by James Blatch
“Just don’t want to waste my time.”
He studied her. “Well, we’re alerting the world to a new technology that’s doing god knows what with aircraft capable of dropping nuclear bombs.”
“OK, but that sounds rather… passive.”
He smiled at her.
“Maybe, but it’s important. We’re also disrupting the military as they prepare for an unthinkable and unwinnable war.”
“How?”
“What do you mean, ‘how’?”
“How are we disrupting the military? I mean, we haven’t exactly shut down anything or stopped anything happening, as far as I can see.”
The smell of burning paraffin drifted over, and a noise rose from their left. They looked to see a dark grey Canberra taxiing. Inside the cockpit, the pilot looked directly at them, and Susie could have sworn he was laughing under his mask. She waited for the noise to dissipate, but as the aircraft turned onto the runway, the engines wound up into a scream. The Canberra rolled forward, disappearing behind trees.
Susie shrugged. “As I say, we don’t appear to be disrupting very much.”
He lit his cigarette.
“Well, we don’t know that for sure. For a start, our very presence here is bringing attention—"
“We’ve got to do more than that, surely?”
“Let me finish. We’re bringing attention to an installation the government seems desperate to keep out of the public’s eye. Plus, they may have modified their behaviour. Do you think they would parade anything secret in front of us? We have no idea how much activity they have curtailed because we’re here.” He sucked on his cigarette. “You seem impatient, I hope you’re not thinking of leaving us?”
She shook her head. “No. Well, I can’t stay forever. It’s just that if there’s something going on that needs to be stopped, I think we should stop it. I didn’t come here to watch planes.”
He smiled at her before looking around.
“Not everything worthwhile involves a set of bolt croppers, Susie. Some things require a little more subtlety.” He moved off toward the wigwam. “Patience is a virtue.”
Back in the planning room, Millie sat at his desk, flight case by his feet.
He had already logged the two official reels into the project cabinet, leaving six in his bag, each filled with height readings from Guiding Light.
He tried to concentrate on some paperwork, but he found it hard. His eyes kept drifting down to the case containing the illicit reels.
He wanted to go to the loo, but was reluctant to leave it unattended.
“This is silly,” he muttered to himself.
Kilton emerged from his office, in blue coveralls and orange Mae West life jacket, holding his gloves and flying helmet.
“Ready?” he called over to a group of pilots at the tea bar. Rob left the group, also dressed to fly. The pair of them disappeared through the airfield door.
“Appraisal trip with the boss, apparently.”
Millie looked up to find Jock MacLeish standing over him.
“Oh. Unusual, isn’t it? For Kilton to take a junior pilot.”
“Yes. But then Mark Kilton works in mysterious ways, Millie.”
He helped MacLeish with his own project paperwork, instructing him on what could safely remain in his locker or case and what had to be placed in the secure cabinets.
“What would we do without you, Millie?” MacLeish said, and headed off to deposit his trial reports.
After lunch, Millie spent the afternoon on more admin, tea drinking and wondering how the hell he was going to smuggle Top Secret tapes out of the country’s most secure Royal Air Force station.
Rob and Kilton arrived back at 2.30PM, a long time after they left for a simple check of a pilot’s flying proficiency.
Rob was all smiles on his return; clearly it had gone well.
Millie kept an eye on the clock, trying to judge the best time to leave and avoid a random search.
Best when it’s busy? Quiet? He couldn’t recall many car searches after leaving the mess in the evening. They were generally carried out during the morning and evening rushes.
Jock MacLeish worked at a desk nearby.
“Hey, Jock. Are you heading to the mess tonight?”
“It’s Friday, Millie. Need you ask?”
“Ah, of course. Happy Hour.”
As soon after 4PM as they could get away with, a group left TFU heading to the mess.
Millie stood up, lifted his case, and walked to the door. The case suddenly felt heavy in his hand and he was conscious of every step he took.
He left the planning room and walked the few yards toward the door that opened out into the car park. As he got closer, it swung open and the commanding officer of the RAF West Porton security police walked in.
The man, in smart light blue uniform with green stripes on his sleeves and cap, walked directly toward him.
Millie held his breath, but the officer brushed past him without making eye contact.
He exhaled and headed to his car, placing his flight bag in the passenger footwell.
At the mess, he carefully locked every door before heading inside to the bar.
He spotted MacLeish sitting with the old men of the Maintenance Unit. The Scot waved and held up a pint for him.
Millie took his seat and clinked glasses.
JR, one of the MU pilots, looked as old as the aircraft they flew. His dark, sunken eyes seemed to swallow light. But there was a twinkle in his eye and Millie always enjoyed the old boys’ company.
The beer tasted good.
The room filled with smoke and chatter. Millie spied Rob at the bar, surrounded by the senior test pilots.
Jock informed him that Rob and the boss had landed away at Daedalus, a Navy base near Portsmouth. Had lunch together in the mess, apparently.
