by David Holman
Barnett checked through his notes. ‘So you recall the cab suddenly veering to one side, and then you saw everything go upside down?’
‘That’s right, HB. Before that, it was all a smooth run. I took it slow through the village and allowed the outriders to guide me through. How is the chap who got blown of his bike by the burst?’
‘I think he was a little shaken, but by all accounts just got on his bike again.’ There was a slight pause, then Barnett shook his head. ‘This is awful, she’s not going to fly next week, that’s for sure. We could be looking at months before she’s ready again,’ he sighed. ‘At least she can stay here for her repairs. I suppose that’s something.’
Lewis stared at his tea. ‘Sorry HB, I can’t think what could have happened, it all happened in a flash.’
Barnett looked at the lorry driver for a few moments, then began to stare through him as he tried to imagine the incident. His thoughts returned to the previous night, and suddenly he remembered an image of the men around the load at Brinton’s, before the convoy had left.
Barnett mumbled to himself. ‘What was he up to?’
Lewis interrupted his thoughts. ‘What was that, sir?’
Barnett was brought back to the current situation. ‘I was thinking about last night, before you left Brinton’s. The Yanks were out watching us go off and one of them was fiddling with the securing straps.’
Lewis looked up. ‘You don’t think they may have something to do with this, do you sir?’
Barnett stood up, then responded. ‘Not sure, Jim. They are a strange bunch right enough, certainly keep themselves away from everything, but I don’t think they would want to sabotage their own allies. Don’t worry, as long as you’re okay Jim, that’s all that matters right now.’
‘They’re probably bitter that the FB-X isn’t ready yet, and we’re ahead of them with our new warplane,’ quipped Lewis.
Barnett shook the drivers hand and left the canteen. As he closed the door, he thought again of Maitland and his men by the trailer and suddenly the last comment that Lewis had made, didn’t seem too far-fetched.
*
Swan and Higgins sat at the table ready for lunch. The Air Commodore was still in great spirits from his shoot and picked up the menu. After a few minutes, he had decided to start with the crab and for the main course, chose the Dover Sole. Swan also went for the crab and then instead of the sole, decided on the venison. To go with the meal, they chose a chilled bottle of Leibfraumilch.
Small talk followed until the crab arrived, then the conversation turned to the McGregor incident.
Higgins shook his head. ‘Nasty business if you ask me. It seems the poor lad slipped and fell from the gantry next to the aircraft; looks as though the whole project is jinxed in some way.’
Swan picked up on the last comment. ‘How so, old boy?’
Higgins chewed on his crab. ‘Well, first there’s the delay in the maiden flight, then that business with the Yanks wanting to try out some secret spy drone using our aircraft. So, they set up headquarters at Brinton’s. Last time I was up there, they’d had all their areas restricted. Top level clearance only.’
Swan interrupted. ‘Must be quite a piece of kit for them to be so secretive.’
Higgins agreed. ‘You know the Yanks, and the way they act over here. Just look at what they’ve done to our station in Suffolk. It’s like being in New York, with their dammed burger bars and bowling alleys.’
Swan smiled, amused at the way Higgins showed frustration with the situation of American military personnel being based in England.
Higgins continued. ‘If you ask me, they’re all bloody sore that we are not buying their new piece of junk, instead of having the BR-101.’
Swan just nodded in appreciation and listened. ‘You see Alex, the FB-X practically rivals our kite in every way, and the thing’s being built by an unknown company called GK Systems Inc.’
‘I have to say, I’ve never heard of them,’ remarked Swan.
The big Air Commodore continued. ‘Neither had we. They seem to be some big outfit in Sacramento, just set up. They don’t just have orders for the FB-X, they’re also working on some lightweight, nimble little fighter-bomber, that they reckon will sell around the world.’
‘All very peculiar that some unknown firm wins the contract to supply the US with the latest military aircraft technology.’
‘Quite so. This stumped us all at the AM as well, until the other week when I came across a document in the office. It all added up then. This new company was being financed by none other than the US Government itself. The whole set up is a front if you ask me.’
