Wings of Death

by David Holman

  The Minister smiled at Brinton. ‘Thank you, Mr Brinton for those comments. I can clearly see your point, however, the project has been in situ for almost a year now, and we only have one flying prototype, and yes it is unfortunate that the second one had the accident, but we must have a decision soon and time is running out, gentlemen.’

  Barnett could hold himself no longer and stood up. ‘With due respect to everyone here, I think I can see what is going on. This is known as the Scratching each other’s back routine.’

  The Minister glared coldly at him. ‘I beg your pardon Mr Barnett, but what do you mean?’

  ‘What I mean Minister is, that our honourable friends are here to rubber stamp the FB-X deal with the British government and you know it!’

  The Minister rose from his chair. ‘Mr Barnett, I must protest at your most hostile comments. Mr Secretary, Chief Advisor, I must apologise for Mr Barnett’s most outrageous behaviour. He has obviously been under some pressure recently. I understand that he has also been ill, so can only think that you are still not quite well, Mr Barnett.’

  Barnett shook his head. ‘As a matter of fact, I’m much better now, no thanks to these Yanks! They were the bloody reason I was ill in the first place. My P-Two was deliberately sabotaged by these bastards. They put a bloody bomb on the trailer, all because our machine is steps ahead in technology to the FB- X and they don’t want it around, because it will bring international orders and there one won’t.’

  The face of the Minister took on a light shade of crimson. ‘Mr Barnett, I’m most appalled at this outrage. That is a hell of an accusation to make in front of our guests. I’m afraid I must ask you to leave this meeting. Your conduct is most unbecoming.

  Barnett bit back. ‘That’s not a bloody accusation, it is a fact! They have agents in place, and it was them who roughed me up near my house, threatening my family! Anyway, this is pointless. I will leave you to your cozy fireside chat, as you bow down to these guys and take the FB-X and bloody good luck to it!’ He gathered his papers and then spoke to the portrait of Brunel. ‘I apologise to you, Isambard. It was never like this in your day. You would never let politics get in the way of your brilliant achievements. Good day, gentlemen.’ He picked up his briefcase and walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

  Outside, he stood for a few seconds, pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead, and decided he would take himself into the gardens and have a cigarette, while he waited for his boss to come out.

  Back in the boardroom, a now rather sheepish looking Brinton sat speechless as the Minister resumed. Forty minutes later, having arrived at a decision, he finalised the proceedings. ‘Right Gentlemen, I would like to draw a conclusion to OR599 today. I propose that we have the FB-X, which will cost less overall than the BR-101 to meet OR599, and the BR-101 as support in the tactical reconnaissance role, to meet OR601. If the overseas orders remain, may I suggest that the revenue for production be down to their respective governments accordingly? I don’t really want the British tax payer to have to shell out for any foreign military hardware. I will review this tomorrow before the White Paper announcement. I now bring this meeting to a close. Thank you all for attending, and I’m sorry for the little outburst that we had earlier.’

  The Minister stood and shook everyone’s hand. Henry Brinton then shook the hands of the Americans.

  ‘It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Mr Brinton,’ said the US Secretary of State. ‘It’s just too bad I couldn’t be at Farnborough to see your excellent machine today.’

  It was then, when shaking the hand of the Weinstein’s chief advisor Walter Tillman, that he accidently scratched himself on Tillman’s ring. ‘I’m sorry Mr Brinton, that seems to happen a lot, I must get round to having this thing filed down,' he said smiling apologetically.

  Looking at the ring, Brinton smiled back, admiring the motif on it of an eagle clutching a lance. ‘No harm done, nice motif by the way.’

  ‘Family emblem,’ replied Tillman, looking at his watch.

  *

  Howard Barnett met his disheartened employer outside.

  ‘That’s it then Howard, the Rapier is dead in the water.’

  Brinton explained the outcome of the meeting to his Chief Designer.

  Barnett scowled. ‘Any fool and his dog knows that the FB-X is capable of the low level recce role. That was a complete fob-off from the start.’

