Wings of Death

by David Holman

  Smith continued. ‘Above this, is the drive that operates the Doppler equipment, and these are the batteries powering the TFR in the radome.’

  Gable checked the pamphlet again, finding Terrain Following Radar, and so was ready for Smith again as he explained its functions. ‘The target acquirement unit, is on the other side of the fuselage and accessed by a similar door, and that is pretty much it. As you can see, each unit is separate and can be detached and replaced section by section, pretty much like inside a TV set.’

  Swan put his head into the bay, making a few notes on his clipboard. ‘How often would you need to replace the batteries to the TFR?’

  Smith thought for a minute, then stepped forward. To be honest with you sir, as we haven’t had the need yet, I would have to estimate between fifty to one hundred sorties.’

  Swan made more notes, then it was Gable’s turn to maintain the charade. ‘Are there any back up batteries, should one of these fail in flight?’

  Swan winked at Gable for coming up with such a constructive question and the technician pointed up to the cockpit. ‘There are two reserve batteries behind the navigator’s cockpit. We had to build a firewall to prevent any internal explosion, in case of crew ejection, as without this in place, the rockets on the seats would probably ignite the battery acid. These batteries are accessed through the panel above the fuselage.’

  Gable recorded some notes on his clipboard as Smith stood at the bottom of the platform ladder leading to the cockpit. ‘Right gentlemen, I can now show you the cockpit and power up some of these systems I have explained to you.’

  The three men climbed the blue framed access ladder and stood on the platform, overlooking the two open crew compartments.

  Smith then climbed into the navigator’s ejection seat and pushed a few buttons and almost instantly, lights on various instruments came on. He then pointed out the different areas and demonstrated the view panels for each. ‘Here is the TACAN control, which can be placed to two settings: Low level and Altitude. The SLAR screen is here, and can either be manually set, or set as part of the automatic system. This screen here is the moving map. If you’ve seen the latest James Bond film, this is an updated model to the one that is in Connery’s Aston Martin DB5.’

  Gable responded excitedly. ‘Yes, I recognise it from the film.’

  Smith continued. ‘Over here is the Weapons Selection screen. Yes, you are seeing the option for the Blue Fin stand-off Nuclear weapon. Although it will not be ready for a few years, the missile’s details have already been calibrated into the attack system, and ready for operation. We are also looking at incorporating a compatibility mode on the production machines, so we can also use other weapons, such as the BOFORS anti-ship missile being developed by the Swedes. That will be a standard kit for their machines.’

  Swan pointed to a small box which had been added to a spare area on the panel and incorporated a square TV screen.

  Swan then pointed out a small black box recessed into the sidewall. ‘So what’s this here?’

  Smith also spied the box. ‘This was only fitted this morning, by the Yanks, and is the control unit for the Python Hawk reconnaissance drone. As you can see, it is a temporary bolt-on unit at the moment, but if our own home grown proposed Blue-Eye system goes belly-up, then we will probably have the Python Hawk fitted as standard for Rapier Recce missions. All these systems are fitted with battery warning lights, and are relayed to the reserve units behind me. The only way they will not work is if there is a total system failure, in which case the crew are long gone and the aircraft will be in its final death plunge. Unlike the record breaking test aircraft that the Rapier was developed from, she would not make a very formidable glider. Incidentally, HB looked at fitting the Rapier with a crew escape capsule, similar to what the Yanks have on their new FB-X, but opted to keep faithful with Messrs Martin & Baker, and have them design these new Zero-Zero AX seats to his specification.’

  Gable looked around the cockpit. ‘How quick will the reserve kick in, should there be an initial power failure?’

  Smith answered the question. ‘The reserve has direct link to the power sensors. Should there be a failure, the warning lights on their panels will flash up like Christmas trees. The aircraft will experience no difference in operational function and carry on as if nothing happened.’

  Gable showed his appreciation and recorded it on his clipboard.