Swan probed further. ‘How did information, obviously so clandestine, end up in a document at the Ministry?’
‘Big mystery, my boy. Apparently, they want to test a production FB-X over here at Pembridge in August. Most probably for use with the USAFE here in Blighty and over in Germany.’
Swan thought to himself for a few moments as Higgins stared at him. ‘I know that look, Alex. What’s on your mind?’
Swan slowly shook his head. ‘Not sure as yet. I will need to check out a few things first, before putting this piece of my puzzle in. Are the Yanks still up at Brinton’s?
‘Yes. They are to be there to see through the testing of this Python Hawk of theirs, which strikes me as odd because why test it on the BR-101, when they could have easily waited and put it on the FB-X? After all, it is being specifically designed to fit the thing, and in order to fit the Rapier, the name that has been chosen for the BR-101, there has had to a be a few modifications.
Swan was intrigued. ‘That is strange, considering their kite is already in the pre-production phase. Maybe I will be able to get more on this when I’m up there next week.’
‘Quite so, my boy.’ Higgins turned his head to glance around at the other diners, then leant over the table and whispered to Swan. ‘The passes are in the car. Remind me to give them to you later.’
After lunch they retired to the billiard room. Swan had won a quick toss and set up the balls to break off.
‘Fancy a dram as we play, Alex?’ Higgins asked, raising his fingers to beckon a waiter. Then, on Swan’s approval, he ordered two fine malt whiskeys, and then played his shot.
Swan watched the balls scatter, giving him an advantage. ‘Nice shot, old boy,’ he commended.
The waiter returned with the drinks, then turned to Higgins. ‘Sir, there is an urgent telephone call for you from the Ministry,’ he said, addressing the Air Commodore.
‘Won’t be a minute, Alex. I better go and make sure that World War Three hasn’t kicked off on this fine weekend.’
He left through the highly polished walnut doors of the billiard room to take the call.
Swan picked up his glass and eyed the play of the balls on the table, thinking how he could counteract Higgins’ break. He formed a mental plan for the next few shots, then picked up his glass and, through the transparent amber contents, saw Higgins return to the room.
The big man had his head down when he reached for his cue, and Swan judged his friend, noticing his pale face.
‘Is everything alright, old boy?’
Higgins acknowledged. ‘Was until that call from Danvers, my number two. It seems our talk about the Rapier has put more jinx on the bloody project. Turns out the Queen Mary transporting the second prototype down to Pembridge had a prang this morning. Bloody thing’s overturned and damaged the aircraft. Quite badly by the sound of things. She won’t be flying for a while, that’s for sure.’
Swan stood in disbelief. ‘How did it happen?’
Higgins eyed the three balls on the table. ‘From what I can gather, the driver took the turn through the village too sharply and burst two rear tyres. The weight of the cargo then went to one side, flipping the whole lot over. A startled outrider seems to be the only one hurt, but not seriously, thank God. There’s pandemonium at Pembridge of course. The Chief Designer Howard Barnett is there overseeing all t
he chaos. Nice chap, likes his beer. Although I can guess that he’s obviously not in a very celebratory mood right now.’
Chapter 7
Frank Maitland casually lent on his desk, perusing the list of inspectors due next week for the evaluation of the Rapier. ‘Our biggest worry is this evaluation team. We don’t want anyone snooping around now we’re this close to seeing the Spectre project through.’
Sitting at his desk, Jake Brannigan acknowledged him. ‘Have you gone over the specs on this inspection team?’
Maitland nodded. ‘Yeah, got it right here. There are these two new guys that have been added, but it says on their files that they’re technical analysts from the Air Ministry, so I don’t think we need to worry about a couple of techies added so late to the schedule.’
Brannigan stood up and stared out of the window, watching a technician on the boarding ladder beside the cockpit of the Rapier prototype. ‘So when do these Limeys get the big news then?’ he asked, not taking his eyes off the big silver aircraft outside.
‘We are to wait until the evaluation team have left, and then there’s going to be a big joint government meeting at Whitehall when the British Defence Secretary will be signing the contract.