Around 8PM, several hours after he’d started drinking, Millie said his goodbyes and headed toward his car. He was a bit wobbly and realised he was not in the best state to cope with his first attempt to smuggle out a tape. Maybe the alcohol would provide Dutch courage.
After two attempts, he persuaded the Rover’s engine to start. He steered through the full car park, peering across the playing-field toward the lights of the main gate.
There was one man on the barrier, maybe a corporal. In the hut next to him, a sergeant with a clipboard.
He got to the main road that ran through the middle of the domestic side of the station and turned left.
Slowing down, he willed the barrier to rise.
Nothing.
The sergeant, complete with clipboard, appeared by the side of his car.
Millie wound down the window.
The sergeant leant down to bring his head level.
“Good evening.”
“Hello,” Millie managed.
“Just a word of caution, sir. We’ve spotted protestors out and about tonight. Best not to stop on the way home.”
“I wasn’t planning to, Sergeant, but thank you for the tip.”
The sergeant nodded, then appeared to scrutinise Millie, before he glanced at his car.
“You haven’t had too much to drink, have you, sir?”
“Certainly not. Just one or two, Sergeant.”
The man nodded again, but didn’t change his expression. He raised himself back up and moved to the front of the hut.
After an age, the barrier slowly lifted.
Millie put the car into first gear, pushed the accelerator with his foot, released the clutch. The car lurched forward and stalled.
His heart pounded.
He waited for the sergeant to reappear, probably convinced that he was drunk.
Before he tried to restart the engine, he forced himself to pause. He put the car in neutral, left his foot on the clutch and turned the key.
It started.
This time, Millie made sure he pulled away with no further issues. He glanced into his wing mirror to see the sergeant staring, his image growin
g smaller.
5
Saturday 11th June
Susie woke next to David. She lay still on her back for a while as the tent grew lighter.
Friday evening had taken an unexpected turn; they had shared a long conversation away from the throng around the camp-fire, and at some point he had leant in and kissed her. The sudden feel of his bushy beard around her mouth took her by surprise. But the conversation was excellent, and she felt she’d made progress.
She allowed his advance to unfold.
The sex was predictably disappointing. Perfunctory, was the word she would use if she was back at Cambridge reporting to her girlfriends. But that was neither here nor there.
She quietly pulled on a pair of shorts and a thin jumper, and crawled out of the tent. She glanced back; David was awake and looking at her. She flashed him a smile and left.
The camp was quiet.
She made her way out of the field, onto the main road. The dawn air was cool on her lightly covered body, yet she felt the odd pocket of warmth as the sun began another day of heating England beyond its wildest expectations.
The hot days felt alien to an Englishwoman, reminding her of a childhood camping holiday deep in the south of France where the climate felt as exotic as the foreign language.
A memory floated in. She played cricket with her brothers on the sand, to the bemusement of the locals. Later, she became annoyed with her mother, always pushing her to make friends with the other girls in the campsite.
She entered the village, casually glancing around to ensure she was alone before pulling on the heavy, cast-iron door of the bright red phone box.
Millie rolled out of bed and made his way to the spare bedroom, shutting the door behind him.
He slowly drew open the curtains, trying not to make any more noise.
The sun was climbing; he guessed it was about 6AM. A movement outside caught his eye: a figure wandering along the road from the direction of the peace camp. A slip of a girl. Somebody’s daughter. How would he feel if, instead of studying maths at Oxford, Charlie was living in a field?
He moved away from the window to a wonky filing cabinet that sat in the corner of the room. An untidy pile of paperwork, to be filed, lay on top.
He opened the top drawer and winced as the rollers complained at the lack of lubrication.
The file he wanted was nestled at the back.
CHARLIE – OXFORD.
Along with Charlie’s formal letter of acceptance from the college, were a series of introductory leaflets for the new student.
He scanned the first few, but saw only notes about college rooms with a heavy accent on the rules they must obey. NO FEMALE VISITORS seemed to be a recurring theme.
On the fourth sheet of paper, he found details of Charlie’s tutor.
Professor Leonard Belkin FRS, CBE.
It was too early to call.
Back in the bedroom, he placed the folded contact sheet under his Alistair MacLean novel and got back into bed.
He re-awoke to the sound of Georgina on the phone downstairs. Squinting at the alarm clock, he was surprised to see it was after 9AM.
Georgina’s conversation reverberated through the house. Some mention of a new department store in Salisbury.
“We’ll go together. What larks!”
He wondered what plans were being hatched, fearing they would involve him.
A few minutes later, he emerged from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. Georgina was climbing the stairs; she poked Millie’s spare tyre as she passed.
“Ow!”
“We’re going to have to get you a bigger towel.”
He put his hand on his tummy. “It’s all paid for.”
“Well, let’s get back into our Sunday walks.”
She disappeared back into the bedroom.
Millie followed. “Been making plans?”
Georgina adjusted her make-up in front of the dressing-table mirror. “We’re going into Salisbury with the Mays.” She spoke through contorted lips as she applied a red coat of lipstick. “There’s a brand new department store. Turner’s.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t be too excited, Millie. You and Rob can always disappear off to the pub early.”
