Wings of Death

by David Holman

  Kershaw smiled. ‘Roger, Brinton. Heading on course, two seven zero degrees. Speed: Five hundred and ninety knots, ETA: Eleven zero eight. Requesting permission to land.’

  Brinton Tower came through his headphones. ‘Roger, Angel-One. You are clear to land on Runway Two Three. Wind is south-south westerly, Speed: Sixty eight knots. Cloud base: Six thousand - Over.’

  Kershaw acknowledged: ‘Roger Brinton. Descending on final approach.’ He stared ahead through the windshield and the clouds passed by, then suddenly, the black and white threshold markings of Brinton’s Runway 23 lay ahead, with the green bordering lights disappearing into a perspective distance. The pilot pushed a lever on his right console to feel the undercarriage lower beneath him.

  He spoke to his colleague through his mask. ‘Soon be down, Sandy.’

  His navigator responded, as he watched the rising Cumbrian countryside rise up outside of his canopy. Kershaw pulled down the throttle and pushed a smaller lever to the side of the handle to lower the flaps. As the aircraft slowed, he brought the nose of the plane up slightly and selecting another lever, watching as the nose drooped on its hydraulic mechanism to give him more visibility. The black tarmac of Runway 23 now covered his windshield, and with hands firmly on the control column, he eased the aircraft down, the tyres skidding as they gripped the surface. The white centre markings whizzed by underneath the plane, as Kershaw levelled the big silver machine. He then pulled another lever, which opened up a small outlet below the fin to enable a buff coloured brake chute to open like a huge flower, slowing down the aircraft. ‘Angel-One landed. Permission to exit runway, Tower.’

  The tower acknowledged. ‘Roger, Angel-One. Use Exit Two. Taxiway is clear to hangars.’ The controller then decided to break radio protocol. ‘Welcome back. It’s great to see you again,’ he said excitedly.

  As the BR-101 slowed, Timmy Bell flew low along the runway in his fighter, and as he passed over Kershaw and Ludlow, put it into a climb, waggled his wings, then put on the afterburners and disappeared into the clouds. Kershaw smiled, shaking his head. He knew that Bell was a showman, and he looked forward to their drinks in The Ploughman after their shift.

  A few minutes later, the BR-101 moved in from the airfield and approached the hangars. It was finally home and as they turned off the taxiway into the dispersal area, the crew saw the crowd of people eagerly awaiting the plane’s arrival. The sleek shape drew nearer to them, and now only a few feet away from the red rope barrier, Kershaw applied the brakes and the aircraft stopped. He shut down the systems and, almost simultaneously with his navigator Sandy Ludlow, opened up his canopy. They unbuckled themselves from the seats and climbed out of the cockpits to descend the blue boarding ladders that had just been placed into position by the ground technicians. As they climbed down, the Brinton crowd cheered, giving the two airmen a most hospitable welcoming.

  To acknowledge the crowd, Kershaw and Ludlow gave a mock bow, causing them to go wild with admiration. Then, Kershaw shouted to them. ‘This is your plane, ladies and gentlemen. We just have the privilege to fly it for you.’

  Howard Barnett approached the two men and shook their hands. ‘Well done Eddie, Well done Sandy,’ he gestured, smiling at them. He went over to a table where some technicians were looking over a microphone. ‘Is the PA up now, gents?’

  One of them nodded to him. ‘You’re all good to go now, HB.’

  Barnett acknowledged Henry Brinton as he approached the table. He beckoned to Kershaw and Ludlow to also come over to them. Now satisfied everything was ready, he spoke into the microphone. ‘Good Morn… Hang on…’ He looked at his watch, realising that both hands were pointing straight up and the second hand was just moving onto the twelve. ‘Please excuse me. I’ll start again. Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the BR-101 naming ceremony. In a few moments, our owner and son of our late founder, Henry Brinton, will have the honour of officially christening our latest design. I would just like to say a few words of my own to thank all Brinton’s employees for your dedication and commitment throughout this project, and your determination to see it to this stage. I understand that you will be aware that we are currently going through a phase that is both challenging and worrying to us all, and hopefully the powers that be eventually see this beautiful machine for what she really is capable of, and not just how much she is costing them.’

