“Imperfections?”
“What I mean is, anything that makes little sense. A sudden jump in the numbers that seems implausible.”
The professor appeared to think about this and finally removed his half-moon glasses, waving them in his hand as he spoke. “You’re talking about variance, I think. A mathematical term for deviation from a datum. With the right parameters, then yes, as long as we can extract the data, we can create a routine to trawl through and highlight any sets of data that deviate outside of parameters we set. Something like a percentile scale. Do you see?”
“I think so. Basically, what I’m looking for is a pattern unlikely to exist in reality. So, for instance, you might get ten minutes of height readings in a range of say three hundred to four hundred, followed by a second or so of height readings that show one thousand two hundred, then it goes back to the original range. Do you think that’s possible?”
“I think so, yes. How many height readings are we talking about?”
Millie thought for a moment. “The tape records twenty-seven every second, and each tape runs for fifteen to twenty minutes.”
“Twenty-five thousand numbers on the tape,” said the professor. “It sounds like a lot to you and me, but to the machine, it’s just a few hours of whirring.”
“If you can read this tape, I am hoping to deliver one hundred more.”
The professor put down his tea and clasped his hands together on the table.
“Mr Milford, may I ask whether this is an official visit from an RAF officer? Or are you doing some freelance work?”
Millie looked around at the kitchen. Faded cupboards and yellowed ceiling. One door to a lower hung off its solo hinge.
“It’s not official,” he said, watching Belkin, “but it is Royal Air Force business.”
“I see. And yet I don’t. Which, I suspect, is your intention?”
“Professor Belkin, I do very much appreciate the delicate position I am placing you in. I think I can only appeal to your good nature to help an RAF engineer who needs a dose of modernity in, shall I say, a neutral environment.”
The professor seemed to consider this before giving a brief nod. “Very well. I do not operate the computer myself, I’m sure you appreciate that, but I do set the tasks for the boys in white coats and I believe I can enlist some help from the team.”
Millie exhaled.
“Wonderful.”
“Our first task is to read the tape. And I make no promises about the success of this. Lord knows if this tape will even align with our computer, but there’s only one way to find out. ”
A clock in the hall struck midday.
“If I can get you some more tapes in, say, ten days’ time, would you be able to read them before the end of term?”
“It depends on how long the processing takes, but in principle, yes.”
“When will you be able to let me know if you can read this tape?”
“I’m not sure. They are a keen lot, your son’s cohort, and the department is open on a Saturday. I may wander over later today and try my luck. But it might have to wait until Monday. Would you like me to call you at your work?”
“No,” Millie snapped back, more harshly than he intended.
The professor laughed. “Silly me, of course not. We are to move in the shadows, are we not? Perhaps you would leave a suitable contact?” He finished his tea as Millie wrote his home telephone number.
“You’re nervous,” Belkin said as he took the note.
There was a quiet tap at the kitchen door.
“I am. This is rather out of the ordinary for me and not without risk. But needs must, I’m afraid.”
Belkin studied him for a moment before calling to Mrs Lazenby.
“Do come in.”
The old woman appeared with two brown paper bags. She fussed about with plates on the kitchen top before placing a generous pile of cakes and sweets between Belkin and Millie.
“The chocolate eclairs from Danbury’s are nothing short of sensational.” Belkin pushed a plate toward Millie.
Mrs Lazenby left the room and closed the door.
The professor gave Millie a wink. “I suspect clandestine operations will take it out of both of us. Best to stock up on energy, Mr Milford.” He pushed a long eclair into his mouth.
EARLY AFTERNOON HAD BECOME siesta time at the peace camp.
Susie rather liked it.
But something stirred her from her sleep.
The earth trembled. She raised her head to see her fellow campers walking toward the airfield fence. The sound grew louder.
They were used to the noise of aircraft, both propeller and jet engines, but this was different. A more familiar, prosaic sound.
Lorries.
She stood up.
In a cloud of dust on the southern taxiway, a stream of large, double-axle vehicles trundled toward them. Tarpaulin covered their loads.
“This can’t be good,” she said to herself.
She joined the others as they stood in a row up against the wire fence that separated them from the military world beyond.
The first lorries came to a stop, a few yards in front of them.
She counted at least twenty vehicles, with more coming.
Teams of camouflage-clad soldiers emerged and got busy pulling the covers back, revealing stacks of metal posts, and large rolls of what looked like knotted silver wire.
A man with a clipboard climbed out of the lead vehicle. He counted the lorries as they arrived.
David and a woman called Megan arrived by her side.
“Here to evict us?” David said.
“They’re on the wrong side of the fence for that,” replied Susie.
She stared at the silver wire, wound like hay bales. Narrowing her eyes, she could just make out the jagged surface of the material.
“Razor wire.”
The first men marked out the ground a few yards inside the existing fence, and a team appeared with a pneumatic drill. They pushed a generator into place.
“If you want proof we’re in the right place, here it is,” said Megan. “This is all for us. They’re frightened.”
“Maybe we’ve missed our chance?” said David.
“No. We haven’t.” Megan wandered off.
Susie thought about the exchange for a moment.
“So, Megan’s in charge?” She looked at David.
He smiled. “Of course she is.”
The military men worked with military precision. The existing fence looked weedy and pathetic compared to the new menace.
Some protestors shouted at the men in uniform. They got no response, not even a glance.
“This is a well-planned operation,” said Susie.
“We’re organised as well. Don’t worry about that. It takes a lot to defeat Megan.”
A clanging rang out behind them and they turned to see Megan standing outside the wigwam banging a wooden spoon on a saucepan.
They joined the others converging on the central meeting tent.
As they assembled inside, Susie noted the hierarchical structure, with Megan and David at the front, preparing to address the throng. Someone she didn’t recognise stood near the entrance. Tall, with a full blond beard.
It was hot and people set about pulling up the tent sides to let some air in.
Megan began her address.
“Our information was right. There’s something secret at this base. Something nasty they are hiding from the world and they’re going to great lengths to keep it that way. It’s time for us to act.”
The group murmured its approval. Susie exchanged looks with those around her. Some looked scared, others eager.
She turned back to the front; the bearded man was gone.
David spoke up, looking at his notes. “For a while we thought that an old Maintenance Unit, number 207, was a cover for something else. But now we know that most of the aircraft we see belong to a different squadron. A squadron that has no name and does not officially exist. We may be the first people outside the RAF to notice it.”