Wings of Death

by David Holman

  Swan gave Gable a pat on the back. ‘They do indeed, my old friend. But why? Let’s hope that our little undercover excursion up to Brinton Aviation tomorrow will provide us with that answer.’

  *

  Howard Barnett resembled a sport walker as he marched across to The Magic Box. The only thing on his mind during the drive back to Brinton’s was this moment. He entered the huge green steel structure through the door at the side and slammed it shut behind him. A technician cleaning a fire extinguisher greeted him. ‘Morning HB,’ Barnett grunted a friendly reply as he walked passed him, toward the small office to the rear of the hangar. The usual procedure was to knock and wait to be invited to enter, but this time he just opened the door and burst in to find Maitland with his feet up on his desk, reading a specially delivered edition of the Washington Post.

  Brannigan got up and looked across at the suddenly startled Maitland. The big Texan greeted the Chief Designer at the door.

  ‘Morning, Howard. Don’t think we quite followed the rules about entering this office, did we?’ Brannigan said, sarcastically.

  Barnett ignored him, staring at Maitland. ‘I would like a word with you alone Frank, if you please.’

  Maitland glanced at Brannigan, then gave him a quick nod. Brannigan walked up to the Yorkshireman, meeting his eyes. ‘I’m off for a smoke,’ he said, brushing Barnett as he left the office.

  Maitland pointed to th chair in front of his desk. ‘Sit down, Howard. What seems to be the problem?’

  HB stared coldly at the man opposite him, holding out his hand that contained the report of the incident. ‘You have no doubt heard of what happened down at Pembridge?’

  Maitland leant back in his chair. ‘Sure, real sorry to hear about it. All the guys here are all shocked at the news.’

  HB felt himself losing his patience with the casual reaction of the American. ‘Let’s not play bloody games, Frank! One of the Pembridge lads found traces of cordite in the tyre. Your man put a bloody explosive device in there, didn’t he? So, who was it Frank? Was it Jake Brannigan?’

  Maitland raised himself from his chair and held up his hands. ‘Whoa, just hold it right there Howard! That’s one hell of an accusation. You’re upset, that I can understand, and I really feel for you buddy. But to accuse us of sabotage, that’s a whole new ball game and one where you’re way out of line, man.’

  Barnett raged on. ‘Oh come on Frank, it’s bloody obvious. You want us to fail with the Rapier so you can sell Britain your bloody plane. It doesn’t take a bloody genius to work that out. That’s why you Yanks are really here, isn’t it?’

  Maitland walked over to a filing cabinet and pulled out a half empty bottle of Kentucky Bourbon.

  ‘You gotta calm yourself down, pal. Can I offer you a drink?’

  He waved a glass at the Yorkshireman.

  ‘I don’t want a bloody drink Frank, I want to know why you are really here at Brinton’s.’

  ‘You know why we’re here Howard, and that’s to work on the Python Hawk.’

  Barnett shook his head. ‘That’s a bunch of crap Frank, and you know it. Prove it! Let’s see this bloody thing then.’

  The American put down his glass on the desk. ‘I can’t let you do that, Howard. My chiefs would bust my ass if I was to disclose information on the Python Hawk to any unauthorised personnel.’

  Barnett suddenly realised that he wasn’t getting anywhere with this conversation, and rose from his seat and leant across the desk to stare Maitland full in the face. ‘If I find out your lying Frank, you will be picking every newspaper reporter in Britain out of your great big Texan backside!’

  Maitland took on a serious tone, his eyes boring into those of Barnett. ‘I’m from Kentucky, Howard.’ He held up his glass of bourbon in the face of the Yorkshireman. ‘In fact, just down the road from where this fine liquid is made. Mr Brannigan’s the Texan. So you have a nice day now and no more foolish accusations. Do you hear me Howard?’ He smiled as he watched Barnett turn and walk over to the door and slam it behind him. Outside, the Chief Designer bumped into Brannigan, banging his shoulder without an apology.

  Brannigan turned his head and studied Barnett, then walking into the office, shot a look at his colleague. ‘What the hell was that all about?’ he asked, in his heavy, deep southern accent.

