David picked up a camera. “We have two tasks once inside. Take close-up photographs of whatever is on the aircraft, and retrieve any paperwork relating to Guiding Light. For that purpose, we’ll split into two teams.
“We will arm the aircraft team with this camera and a light. The paperwork team will have a rucksack and some tools to open filing cabinets and drawers.”
“We have an extensive set of keys accumulated over the years,” said Megan. “Most hangar doors use the same locks and we’re confident we’ll find a match. But it may take a while to go through them, which means we won’t have long on the inside. Do not restrict yourselves to just Guiding Light. Pick up anything relating to nuclear, biological and chemical weapons.”
“Right, let’s get down to the detail,” David said. He led the group to a trestle table with a hand-drawn map of the airfield and lists of times. Susie was impressed. It turned out all the lying around by the fence had a purpose. They had meticulously noted the times and nature of the security patrols for weeks.
“We’ve identified our best chance,” Megan said. “Overnight on Friday through to Saturday.”
“They call it Happy Hour,” David continued, “but as far as we can see, it starts mid-afternoon and finishes in the small hours of the morning.
“The men are drunk and behaviour around the gate becomes erratic. The guards congregate around the entrance, leaving the rest of the airfield unpatrolled. 2.15AM is our chance.
“The two wire cutters will remain at the fence, so if you’d prefer not to be part of the team that goes all the way in?” He looked expectantly at the group.
Susie raised her hand. But Megan intervened.
“No. She’s small. We need her with us.”
A range of implements were laid out on an adjoining table, from heavy jemmies to tiny Allen keys. David placed an Olympus camera in the centre of the tools.
MILLIE SEARCHED the lockers as requested.
He found a couple of items that shouldn’t be there, including a flight plan annotated ‘G/L’ in Speedy Johnson’s own cubby hole.
Nothing too sinister, but Millie dealt with it quietly, directly with Johnson.
After finishing the lockers, he went out of the airfield door and stood in the June sunshine. Leaning back against the red brick extension that nestled at the base of the large hangar, he took out a packet of cigarettes.
A long draw on his John Player Number 6 went some way to calming him down.
On the apron in front of him stood the Guiding Light Vulcan, ready for its afternoon trip. He looked at his watch and realised he had only forty minutes to prepare.
He dropped his cigarette and stamped it out.
A noise caught his attention. He looked across the runway to see a lumbering Valetta taxiing up toward the eastern threshold.
The Maintenance Unit. The Graveyard.
In that moment he envied them, recovering withdrawn aircraft from around the country and ferrying them to final resting places.
No secrets, no pressure, no paranoid security.
He watched the Valetta lining up on the main runway.
No-one searches their lockers.
And no-one checks their aircraft.
The old men of 206 MU. Those wonderful old men and their eccentric flying machines.
No-one pays them any attention. Kilton would have got rid of them if he’d had his way, but for once he hadn’t had his way.
He went back into TFU, eager to get the afternoon’s flight out of the way before he could head to the bar and seek a quiet corner with some old friends.
THE FLIGHT WENT BETTER than expected. Not only did Millie capture two tapes on the way out and way back, but at Jock MacLeish’s request they carried out part of the low-level run a second time, allowing Millie to load and record two more extra reels.
He stood in front of his locker, waiting for two of the chaps to walk past before he opened it up. He now had two stacks of reels up against the rear wall, with his jumper barely covering them. It was time to get rid.
He’d been lucky today, extremely lucky. But that wouldn’t last.
He closed the locker and dropped off his flying clothing.
By the time he got back to the planning room and entered the official tapes into the system, it was 5.20PM. He headed to the mess.
Just inside the front door was a notice informing all that the bar would be closed tomorrow night in preparation for the Summer Ball on Saturday.
“No Happy Hour?” said Speedy as he passed the notice with Rob. “It’s a disgrace.”
“Well, it’s the VIP reception,” Rob replied as Millie caught up with them.
Speedy frowned. “What VIP reception?”
Rob looked taken aback, as if he’d said something he shouldn’t have.
“The local dignitaries. Just a few drinks. I believe it’s instead of inviting them to the ball which got rowdy last year. Station Commander’s idea.”
“Really, and who’s invited?” the senior pilot said.
“I’m only going because I’m mess secretary now.”
“You kept that quiet.” Speedy gave Rob a slap on the shoulder as they arrived in the bar. “So you are a high flyer. Remember us won’t you?”
“Well done, chap,” Millie said and shook his hand.
“Thanks, Millie.” Rob beamed back. He and Johnson continued over to a group of pilots at the far end of the bar, leaving Millie on his own.
He looked around the room.
The MU boys usually occupied a circular table in the far corner, but it was empty.
He ordered a scotch and drank it by himself. The nearby group of test pilots laughed loudly at their own jokes.
By 6.30PM it was clear the Graveyard men were not showing up.
Millie cursed under his breath, remembering there was no bar tomorrow night.
His locker was full of incriminating evidence, and he still had no way to safely transfer it to Belkin.
11
FRIDAY 17TH JUNE
The cold woke Susie up. That was a first. She’d arrived during the heatwave but now the nights carried a chill.
Her watch said 6.10AM. She wound it for the new day and dressed.
As the village church bells struck 7AM, she was back at the village phone box, dialling a familiar London number.
A man’s clipped voice answered. “Yes.”
“It’s Susie.”
“Ah, Twiggy. How the devil are you?”
“What did you call me?”
“We’re calling you Twiggy now. She’s a model, was on the front page of the Express yesterday. Looks like a boy, curious isn’t it? Anyway, you fit the bill.”
“You think I look like a boy, Roger?”
“Well, you have short hair.”
“Right, well, how about shutting up and taking down some notes?”
“Keep your short hair on. Let me get a pen.”
She tapped her foot.
“Go ahead, Twigs.”
She sighed. “They’re planning a raid on RAF West Porton. This secret squadron I mentioned, it’s the target. Apparently it’s called Test Flying Unit, and there’s a project called Guiding Light. They seem to know what they’re doing. TFU may have a leak.”
“It sounds like you know more about West Porton than we do.”
“I thought we knew everything?”
“It’s time to stop believing what they told us in training, dear. Even Her Majesty’s Security Service hits a brick wall sometimes. We do know something about TFU. It’s independent of the squadron structure. Set up last year to handle the sensitive stuff. But, and this is odd, we know very little more. The unit has a direct line of command to Whitehall, so our usual sources aren’t much help. What we do know is one of their projects has Downing Street’s attention.”