  Smith rose from the Navigator’s ejection seat. ‘Well gents, why we’re still up here, are there any more questions about the cockpit? Oh, I almost forgot, the navigator has total monitoring control over the avionic systems, but can relinquish control to the pilot manually. Say, he may be injured or something from flak in a typical low level strike mission, the pilot has an override panel on his right side console.’ The Brinton technician looked at his watch. ‘Ok, gentlemen. I make it 11.03 on the Rapier’s digital cockpit clock, which has both GMT and TAI as standard. So why don’t we now go and have a cup of coffee and I will show you the systems test performance data history afterwards.’

  Larry Smith shut down the electrics and climbed out of the cockpit, following Swan and Gable down the ladder. They allowed him to move in front of them as he headed for a small room at the side of the hangar.

  Gable whispered at Swan. ‘Very impressive, I must say. To think we were only reading about this beautiful piece of machinery last week, and now we’ve had a personal guided tour of her.’

  Swan took Gable by the arm. ‘Calm yourself, Arthur, we don’t want your over-excitement to give us away, but I have to agree with you, the Silver Angel is truly magnificent.’

  In the canteen, Howard Barnett saw them enter and waved his hand to them. ‘Morning gents, how was your tour of my beautiful lady then?’

  Swan nodded. ‘Truly marvellous, thank you, Howard. She really is a credit to you.’

  ‘Oh, I only do the thinking. It’s all these lads who make my dreams come true. The credit all goes to them. Anyway, glad I found you. How are you and Mr Gable fixed for this evening? I was wondering if you both would permit me to introduce you to some real Cumbrian hospitality.’

  Swan smiled. ‘Well, that sounds just the ticket. What about you Arthur?’

  ‘I think it will be good to put some real ale into our veins for a change,’ agreed Gable.

  Barnett shook their hands. ‘Well, that settles it then, gents. I will wait for you to finish your first day reports, and then collect you for five o’clock. We can start with The Duck and Goose, have a nice meal and then see where we go from there.’ Barnett left them and walked over to a table where his technicians were sharing a joke.

  The afternoon was spent going over the test pilot’s reports on the avionic trials, and Gable studied lists of data and made some recordings on his clipboard. ‘I do hope I’m doing this right, I’ve tried to make my scribbles as convincing as possible,’ he remarked, worried.

  ‘Relax Arthur, just record what you have to, following Hammer’s list, and he will sort it out when we get back,’ Swan assured him.

  ‘Do you think HB will tell us a bit more about the Yanks this evening?’

  ‘I’m banking that he will be able to give us more of a picture, so I can get authority for a full investigation. I have a suspicion that James McGregor’s death was not an accident and that there has been some sort of cover up. Whether HB is in on it, I’m unsure, but I think he’s holding something back about the second prototype. What I don’t know is why, and where this could all be going.’

  The two men continued in their disguise, reading through the pilot’s and navigator’s reports and making their own notes each time the text mentioned something that related to the list provided by Air Commodore Higgins.

  Chapter 9

  In the workshop hangar at RAF Hemingford, a small maintenance base in Shropshire near the Welsh border, Leading Aircraftsman Peter Trimble dismantled the petrol tank from an ageing BSA M20 military motorcycle and commented to his colleague, Aircraftman Brian Gow
ans, on the damage that the bike had sustained in the tyre burst of trailer, in the Shobdon incident. He was pleased that the rider had survived the sudden blast, and had walked away with only a few cuts and a damaged bike.

  Looking at the damage, Trimble could see the force that had taken the rider off the bike in Shobdon village. He took a screwdriver and started to clean the metal residue from the scorched area behind the tank. As he casually scraped and picked his way through the debris, he noticed something odd about the contents, and placed his fingers into the charred remains, pulling out a small piece of plastic. It had traces of bare wire protruding from an opening at the bottom of a strange looking object. Trimble knew the old BSA M20 backwards, so instantly dismissed this component as being part of the machine.

  He walked over to Gowans. ‘Here Brian. Look what I’ve found. What do you make of this?’

  Gowans examined the object as Trimble held it in his fingers.

  ‘No idea, mate. Something that attached to the bike when it crashed maybe.’

  ‘It was really embedded into the back of the tank, so it looks as though it got there sometime before that. Hang on, I have the maintenance record for this bike in the office and can check when it was last serviced.’