  There followed cries of hear, hear and claps and cheers from the crowd. Barnett nodded in appreciation. ‘So with no further ado, I hand you to Henry to carry out the christening ceremony. All yours, Henry.’ He handed over the microphone and a large sheet of paper to his boss then took a few steps back.

  Henry Brinton stepped forward, holding a large rolled up sheet on plastic, and waited for the clapping to cease. ‘Thank you everyone, and thank you HB for some very meaningful sentiments there. As you all know, as some of you have been here since long before I was having my nappy changed, it has always been a tradition since Brinton’s first plane, that my late father Sir Ronald has given each design a name beginning with ‘R’. So to continue with this tradition, we have all agreeably chosen on a name that is clearly fitting for this particular design. A name which matches the BR-101 to its capabilities as a supersonic strike aircraft that is swift, powerful and effective. There is a sword still used as standard issue by the British Army, although this sword is now mainly used for dress purposes in parades and such like, but in its heyday, it was used as the main combat weapon of every soldier in battle. A weapon that was most feared by any enemy, and the sword I refer to is also the name of our new plane. So I officially name the British Aviation Consortium, of which of course our historic company plays a major part: Model number BR-101… the Rapier.’

  He peeled the adhesive back off the clear sheet holding, placing it onto the nose of the aircraft. When he had finished, it revealed the italic words of BR-101 Rapier in red, entwined with the famous ceremonial sword in black.

  Chapter 5

  Later that day, Barnett glanced at the recently returned prototype sitting on the rain swept, dark grey floodlit tarmac outside The Magic Box. Following the earlier naming ceremony and after shutdown of the engines, her cooling ducts still showed signs of escaping heat. The two blue boarding ladders were still in place by the side of the crew compartments, awaiting the technicians who would be conducting ground tests in the morning.

  Although proud of his new machine, his face displayed a hint of sorrow. Since the fatal accident of his number two, James McGregor, there had also been a number of small incidents that niggled him; the latest being the recent sudden death of dear old Agatha, who for twenty years had been faithfully cleaned the Brinton offices.

  Last month, the Personnel Department had announced that she had got news of her daughter falling off a horse at her Montana home, where she lived with her wartime GI husband, and Agatha had been asked over on an all-expenses paid visit to see her. Shortly after her arrival in the old, gold-rush famous Lewistown, she had crossed a road to get some flowers in a shop, forgetting that in America traffic comes from the opposite direction to what it does in England. At the inquest, the coroner had kindly added, ‘the consolation is that at least she didn’t feel anything, when that big, red Dodge Land Truck had hit her at sixty-two miles per hour.’

  HB looked at his watch, got up from his chair and put on his familiar brown work coat. He then picked up a file on top of the filing cabinet, and noticed a fleck of dust falling from the top. He suddenly thought of Agatha again, as even the files would have been dusted, she had been so thorough in her job. Then he left the office for a late afternoon meeting with his chief test pilot.

  *

  The Air Ministry had not changed much since Alex Swan had last walked these long corridors three years earlier. The flow of human traffic had calmed slightly, compared to the rushing around of secretarial and senior staff during his last visit at the height of the Cuban missile crisis. That time, he had found his Soviet spy. Although the contents o
f her handbag had revealed no more than just her love notes from the assistant head of the Overseas Office, who now thinks a lot harder before having affairs with newly appointed young female administrative assistants.

  Air Commodore Alistair Higgins acknowledged Swan and rose from his chair as he approached his desk. ‘Alex, my boy. So good to see you here again. Not after anymore young lady spies with secret documents stuffed down their cleavages again, I trust?’

  Swan reached for the outstretched friendly hand.

  ‘How are you, Sir Alistair? It’s been a long time. Actually no, I need a favour old boy. Are you doing anything this weekend? The Furrows are putting on a clay shoot, and I thought perhaps that you may be up for it, old chap.’

  The Air Commodore broke into an even bigger smile. ‘Of course, my boy, love to. Victoria’s off this weekend for the annual W.I conference in Amesbury, so it would be just me, a good bottle of Chablis, and a half built model kit of a Lancaster that I have on the workbench in my shed at the moment.’

