by David Holman
‘No John, apparently not. That’s why it is being tested on the Rapier instead.’
Stratton then changed to a more serious tone. ‘Can you throw any light into who would try and sabotage our plane?’
Higgins shook his head. ‘Well, where do we start with that, John? I mean, I very much doubt the Yanks would do it to their own allies, just because their machine isn’t ready. So my finger is pointing to some sort of KGB espionage plot.’
Stratton nodded. ‘Okay. Maybe your theory is correct.’ He rose from his chair and leant across the desk. ‘Thank you for your time Sir Alistair, I’ll be off now, got to catch my train.’
‘Nice to see you again too, John. Sorry I can’t be of any more help,’ smiled Higgins as he watched the MI5 man leave the office. He then picked up the phone. ‘Get me Whitehall 9921,’ he requested, speaking into the receiver.
*
Swan was sitting reading the case notes for the McGregor incident when the phone on his desk rang. Realising it was Higgins, he asked how his meeting went.
‘Well Alex, he certainly hasn’t changed much. Still the same old Secret Service Stratton.’
Swan laughed. ‘So what did he have to say for himself then?’
‘Not a lot really, still quite an odd chap. Never can really tell if he is just having some light conversation or secretly analysing you.
‘That sounds just like old John, doesn’t change. He’ll be after his knighthood next.’
‘Well, it looks like he may be closer to it if he unravels this sabotage scandal with the Rapier. He’s going up to Brinton’s this afternoon to grill the transport driver. As if the poor chap hasn’t had enough of that already.’
Swan agreed. ‘I see what you mean – damn and blast it!’ He suddenly went quiet on the phone.
‘Everything all right Alex?’ Higgins asked.
‘Just realised if Stratton signs in the Brinton visitor’s book, he’s bound to see my name and oh, will that give him some pleasure.’
Higgins laughed. ‘We’ll have to hope that he doesn’t, otherwise I can see our spooky friend having a field day with that one. I’m afraid that the meeting I had about the White Paper was as I predicted. The Rapier has been reprieved for now, but the joint service VSTOL fighter and the RAF transport have been cancelled. It looks like we’re buying the American stuff instead to replace them. Let’s just hope and pray that the Rapier doesn’t end up going the same way. A decision will be made by the House on Tuesday, regarding its fate,’ Higgins finished off. ‘Anyway, must dash Alex, having lunch at the club with some old squadron pals.’
Swan closed the conversation by asking his friend to keep him posted if he should hear from Stratton.
*
In the Brinton office nicknamed The Pentagram, Frank Maitland screwed up the newspaper and threw it across the room.
‘Jesus H Christ Jake, what the hell we gonna do now?’
Jake Brannigan held his hand up. ‘Cool it, Frank. As far as we know, no one saw our guys, so it just looks like the old man just collapsed while walking his dog.’
Maitland shook his head. ‘I sure hope ya right Jake. ‘Cos if someone did see them, then we’re in for one hell of a ride, buddy.’
‘Look, if it will make you feel better, I will put someone on this Hodge woman, and see if she saw something. You gotta prepare yourself for this MI5 guy this afternoon.’
‘That’s not a worry, I have his file right here in front of me, faxed through from Langley this morning. Says here that this guy is one hell of a spy. I think we better leave this Hodge woman for now, it doesn’t say in the paper that she saw anything suspicious.’
Maitland moved over to the window and stared out at the hangars. ‘So have we got our little mole in the hole ready for MI5?’
Brannigan grinned. ‘He’s sitting pretty in Hangar Two, completely unaware, poor bastard. How the security checks on the staff here didn’t pick this up, I’ll never know. Thanks to some tampering with the Polish resistance records that we’ve given to the Limeys, I’ve made it easy for this guy Stratton to fish him out. So, he will go away happy with his captured Russki saboteur, and we can then continue with the operation.’
Maitland smiled. ‘I had a communique from Hillier this morning. The Spectre sheds must be ready by next Wednesday, in time for the Defence Budget speech on Thursday. The British Government has already been given their brief on the FB-X deal and the Secretary of State is due to visit the UK this week, so we can sure expect some fireworks here after that speech.’
