Wings of Death

by David Holman

  ‘Careful dog!’ he shouted as the dog briskly bounded the stairs before him. ‘Calm down lad, I’ll take you on the heath in a minute.’

  *

  Frank Maitland raged at Brannigan across the desk of The Pentagram. ‘Say what?’

  Brannigan began to look sheepish as he explained his actions to his chief. ‘I decided to take some pressure off ya, and put some guys onto Barnett, before he blabs off to the Limey agents being sent up here tomorrow. We’re using the kid as collateral, saying that if he keeps his mouth shut, nothing will happen to his boy.’

  Maitland sat down to recollect his thoughts. ‘Who’s gone after him?’

  Brannigan smiled. ‘I sent Tom and Will. I decided to give him a field job as something different.’

  Maitland’s eyes quickly widened. ‘Jesus Christ, Jake! You sent a Ranger to deal with the old guy?’

  Brannigan baulked. ‘Well, I thought it would be a good thing to have a tough guy with Tom.’

  Maitland stared out the office window into the assembly hangar. ‘When did they go?’

  ‘They followed him when he left at Nineteen Hundred hours.’

  Maitland looked dejected. ‘I guess it’s too late now, all we can do is hope he sees straight and plays with us.’

  *

  Barnett changed from a business suit to a casual checked shirt and brown corduroy trousers, then went into his kitchen to turn on the gas in the oven to a low heat. He opened the oven door, smiling at how good the mixture of meat and vegetables looked in the white ceramic oval dish and closed the oven. He then walked over to the back door and reached for a dog lead as Jerry sat at the other end of the kitchen, wagging his tail in anticipation. ‘Come on then lad, just a quick one on the heath.’

  The Springer Spaniel bounded over to him, allowing his master to clip the lead to his collar. They exited the back door and walked down the drive and out on to the pavement.

  Jerry led, as Barnett was pulled by the already panting dog up the hill. Two men in a Black Ford Zephyr sat patiently as Barnett and his dog walked past them. They studied him as he walked up the hill to disappear down a footpath that led to the heathland.

  Once Barnett was over a short stile, he reached a clearing. He stopped to unclip the lead, enabling Jerry to scamper off into the setting sun. He then took out his pack of cigarettes and lighting one, stood smoking it.

  For a minute he thought he heard crunching on the gravel footpath behind him, and turned, almost jumping with fear, as two shadowy figures appeared and climbed over the stile, then moved towards him.

  For a few seconds he stood staring at them, then greeted them with a nod of his head, attempting to make casual conversation with the men. He thought that they may be taking the short cut to The Pheasant, his local pub.

  ‘Evening gents, nice night for it.’ He noticed that they stood their ground. ‘Can I help you chaps?’

  ‘Hi, Howard,’ said the taller of the two men. ‘Just thought we would have a little talk with ya about something.’

  Barnett instantly recognised an American accent and started to become irritable, throwing down his half used cigarette and stamping on it. ‘What the hell is this all about? So Maitland sent his bully boys after me, did he?’

  The taller man started to talk again. ‘It seems that you may be going along the wrong railroad, Howard. We’ve been sent to see that doesn’t happen, buddy.’

  Barnett began to shake with anger. ‘How dare Maitland think I can be scared off by a couple of his thugs! Get lost, Yanks! I’ve got nothing to say to you. You can tell your boss this, when MI5 come up to see me tomorrow, he can be rest assured that I’m going to be telling them about all of your bloody shenanigans, right enough.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go doing that Howard, remember you have a nice kid, studying hard at that school. What’s the place called? Oh yeah, Stowe, in Buckinghamshire, just like the palace where your queen lives? I sure hope he’s safe there, wouldn’t want him to have any accidents, would we, Howard?’

  The tall man sniggered at his colleague, and the small stocky man responded with a menacing grin in approval.

  Barnett suddenly felt a rising rage inside him. ‘You bastards!

  You threaten me with my family. What the hell are you lot hiding in that basement?’ He could no longer control his actions and in temper, lashed out a clenched fist, hitting the tall man square on his jaw.