One week later, the announcement will be made in their Chancellor’s Defence Review speech in Westminster, and that thing outside the window, and the other one at Pembridge will all go for scrap, along with the airframes in Hangar One. Looks like the assembly jigs and blueprints will also go. That seems to be the deal.’
Maitland joined Brannigan to share the same vision through the window, and not taking his eyes off the aircraft, sniggered.
‘She’s gonna look great with rocket holes in the side of her when she’s taken to the missile range.’
*
Kevin Nunn was anxious to find the Rapier’s Chief Designer as he burst into the mess room.
‘Where’s HB, I need to see him urgently!’
A burly aircraftsman moving a table stopped and looked at the flustered RAF engineer. ‘He was with the driver a while ago Sarge, he hasn’t come back in here yet.’
‘If he comes back, ask him to come over to the flight workshop pronto.’ Before the airman could answer, Nunn had disappeared back through the door.
Barnett sat opposite the base commander. He had known Squadron Leader Mike Geering for twenty years and they chatted idly about old times, then put their conversation to a more current topic. ‘Looks as though the inquiry will be Tuesday next week, I need to get back to Brinton’s, to collate some statements,’ said the Yorkshireman.
Geering sighed. ‘Damn bad show, Howard. I really was looking forward to all the razzmatazz we were going to have here this week. I have cancelled the Canadians and the Aussies and will talk to the Krauts later on.’
Barnett rose from the chair. ‘Well, that’s it then. Thanks Mike. It was nice to see you again. Shame that it had to be under these tragic circumstances.’ Barnett shook the base commander’s hand.
‘Anytime, HB. Always a pleasure. Ted’s waiting with the car so have a safe trip back to Cumbria, my friend.’
Barnett exited the office and walked the length of the corridor to the double doors at the end of the block, put on his coat, then walked over the square to the guardroom. As he approached an MP came running towards him.
‘Excuse me, Sir? Could you follow me over to the workshops hangar? Sergeant Nunn has asked that you see him.’
Barnett tailed the tall, immaculately dressed RAF policeman and climbed into the passenger seat of the blue/grey soft top Land Rover, and the vehicle headed for the hangars.
‘I will wait here for you sir,’ the MP assured him. HB walked into the hangar and seeing him, Kevin Nunn acknowledged him from the office and stood up from his desk.
‘Sir. Thank god I haven’t missed you,’ Barnett noticed that Nunn sounded rather excited. ‘What’s all this then, Kevin?’
‘Sir, I need to show you something I’ve found. It’s to do with the tyre of the Queen Mary.’
Nunn leant over and picked up the torn rubber mass from the desk. ‘I dropped my pen under my desk and bent down to get it, then suddenly had almost pressed my nose into the tyre. I could be mistaken sir, but I’m bloody certain that this tyre smells of cordite.
Nunn handed Barnett the remains of the tyre and he pulled it up to his nose. ‘My god, I think you’re right, Kevin lad.’
Nunn continued. ‘I was an armourer loading HV rockets onto our fighter-bombers during the Suez Crisis. I know that smell right enough.’
Barnett put down the tyre and looked at the floor. ‘If this is indeed cordite on the tyre, then the lorry turning over wasn’t an accident.’
He patted Nunn on the shoulder. ‘Good work, Kevin. I think we best keep this between you and me for now.’
Barnett walked out of the hangar and climbed into the Brinton Daimler. As the car moved towards the main gate, he shook his head. Suddenly, he could feel a welt of anger rising within him.
*
The next morning, after an early swim followed by a smoked salmon breakfast, Swan stood next to Higgins’s Bentley admiring the glossy walnut interior. The big man half sat in the vehicle, with one foot on the shingle, and handed the SID man a small brown envelope.
‘Here you go Alex, two passes to Brinton’s Hangar One, and main building complex. And, as promised, I have also given you a comprehensive list of the technical stuff that you and Arthur will find useful when you perform your little masquerade as avionics inspectors. I must say right now, I feel like a damn Ivan spy handing over secret documents in a car park. If we got caught doing this, I would most probably be shot tomorrow morning.’