‘So when do the workforce arrive?’
‘They’re down at Stansfield doing their Spectre drill training, and get shipped in at the end of next week. The Spectre sheds will be off limits to the Brinton personnel who will be led to believe that these will house the Python Hawks, and then the transports will arrive from Jameson next Wednesday. We go operational as the first Spectre base at the end of the month, beating the South Korean base by two weeks.’ Maitland gave a sneer. ‘With our base in Turkey operational at the end of the month, the Russkies will have no clue that short range supersonic cruise nukes surround them on all sides. If just one Commie ICBM leaves its launch bay, then the whole of the Soviet Union will look like a marshmallow held over a campfire.’
Chapter 13
In the late afternoon, after a pleasant express train journey, John Stratton stood in the reception hall at Brinton Aviation with his five colleagues and signed into the visitor’s book. He took some time to scrutinise the page, then handed it back to the security guard Bill Wright, who then passed him I.D badges. ‘Please make sure you and your colleagues wear these at all times while here sir, as we are on Alert Status Amber at the moment.’
Stratton nodded to the request. ‘Where may I find Mr James Lewis?’
Wright looked on the wall behind him at a colourful chart. ‘You’ll find him in the vehicle depot, which is in Hangar Number Three.
Stratton gave an appreciated nod, then, gesturing to his entourage to follow him, they glided through the main doors to walk in the direction of the hangars.
Jim Lewis was fitting a hose pipe to a dark blue and yellow ex-RAF Bedford QM refuelling lorry, and looked around to notice five immaculately dressed men in dark suits enter through the front of the hangar. The first to approach him stopped and looked at the ID badge of the blue overall clad transport driver.
‘Can I help you chaps? Lewis asked, looking at them all.
Stratton acknowledged in an authoritarian manner: ‘Ah, Mr Lewis, John Stratton. We’re here on a governmental matter. Might I have a chat with you regarding the BR-101 transport accident at Shobdon?’
Lewis looked at Stratton and called over to another man in a blue overall. ‘Jeff, could you take over please mate? I have to go and have a chat with these gentlemen. I have changed the oil and just need to replace this split coolant hose.’
Lewis handed the new hose to his colleague and gestured to the MI5 agents. ‘Right gentlemen, if we go over to the far office, it will be less noisy.’ He led the men across the concrete floor of the hangar and into a small office at the back of the workshops. He showed Stratton a seat and apologised for the lack of seats for the other agents.
Stratton motioned to his colleagues. ‘I should be fine talking to Mr Lewis alone. I did notice a canteen as we crossed over, so why don’t you chaps go and get a cup of tea, and I will meet up with you later.’
He waited in the doorway until his agents exited the hangar, then shut the door to the office and sat down opposite Lewis.
‘Mr Lewis, I would like to ask you some questions regarding the accident if you don’t mind.’
‘I don’t mind at all Mr Stratton, anything to help. Do you mind if I have a cigarette?’
Stratton waved his hand. ‘Not at all Mr Lewis, please go ahead.’
Lewis placed a Woodbine cigarette in his mouth and lit it, as Stratton reached into his jacket pocket to pull out a brown, leather covered notebook, which he placed on the table. Then f
rom his left breast pocket, he extracted a silver ink pen. He took off the lid and put it on the bottom of the pen, ready to write.
‘Now can you start by telling me the events of the day, up to the convoy leaving here?’
Lewis took another puff on his cigarette and dabbed the ash into an ashtray. ‘Well sir, I collected the trailer from the yard at 11am after breakfast in the canteen, and parked it outside the assembly shed.’
‘Was anyone with you at this time?’
‘Aye, there were Harry Jones and Leo Kostowyz.’
‘And who might they be?’
‘Harry’s a technician and Leo is a mechanic.’
Stratton recorded the names into his notebook. ‘Have they been at Brinton long?’
Lewis paused to think. ‘Harry’s been here since he was an apprentice, back in fifty-two, and Leo started here just after the war. He was an armourer in the Polish Air Force, and then after fleeing from the Nazis, joined the RAF.’