  Brinton shook his head. ‘I’m not looking forward to this White Paper at all. If she’s scrapped, then we can also kiss goodbye our overseas orders as well.

  Barnett looked at his watch and took his boss by the arm. ‘Come on Henry, let me buy you a drink. It’s twenty to three, the pub will be closing soon. I think we can just make last orders.’

  Barnett then ushered Brinton across the road and into the direction of the Tattersall Arms.

  Chapter 25

  Brannigan watched attentively as the crowd started to move closer to the barrier in readiness for the arrival of the Rapier. Above him from a pole-mounted speaker came the announcement that in approximately seven minutes, Britain’s new prototype strike aircraft would be undertaking a fly past from the right, accompanied by its Lightning chase aircraft. Brannigan walked towards the barrier, quickly dodging around people to get a good vantage point.

  On the far right end of the crowd line, Alex Swan stood with two armed guardsmen, scanning the crowd. Arthur Gable was situated behind the crowd, and stood looking at the back of their heads. He then gestured to a policeman to move forward and to his right, and they walked towards the crowd, with another two policemen on either side. Swan continued walking slowly along the crowd, as the guardsmen kept pace behind him.

  The Texan had shuffled his way to the front and leaning on the barrier, looked across at the runway in front of him, then placed his hand in his inside jacket pocket and pulled out the camera. He looked around, then pulled up a small aerial on top of it.

  Swan continued along the crowd line, taking in every face and sudden movement from the spectators. He checked his watch. It was 2:55 pm.

  *

  Inside the Rapier’s pilot cockpit, Kershaw checked his air speed indicator. Through the windshield he noticed the shape of Windsor Castle a few miles ahead of him. He knew that without the radio, he would not be able to check with Farnborough Control, whether or not he was clear for his run in over the display line. ‘Pilot to Navigator, what do you think Sandy? Shall we go for it?’

  Ludlow nodded into his oxygen mask. ‘I think we should, Skip. My radar screen shows a clear sky ahead over Farnborough, so I guess they are ready for us. I’ll plot in co-ordinates for RAF Odiham, which is just a bit further down on the right. Once we’ve done the fly-by, we can land there and hand her over to the tech chaps to fix the radio.’

  ‘Right-O Sandy, I’m with you. We’re going in now.’ Kershaw pulled the control column to the right and sank his left foot on the rudder pedal. Responding instantly to this maneuver, the sleek delta winged silver aircraft banked to the right. Then, as Kershaw brought the control column back to centre, the aircraft was in line for the run in over Farnborough. Ahead, he could easily see the runway lights in his Head-Up Display, and made a mental note of the distance.

  Brannigan stood in the crowd next to a group of Japanese businessmen. They spoke excitedly to each other and jostled the American. One of the men turned around, looked at him, and, realising that he had offended this man, bowed his head to apologise for colliding with him. As the man bowed, Swan noticed the gesture and as the man’s upper body sank, he revealed to him an all too familiar face. Swan eyes widened. Brannigan looked down at the man and smiled, then looked over his head straight into the eyes of someone that he did not expect to see.

  Swan dived under the barrier and jumped at the Texan, and the guardsmen ran up to them, drawing their FN 7.62 mm rifles from their shoulders. As Swan tussled with the broad shouldered Brannigan, the shocked Japanese businessmen dispersed around the two men as they pivoted
in a heap on the ground, legs and arms flaying in all directions.

  Swan tried to search Brannigan’s hands for something that resembled a remote control box, and two women spectators gasped in horror as the two guardsmen suddenly placed the muzzles of their rifles on the Americans head. ‘Halt, British Army!’ They stood with their guns poised, ready to shoot him.

  Brannigan turned his head and, viewing the barrels, ceased his scuffle with his assailant and raised his hands.

  Swan got himself up from the floor and stood in front of him. ‘Give it up Jake, give me the box!’

  Brannigan looked at the two guards, then stared at Swan’s outstretched hand.

  ‘I don’t have a box. What is this all about, Mr Swan? I came here to look at this fantastic aircraft and take some pictures with my camera. Brannigan held it up to show everyone, and the guards relaxed their weapons and allowed Brannigan to get back on his feet.

