, they heard the vehicle start up and drive off.
Susie and Samantha rose to their feet.
The room was empty; the open cabinet hadn’t been spotted.
Megan and David appeared at the door.
“Over here,” said Susie.
They walked over, Megan with a pronounced limp.
“He didn’t see you?” asked Samantha.
“No, we were inside the Vulcan but we switched the light off in time.”
“Are you OK?” Susie asked, nodding at Megan’s foot. “Do you want me to carry your stuff?”
“I’ll be fine.” She waved a hand.
Susie glanced down. Megan held the camera.
“I think this is the quickest way out,” Samantha said, pointing at the door the security guard had used.
It had a Yale key they could open from the inside. The group spilled out onto the brightly lit apron.
They stood still for a moment, and Susie strained her ears. She could just about hear the guard’s vehicle retreating.
This time they didn’t avoid the shadows; instead they ran across the apron. After thirty seconds they found themselves back in cover on the grass.
They eventually reached the fence, adrenaline flowing, but couldn’t locate the cut wire.
Megan whimpered with pain.
“You did a good job disguising the entry point,” Susie said to David.
“It’s here somewhere…” He ran his hand along the lower part of the wire.
Behind them: the distant sound of an engine. Susie spun around to see a pair of headlights heading across the apron.
“Quickly, for Christ’s sake!” Megan shouted, no longer worried about being overheard.
“Over here!”
They ran in the shout's direction, a hundred yards further along.
Susie held back and helped Megan through, keeping an eye on the patrol vehicle. It hadn’t spotted them.
She was the last to crawl out. As they made their way around, she kept her eyes fixed on the camera while she carried the documents.
Back at the peace camp, they hurried to the wigwam.
Sampson was waiting. He emptied the contents of the rucksack on a trestle table and shone a light at the documents.
Susie caught sight of some headings.
‘Laser Function Parameters’ was one.
A laser? She whistled to herself.
She picked up a tape. “What are these?” she asked Sampson.
He shrugged and said nothing.
Megan placed the camera on the table.
“You got something?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Right. Give me five minutes.”
Sampson disappeared behind a screen into his makeshift darkroom.
Samantha took Megan off to her tent to inspect her ankle, leaving David and Susie alone.
“We need to hide the rucksacks and tools in the woods,” said David. “Sampson will take the keys.”
Susie glanced at the camera. “Would you mind doing that? I’m shattered.”
“Of course.”
He checked the rucksacks to make sure they had retrieved everythin
g bar the tools, and headed out.
Susie figured she had a few seconds before Sampson would reappear from the screens. She pointed the torch directly at the camera, turned its back toward the light and fiddled with the catch on its base until the back flipped open.
She held it in the light for as long as she dared.
Too long.
Sampson appeared next to her.
Shit.
She closed her eyes. There was nothing she could do. Caught red-handed.
Nothing happened.
Opening her eyes, she reached forward and as softly as possible pressed the camera shut.
“Move, please,” he eventually said.
She looked to her left to find him crouching under the table, groping for something.
As he stood up, with a brown A4 size envelope marked ILFORD PHOTOGRAPHIC PAPER, he nodded toward the torch. “Switch that off, please. Go outside and make sure no-one comes in. I’m about to open the camera. Where is it?”
She handed it to him.
“Susie,” she said as he walked away. “I’m Susie.”
“Thank you, Susie,” he said without looking back.
She pulled the flaps of the wigwam closed and took her position guarding the entrance.
Megan reappeared in shorts with a neat bandage around her ankle.
“Samantha’s done a good job,” Susie said.
“It’s fine.”
Susie handed over guard duty and slipped off to her tent.
She sat cross-legged in the opening, pulling a sleeping blanket around her to keep off the overnight chill.
And waited.
Her watch said 4.10AM. They were just a few days from the summer solstice, and the sun was about to come up.
It was deathly quiet.
After a few minutes, she saw Sampson appear at the wigwam opening.
A rising inflection in Megan’s voice.
It sounded like panic.
“No! Impossible!”
Susie got up and walked over.
“Everything all right?”
Megan shot her a look like thunder.
“There’s nothing on the bloody film. It was all for nothing.”
“What do you mean, nothing on it?” Susie asked, looking wide-eyed and innocent.
Megan pulled out a packet of cigarettes and lit one. Sampson appeared through the flaps of the wigwam, his arms laden with the darkroom equipment.