Stratton wrote this down. ‘Okay, back to the incident. So what happened next?’
Lewis started to recall the events. ‘The second prototype fuselage was lifted off the support jig inside the hangar and transported to the trailer. It took a long time to set it down, with Harry working one end and Leo on the other side. HB came out to us at this point to oversee the work, and a few other technicians came out from the assembly hangar to help stabilise the fuselage onto the trailer as the crane lowered it.’
At this point Stratton interrupted. ‘Who were the other technicians, and who was the crane driver?’
Lewis continued. ‘Pete Dawson was the crane driver, and Gerald Thomas and Jim Farley were the other technicians.’
Stratton also recorded this in the notebook. ‘Okay, what happened next?’
‘Well, we set it down on trailer, and then Pete and Jim got on top of it and secured the load with the straps. We all then worked together to put the tarpaulin over her and then we lashed her down. As I was the driver, I was responsible to make sure she was good and tight for the journey, which I satisfied myself by checking every tie around the trailer. I think HB did the same before we drove off. Then, she was ready for the road and we all went to the canteen to get some dinner inside us for our night trip down to Pembridge.’
Stratton nodded and wrote this into his book. So the trailer was left unattended, while you all went to have dinner?’
‘Nay, we couldn’t leave the trailer until Bill Wright had come out and watched it while we were all in canteen.’
Stratton wrote down the name. ‘So, you had dinner, then you all returned to the trailer. So what happened then?’
Lewis continued his account. ‘I had a chat with HB outside the cab and then he left me and went to talk to the Americans, who were behind the trailer having a cigarette.’
Stratton raised a brow. ‘Aha, the infamous Yanks that are here,’ he said excitedly. ‘Sorry Mr Lewis, please continue.’
‘Well sir, that’s just about it. I climbed into the cab and we waited for the outriders to take up position, then we were off through the gates and onto the road. I took the planned route to avoid the Lakes, and then it was onto Pembridge using the west coast road to pick up the A6.’
‘So, when you were going through Shobdon, you made your turn towards Pembridge, and then what happened?’
‘I came to cross roads and took a wide berth to get the trailer around the stone cross war memorial in the centre of the road. Just as I was straightening up after the turn, I heard a loud crack, then the trailer began to list to the left and turned over, taking my cab with it. Next thing I knew, I was upside down on the cab’s ceiling and one of the RAF Police outriders opened the door and pulled me free. I looked at the trailer on its side, with the fuselage still attached to it.’ Recalling the incident, Lewis began to shake and lit another cigarette to calm himself.
Stratton continued with his questions. ‘This crack sound before the trailer went over, how loud would you say it was?’
‘It was fairly loud, sounded like one of those gas powered bird scare guns you get in crop fields.’
Stratton recorded this in the notebook. ‘Okay Mr Lewis, I think this wraps this up for now. I may need to speak to you again over the time I’m here, but thank you for now. You have been most helpful.’
Stratton stood and shook the hand of the driver, then picked up his briefcase and left the hangar.
*
At Carlisle City General Hospital, David Barnett sat beside the bed of his father and drank some orange squash from the clear plastic cup. On his lap was a small die cast model of the Rapier, given to him by the helicopter pilot when he had been collected from his school. He held it up and looked at the model closely. His thoughts were suddenly of his father leaning over the plans of the aircraft on the dining room table at home and explaining them to him. He recalled the evenings during the school holidays when he had sat in his pyjamas next to his father at the table, as he watched him work out calculations on a notepad. His father had explained every sum and how it was important to get them right and double check them accurately. He also recalled some of the terms that his father had used, such as ‘thrust to weight ratios’ and ‘centre of gravity’ which he was told were crucial to the design.
David was alerted to his mother re-entering the room as the bleeping of the monitors attached to the motionless Howard Barnett created a monotonous background beat to the room’s atmosphere. Heidi then noticed the model in her son’s hands.
‘Your father is a good aircraft designer, David.’
