by Neil Spring
‘But none of those bases are American.’
The admiral moved on to another slide, an aerial photograph of a facility I hadn’t laid eyes on since Mum and Dad were killed on the night of the Great Flood.
RAF Brawdy. My home before Ravenstone.
‘Robert, this site here –’ he pointed to a building alongside the base ‘– belongs to the US Navy.’
‘But NAVFAC is just an oceanographic research station,’ I told the admiral. I had reviewed the documentation on the facility myself. It was the first thing I had done when I started working for Bestford.
‘A research centre?’ The incredulity in his voice was unmistakable. ‘Controlled by the US Navy and secured on all sides by a high, double barbed-wire perimeter fence, two lookout towers and a gatehouse? And for something so apparently innocuous, the Americans have been less than eager to share what exactly they’re doing behind those fences. They had a fire recently. The firemen at RAF Brawdy went to help. They did not receive a warm welcome. In fact, the Americans denied them entry at gunpoint. Does that sound routine to you?’
I hesitated, wishing I had reviewed that documentation a little more carefully.
‘That research facility is equipped with its own generator, its own security force,’ continued the admiral. ‘The guardroom has bulletproof glass. The terminal building has a series of heavy metal doors with an airlock in between each one surrounded by sound dampers and protected against electromagnetic snoopers. Totally blast-proof, built to withstand nuclear and biological fallout. The facility is manned by twenty-two USN officers and two hundred and seventy-eight other ranks. Believe me, the Soviets have rockets that can strike a target anywhere in the world. And now that they’ve got wind of what’s going on there, Broad Haven is at the top of the list.’
‘You look worried.’
He dropped his gaze. ‘We don’t have much time. Since the children went public with what they saw, news crews have descended on the village. They’re going crazy for the story with tales of aliens and God knows what else. They’re calling the area the bloody Broad Haven Triangle, for Christ’s sake! Six months ago your grandfather told a newspaper reporter that an increase in sightings over west Wales was to be expected. Do you see, Robert? He predicted this. And we need to know how.’
‘I don’t see how he can help you. He’s crazy! He thinks they’re from outer space.’
‘The admiral frowned. ‘Be that as it may, we need to contain this situation before it escalates, before he starts a panic. And you, Robert, are uniquely placed to help us. You know the area, you know the people.’
I thought frantically, searching for any excuse that might buy more time. The very idea of seeing my grandfather again – indulging his mania – made me go cold.
‘My closest friend is lying in a coma, and you want to send me on a wild goose chase to the middle of nowhere, talking to crazies and hunting lights in the sky?’
The admiral raised his eyebrows. ‘I would have thought you’d understand. You’re so passionate about campaigning for greater transparency on American facilities in this country, but so unwilling to accept how you yourself can play a part.’
His remark dangled in the silence that opened up between us.
‘The parish council has called a public meeting this Friday to debate the phenomena. And your grandfather is planning to interview some of the children this weekend.’
My mouth was dry. Not just because I couldn’t stand to think of Randall contaminating other young people’s minds, but because I knew what was coming next.
‘We want you to reacquaint yourself with him, find out what he knows.’
‘You want me to spy on him?’
‘We don’t know what we’re up against. I don’t know how, but your grandfather seems to have some inside knowledge about the situation and is clearly intent on telling everyone he comes across about it. The exercise is pivotal to safeguarding the security of this nation, classified above top secret. I haven’t even informed the secretary of state I’m consulting you.’
‘Have you even told him about this facility, about Room 800 and its secrets?’
The admiral’s face remained fixed.
‘Does anyone know? The home secretary, the prime minister?’
‘Only those with a need to know. As you, Robert, now most certainly do.’
He handed me the thick file of official reports, his eyes fastened on mine.
‘Robert, I need you in the Havens. Help us solve this. Find out what your grandfather knows. Find out how he can predict the next wave of activity. And stop him from panicking people, stop him drawing Soviet attention. We don’t have much time. I fear that the attack on Parliament was only the beginning!’
The penny dropped. My stomach did too. ‘You’re suggesting the Americans attacked Parliament to hush up what’s going on in the Havens?’
‘The National Security Agency,’ he said, nodding, and I immediately remembered Corso’s cryptic warnings. ‘They’re running some sort of secret experiment they will do anything to protect. And I’m offering you a unique opportunity.’
Return to the Havens? I remembered Ravenstone Farm, the squeak of its floorboards, the sea winds that rattled the windows behind their bars. I remembered my grandfather’s menace, his iron-grey hair catching the light as he crossed himself and pointed skywards. I remembered him forcing me to pray beneath St John the Baptist’s enigmatic smile.
I remembered all this and shook my head. ‘I won’t do it. I can’t ever go back.’
The admiral gave me a hard look. ‘You must, Robert. For all our sakes.’
– 12 –
My childhood was calling me.
As I watched the gentle rise and fall of Selina’s chest beneath the crisp hospital sheets all I could think was, I can’t go back to the Havens. I won’t. Yet part of me wanted to go, was desperate to please the admiral. To help.
Also I was curious.
