by James Blatch
“Quite a bold statement. May I ask how you know this?”
“Before he died, Christopher Milford managed to smuggle a good number of tapes from West Porton to the maths department at Oxford University. That’s how they found and quantified the flaw.”
“And that’s where Professor Leonard Belkin comes in?”
“Yes, he allowed use of the mainframe computer. But he wasn’t aware of the details. He was able to extrapolate the numbers, though. He carried out important work, albeit unknowingly.”
“That’s as may be, but even before we present it, this theory has been thoroughly dismissed by those with access to the actual project recordings. TFU are content to continue with Guiding Light and that’s been backed at the highest level in government.”
“I know, but I believe a cover-up is in place, led by Mark Kilton. It possibly involves DF Blackton as well.”
“It sounds elaborate.”
“Sir, I’ve seen the results in black-and-white.” She pulled a piece of paper from her pocket. “8.75 crew members a year would die. That’s just from a 0.014% rate of error from the laser beam.”
“Fine. So we ask West Porton to examine these tapes that Milford, as you say, smuggled away. I think that’s the best we can hope for. With the extra scrutiny they won’t be able to disguise the results.”
Susie sighed.
“We don’t have the tapes, sir.”
“Where are they?”
“Incinerated.”
“I see. So you have no evidence for these rather extreme allegations which have already been batted away by TFU?”
“You have to understand the position Milford was in, sir. Mark Kilton’s all powerful. Milford was scared of him. That’s why the evidence was destroyed. But even without the tapes, we know enough. We need to take action.”
“I’m not sure I see that, Miss Attenborough. Not without evidence. What action do you suppose we should take? Give me your precise recommendations.”
She took a deep breath.
“Kilton operates with an autonomy that does not fit with the armed forces hierarchy. I believe he has lines of authority to government which allow him to bypass the usual checks and balances. Ultimately, he’s used this to press into service a potentially dangerous aircraft system.”
“I understand the case you have made, Miss Attenborough, but I asked you for your recommended actions.”
“Guiding Light needs to be halted and independently investigated.”
“And who do you suggest does that?”
“I’m not sure. The existing trials units at Boscombe Down?”
Collingwood spoke calmly, with a sing-song, matter-of-fact voice. “That would undermine TFU and the point of its existence. It would also expose a Top Secret project to an intolerable number of witnesses, which would be in breach of the United Kingdom’s undertaking to the United States. And I don’t need to remind you that a great deal of investment is at stake.”
“Then we concentrate on Kilton—”
“Have him arrested?”
“Yes.”
“On what charge?”
Susie had a sinking feeling. She could imagine Roger laughing in the background.
“Falsifying aircraft trial results. And I believe that would just be the start. We should also look carefully at the crash that killed Milford.”
“An inquiry is already taking place into that. Its conclusion is likely to rule out Guiding Light as a culprit.”
“That’s a cover.”
He sighed. “You understand the problem I have, Miss Attenborough. Your word against an independent Board of Inquiry and a decorated senior officer in Mark Kilton. What we need is hard evidence. Irrefutable. Something the director would have no choice about. I’m afraid we are a long way from that point.”
“What about the statistics I gave you? Derived from actual flying data, straight from the aircraft.”
“I am trying to help, Miss Attenborough, but your evidence is the word of a septuagenarian who tells us the tapes and papers were burned. Remind me again why the only hard evidence was destroyed?”
“This was just the first sample. Milford intended to continue gathering data, but he was killed.”
There was a silence at the other end of the line and Susie realised she had just undermined her already weak case.
“Just a first sample, from which conclusions were extrapolated, and on that basis you would like Her Majesty’s government to halt a billion dollar export deal?”
She should have had this conversation a week ago.
“Miss Attenborough, you have worked hard and with diligence, but not for the first time in the career that lays ahead of you, I am sure, you have come up against the rather cruel realities of our service. We can act only when the evidence is overwhelmingly criminal, or there is evidence the national security is in immediate danger. I’m afraid, that contrary to your expectations, neither of those tests have been met. We have no direct evidence of cover-up, no reliable evidence of project mismanagement. In fact, the only evidence we actually have of wrongdoing are the actions of Flight Lieutenant May and Squadron Leader Milford, both of whom are already under investigation, one posthumously—”
“Of course they are, sir. Kilton has an iron grip on the unit. Milford and May risked everything.”
“I wonder, would May have risked all without your prompting?”
She saw an image of Rob stuck inside some dank police station, his career over.
“You see, Miss Attenborough, if we attempt to intervene on such feeble evidence, we open ourselves up to the type of criticism the Service very much wishes to avoid.”
He continued to speak with a gentle manner, but the message was clear.
You’ve screwed up, Susie.
“I think it’s time to come home. We’ll find something better suited to your particular talents.”
She shuddered as she imagined Roger asking her to make his tea.
“But what about Rob May? His wife left him, he’s at the mercy of Kilton—”
“And you believe it’s all your fault?”