  Swan smiled. ‘Well, that’s settled then. I will see you down there in the morning. Shall we say eight o’clock?’

  Swan then noticed a model of a Spitfire perched on the Air Commodore’s desk and, picking it up to examine it more closely, admired the detail. ‘One of yours, Sir Alistair?’

  ‘Yes. This is the actual Mark 18 that I flew with 208 in the Sinai back in ’47. Note the unusual camouflage pattern of dark earth over slate grey. We found it blended in with the terrain really well and could fly recon sorties without getting harassed too much by the Arabs or the Israelis. Except for that one time of course, when some of our boys got bounced by those two American chaps from the infamous Israeli 101 squadron. I had been grounded with a twisted ankle from tripping over a damn wheel chock in the dark, and my kite was taken by another chap who ended up getting shot down. The local Bedouins brought him back the next morning in exchange for some bottles of Johnny Walker Black Label.’

  Realising an error, Swan corrected him. ‘Wasn’t one of those 101 boys a Canadian, in what was that infamous Three-Way Spitfire combat incident?’

  ‘Yes, by Jove, I think he was!’

  Swan smiled at the Air Commodore’s embarrassment and placed the model back on the desk. Then, seeing how relaxed Higgins looked, he decided to seize the moment. ‘Sir Alistair. I was wondering if I could have a private word.’

  Higgins sighed. ‘Ah, I knew that there had to be a reason for your surprise visit.’

  Higgins led Swan into a small room off of the main corridor and shut the door. ‘Right, Alex. What’s on your mind?’

  Swan righted himself. ‘I take it that you are familiar with the Brinton incident?’

  ‘Of course. That poor chap James McGregor. What a shame. I met him a few times as well. What is the sudden interest in this?’

  ‘My client is his fiancé. She’s not happy with the conclusions of the inquest and wants me to look into it.’

  Higgins pulled a chair and sat down. ‘Verdict was unanimous, Alex. It was a tragic accident.’ He gave Swan a cynical look. ‘But, from your facial expression, I suspect that you think otherwise?’

  ‘I’m not sure at this time, but a few things have cropped up and I’m starting to lay out the puzzle pieces on the table. I need to get into Brinton Aviation and at the moment, I do not want this to be official. Is there any chance that you could fix something for me?’

  Higgins stood up and walked around a desk. ‘As it happens there is an evaluation team going up there next Tuesday. I could pull a pass for you to go along, too.’

  Swan smiled. ‘Any chance of getting two?’

  Higgins laughed. ‘For Arthur I suppose?’

  Swan nodded. Higgins thought for a few seconds then let out a defeated sigh. ‘For you Alex my boy, no problem. You will have to learn a bit about avionics, as I could send you in as a couple of Ministry inspectors. The regular chap is away on holiday, so we were going to delay that visit until he got back. Looks like you and Arthur have the luck of the devil in perfect timing, what?’

  Swan laughed. ‘I’ll give you the passes at The Furrows. I better also give you a list of technical babble to help you and dear old Arthur look the part, as they say.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir Alistair. I very much appreciate your help in this.’

  ‘Hush-hush though, Alex my boy. Don’t want to be called in to the Air Marshall’s office if this all goes belly up, you understand. Especially when our most top secret warplane project is involved.

  Swan stood to attention. ‘You have my word, Sir Alistair, that I shall be as discreet as always. One more thing, you wouldn’t happen to have a copy of the McGregor enquiry?’

  ‘I can get you that now if you like. Follow me back to my desk.’

  Five minutes later, Swan stood outside and looked at his watch. Now clutching a manila envelope containing the results of the inquiry, he looked up as Gable pulled up next to him in the Sapphire.

  *

  Howard Barnett’s meeting with his test pilot had gone well. He was now inside The Magic Box and had decided to go for a walk around the two jigs to inspect the partly assembled BR-101 production samples that were beginning to take shape. Satisfied that they would be ready within the 3-month deadline, he patted the huge main undercarriage wheel hanging down on its support.

  Then ascending the stairs, he walked across the viewing gantry, past a set of rooms which had now been dubbed The Pentagram.