  The man fell back and hit the ground, and in seeing this sudden action, the smaller man grabbed hold of Barnett, tugging at his shirt. ‘That aint nice man,’ he said angrily.

  Barnett took hold of the man’s hands, trying to take them off him and automatically initiating his US Ranger unarmed combat training, Will Hart took hold of his opponent’s wrists and sidestepped, thrusting a heavy punch into the Yorkshireman’s stomach.

  Barnett doubled up, winded by the blow, but the Ranger did not stop there. He followed the move with a grip around the neck of the Chief Engineer, pulling him over from behind. Barnett was now held in a lock by the Ranger as he struggled for breath.

  The taller man stood up again, angrily wiping blood from his lip, and stared at Barnett. He then noticed that the old man’s face was almost a pale, purple colour. ‘For Jesus sake, Will. What the hell have you done? Quick let’s get the hell outta here.’

  The Ranger released his prey, leaving a semiconscious Barnett to fall to the ground on his knees. The two Americans then jumped the stile and ran back down the gravel path into their car.

  Barnett fell on his face into the grass of the heath, and rolled over onto his back, clutching at his chest. He then brought his left hand up to grip at his right arm. He was finding it hard to get a breath, noticing that his vision had also become blurred. He thought he could see a shape moving across him and his thoughts turned to reality, as he felt the wet tongue of Jerry. The dog started to whimper at this pathetic sight of his master.

  Howard Barnett allowed the dog to continue licking his face, now feeling too weak and powerless to prevent it. He looked up at the sky; thoughts were suddenly full of his wife Heidi, and his son David, and then, out of the clouds in his mind, came the sleek silver shape of the Rapier. It silently swooped across the sky, then moved into a steep climb to high altitude. The flames of the two reheated engines could easily be seen inside the exhaust nozzles, and then, in a flash the plane disappeared. ‘Sorted those bloody engines at last,’ he murmured, smiling to himself. Strangely, the beating pain in his chest began not to concern him anymore.

  As the sky began to grow dark above him, Barnett closed his eyes to embrace it and beside him, a confused Springer Spaniel lay next to his master’s now motionless body.

  Chapter 12

  Around the grey buildings of Whitehall, it was one of those rare occasions when the sun was trying its best to penetrate through the early morning summer smog, and the street lamps had just dissolved their brilliant artificial light, paving the way for the new day.

  Alex Swan liked to be into the office early. That way he could navigate the roads from his Bayswater flat in his Triumph TR-4 without the onslaught of the rush hour hindering his path.

  The newspaper vendor stood in his kiosk, rubbing his hands, and had the two dailies ready and waiting as the car pulled to a stop. ‘Morning, Mr Swan, bit of a chilly one to start, but I do reckon that this fog is actually going to lift today.

  Swan acknowledged, looking up to the sky. ‘Certainly looks that way, Fred,’ he commented. He then climbed back into theTR-4 and drove the short distance to Wellesley Mews. As he pulled up to park, he noticed that the Sapphire was parked outside the office building. He thought it strange, as his colleague was never usually there before him in the morning.

  Inside the office he greeted him. ‘Morning Arthur, everything alright old chap?’ Swan took off his driving gloves and placed them on the side table inside the doorway. Gable was in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil. ‘Have you had a look at the paper this morning, sir?’

  ‘No, I�
�ve just picked them up. Why?’

  Gable held out his newspaper. ‘I think you better see this.’

  Curious, Swan took the paper and with both hands, opened it out. The front page headline said it all: Silver Angel Designer in Critical Condition

  ‘What?’ Swan cried out, then read the article: ‘ Howard Barnett 56, Chief Designer of the top secret warplane the BR-101 ‘Silver Angel’ lies in Intensive Care at the Carlisle City General Hospital today after a fall while walking his dog. It appears that Mr Barnett suffered a heart attack following the fall and is now in critical condition. His wife Heidi is with him, and their son David will be collected from his school in Buckinghamshire by the Brinton Aviation company helicopter and taken to the hospital later this morning. Fortunately, Miss Katherine Hodge, while walking her own dog, had seen Mr Barnett fall down and immediately went to his aid. Being a trained nurse, she administered First Aid and then shouted for help.