“I believe it’s the result of us doing what needed to be done, sir. And I believe we have a duty toward him.”
“We do not, Miss Attenborough. You may feel that, but I would advise you to disengage your emotions. They let you down and cloud your judgement. The Service has a duty to the country, not an individual junior officer in the RAF. If it’s any consolation, we believe, due to the nature of the project, any kind of public hearing such as a court martial is out of the question. Of course that won’t spare May from the wrath of his superior. A man who can effectively end his career, no doubt.
“Try to see this as an opportunity for personal and professional growth, Miss Attenborough. Don’t get too close to your marks in the future. I’m sure we briefed you on that point in training. Now, we’ve come to the end of the line and that’s that. I expect to see you back here on Monday morning. You can take tomorrow off.”
Susie stood upright in the phone box and took a deep breath.
Rob had shown so much courage to take that Anson back to West Porton, knowing he would be arrested.
Now it was her turn to be brave.
“I’m sorry, sir, but this is not the end of the line. We would be derelict in our duty to allow this project to proceed and leave a good man hanging out to dry. You may find yourself content to write off lives, but I am not.”
“Miss Attenborough…”
She raised her voice. “Christopher Milford died for this cause. And I’m buggered if I’m going to abandon him. I’m sorry I didn’t work out to be the agent you wanted. Let’s face it, I’m the wrong sex for that. No, I won’t take tomorrow off. And no, I won’t be in the office on Monday. I have work to do.”
She slammed the phone down, her hand shaking.
She turned to the doors at the front of the terminal building and walked out into the warm evening light.
For a moment she stood and stared at the sinking s
un. Thin clouds drifted across its surface.
Susie wondered what the hell she was going to do next.
Stripped of his watch, belt and shoelaces, Rob sat by himself in a makeshift cell, with a camp bed and a blanket.
They had ignored him since his arrest.
The entire police station set-up appeared to be inside RAF West Porton, in an adapted office block on the far side of the camp.
It felt more like Soviet Russia than the United Kingdom.
Eventually they led him into a smaller room, with a single desk. Squadron Leader Hoskins arrived, clipboard in hand, and took a seat opposite.
Hoskins took Rob through a torturous recap of the entire day, making extensive notes. Rob hid nothing. They’d already made it clear they had identified Professor Belkin from the address given to them by Abingdon.
As the interview went on, the experience became more and more frustrating. The senior officer was only interested in where he went with the Anson, what time they had landed, what time they had taken off.
Every time he explained what they had discovered, the investigator went back to the logistics of the unauthorised flights.
Rob’s mood passed from impatient to desperate in a matter of minutes.
“Please. Sir. You must understand that a computer has extrapolated a terrible accident rate from the data.”
“So you keep saying.”
“Maybe I should talk directly to Wing Commander Kilton?”
The squadron leader raised an eyebrow.
“Impossible. You’re accusing him of either negligence, or something much worse.”
The room smelled of fresh paint.
Rob had a horrible thought: had this police station been prepared exclusively for him?
And the uniform Hoskins wore; it looked like a branch of the RAF police, but was subtly different.
Everything at West Porton was subtly different.
The reinforced fence didn’t just keep CND out; it kept everyone out.
“We’ll check your assertions against the official trial records,” Hoskins said. “If you can give me some specific occasions to look at?”
Rob huffed. “It’s not like that. I don’t have those specifics. But I do have the conclusions. We’d need to conduct a lot more safe height trials to prove the issue properly.”
“So, it’s not proven? It’s just… speculation?”
“No. No, it’s real.” Everything was slipping through his fingers. “You have to believe me, the computer calculated this. Millie gathered the data and the computer found the problem.”
“And where is this data now?”
Rob hesitated, remembering Susie’s advice not to dwell on the fate of the data.
“It’s been through the computer at Oxford. But we need more to identify the problem fully.”
The squadron leader’s pen hovered over his notepad. “So, do you have the evidence or not?”
“We don’t have that specific evidence anymore, no. Millie was gathering more. He thought he had more time.”
His voice caught on the words.
The squadron leader put down his pen and stopped making notes. “So, you have the conclusions to a study, but no evidence. You accuse a decorated commanding officer of conspiracy on the basis of a scrawl of notes written in fountain pen. You can’t even tell me where to look, because you say that only a computer can see the truth. You can understand the difficulty I’m having with this, Flight Lieutenant? The only actual crimes I have evidence for are those committed by you. And Mr Milford, of course. Now that you confirm to me he was secretly gathering data and taking it off West Porton.”
“Our plummet to the ground, on the 7th June, about 2.30PM, in a Vulcan, mid-Wales. Check the data.”
“We have a report from DF Blackton on all the data from the early trials. It shows no abnormalities.”
“What if they’re lying?”
“You have evidence for that? Then show me.”
“What about our crash? The system caused the ground strike. Last Friday. Check that data.”
“But Guiding Light had been disengaged some time before the impact.”
“No, no, you’re wrong. And what about the professor who looked into it all? I can give you his details.”