In two days’ time my grandfather, the man who had so alienated me with frightful tales of fires in the sky, would interview those schoolchildren, would confirm their fanciful stories, maybe even add to them. Would they believe him? I had to do something.
But I can’t go back to the Havens . . .
The window was half open. Although the fresh air was soothing, I couldn’t stop myself getting up, crossing the room and fastening it shut. Checking twice. Three times.
I told myself not to panic. Without a clear mind I would have nothing left. But as I looked again into Selina’s pale expressionless face, I felt the hollow fear in my heart open and threaten to swallow me whole.
I can’t go back!
I focused on the beeping machines, the shallow rhythm of Selina’s breath. Slowly reason returned. If I never followed up on the events explained to me by the admiral, everything I had worked for all these years would be for nothing.
I had a responsibility. I didn’t know whether the admiral was telling me the truth, if the US facility adjacent to RAF Brawdy was caught up somehow in the mysterious events that were unravelling in the Havens. But it was true – I remembered now – that Bestford had been involved in authorizing the US to build a facility in the area in the first place. ‘It would enhance the economy, contribute to important research,’ he had told the newspapers. And he had been invited to attend every major meeting on the deal at the Ministry of Defence. Had Bestford been hiding from me what he knew about the true nature of the facility? If the US military was behind the incident at Broad Haven School, it was possible that Bestford, a man I trusted, had campaigned with, had kept me in the dark all along.
So the admiral’s task, as strange as it was, also offered me the unexpected opportunity to finish what I had started with the parliamentary inquiry – without Bestford. A chance to hold the Americans to account for their illegal activities, to complete my mother’s work, to get justice for t
he injuries she had sustained three months before she and Dad were taken from me. I must go, I knew it now.
I patted Selina’s hand softly, got up and turned towards the door. To my surprise, it was opening.
‘Robert?’
Bestford. And I could tell from his glazed eyes that he had been drinking.
‘What are you doing here?’ I said bitterly, and as he turned away put one hand on his shoulder, halting him. ‘You know something is going on in the Havens, don’t you?’
He regarded me warily, shoulders slumped, and shook his head. His eyes had become windows to a dark place.
‘It was you who asked Selina to investigate. That’s why you wanted to delay the inquiry, why you tore up the document on Project Caesar after the explosion.’
‘I was protecting us! I thought Selina might be able to find out more, that we could hush it all up before it got too public—‘
Did I want to shake him, punch him? Of course I did. But I just pushed him away. ‘The question is, what else were you protecting? What else aren’t you telling me?’
He held up his palms in a defensive gesture, before turning to click the door closed behind him. ‘Just keep your voice down.’
‘I’ll keep my voice down when you tell me what I want to know!’ I looked down at Selina in the bed. ‘Why the hell did you put her on something so dangerous?’
‘Until the proprietor of the Haven Hotel saw something I thought nothing of the reports. But that same morning we were informed that strange lights had been seen in the bay, near Stack Rocks Island. The call came from Secretariat Air Staff 2A within the Ministry of Defence. They were extremely concerned. When the articles about the UFOs appeared, I began to have my suspicions and asked Selina to make subtle inquiries.’
He raised his eyebrows in wary expectation of my response. We both knew it was beyond procedure for a member of the committee to instigate such an investigation outside an official inquiry.
‘Come on, Robert, get real. Bright lights that fall out of the sky, chase cars? I knew that it was a secret military facility, but it sounded as though they might be testing something down there, something we don’t know about. We needed to take it seriously. Listen. If the Americans are up to something down there, and anyone finds out, it’ll be me who gets the blame. Me!’
‘Because you green-lit the US facility.’
He dropped his head and turned to look at Selina stretched out on her hospital bed. His hands were trembling in the way they always did when he had been drinking, so much so that I couldn’t help but wonder how long it would be before he ended up in a place like this.
‘That’s why you tried to throw me off the scent. You don’t want to be held accountable. Paul, wake up! We can’t give up now! If I can prove these sightings are down to the US military, some illegal black-budget project, it might be all we need to reignite the committee inquiry.’
‘Robert, I’ve decided. These aren’t questions we have any business asking now.’
‘With respect,’ I snarled, ‘you are the chair of the Parliamentary Defence Select Committee. These are precisely the sort of questions you should be asking!’
‘Robert, really, what’s your problem? What have you got to complain about? We’re winning the Cold War, aren’t we? We’re richer than the Russians, more comfortable, better houses! What does it matter if the Americans are storing weapons – planes – near Broad Haven? It’s not for us to ask.’
‘It matters because the world could end at any day!’ I shouted. ‘One pushed button away from Armageddon, you said so yourself! I’m half-minded to go to the press—’
‘If you do this,’ he cut in, ‘it’s not just the base you’re threatening. It’s everything: people’s lives, a community. Expose anything and you’re only exposing us. Robert, that base is there because of us.’
Suddenly, I was struck by an alarming thought. ‘Oh God, Paul. Tell me they aren’t keeping nuclear weapons at Brawdy. Not on our own patch? Tell me that, please.’
For a long moment Selina’s heart monitor was the only sound in the room. Then I found my voice. ‘How long? How long have they been there?’
‘Almost two years,’ he said quietly.
‘American?’