  Maitland moved forward in his chair putting his hands on the desk. ‘Looks like we may have a problem, Jake. The old man is onto us. If he carries on, he could know everything. This could even expose the Spectres.’

  Brannigan picked up a small pewter model of the Rapier, which every office had been given as a promotional gift, and played with it in his hands. ‘Do we need to do something about him?’

  Maitland looked across at him and shook his head. ‘Not for now. He don’t know diddly squat yet, he’s just fishing. We just need to keep a close eye on him and keep him the hell away from the Spectres. I’ll put Riley and Zemke on him. He doesn’t know them, so should not suspect that he has a tail, especially with their double act as a young couple on vacation.’

  *

  As night fell in the Cumbrian sky, Barnett rose from his desk and removed the gold leafed pencil from behind his ear, packing it away into the presentation box. He then removed his work coat and hung it on the hook behind the door, and went out onto the mezzanine, locking the door behind him.

  He walked out of the The Magic Box and into the main reception area, where security night guard Bill Wright sat reading the evening paper. He looked up and smiled as Barnett handed him his office keys.

  Barnett referred to his newspaper. ‘Anything good in paper tonight then Bill?’

  ‘Not really, HB. The cricket’s going well though, we seem to be off to a good start in the First Test.’

  Barnett shrugged. ‘That’s something, I suppose. Goodnight then, Bill. See you in the morning. We’ve got a big day tomorrow with those chaps coming up from London.’

  Barnett allowed Wright to guide him to the main doors. He opened one, touching the shiny peak of his cap. ‘Goodnight then, HB.’

  Barnett walked out to his car and unlocked it. Noticing it was a pleasant Monday evening, he removed his coat and placed it on the front passenger seat then started the car and reversed out of his parking space. At the entrance barrier, he slowed as it was lifted by another guard, who acknowledged him with a mock salute as he drove by. Barnett waved at him and then turned left out of the plant onto the A594.

  As he drove towards Ellenborough, his thoughts were of the day’s events and how Maitland had reacted. He glanced in the mirror and thought nothing of the headlights that could be faintly seen a few hundred yards behind him.

  Twenty-five minutes later, he pulled the 1958 Austin A40 Somerset into the drive of his house, and in the corner of his eye, saw a dark Ford Zephyr drive slowly past with two occupants inside. A young female sat in the passenger seat, while a young male was behind the wheel.

  Chapter 8

  Next morning, a white Leyland Tiger bus moved under the raised barrier of Brinton Aviation’s main gate, towards the mess block, and after parking in front of the doors, disgorged its sea of suited officials from the Ministry of Supply.

  Swan and Gable signed their names into the visitor’s book on the reception desk and then mingled with the other members of the inspection party in the lobby of the mess. Drinks were then served by a waitress handling a tray of sherry glasses.

  Gable took a glass and smiled to her in appreciation. ‘I’m beginning to like the hospitality already, sir,’ he commented, taking a sip from the glass.

  Swan also held a sherry glass. ‘Arthur, we are supposed to be incognito here, so if you could drop the sir and call me Alex. I’ve always told you that it is okay to do so, but you do insist on a more formal address.’

  Gable sighed. ‘Sorry Alex, seems to be a bit of a hang-up from my days with the force.’

  Swan noticed that the atmosphere in the lobby was business like, with lots of formal conversation amongst the
officials. Then suddenly, there was a loud clanging of the mess bell, calling everybody into the hall for lunch.

  Following the extravagant buffet lunch which included locally caught salmon, a short presentation on the Rapier was to be given by Barnett. He handed each member of the audience an information pack and commanded the lights in the room to be switched off. ‘Gentlemen. You are about to be presented with a short slideshow on the development of the BR-101 Rapier Strike Aircraft. Any questions you may have, please leave until the end. Thank you. Now, could we have the lights out and slide one please, Joe.’

  Swan and Gable listened carefully to the presentation and as they viewed the slides and took in the commentary from the Chief Designer. Swan made mental notes of questions that he could ask to maintain his masquerade within the team.