The boy held the model to his eye-level and smiled to her. ‘I know, Mother. He is the best. This is the best warplane in the world and my father created it.’
A nurse entered the room and walked over to her patient. She took the limp wrist of Barnett and checked the watch on the breast pocket of her pressed blue uniform. Turning to the monitor, she stared at the reading for a few minutes then gave Heidi and David a comforting smile. ‘The doctor is on his way round,’ she announced.
David then watched as she left the room. ‘Matron said that somebody was asking about me yesterday, Mother. They said that Father was in the area of my school was going to visit me.’
Heidi turned to her son. ‘Who was that, David?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know, but Matron said that they were two American gentlemen.’
‘How strange,’ remarked Heidi, thinking out aloud. ‘I don’t understand. He’s been here. Why would they say that?’
‘No idea, Mother. Do you think they were perhaps friends of Father?’
‘Perhaps,’ she said, but was puzzled by the matter.
Heidi was suddenly distracted from this thought as the doctor entered the room and introduced himself. ‘Good afternoon, I’m Dr Westerham.’ He shook Heidi’s hand first, then David’s, then quickly moved over to the unconscious Barnett; his loose long white coat swished as he walked. ‘Well, we have some good news. We have run some tests and his heart is fine, no damage. His breathing has improved, and his blood pressure is down to almost normal. My biggest concern is that we found a bruise on the front of his neck. I was wondering, Mrs Barnett, if you knew anything about how he could have got this? We also found that one of his fingers on his left hand is broken, and the rest are bruised. To the trained eye, this is most definitely a punch injury. Now we need to establish if these two things are related in some way. I thought I would ask you first, before I called the Police in on this matter.’
Heidi looked at her husband and shook her head in shock ‘Are you saying, doctor, that my husband was in some sort of fight?’
Westerham nodded. ‘That’s precisely what I am saying, Mrs Barnett.’
*
Stratton met up with his team in the Brinton Aviation staff canteen, ordered a cup of coffee, and brought it to the table and joined them. He then got out his notebook and ripped out the page, then handed it to a thin-faced member of the team. ‘Alan, I have some names that need some background checks done on them.
I would like you to access the personnel files and give these men the once over. Anything you find that looks a bit suspect, then inform me. I am especially interested in this man, Leo Kostowyz, a Polish refugee from the war, now a full UK citizen.’
Alan Carter was a young, fresh Cambridge graduate. He took the piece of paper and acknowledged his controller. ‘Right you are sir, I will get onto it straight away.’
Stratton then turned to a more senior member of the team. ‘Dennis, I would like you to set up a meeting with the Americans, but keep it low key. Just say to them that we need a progress review of the Python Hawk, and I will be chairing this meeting. Liaise with reception to book us a room, and order fresh coffee if you can. Americans like coffee.’ Stratton’s deputy, Dennis Martin, nodded his approval.
Stratton then turned to another one of his officers. ‘Victor, you and I will go and speak to Henry Brinton and try and make some sense of this mess.’
*
At Carlisle Police Station, Detective Inspector George Lake sat at his desk reading a report. A member of the Cumbrian Force man and boy, he had caught many undesirable characters in his time. He enjoyed his job, although the long hours spent on cases sometimes prevented him from spending vital time with his wife and five children. His twin sons had joined him into the force, and were currently doing their training at Hendon Police College. His other son had just left school to take up an apprenticeship with a local clockmaker, and his daughters were both still at school. One was hoping to become a primary school teacher, whereas the younger one was still at the age when only pop stars and netball filled her head.
This was a quiet time for the Constabulary. Since the verdict of the McGregor enquiry, Lake had not been given a lot to do. The phone rang, and a young constable answered it, then approached Lake. ‘Excuse me sir, but there is a Dr Westerham from Carlisle City General on the phone wishing to speak with a senior investigations officer.’
Lake rose from his chair. ‘I’ll take it, Simon. Thank you.’
He strode over to the duty desk and picked up the receiver. ‘Good afternoon, Detective Inspector George Lake speaking. How can I help you, Doctor?’