He nodded.
‘And you consented to this?’
‘I was briefed. That was all.’
‘You never mentioned nuclear weapons! Christ’s sake! You thought no one would find out?’
‘The Prime Minister had made up his mind.’
‘He must have offered you one hell of a bargain.’
‘That’s politics, Robert. One day you’ll realise that these weapons might actually have a useful purpose in keeping us safe!’
I turned away in disgust.
A part of me wanted to find the nearest telephone and call The Times and spill the story. Bestford deserved it.
Instead I thought about the frightened children at Broad Haven Primary, Araceli Romero alone with her daughter in the hotel on the cliff. I didn’t yet know why, but I was particularly worried about those two, about what might happen to them if I didn’t find out what was really going on.
I remembered Selina’s drawing Corso had given me, the picture of the hulking figure with no face. The silver humanoid. I fished it from my pocket and unfolded it. I had to finish what Selina had started, but there would be no cover-up this time.
‘I’m going to Broad Haven, to learn the truth about what’s happening,’ I told him.
‘The Americans will not tolerate an investigation,’ Bestford replied, his tone urgent.
He swayed on the spot, and I felt a flood of revulsion. I knew I had to ignore it and pretend I was addressing the old Bestford, the sober Bestford who had rescued me from a life heading nowhere in west Wales. I faced him with an intent stare.
‘Paul, I have been at your side in this inquiry for six months, as I have been since the day I left university and came to work for you. Pounding pavements for miles to plead with people for their support, shoving hundreds of leaflets through people’s doors . . . And all for you, Paul! When journalists call, it’s me who covers for you – pretends I have no idea what they mean when they ask about your prolonged absences, your endless private appointments and periods of sickness. I chair your meetings when you’re ill, I write your speeches, I celebrate when you win, and I’m here to clean up the mess when you don’t. And when you make your speeches on the floor of the House, I’m the one in the backroom, hidden in the shadows, as the rest of the House looks at you.’
I stepped forward. He took a cautious step away from me.
‘And now for the first time I have a chance to make a real difference, to find out what I came here for. And I won’t allow you to take that away from me. Do you understand?’
‘You don’t know what it’s been like,’ he managed to reply, ashen-faced, before collapsing into the chair beside Selina’s bed, head cupped in his trembling hands. ‘I can’t take it any more. I need a break. I need you to abandon this, to hold the fort here. After all we’ve been through, Robert, say you’ll do that for me.’
The inspiring man I had followed all these years was a trembling husk before me. I saw now that my suspicions were correct: politics didn’t just take your life, it sapped the soul, made good men great only to reduce them to a shadow of their former selves. That could be me, I thought, watching Bestford’s shaking hands.
‘You’re failing me if you don’t stay,’ Bestford muttered feebly.
‘And I’ll be failing myself if I do,’ I said. ‘Consider this my resignation.’
From The Mind Possessed: A Personal Investigation into the Broad Haven Triangle
by Dr R. Caxton (Clementine Press, 1980) p.9
Genuine mysteries are rare, but there are occasions when some instances are so bizarre, so shocking, that no amount of time will diminish the
ir impact. Conspiracy theorists thrive on such events. They keep us guessing and grieving, even more so when the people affected come from the most ordinary of places.
The Havens. A quaint community on the west coast of Pembrokeshire in the south-west corner of St Brides Bay. The Pembrokeshire coastal path passes right through the heart of the village, which in the summer months is a draw for holidaymakers but come winter is damp and freezing and windswept by the gales that rush in from the Atlantic. At this time of year the residents live a quiet life, suffering few intrusions from the outside world.
And after the tragic events of that winter, even fewer now.
The primary school at the end of Marine Lane is long gone, demolished. But its secrets linger. The public house – the Ram – has closed. Only the church remains, but its doors are boarded up, and of its enigmatic Catholic priest, Father O’Riorden, there is no sign.
The faces you meet regard you with suspicion, eyes empty. Because for all the scientific facts about the tragedy, there remain many questions some would prefer weren’t asked at all.
Bruce Lawson, who ran the Nest Bistro, a popular fish restaurant, hasn’t been back to the village since the events of February 1977. His establishment was demolished just a few weeks after the tragedy. ‘You stop talking about it after a while,’ he admits. ‘People think you’re crazy when you talk about weird things in the sky.’
– 13 –
Wednesday 9 February 1977, 11.45 a.m.
When it came, the morning was muggy and thick, barely stirring under a steely sky. Peculiar weather for February.
I put a case containing my few pairs of jeans, walking boots and thick jumpers into the back seat of my second-hand Ford Cortina, then climbed behind the wheel. The drive would take four hours, three and a half if I was lucky. Above me, as if in protest against my journey, a mass of clouds was stacking up, promising trouble.
The drive began well, with traffic flowing freely all the way out to the Hammersmith flyover. By the time my car slipped out onto the motorway the office blocks had fallen away and I was telling myself that my return to the Havens was for the best: a chance to uncover wrongdoing by a foreign government in our country, to help vulnerable people and to solve a genuine mystery. A nagging doubt remained. But then I could barely remember a time in my life when I hadn’t been haunted by doubt.