  This pseudonym had been awarded due to the American occupants that had commandeered them during the assembly of the first prototype, and it had been home to them ever since.

  The Americans consisted of six officials, The Suits, as Barnett jokingly referred to them, and fifteen technicians from a newly formed US aircraft manufacturing company called GTEC Incorporated. He sneered as one of the doors opened and one of The Suits, a tall thin man named Frank Maitland who was head of the Python Hawk project, stepped out and smiled at Brinton’s Chief Designer. ‘Hi Howard, how ya doin’?’

  Barnett forced a smile and returned the pleasantries. ‘Oh, you know Frank, I’m just champion, now my supersonic lady is back home where she belongs.’

  Maitland walked over to him and looked down at the half built airframes below. ‘Yippe. She sure is a beauty. By the way, when does P-2 get loaded for Pembridge?’

  Barnett answered the American. ‘Should hopefully be brought out of shed tomorrow morning, and then loaded by the evening.’ They’re doing a night run and should be at Pembridge by 6 the next morning.’

  Maitland smiled. ‘Gee, that’s great Howard. Or champion, as you Brits say up here.’ He started to walk away, but then remembered something and stopped. ‘Oh, I almost forgot. Some of our boys will be making some noise downstairs working on the secret stuff. So could you tell your men not to go down there? We have an armed guard at the doors, so I wouldn’t want him to get itchy with his M-14, if you get the picture?’

  Barnett stared past Maitland’s small head to a set of doors at the end of the mezzanine. This was the entrance down to the basement that ran under the hangar. Originally, it had been built to be used as an air raid shelter, but was now used by the Americans to store the equipment needed for their Python Hawk programme.

  ‘No problem, Frank. Anyroad, when’s all this stuff going to be ready for fitting into my lovely lady then?’

  Maitland paused and looked down at the hard floor for a few seconds. ‘Why, we should be ready to test the Python Hawk by the end of the week,’ Maitland then checked his watch. ‘I gotta go. Be seein’ ya, Howard.’

  Barnett observed Maitland as he walked over to the entrance to the basement and disappear through the big black rubber doors. The burly Chief Designer continued his rounds and downstairs, walked across to inspect the other empty jigs which had been set up waiting for the Ministry to agree the full production. He then stopped and looked down underneath the vacant Jig No 1, and stared at the faint outline of a dried bloodstain which had obviously been missed in the clea
n up after the accident. Once again he thought of his young apprentice; a lump formed in his throat and he bowed his head in respect before moving on.

  *

  Gable fumbled with Nobby as Swan sat down with a tray of drinks. Kate Townsley looked nervous as she took her glass of red wine from him and took a quick sip, before placing it down on the beer mat. She wore a beige, polar necked sweater and a brown tweed skirt with her black boots.

  Swan turned to Gable. ‘So, what does Nobby have so far, Arthur?’

  Gable glanced at his notes and read them out. ‘We have the accident, then Miss Townsley and her time of her conversation she had with poor James.’ He paused to check she was okay before continuing. ‘Then, we have his telephone call saying that he has seen Spectres and they’re after him, and there’s the conflicting account of the time of death and the business with the Americans at the works.’

  Swan relaxed in his chair and, taking a few sips of the ale, turned his attention to his client.

  ‘Miss Townsley, what can you tell me about your late fiancé’s behaviour up to the time of the accident?’

  Kate Townsley took another sip of wine, then put down her glass. ‘Well, it all seemed to have happened after he told me about HB and his meeting with the Americans. James said that they were there to install some special equipment into the prototype. He mentioned that HB had to give them details of every member of his team and the American technicians would be assembling equipment in the basement under strict security. He mentioned the ones that HB called The Suits. These were official looking men, who walked in and out of the south rooms on the assembly floor. They have their things in the old air raid shelter under the hangar.’

  Swan turned to Gable who was scribbling more notes into Nobby. ‘What do you think, Arthur? Do these suits sound like official agents to you?’

  Gable just gently nodded while still looking at his notes, looked across at Miss Townsley and then back at his colleague. ‘Certainly sounds like they’re into the spooky stuff if you ask me sir.