She closed the lipstick with a flourish.
“Right, well, I’m going to get milk.” Georgina danced down the stairs. “Be ready by the time I’m back.”
Millie heard the door open and shut.
He retrieved the letter from under The Guns of Navarone. He shuffled down the carpeted stairs, holding the towel in place, leaving damp footprints in his wake.
He lifted the green telephone receiver and dialled.
The phone rang four times; Millie tapped his foot.
Finally, a woman answered. She spoke slowly in an ancient, shaky voice.
“Oxford, five-four-four-one. Professor Belkin’s residence.”
“Oh, hello. I was hoping to speak to the professor, please.”
“May I ask who is calling?” said the woman, enunciating every word.
“My name is Milford.”
She set down the receiver.
“A Mr Milford for you, Professor.”
Another age went by.
“Hello, young Charles. How can I help you on a Saturday?”
“Actually, it’s not Charlie. It’s his father here.”
“Oh. Hello, Mr Milford. What can I do for you? I hope everything is well?”
“Yes, it’s all fine. This is all rather unusual, but I wonder if I could speak to you about a matter of some urgency to me and one which is, I’m afraid, rather sensitive.”
“Is this to do with Charles? Is everything normal at home?”
“No, I mean yes, everything is normal but no, this is not about Charlie. It’s about me. I need your help.”
“My help? Goodness, this sounds exciting. Please ask away.” The professor had a warm, whimsical quality to his voice.
“As I say, it’s rather sensitive, but in simple terms I need to do a lot of repetitive mathematics. Rather too much for the human mind. I don’t think it’s too complicated, just beyond the normal powers of a human. At least it would take an inordinate period of time. And I recall you have a bombe. Is that what it’s called?”
“We used to have, as you say, a bombe, but I’m afraid it has recently completed its last calculation. It’s currently dismantled and I believe in a skip behind the mathematics department. Such a shame. The old girl had a hand in winning the war, you know.”
“Oh dear. I’m sorry to hear that.” Millie sat down on the small bench next to the telephone table.
“I’m sorry about that,” said Belkin. “But it’s all about the computer now and we needed the space.”
“You have a computer?”
“Yes, we do.”
“That might be even better.”
“Might it? It’s an IBM mainframe. It uses different methods of inputting the numbers from the bombe. I’m afraid it’s all rather specialised. Punch cards and magnetic tape.”
“I have magnetic tapes.”
“You do?”
“Yes, but they’re for a different computer. Will yours be able to decipher them do you think?”
“Honestly? I have no idea. I have a small army of technicians who do all that stuff. I have a vague notion of how the numbers are laid out. Something called ASCII. But beyond that I can’t really say.”
“I see.”
“Perhaps we could try it. If you would find that helpful?”
“That would be wonderful. Maybe I could drop the tape off for you today?”
“Today? You are in a hurry, aren’t you, Mr Milford?” The professor paused. “Am I right in thinking you are an officer in the Royal Air Force?”
Millie heard the car pulling back into the drive.
“I am, Professor, and I am very much in need of some help. I must ask for your absolute discretion, and that you don’t mention this conversation to anyone, includin
g my son. Can I visit you today?”
“Why not? Rhodes Cottage, in Merton Street. It should be easy to find.”
Millie scribbled down the address and directions next to the telephone number, just as the door opened and Georgina breezed into the room.
“Goodbye.” He hung up.
Georgina stared at him. “Millie, you’re not even dressed, for goodness sake! And who on Earth was that on the telephone?”
“Charlie.”
“Our Charlie?”
“Yes. Look, I feel bad that I missed dropping him off at the beginning of term and he called to ask about my cricket bat. I thought I would deliver it to him. Give me a chance to see his new rooms.”
Georgina put down the car keys on the sideboard in the hallway.
“You’re going to deliver your cricket bat to Charlie?” She tilted her head at him.
“Yes.”
“In Oxford?”
“Yes. He has an end-of-term match, and he wanted to borrow it.”
“But Charlie gave up cricket at school.”
Fishing rod. I should have said fishing rod.
“I know. But they’ve invited him to play and he wants to and I said yes.”
She pulled a silk headscarf from a coat hook and draped it over her hair. “I see. So you won’t be coming to Salisbury with Mary and Rob? And you’ll need the car.”
“Please don’t make a thing of it to Rob. Tell him I’m very sorry to miss it and that we’ll see each other at the cocktail party tonight. Tell him I’ll drive.”
“OK,” she said, and finished tying the scarf under her chin. “Well, give him my love. Of course, we’ll see him in three weeks.”
In his college cottage, Professor Leonard Belkin sat at the kitchen table with a copy of The Times, folded to reveal the cryptic crossword.
After solving one clue, his mind wandered to the unusual telephone call.
“Mrs Lazenby,” he called out.
A small woman in her eighties appeared at the kitchen doorway.
“We are expecting a guest, Mrs Lazenby.”
“Tomorrow?” she asked, looking at the kitchen clock.
“Today.”
“Today?”