  Trimble walked into the office and searched through the filing cabinet until he pulled out a file. He opened the flap and searched the registration numbers in the left hand corner of each document.

  ‘Aha!’ he exclaimed, returning to his colleague and placing the document on the workbench.

  ‘Here we go. This bike only had a service eight weeks ago.’

  ‘Who did it?’ Gowans asked.

  Trimble looked down at the signature and name at the bottom.

  ‘John did it. It wouldn’t be like him to be sloppy and leave any foreign objects on the bike, would it?’

  Trimble picked up the small object again and, on closer inspection, noticed some scorch marks, and that the object had been broken off at one end. He picked up a magnifying glass and examined them more closely. Gowans watched his colleague and joined in his curiosity. ‘What do you think it is?’

  ‘I haven’t the faintest idea, Brian. I’m gonna take this over to the Sarge and see what he makes of it.’

  Trimble walked out of the hangar and over to a small hut. He then walked up the steps and knocked on the door.

  Trimble walked into the hut into a chaotic looking office.

  At the desk was a slightly balding NCO, filling in a form. He looked up and smiled.

  ‘Pete. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Hello, Sarge. Sorry to bother you, but I’ve been working on the bike that was involved in the BR-101 trailer accident and found this stuck behind the tank.’

  The NCO held out his hand palm up, allowing Trimble to place the object into it. He took it in his fingers and examined it.

  ‘There’s some scorch marks on the side, and wires hanging down. It’s something I’ve never seen before’

  The Sergeant looked at it more closely, observing the scorch marks. ‘Not part of the bike, then?’

  Trimble nodded. ‘I know the M20 inside out Sarge, and it definitely is not part of it.’

  ‘Leave it with me. I will have a word with a Darts mate of mine over in the armoury. Perhaps these scorch marks could give us a clue.’

  Trimble left the Sergeant with the object and walked out of the hut.

  *

  At a few minutes past five o’clock, HB met Swan and Gable outside the main assembly hangar. ‘Good day chaps?’ he asked, and gestured them to get into his car.

  Swan nodded. ‘Yes HB, very good. Some most interesting reports from your flight crew on the Doppler system.’

  Barnett gave an embarrassing smile. ‘I’m afraid I don’t very much deal with the hi-tech stuff. Engines and airframe are my specialty, so whatever you have to say about the avionics will all be gobbledegook to me.’

  Swan smiled. ‘I see. Well, things are going well with the evaluation, and it looks as though the high-tech stuff is ticking the right boxes.’

  It was Gable’s turn to make conversation. ‘How is the problem with the engine coming on?’

  Barnett replied, looking in the mirror at his inquisitor.

  ‘Been at it all day in the engine testing chamber, running her up to two and half thousand RPM. It seems stable for a constant five to ten minutes, then starts to vibrate and after that, gets steadily worse. We tried lowering the compression rating, but then we noticed a loss of power, something no flight crew wants when being tracked by SAMs or buzzed by a bloody MIG over hostile territory.

  ‘Quite so,’ replied Swan.

  ‘Talking of SAMs. I was of the understanding that the Rapier has been fitted with the latest ECM system.’

  Barnett confirmed. ‘It will be on the production models. We rigged a temporary system to the second prototype, as that was going to be part of the planned trials, but obviously, that’s all on the backburner for now.’

  Swan detected resentment in the Chief Designer’s reply, and decided to change the subject. ‘I trust there’s good food at The Duck and Goose then?’

  ‘Only the best steak and kidney pudding this side of The Lakes,’ boasted Barnett.

  Gable stared out at the road, noticing that HB had slowed down and turned right into a car park. A sign with a picture of a duck being overflown by a goose as its centrepiece hung from two iron braces at the side of the stone clad building.

  ‘We’re here, gents. One of my local haunts, and I hope you two are hungry.’

  They got out of the car and Swan took in the external structure and lighting of the inn. Barnett then led them inside the main lounge and instantly raised his hand to a man behind the bar.

  ‘Evening, Bob. A pint each of Grassmoor Dark for my two friends, please.’