  Twenty minutes later, the slide show concluded and the lights went back on. Barnett re-addressed the audience. ‘Thank you, gentlemen. Now if there are any questions, please feel free to ask.’

  Swan made sure he was first. ‘Alex Swan, Systems Analyst from the Air Ministry. You mentioned the accident to the second prototype at Pembridge? When do you think that the aircraft will be ready for flying?’

  Taking on a serious aura, Barnett stared at Swan.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Swan. It is hoped to have her flying by the end of June at the earliest. The accident caused her to have structural damage to the wing root and a new engine needs to be fitted. We should receive that engine for ground testing next month.’

  Gable then raised his hand. ‘Arthur Gable also from the Air Ministry. I read in the last report that the engines were still showing signs of vibration when run up to full power. What is the latest on this situation?’

  Barnett glanced over the sea of heads. ‘To answer your question Mr Gable, that is why the first prototype has been returned to Brinton’s. She is due to undergo a full examination, which I will personally be overseeing. I’m hoping that it’s a matter of just some tweaking with the compression valves. If not, then we are looking at a full rebuild.’

  Swan waited for another member of the team to ask a question, then nudged Gable in the arm and whispered to him. ‘Good question, Arthur. Well done.’ The session ended with Barnett inviting everyone back into the mess for afternoon tea.

  In the mess, Swan noticed Barnett returning to the table for a second cup of tea and an Eccles cake and decided to seize this opportunity to talk to the Yorkshireman. ‘It’s a bad show with the accident,’ he said apologetically. ‘I’m sure you wanted her to fly this week as much as we all did.’

  Barnett continued pouring out the tea into his cup then picked up the Eccles cake. ‘Aye, Mr Swan. We really were looking forward to her taking off and keeping this project alive. I’m not so sure to be honest, if we are going to see this one through. I take it that’s why you people have really been sent up from Whitehall, isn’t it?’

  Swan decided to ignore the comment. ‘So, you think that there’s a possibility that the BR-101 will be cancelled?’

  Barnett shrugged. ‘Well, with this business of the engines not performing and the over running costs to the avionics, things look likely. Be a big shame though, as to me, she’s probably my best design. Certainly one I’m proud of.’

  Swan noticed that Barnett was in a talkative mood, so decided to gamble with his next query. ‘What about this young lad who was killed here earlier this year?’

  Barnett responded solemnly to this sudden change of subject. ‘That’s was tragic. Poor James had so much promise, and just a quick routine check ends all that in a flash. His poor fiancé, what must she be thinking right now. She wasn’t pleased with the result of the enquiry, I know that much. Her father said she would be doing something about it, poor lass. Anyway, what did you say was your particular field of study, Mr Swan?’

  ‘Oh, I am here to check the quality of the avionics, to make sure that they meet the required standards. I understand that the American Python Hawk reconnaissance drone is being test fitted here, and you have some US personnel here as well?’

  ‘Aye, we have them here alright.’

  Swan detected some resentment in Barnett’s reply. ‘So what are these Yanks like then - off the record?’

  ‘Oh, they’re a peculiar lot, the whole project is being overseen by a chap named Maitland. They have armed guards on the doors to the basement of the assembly hangar. This is where the Python Hawk is being prepared, so I wouldn’t go too near them while you’re here, they are liable to get a bit nasty.’

  ‘You sound to me like you have had a run in with them already.’

  ‘Aye, we’ve had a few words. Maitland is a cagey one, he has a shifty look about him, but he’s there to see the Python Hawk does its job, I suppose.’

  ‘I will need to check on the proceedings for the Python Hawk tests, as part of my evaluation report, and will probably need to speak to this chap Maitland in due course.’

  ‘Good luck Mr Swan, and as I said, mind how you go in there. We don’t nickname it The Pentagram for nothing.’

  Swan decided to push his luck and take advantage of his host’s social vices. ‘So enough about work for a minute, I take it that you are a drinking man. So can you recommend a good pub around here? I’m a stickler for Northern brews, and wonder if I could take advantage of your native knowledge and have you point me in the right direction.’

