‘How about tonight, then?’
‘Well I’ve still got to pack,’ Tom began. ‘Oh, what the hell, why not? Where and when?’
‘About nine o’clock? And a pub near you would suit me.’
‘All right, the Cross Keys in Buckwell village. Know it?’
‘I’ll find it.’
Drew hung up, thought for a moment, then went in search of Russell. He eventually found him slumped, puce-faced, in the changing room after a game of squash.
Russell greeted him guardedly, but exploded when Drew talked about Strang and Hanson. ‘What on earth does this have to do with you? It’s bad enough you winding up your own squadron, without going round stirring up trouble elsewhere as well. My neck’s on the line as well as yours, Drew, and I’m telling you, this is getting out of hand. Stop rocking the boat.’
‘You’re not going to tell me that there were fi—’
Drew checked himself, remembering just in time that Russell had never been told about DJ’s loss-of-control incident. ‘Four entirely unconnected incidents in the last twelve months: the Swaledale crash, a guy from Leuchars, a guy from Valley, and me?’
Russell ignored the question. ‘What were you doing at Leuchars anyway? The engineers there say there was nothing wrong with your aircraft.’
Drew hesitated, astonished at Russell’s knowledge of his movements. ‘Who told you?’
‘I have my sources,’ Russell said. ‘Now, I’ve had enough of this. I forbid you to carry on these ridiculous amateur investigations. For the last time, it’s a good aircraft. Just fly it – that’s your job. Accident investigation is not your department. And in case you didn’t get the message, Drew, that’s a direct order. Do you understand?’
He pulled off his sweat-soaked squash kit and stomped into the showers.
Drew gazed thoughtfully after him, then glanced around the deserted changing room. He listened for the sound of water, then eased open Russell’s locker and riffled through his uniform. He found what he was looking for in the breast pocket.
When he walked into the crew room, he found Michelle drinking coffee with Paul and Sandy. She raised an eyebrow as he dropped into the seat next to her.
‘Michelle, I need a word with you in private.’
She looked at him coolly. ‘Go ahead. I’ve no secrets from my crew.’
‘It’s about Alastair Strang.’
Her lips tightened as she glanced at the others. ‘All right. Back in a minute, guys.’
She followed Drew out onto the edge of the airfield. They stood looking out across the acres of grey concrete as a jet rolled towards the end of the runway. ‘What about Alastair?’
‘I went to Valley and talked to some of his crewmates about his crash. They’re sure it wasn’t pilot error.’
‘For Christ’s sake,’ she said. ‘That’s why I told you about him.’
He held up a hand. ‘Just a minute, there’s more. Nick and I diverted to Leuchars this morning. We talked to the guys at 71 Squadron about a crash in Alaska last year. The official version was that he flew into the ground during mock combat.’
‘And?’ She was now intrigued.
‘The American F16 pilot he was up against said they’d already disengaged and were starting to climb back to height when the Tempest spun and crashed.’
Michelle started to speak but he interrupted her.
‘Hang on, there’s still more. On the way back from Valley I took a detour to go and talk to the farmer who witnessed the crash in Swaledale last week. He insists that the jet didn’t fly into the ground: it simply fell out of the sky. He says that was in his statement to the AIB investigators.’
‘A farmer’s scarcely an expert witness.’
‘He may not know the technicalities, but he can tell the difference between a flying object and a falling object. He said it came down like a shot grouse.’
‘Even so, that still doesn’t rule out pilot error. The pilot was a novice. He might have stalled it or lost it for all sorts of reasons.’
‘No. Tempests aren’t like choppers, Michelle.’ He broke off immediately.
‘I have flown fast jets, Drew.’
‘I’m not patronising you. Tempests are different. The fly-by-wire system in a Tempest won’t allow you to lose it like that.’
He paused as some aircrew came straggling in after finishing a sortie, their flying suits stained with sweat.