  Swan was slightly confused, then noticed the way Brannigan held the camera. He looked at his fingers and saw that one was over a button, and there were also three small lights that did not need to be there. Swan’s eyes lit up as he realised that it was not for taking pictures. ‘Get the camera!’ Swan shouted, trying to grab at it.

  Brannigan turned and ran into the crowd and Swan gave chase, followed by the guards. The American moved fast through the sea of spectators eagerly waiting the impending arrival of the Rapier. At twenty feet away, Swan shouted to him. ‘Jake, stop! You don’t understand.’

  Brannigan halted and turned. He could see Swan over a sea of heads. ‘No way, Alex! This baby is going down,’ he shouted.

  Swan suddenly changed the state. ‘Why Jake?’ Why must you do this?’

  At this point, Gable had seen the commotion within the section of the crowd and hurried over, followed by three policemen.

  Then, seeing Brannigan, he drew his revolver.

  Swan put his hand up. ‘Wait, Arthur!’

  Gable froze as Swan turned again to the Texan. ‘Why, Jake?’

  Brannigan sneered. ‘Your country has to take the FB-X Alex. I gotta see this through. You killed Maitland, I owe him.’

  ‘You owe him nothing. Maitland conned you, Jake.

  Brannigan looked puzzled. ‘What do ya mean?’

  ‘Maitland has used you. He wasn’t doing this for the CIA. The American government would never condone an act like this.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Brannigan demanded.

  ‘Maitland was a terrorist, he was a member of a faction called The Eagle’s Lance. He has used his power in the CIA to do this.’

  Above them, a speaker cracked into life again. ‘ And now, coming in from your right, is Britain’s latest strike aircraft. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you the BR-101 Rapier.’

  Brannigan began to panic. He looked down at the camera.

  Swan stepped forward. ‘Touch that button and you’re dead, Jake!’ Brannigan, looked at the men surrounding him. He knew he would die if he moved.

  The roar of the two jet engines began to fill the air as the aircraft began to appear from the right side of the airfield, the crowd all turning their heads to get a glimpse.

  The space around the men had increased. People witnessing the conflict had ran away in fear.

  Swan stared Brannigan in the eyes. ‘This is mass murder Jake, and it will be all on you.’

  Brannigan paused, the sound of the jet above him filling his ears. Then, almost in slow motion, he allowed the camera to drop onto the concrete and raised his hands.

  The guards knocked him down and stood over him, pointing their rifles as the silver shape flew past, deafening them all. Swan and Gable looked up and followed its path with their eyes.

  ‘Thank God for that,’ muttered Gable, watching the plane as it climbed away from the crowd. He was relieved that no shots had been fired, and more crucially, that there had been no impending disaster. The Silver Angel moved up into the clouds, showing its afterburners alight with fire, the chase aircraft banking to the right. Then, in a few seconds, they were both gone, leaving only the diminishing roar of their engines that eventually faded with the wind.

  A very relieved Alex Swan picked up the camera and watched as the guards got Brannigan to his feet and marched him along before them. He looked around at the crowd as they clapped and cheered at the disappearing sight of the aircraft. ‘Well Arthur, that’s that, it looks like the Silver Angel has won the hearts of the crowd.’

  The guards took Brannigan under the crowd barrier and out of the gates to an awaiting Army Bedford truck, where he was cuffed by two policemen, then loaded into the back. Two soldiers climbed up after him to sit either side on the bench.

  *

  Fourteen minutes later, Kershaw stepped down from the cockpit ladder onto the tarmac of RAF Odiham and was greeted by a couple of technicians. ‘Bloody radio’s on the blink, chaps. See what you can do. I need a coffee,’ he said, abruptly turning to the direction of the mess building. His navigator, Sandy Ludlow caught up with him, and as they walked together exchanging thoughts on their eventful day, a young aircraftsman intercepted them. ‘Excuse me sirs? You are both wanted urgently for a debriefing. Please follow me.’