  By the time the ambulance arrived, Mr Barnett went into cardiac arrest and remains in a critical condition in a coma.

  This joins the string of incidents that has shrouded the BR-101 Rapier project which began with the tragic accident of apprentice designer Mr James McGregor at Brinton in January this year.

  The soaring costs of the aircraft are to be reviewed in the Government’s Defence White Paper next month, and with already a smear campaign by anti-war protesters debating whether Britain should be spending so much on the project, the future of this highly advanced military strike aircraft is held severely in the balance.

  Gable looked over the paper. ‘I can’t believe it sir, we only said goodbye to him yesterday,’ he choked.

  ‘I know Arthur. I’m also in disbelief,’ replied Swan, shaking his head.

  ‘You don’t suppose that the Yanks are involved do you? Especially with that tail we had?’ Gable asked.

  ‘Not sure, Arthur. But, you could have something there. I think we better lie low for a while and we’ll do some looking into what we have. I don’t want us to be in the frontline while Stratton and his A Section bloodhounds are up at Brinton’s. I have a lunch meeting with Clinton Sanger today, I want to look into the symbol on Maitland’s ring. It may mean something and if we find that out, I’m certain that we have something that can help us there. If Maitland is behind what happened to HB and the second Rapier accident, then we have to stop him from sabotaging the project.’

  *

  At Leconfield House, the headquarters of the British Home Security Service known more famously as MI5, Head of A Section John Stratton sat drinking a cup of coffee at his desk. He was reading the headline, but glanced up as his secretary Hayley Thomas, came towards him from the open office door. ‘Good Morning sir, your appointments.’ She had the black-bound desk diary in her hands.

  ‘Morning Miss Thomas, replied Stratton gruffly. What time is my appointment with Air Commodore Higgins this morning?’ he asked. She opened up the diary to today’s page. ‘11.15, at the Ministry.’

  Stratton thanked her and returned to his newspaper.

  ‘Will there be anything else at the moment, sir?’

  ‘Not at the moment, if you could just prepare my papers for my meeting that would be useful. If you can also shut the door, thank you so much.’

  Thomas acknowledged, turned on the heel of one black calf boot and walked out of the office, the pony tail of her auburn coloured hair swishing from side to side. Outside the door, she rolled her eyes in irritation to the abrupt manner of her boss. Having served him since he was appointed, she was used to it, but could still find some situations with him uncomfortable.

  *

  Swan reached for the telephone after it had rang twice and was confronted with the loud, excitable voice of Air Commodore Higgins on the phone. ‘Good morning Alex, my boy.’

  ‘Good morning, Hammer. How are you, old boy?’

  ‘Oh mustn’t grumble, I take it you have seen the news then?’

  ‘Yes, I’m quite stunned by it all actually. He’s such a nice chap as well, very friendly, and we learned a great deal about the goings on at Brinton’s.’

  ‘Ah, so you think there may be some skulduggery then?’ Higgins enquired.

  ‘I think so, I need to do some background research on the stuff we have and maybe come up with a plan. I don’t want to make any known moves, as ‘Five’ will be up at Brinton’s later today.’

  Higgins interrupted. ‘Yes, I know, meeting with Stratton later on. I know you two have a chequered history so best let him snoop around and see what he can come up with about this bloody sabotage theory.’

  Swan sighed. ‘Sounds good. Our swords have crossed too many times when I was with A Section, and also on some of my more recent cases. So if he finds out I’m on his patch again, he may not be a very cheerful chappie.’

  When is that obnoxious man ever cheerful?’ Higgins replied with humour.

  ‘I agree old chap, eternally miserable I think we can safely say.’

  Higgins agreed with Swan’s sentiment. ‘We can indeed. Anyway, I must dash, have a damned White Paper meeting before seeing our mutual friend. Rumours from the House say that things don’t look good for the Rapier at the moment, and two other projects maybe for the axe as well. Anyway my boy, do keep in touch and if anything crops up, I’ll give you the full SP on it.’