  Barnett put down his empty cup and saucer. ‘Now you’re really talking…Alex, isn’t it? In fact, there’s a grand place just down the road I frequent on the way home. Why not meet up with me one evening this week and I will personally introduce you to the best local ales?’

  Swan nodded. ‘That would be splendid. Might I bring along that chap over there? We are here together to produce a joint report, and as you can see, he looks a bit lost amongst the others in our party?’

  They glanced across at Gable who was standing alone, reading a notice board. ‘Aye, he does look a bit lost, poor chap, bring him along by all means. Nice to speak to you Alex. I look forward to our drink soon.’

  ‘Likewise, and thank you for the presentation.’

  ‘No problem.’

  The two men shook hands and Swan watched as Barnett exited the room, shaking hands with other members of the party as he made his way back to his office.

  Swan then re-joined Gable, relieving him of his boredom of reading the staff notices. ‘How did it go?’ he asked.

  ‘Very well indeed, Arthur. HB is a nice and friendly chap and has invited us out for drinks at a local pub. I think he may have something on his mind, and I seemed to have appealed to his good nature. So, let’s see how much he is prepared to let me into his confidence; I’m certain he wants to say more about the accident, but I won’t push him, and will just let nature take its course.’

  *

  Maitland acknowledged his colleague at his desk. ‘Have you heard the news that the Rapier is to do a few fly-bys at the SBAC next month?’

  ‘Yeah, I was just reading the latest communiqué from Whitehall about it. This could prove a problem if it gets that far. The British public will be on the side of Brinton to continue with the project, and as we can’t show the FB-X at the show, that ain’t gonna help our cause too good.’

  Brannigan picked up the pewter model again. ‘Maybe a little accident may happen at the show. The Rapier 101 could suddenly fall out of the sky.’

  Maitland turned and glanced at Brannigan, as his colleague nose-dived the model onto the desk with a whistle from his lips, followed by a sneering smile.

  ‘You can be a ruthless son of a bitch when you wanna be, can’t ya Jake?’

  ‘Brannigan put down the model. ‘I could be supervising the fittings of the Python Hawk and easily put a little somethin’ in the weapons bay that could be detonated remotely from the crowd.

  It’ll be just for insurance, in case we fall behind schedule with the Spectres. Seeing that these evaluation guys are up here this week, we’ve had to take precautions to cover them up in case so
me goddamn inspector thinks he has authority to snoop around downstairs.’

  ‘You can be assured pal, that they have all been briefed that we have the only jurisdiction down there. So, we shouldn’t see any threat about that. How about some coffee?’

  On a positive nod from Brannigan, Maitland rose from his chair, went into the makeshift kitchen section of the office and switched on the kettle. ‘You know Jake? Perhaps your crazy idea don’t sound too crazy after all. Especially when it will only be twelve years this year since that last crash at the SBAC show. A disaster like that again will be sure to seal the fate of this god-dammed airplane.’

  *

  The next morning, the Ministry inspectors were escorted out to The Magic Box, where the gleaming silver airframe of the Rapier stood awaiting their attention. They were met by three Brinton technicians who would be assisting them with the various evaluations they were to undertake.

  Swan and Gable shook hands with a small man in overalls named Larry Smith. He handed them both a pamphlet and took them through the systems that they were to work on. Larry then led them over to the aircraft, and walked up to the front of the fuselage, beside the crew boarding ladders.

  Gable could hardly contain himself as he stood looking at the streamlined mechanical spectacle before him. Swan noticed this, and smiled in appreciation, sharing in his SID colleague’s excitement.

  Smith stepped forward. ‘If you would like to stand back a bit gentlemen, I will lift up the door to the avionics bay for you.’

  He accessed two hidden handles and pulled out the door to reveal a selection box of wires and components, which made up the vast area of avionics. He then secured the open door with two small braces that came out of recesses on either side. ‘Right, gentlemen. If you refer to your pamphlets, you can pretty much recognise the parts. Here we have the inertia navigation system. Here’s the TACAN system, and this is the sideways looking radar array.

  Gable looked at his pamphlet to check what the TACAN was, discovering that it stood for Tactical Navigation.