  Forty minutes later, after being informed of the bomb aboard their aircraft, Kershaw and Ludlow exited the Odiham Briefing Room in a state of silent shock, and headed for the mess bar where they subsequently each ordered themselves a large Scotch.

  Chapter 26

  The next day Swan sat and looked across the desk of MI5’s Head of A Section John Stratton. ‘Did they manage to find it?’

  Stratton leant back in his chair. ‘They found it all right, exactly right where you said it would be, inside the panel for the Python Hawk. I’m meeting with my American opposite number this afternoon. I bet even as we speak he is sweating over what he has to say to me.’

  Swan raised a brow. ‘I doubt that very much, John. You and I know the Americans by now. They’ll just blame yet another rogue agent and move on regardless.’

  There was a knock on the door and Alan Carter entered the office. Without saying a word, he handed Stratton a foolscap sized manila envelope with Top Secret stamped in red on the corner. Stratton opened the envelope and pulled out a document and Swan could see through the paper that it had a Ministry of Supply header at the top. Stratton read the contents, then pushed it over the desk to him. ‘Seeing as this was directed at your good self, you may as well read this and save me the job of calling you in for an official briefing.’

  Curious, Swan picked up the document and read it, then after a few moments, handed it back to Stratton.

  ‘Well, there you have it Alex. This incident never happened. We are to carry on as normal and move on with our lives.’

  ‘Why?’ asked a puzzled Swan.

  Stratton opened a drawer in his desk, placed the document into it then closed it again. ‘I think that this is far too sensitive at the moment for all parties concerned, don’t you? Best follow these orders from on high and forget about it.’

  ‘And what about the McGregor murder?’ replied Swan.

  ‘It looks like it will have to be just as the enquiry verdict concluded, an unfortunate accident,’ Stratton tried deliberately to avoid eye contact as Swan displayed his shameful mistrust.

  *

  Howard Barnett just stared into his tea as he sat opposite Henry Brinton in his office. An eerie silence had fallen between the two men, as if a great chasm had opened up to separate them.

  Brinton looked worriedly at his chief designer. ‘Will you let the workers know Howard, I don’t think I am up to this. As a matter of fact, I wouldn’t have liked to even have faced the old man, if he was still with us, as I tried to explain this news to him’

  Barnett put his mug on the desk. ‘I had a phone call this morning from Toulouse. The French have offered me a job. Funny thing is, they phoned before 11am and the time of the announcement in the House.’

  ‘Will you go?’ enquired Brinton.

  �
��Will I ‘eck!’ Barnett rose from his chair and walked over to the window. ‘No I think it’s time for me to jack it all in. School holidays are coming up and I thought it high time that I took Heidi and David on a nice long holiday. I think the business we got into with those dodgy Yanks has helped me make this decision.’

  ‘I’ve noticed that the Yanks are a bit busy today,’ remarked Brinton.

  ‘Transport plane from Stansfield is due in this afternoon to take them all out,’ he paused. ‘I suppose there’s little need to remain here, now the Silver Angel has had it.’ Barnet sighed. ‘Oh well, I best go and call a meeting and give all the workers the bad news.’

  Barnett shook Brinton’s hand and walked out of his office. Henry Brinton just slumped back in his chair and placed his head in his hands.

  *

  Swan tuned the radio of his green Triumph TR-4, as he cruised past Hyde Park. It was noon and the BBC news was just commencing.

  The announcer read out the headlines… ‘In the House of Commons this morning, the Defence Minister, The Right Honourable Sir Derek Yately, has announced the cancellation of the BR-101 Rapier combat aircraft. He explained that due to rising costs, resulting in the project being currently fifteen million pounds over the proposed budget, it was now too much of a deficit to the country’s economy and therefore has to be scrapped in favour of the cheaper American alternative, the GK FB-X. In addition to the only prototype to fly, all other prototypes and existing partly built production airframes and assembly jigs are to be destroyed and all advanced overseas orders for the aircraft are to be cancelled. The Rapier gave a short fly-past at the SBAC show yesterday to a good response from the Farnborough crowd.