‘The stick used to be physically attached to the control surfaces of the aircraft by rods, levers and wires,’ he said, when the last one had disappeared inside. ‘Now it’s attached to nothing but a computer. We still use a stick, but it could just as easily be a mouse or a keypad.
‘When you pull on the stick, it doesn’t move the tailplane mechanically: it sends a signal into the computer, which tells the tailplane what to do. When you push the throttles in your throttle box forward to engage combat power, the computer orders the fuel system to supply more fuel.’
‘Thanks,’ Michelle said drily. ‘I always wanted a GCSE in aircraft mechanics.’
‘It also thinks for you. If you’re going to do something that will send the aircraft out of control, it will stop you from doing it.’
‘That must be particularly valuable for you.’ He gave her a weary look. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘no more smart comments.’
‘That I don’t believe.’ Drew smiled. ‘Anyway the fly-by-wire system computes every command you make through your movement of the stick and the throttles. If it feels an instruction you’ve issued risks the aircraft departing from controlled flight, it’ll countermand the order with another, safer one.’
Michelle remained unconvinced. ‘Surely you’re not saying there’s no such thing as pilot error.’
‘Of course not. The fly-by-wire isn’t omnipotent. It can’t see if you’re too close to the ground or about to fly into a hillside, and it can’t tell if you’ve pushed too hard on a turn and blacked out under the G-force, in which case it might well allow you to plummet straight into the ground. But, if a jet in normal straight and level flight just drops out of the sky, it can’t be pilot error.’
A Tempest began its take-off, drowning out any possibility of conversation for a minute as it rocketed down the runway, its massive engines bellowing.
They clapped their hands to their ears and Michelle stood lost in thought as it lifted off the runway and began a turn to the south. ‘So where does all this leave us?’ she asked finally.
‘We have a series of five Tempest incidents already and those are just the ones I know about. The AIB is trying to blame pilot error for all of them – or the four they know about anyway. I know for a fact that it wasn’t the cause of mine and the evidence I’ve heard so far suggests it may well not be the cause of any of them.’
Michelle’s face still showed traces of doubt.
‘Look Michelle. They’re saying that your friend Alastair Strang – one of the best pilots on his squadron – killed himself by flying like a novice. What if there is actually a fault on the Tempest which they’re concealing? It’s bad enough that they’re blackening the names of people who can no longer speak for themselves, but they’re in danger of adding to the list.’
‘Are you really suggesting a conspiracy?’
He spread his hands, palms upwards. ‘I don’t know what else it could be.’ He gave her a long, appraising look. ‘You know where this could lead, don’t you?’
‘If there is a cover-up – and I doubt it – it has nothing to do with my father. I know him, Drew.’ She continued to hold the look, challenging him to disagree with her.
Finally he dropped his gaze. ‘If you tell me that, then of course I believe you,’ he said.
There was an embarrassed silence before Michelle spoke again. ‘So what’s the next step?’ she asked.
‘I’ve arranged to go and see a guy I know tonight.’
‘But you’re station duty officer. You’re supposed to remain on the base in case the Russians invade or the toilets get blo
cked.’
‘Yeah I know, but I don’t have a choice.’ He broke off. ‘I can trust you, can’t I?’
‘Do you have to ask?’
He shook his head, embarrassed. ‘No, of course not.’
‘What’s so important that it can’t wait till you’re off duty anyway?’
‘I know a guy who works in the Accident Investigation Bureau. We’ve met at a few crash sites when I’ve been there with the Mountain Rescue team. He can get access to all the incident reports on the Tempest, but I have to see him tonight, because he’s going on attachment to Brussels next week.’
Michelle looked puzzled. ‘So why not go to see him tomorrow?’
‘Because I’m under investigation myself and Russell’s already on my back.’
‘What will you do if something happens while you’re off base?’
‘It won’t, but if it does I’ve got my bleeper.’
Michelle shook her head and laughed. ‘You’re mad. What’ll happen if Russell finds out?’
