“Yeah, pretty neat. The guys at Edwards told me it runs the show. They do everything from the ground, more or less. The pilots—sorry, astronauts—they’re only there to flick the odd switch. Strange.”
“And I recall you said something about the clock.”
“The mission clock, yeah. What about it?”
“Is it important to know the time?”
“It’s not the time, it’s the mission clock. A different thing. It’s absolutely vital. Same as the Gemini and Mercury projects before Apollo, the computer does everything according to the clock. That famous countdown to launch? That’s not just for the television. That’s the mission clock, counting down. Then it starts counting up. T-minus something before launch and T-plus something after. Mission elapsed time.”
“I see, so it’s not the actual time? Zulu, Greenwich Mean Time, for instance?”
Red put his hand on Millie’s shoulder. “I know you Brits think you’re the centre of the world, but it ain’t Zulu. It’s just seconds, man. Seconds, minutes, hours, days.”
“Interesting.”
“Sure is, skip.”
Back at his desk, Millie quietly opened up the sheet.
He did some maths on the first field, subtracting the second line from the first.
0000127681 – 0000127344
The difference was three hundred and thirty-seven. He furrowed his brow. Far too many seconds.
According to the file, the laser fed the computer three reports of height data every second.
He looked back at the numbers:
0000127344
0000127681
0000128001
“Bingo,” he whispered.
The fourth digit along must be whole seconds, followed by hundredths. So the first height came at 127.344 seconds, the next at 127.681, and the third at 128.001. Gaps of roughly one third of a second.
He could see it clearly now.
On the pad where he had written the numbers, he added column headers for the first set:
s s s s s s h h h
0 0 0 1 2 7 3 4 4
He thought back to the flight where these readings were created. Why did it all start at 127.344 seconds?
Millie had switched on Guiding Light as they rolled down the runway, but hadn’t started the tape until they were established on their route. He’d checked it was working, first by dialling through the eleven data feeds, then switching the tape recorder to RUN.
127.344 seconds. Two minutes of fiddling. That was about right.
It all made sense.
One field down, one to go.
THEY GOT airborne in the Canberra at 13.40, for a meeting at 14.30 local in Lancashire. Flight time was a miserly forty minutes, but enough for two tapes of Guiding Light height data.
Rob flew using visual flight rules, avoiding the various air traffic zones.
As they climbed out of West Porton, Millie, strapped into the ejection seat usually occupied by a navigator, set the data recorder running. He’d quietly armed the laser and powered up the computer as Rob went through his checks.
They had chosen the Canberra as the first recipient of the Guiding Light because of the space, once the recon camera and equipment were removed. But it was a test-bed and nothing more. The system operated in isolation, with no autopilot, and no indication to the pilot that the system was installed, let alone actually running. An advantage for Millie on this occasion.
He had already decided he couldn’t risk changing reels mid-flight. It was something Rob was likely to notice.
As the flight progressed and the reel came to its end, he considered it again, but then the Canberra’s nose dipped and they began a descent into Warton. Too late.
As the jet engines wound down on the ground, Millie removed the full reel and slipped it into a loose pocket. Once out of the jet, he saw Rob removing his coveralls, in preparation for the meeting, and had to follow suit.
As he folded his coveralls, he paused. An unintended consequence of a land-away in a Guiding Light aircraft was the security implication. They would leave the equipment alone in the Canberra, including a full reel of data that could easily be accessed.
If something went wrong, there would be an enquiry to end all enquiries. Why was the Canberra used for such a journey? Who allowed the equipment change?
His name would be the answer to all the questions.
More than that, he was genuinely risking the secrecy of the project.
Rob appeared next to him.
He shut the Canberra up and cursed the lack of key and lock.
As they walked across the apron toward the factory offices, he realised it was a gaping hole that no-one had much thought about. It was all very well searching cars on the way in and out of West Porton, but nothing stopped them flying out with all manner of sensitive material. In fact, it was part of their routine.
No-one checked, no-one asked, no-one searched.
Inside the factory, they were given a quick tour of the Lightning production line. At the back of the cavernous hall, a section had been screened off by enormous black hanging material. Poking out of one end was the distinctive tail of an Avro Vulcan.
Millie pointed. “Are you already fitting it?”
The man nodded.
The Vulcan was literally shrouded in secrecy.
A man in a suit and tie showed them to a makeshift security barrier. Millie and Rob signed in, and moments later, they were inside the aircraft inspecting the installation work.
It didn’t take long to confirm the panels would be identical to those they were already familiar with, and they headed back to the management offices and signed a few forms to say the work was proceeding as agreed.
They decided on a delivery date, and, twenty-five minutes later, walked out onto the apron.
The Canberra sat alone, and unregarded.
“I do enjoy a little day trip with our own private jet,” said Rob.
Millie laughed. “We should take days out more often. Perhaps not Manchester, though.”
“I’m sure we could find a reason to go to Cyprus.” Rob disappeared around the Canberra to kick the tyres.
Millie dressed for the journey back, reassured by the weight of the reel in his coveralls pocket. Before he donned his life jacket, he slipped in the next blank tape.
Rob’s hands moved across the Canberra’s controls. He soon had them rolling down the long runway, then gently banking right as they climbed out.
He continued to fly them west to the Irish Sea, before turning south, heading for Wales.
It was a cloudless afternoon and Rob was clearly enjoying himself.
Millie’s thoughts turned to the pressing issue of how to remove the growing number of tapes from highly secure West Porton.
There was no point in continuing to gather the height readings on a growing collection of tapes if he couldn’t get them out of a locker inside the base.
Could he hide them in his car? Under the mats in the footwells? Inside the spare tyre?
Even then, how would he move them from his locker to the car park without risking everything?
He sighed and rested his head on the top of the ejection seat.
The roar of air across the airframe washed over him, and he closed his eyes.
BACK IN TFU, most of the men were in the mess or on their way home.
Millie was mildly embarrassed that Rob had to wake him up in the jet. He moved straight to his locker and added two more reels to his pile.
Rob breezed past, coveralls in hand with his helmet, oxygen mask and life jacket ready for a quick deposit.
Millie gathered his own things and walked toward the door.
“Milford. A word if you please.”
Millie walked into Kilton’s office and closed the door behind him.