“We’re not authorised to discuss this project with outsiders. I can ask for permission, but that would have to come down the chain and have Wing Commander Kilton’s approval.”
Rob stared at him.
“If there’s nothing else?” Hoskins asked, shuffling up his notes.
Rob slumped forward, bowing his head, exhausted. “What will happen to me?” he asked, his voice weak.
Hoskins studied his notes for a moment. “They’ll make a decision whether to prosecute you for disobeying orders, the unauthorised use of government property and breaching the Official Secrets Act. Quite a collection of charges.”
“Will I go to prison?”
The man averted his eyes. “Probably.”
“And you’re happy with this? That I go to prison because I found out that a secret system is fatally flawed?”
He stood up, sighing as he did so. “I think we’ve been through this, Flight Lieutenant.”
As the man walked toward the door Rob sprang to his feet. The man looked briefly alarmed. “What about Millie’s funeral? I need to go.”
Hoskins half-turned, with what looked like an understanding expression. “These are serious charges.”
He left the room, and a moment later a corporal escorted Rob back to his cell. He lay down on the old camp bed and curled up.
He thought of Mary and began to cry.
Susie paid the taxi driver, stepped out onto the kerb and assessed the scruffy bungalow. It was a far cry from the neat married quarter patch at West Porton.
The death of Christopher Milford was real; here was his widow and fatherless son.
The crash, the secret guidance system, deciphering the equations, tracking down ancient professors… The whole thing had a surreal, disconnected quality to it. And yet, somewhere in the background, was an unimaginable human loss.
It was inside these walls: the suffering.
She knocked. Through the frosted glass, a diffuse red shape grew larger, and a woman in a striking chiffon dress opened the door and gave her a quizzical look.
“Mrs Milford? My name is Susie, I’m a friend of Rob May’s. I wonder if I could talk to you?”
A wry smile crept across the woman’s face as she appeared to assess her.
“So, you’re the floozy?”
Susie hadn’t expected the news to have travelled here.
“I’m guessing all is not what it seems,” said Georgina. “Which is what I told Mrs May this afternoon, and Red Brunson. And now here you are. I’ve never felt so popular. Perhaps you’d better come in.”
Over the next half an hour, Susie tiptoed her way through the truth, giving Georgina a hint of who she was and what had happened. Millie’s widow laughed a couple of times as Susie explained how he had been courageously taking on the establishment. But then her face turned very serious.
“Is this why he died?”
Susie thought carefully before answering. “Maybe.”
Georgina told Susie what she knew, which was not much for her to go on.
“At the door you mentioned another name?”
“Red Brunson?”
“That’s it. Tell me about him.”
“Tall, handsome, adorable.” She saw the look Susie was giving her. “Well, perhaps more pertinently, a colleague of Rob and Millie’s. I think he’s someone else having second thoughts.”
“What do you mean?”
Georgina thought for a moment. “They don’t talk very much, that lot. It’s not encouraged. If you’re on a secret project, you keep it to yourself. So it doesn’t surprise me that the chaps would have no idea what Millie was up to. But I can tell you, it’s caught Red’s attention.”
“Do you think he’s going to do something?”
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Georgina shrugged. “I don’t know. But he’s sniffing about.”
They sat for a while. Susie turned the events of the day over in her mind.
Rob was behind bars. Belkin had told them as much as he could.
Chris Milford was dead.
That only leaves one person, whose name had suddenly entered the conversation.
She looked at Georgina. “How would I get back to Porton from here?”
Georgina smiled at her. “We have a lumbering old red car, if you’d like to borrow it.”
“Your husband’s? Are you sure?”
“Well, I suppose it’s mine now. And yes. I think I am sure. Mr Kilton has arranged official cars for us tomorrow, although now I come to think of it, I wonder if that’s so we don’t hang about afterwards and talk to the wrong people.”
“Possibly. You really wouldn’t mind? It would be tremendously helpful.”
“It’s a tank to drive, I’ll warn you now.”
At the front of the bungalow, they shook hands and said their goodbyes. Susie stepped out onto the road and with a scrap of paper and a scribbled address, she set off back to West Porton.
As she pulled out of Totton, she glanced around the car. The red leather seats were worn and tatty, and the engine complained at every use of the accelerator. And yet the car had warmth to it. She inhaled the smell of the interior; how much of it was the scent of Christopher Milford, a man she had never known. Yet somehow, they were now colleagues in the same fight.
At 7PM Mary told the Laverstocks she needed to pick a few bits up from her married quarter, waving off the overbearing offers of help.
As she pulled into the drive, it was clear their quarter was dark and empty.
She looked down the road. The street lights were just coming on. Her eyes settled on a row of cars parked directly outside number 27.
The Brunsons.
She walked the hundred yards or so and approached the front door.
Men’s voices inside. She hesitated, but then took a deep breath and knocked.
Red answered quickly. He was in his USAF uniform, looking anxious. Beyond him into the kitchen, she could see Jock MacLeish and a gaggle of other officers, each man with a serious look on his face.