‘I hope he’ll be far too busy sitting at home, playing with his model aeroplanes and polishing the buttons on his uniform.’
‘So what time do you think you’ll be back?’
‘About midnight, I should think. Why?’
‘If I’m still awake, I might drop by for a coffee.’
* * *
That evening, Drew slipped off the base and set off to Lincolnshire. The Cross Keys was a Brewer’s Tudor roadhouse, a mile down the road from the AIB building at RAF Buckwell.
Tom was already standing at the bar, nursing a pint. He bought Drew one and then allowed himself to be steered to a corner table, away from the handful of regulars warming themselves by the log fire.
‘It’s good to see you,’ Drew began. ‘I’m glad I caught you before you left.’
Tom smiled and sipped his pint. ‘So it’s not just social then?’
‘Not entirely, no,’ Drew admitted. ‘I need some help.’
‘What kind of help?’
‘Information.’
Tom frowned. ‘Let me guess: about your Tempest incident?’
‘How did you know?’
‘I saw your name on the forty-eight-hour signal about the incident in the Eden Valley.’ He fixed Drew with a steady gaze. ‘I’d like to help you, Drew, but you must know that I can’t discuss any aspect of the investigation with you. If you’ve questions to ask, they can only be addressed to the two officers conducting the inquiry.’
‘But I don’t want information about my crash,’ Drew said, ‘not specifically anyway. I want to know about Tempest incidents in general.’
‘Keep your voice down, Drew, for God’s sake. We’re not discussing recipes here – you’re asking me for classified information.’
Drew glanced around the pub. The regulars remained locked in their own conversations. ‘Relax, Tom. The thought police have got the night off.’
Tom shook his head slowly. ‘You’re not that naive, Drew. Every telephone call in or out of the AIB building is logged. It won’t look good for either you or me if it’s discovered that a pilot under investigation has been in unauthorised contact with a member of the AIB staff.’
‘So why did you agree to meet me, then?’
‘Because I didn’t think you were such a bloody fool.’
‘But since I’m here…’ Drew persisted.
Tom paused. ‘Since you’re here, you might as well get whatever it is off your chest.’
Drew glanced round the room again. ‘Can you get me a printout of every Tempest incident in the last couple of years?’
Tom burst out laughing. ‘Are you really that naive? It’s not just phone calls: every single sheet of paper that goes through that printer is logged against the recipient. I’ve no reason to access that information, let alone print it. And even if that wasn’t detected, any copy of it turning up elsewhere will automatically be traced straight back to me.’
‘No one but me will see it.’
‘I’m not taking that chance. I’ve got a nice cosy posting in Brussels for a couple of months and then I’m back in the cockpit. I’m not going to risk that by ruffling any feathers in the meantime.’
‘Come on, Tom, I’m not asking you for the crown jewels here.’
He shook his head emphatically. ‘You don’t know what it’s like to be stuck in a ground job, Drew. My career’s on the line if I do this.’
Drew held his gaze. ‘Your life might be if you don’t.’
‘Isn’t that a bit melodramatic?’
‘I don’t know,’ Drew said evenly. ‘I only know of three fatal crashes so far, so perhaps the odds aren’t too bad. How many do you know about?’
Tom looked away.
Drew allowed the silence to deepen. ‘You know more than you’re saying, don’t you, Tom? You know there’s something wrong with it. Do you sleep well at night?’
‘Get off my case, Drew,’ Tom said angrily. ‘You keep pushing me and I’ll walk out of that door and you’ll get nothing.’
Drew looked him straight in the eye. ‘I’m counting on you.’ Again there was a long silence. ‘Look, if you can’t print anything off, just tell me instead.’
Tom hesitated. ‘I can’t. I don’t know it all. A memo came down from on high well over a year ago, saying that all material relating to Tempest incidents would in future be handled by the office of the head of AIB. Anything that’s come in since then has been passed straight up the line. I’ve been to a couple of the crash sites, as you know, but I’ve had no part in the subsequent investigations.’