  Before Swan put down the receiver, he wished Higgins luck with John Stratton.

  *

  Just before midday, the blue and white Brinton Aviation Bristol Sycamore helicopter touched down in a large field behind Carlisle City General Hospital. The pilot then turned off the engine, bringing the rotors to a slow stop, and a Brinton Aviation member of staff exited the side door, and stood on the ground waiting for his fellow passenger.

  David Barnett climbed down holding his satchel. Ttogether, they walked to the east wing of the hospital building where along the corridor, they were greeted by David’s mother Heidi, who ran towards her son, scooping him up in her arms. David noticed that she had recently been crying and kissed her on her lips. Heidi thanked the man who brought her son from the helicopter, and he who acknowledged with a reassuring smile. Seeing the state of his mother, David was now close to tears himself. ‘How’s father?’

  Heidi gave her son a reassuring pat on his shoulder. ‘He’s okay, David. He is still sleeping, but you can see him if you wish.’

  They entered the room where the Chief Designer lay in bed. His eyes were closed, but gently flickered at intervals. The bleeps of the monitors were the only sound that could be heard in the room as David approached his father and took his hand. ‘Father it is me,’ he said to him comfortingly.

  On hearing his son, his father slightly opened his eyes, and behind the oxygen mask covering his lower face, David detected a smile, telling him that his father knew of his presence. Then, as quick as his father had opened his eyes to greet his son, he closed them again.

  Heidi placed an arm around her son. ‘Don’t worry David. This has been happening all morning. He knows you are here and that is the best thing for him to think about right now, awake or asleep.’

  David shook his head in agreement and took his mother’s hand. ‘He is going to be alright,’ he said this as a statement, rather than a question.

  *

  John Stratton walked into the white building of the Air Ministry. At the reception desk he signed the visitor register book, and was then greeted by a young Pilot Officer. He silently walked with his guide towards a row of offices, and came to a halt at a glossy brown painted oak door. A brass name plate with the name Air Commodore Sir H Higgins DFC was secured at eye level by the two brass screws. The Pilot Officer knocked on the door and upon hearing the jovial voice of his section commander, opened it. ‘Mr Stratton from Leconfield House, to see you sir.’

  Stratton walked past the young suited man and walked over to the big oak desk in the office.

  Higgins rose to greet him ‘John, nice to see you again,’ he shook the MI5 officer’s hand and Stratton sat
down opposite him, placing his briefcase on his lap.

  ‘Likewise, Sir Alistair,’ he replied in a sullen tone.

  Higgins started the conversation rolling. ‘Bad show with the Brinton’s Designer chap.’

  Stratton gave an agreeing nod. ‘Yes, quite a fiasco all round, with what seems another coincidental event. So tell me Sir Alistair, what do you personally make of this sabotage theory?’

  ‘All I know is what was in the report from the chaps at Hemingford, the part of what they think could be a detonation device.’

  ‘Yes, quite so. I think we best keep a lid on it for now. Don’t want the bloody press getting their clammy mitts into this one, especially with the plane being a hot news topic at the moment. By the way, how’s the development with that drone thing that the Yanks are working on up at Brinton’s?’

  Higgins checked some papers on his desk. ‘Seems on schedule to be flight tested next week. It was to go on P-Two, but now I guess it will be P-One that is fitted for the trials. Bit tight though, especially with her low level flypast scheduled at the SBAC show on Saturday.’

  Stratton looked at Higgins. ‘I am at Brinton’s for tomorrow morning, meeting with the transport driver. I may also have a chance to talk to the Yank in charge of the Python Hawk project, a Mr Maitland. Strange that this being a USAF project, he has no military rank, don’t you think?’

  ‘Another bloody spook if you ask me John. No offence of course.’

  Stratton shifted in his seat. ‘None taken, old boy. This FB-X? How does it compare to the Rapier?’

  Higgins shuffled. ‘The thing is very much of the same stable. It has supersonic low level attack capability. Has the latest avionic systems, and is certainly a rival for our kite.’

  Stratton nodded. ‘I see, but it isn’t ready to test systems like the Python Hawk yet then?’