Swan quickly placed the envelope into his jacket.
‘Come to think of it, all the Soviets need to do is place spies here for one weekend, and they would soon have all the military secrets they need for the next couple of years,’ Higgins added.
Swan tapped his jacket. ‘I very much appreciate this Sir Alistair, I certainly owe you for it.’
Higgins placed his other leg into the Bentley and shut the door, then wound down the side window. ‘Not at all, my boy. I owe you, more than anything. Don’t forget, if you hadn’t caught that damn Finnish floozy when you did, I would probably have been facing a national disgrace, a court martial and most probably a divorce case to boot. Thanks to you all I lost was my post in the Overseas Department Office, and those free trips abroad. Cheerio my boy, and good luck with your investigation up at Brinton’s.’
Swan watched as the Bentley drive across the gravel and out to the main drive road then moving over to his car, then loading his bag and shotgun into the boot, his thoughts were with the accident of the second Rapier prototype. He sat in the seat and listened to the purr of the engine, thinking about the FB-X, and this sudden emergence of the company that had produced it.
At the entrance to The Furrows, with these notions running at a pace inside his head, he swung the nippy sports car left onto the A25.
Later, as he drove along Westminster Bridge, instead of turning left at the end into Victoria Street and on to his flat in Bayswater, he decided to go around Parliament Square, and left into Whitehall.
*
The following morning Arthur Gable walked up the stairs to the office. Noticing the overnight bag and shotgun case at the foot of the stairs, he moved them so that they were safely tucked away at the side of the stairwell. He entered the office to see Swan sitting the wrong way round on a wooden chair, staring at a blackboard. Several empty coffee cups lay out on Swan’s desk.
Gable looked at the board littered with written labels with arrows between them. He also noticed the scattering of red and green chalked dots.
‘Looks like you have had a busy night, sir.’
An unshaven Swan looked up and smiled. ‘Morning Arthur, Yes, I learned a few things over the weekend that just couldn’t wait until today to sort out.’
‘Did you hear about the accident? It’s all over the paper?’<
br />
Gable took a rolled up Daily Telegraph out from his raincoat and handed it to Swan.
‘Yes, I was with Hammer Higgins when he got the news from the ministry. I left The Furrows about eleven and got here for twelve thirty. Luckily, Luigi’s was open, so he fixed me up a nice lunch and I took myself back to him in the evening.’
Gable watched his colleague get up from the chair and scan the newspaper.
‘So, you been here since yesterday then?’
‘Yes Arthur, I have.’
Gable raised a brow. ‘I feel sorry for Brinton, they’re not having much luck at the moment, are they?’
‘I don’t think luck comes anyway into it Arthur,’ Swan sat back down. ‘These are all the events that have occurred since we’ve taken this case.’ He took a pen from his tweed sports jacket draped over the chair, then got up and used it as a pointer stick. ‘Here we have McGregor’s fatal accident. This is shortly after the Americans arrived to work on this reconnaissance drone. Then, we have the announcement of the FB-X being deployed here. This aircraft was built by a new company called GK Systems Incorporated, allegedly fully funded and controlled by the US Government. And now the latest saga, the accident with the second prototype at the weekend.’
Gable stared in awe as Swan glided the pen to each point across the blackboard, captivated by the enthusiasm his boss was showing. He then sat down in front of the blackboard again. ‘Would I be right in saying that you think there may be a link with them all, sir?’
‘Precisely that, Arthur,’ replied a determined Swan.
Gable nodded his head and remained staring at the board, then suddenly moved toward it. ‘Of course! Look, it all fits.’ He stood up and pointed at the areas on the board and took a piece of chalk and added some more arrows. ‘See, here we have the arrival of the Americans and the news of the FB-X, and now we have the accident of the second plane.’ He turned to Swan. ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ He took the chalk and drew a loop around the points on the board. ‘All these events lead right back here.’ Gable tapped the chalk on the point labelled: Americans arrive at Brinton.