  Bob Crumley was the landlord of the Duck and Goose and ran it like a military barracks with his wife, Brenda, and their two barmaid daughters, Gwen and Mary.

  He nodded to the Brinton Chief Designer. ‘Right you are, HB. Coming right up.’ As an ex RSM of the Coldstream Guards, even in retirement he stuck with his former Senior NCO eccentricities, sometimes to his family’s annoyance. Gable watched as Crumley poured the dark brown liquid into the glass tankards.

  ‘Will you be eating, gentlemen?’

  Barnett smiled. ‘If Brenda has some of her steak and kidney pies on, then the answer is yes. I was drooling earlier over the thought as I was recommending them to Alex and Arthur here, on the drive up from work.’

  Crumley nodded. ‘Then she must have known you’ll be popping in, as she has done some for this evening. We’ve also got some nice jackets in the oven as well,’ added the Landlord.

  ‘Sounds great, Bob. Tell Brenda to do three, with lots of mushy peas and her homemade gravy.’

  Crumley wrote down the order and beckoned his daughter Mary to prepare a table. On her father’s glance, Mary went over to a table and prepared it with cutlery and napkins.

  ‘Gwen’s night off then, Bob?’ enquired Barnett.

  ‘She’s gone to Carlisle with some friends to see one of these bloody pop groups. A bunch of scruffy lads from Birmingham called The Nightriders.’

  Overhearing this remark, Mary Crumley interrupted.

  ‘The Nightriders ain’t that bad Dad, especially the lead singer Jeff Lynne. He’s a right dish. I would say they would give The Beatles a run for their money. Maybe one day, they may be even better.’

  Crumley smiled. ‘Nightriders, Beatles. It all sounds the same old rubbish to me.’ He turned to his guests. ‘I’ve had to spend a fortune on that bloody machine next door, so it plays all that racket. Give me the band of my old regiment, the Coldstream Guards any day.’

  Mary walked by carrying a jug of water. ‘Oh Dad, you’re so old fashioned. You should take some time to listen to some of this rubbish as you call it and I’m sure you will enjoy it. Mum has it on all the time on the radio in the kitchen.’

  Crumley cut his daughter down. ‘Tha
t will be quite enough drooling over these long haired louts you call pop stars, Mary. You can go and check the other bar for any customers now.’

  Swan laughed silently, noticing that his daughter was beginning to embarrass her father.

  Barnett gestured to them, lifting his drink. ‘Shall we sit at our table then, gents?’

  He carried his half-drank tankard over to a laid wooden table of white napkins and stainless steel cutlery, and set around tablemats featuring painted scenes from the Lake District. Swan and Gable sat at their places and allowed HB to pour the jug into their water glasses. HB started the conversation. ‘What do you think of Grassmoor Dark then, gents?’

  Swan raised his tankard. ‘Excellent ale, really smooth and full of flavour.’

  ‘I’ll second that,’ added Gable.

  Idle chat about the BR-101 followed, until the meals arrived. Barnett then raised his glass. ‘Bon Appetite gentlemen. May I be the first to introduce you to the fine home cooking of Mrs Brenda Crumley.’

  The three men tucked into their meals, speaking little between each mouthful of their full to the brim plates.

  ‘What’s your wife doing this evening then, HB?’ asked Gable.

  ‘Oh, she’s at our village hall meeting tonight, so would have done herself something to eat earlier. You must get a chance to meet her. She’s from Switzerland originally and does the most beautiful apple and blackberry strudel. You gents must come to my house for dinner before you return to London. My son David’s coming home from his school for the weekend, so I am sure that he would love to listen to two avionics technicians explain all this new gadgetry.’

  They finished their main courses and on HB’s recommendation, Mary now doubling up as waitress, served them Plum Duff and custard.

  Shortly into their dessert a small, stout woman appeared, dressed in a flowery patterned apron. ‘How’s the food tonight then, gentlemen?’ she asked. Barnett put down his spoon, stood up from the table and gestured to his guests. ‘Alex, Arthur. Can I introduce you to the finest cook in the North, Mrs Brenda Crumley.’