‘Who’s been handling it then?’
‘Air Vice-Marshal Power and his deputy. They co-opt other personnel as they need them, not necessarily AIB.’
‘Like Squadron Leader George Gordon?’
‘Could be. I’ve seen his name on quite a few reports, so Power obviously thinks highly of him.’
Drew pushed his hands through his hair, fighting his frustration. ‘There must be something on computer though.’
Tom ticked the points off on his fingers. ‘There’s the bare details of each incident: where, when, fatalities, probable cause listed in the forty-eight-hour signal, the final conclusion of the Board of Inquiry – in those incidents where it’s reached one.’ He glanced at Drew. ‘And any disciplinary action taken against the pilot.’
‘Can you show me what you’ve got?’
Tom shook his head, exasperated. ‘I could, but if you drive up to the gate, the guard will record in his log that Drew Miller visited Tom Marshall. If you make any use of the information, that entry in the log will be enough to drop me right in the shit.’
‘You’d be in that anyway,’ Drew said. ‘According to you, they’ve already got a record of my call this afternoon. But Drew Miller isn’t coming to see you tonight.’
Tom looked at him suspiciously. ‘What do you mean?’
Drew smiled. ‘I’ll give you five minutes’ start. Just go back to your office and wait. Someone will be along to see you, but it won’t be me.’
‘I really shouldn’t be doing this,’ Tom said, half to himself, but he was already rising to his feet, leaving the rest of his drink unfinished on the table. Drew waited a few minutes, then followed him out into the night.
Chapter Nine
Drew stopped a few hundred yards from the barrier at RAF Buckwell, pulled a card from his pocket and peered at it. He hesitated for a moment, then abruptly put the car into gear. He drove past a sign warning: ‘This is a restricted area within the meaning of the Official Secrets Act. Use of deadly force is authorised.’
He waved the ID card as imperiously as he could at the night guard, a military policeman in combat uniform. Stamping to keep himself warm against the chill of the night air, he held an assault rifle, its muzzle pointing down towards the ground.
‘Wing Commander Russell to see Flight Lieutenant Marshall. I’m expected.’
The photograph looked nothing like Drew, but at night and with the weight of his rank behi
nd him, Drew reckoned he could bluff his way through.
The MP sprang to attention but to Drew’s horror, he took the ID from his hand and then stepped back into the pool of light from the gatehouse.
He studied it carefully, raised his eyes to stare at Drew and then looked down again at the card, shaking his head. ‘I know most of these cards make people look like Dracula’s grandmother, sir, but this is going beyond a joke. I’m going to have to go and make some security checks on this.’
Drew sat sweating in his car as the MP disappeared inside and picked up the phone, keeping a wary eye on him through the window. Drew was not remotely reassured to see that the muzzle of the MP’s rifle was now pointing directly at him.
He kept his face impassive, but panic was mounting in him. Shit, he thought. Why did I get myself into this? I’ve really blown it this time. Although he tried to force himself to keep calm, he could see no option but to make a break for it. In the absence of the duty officer, the guard would be put through to Russell’s house and, when Russell discovered that Drew was absent from his post, it wouldn’t take a genius to put two and two together.
He slipped the gear stick into reverse. He waited for a couple of seconds as he steadied his breathing and measured the distance to the guard and the assault rifle cradled in his hands.
How long would it take the guard to drop the phone, get out of the gatehouse, slip off the safety catch, raise the rifle to his shoulder, aim and fire? Drew reckoned he might have four seconds, more if the guard froze in surprise. He glanced in his rear-view mirror: it was twenty metres back to the main road.
There was a stand of pines at either side of the entry. If Drew could hit first gear before the guard had taken aim, he doubted if he would be able to get a shot away at all before the car disappeared behind the trees.
Even if he got away, Drew knew that a hue and cry would be raised long before he could get back to Finnington, but he’d have to try to bluff out the reason for his absence. Of course if the guard had already noted his licence plate…
Point of Impact Page 13
