After the war, the place had become the weekend recreation ground for officers of the three services, with golf, fencing, archery, shooting and fishing being the main leisure activities available. Inside an annex building close to the house, there was a fully equipped gymnasium and a swimming pool. The main features to grace the interior of this twenty-eight bedroomed 18th century mansion were a banqueting hall and a billiard room. What was not in evidence however, was the high security that surrounded the site. Television cameras and dog patrols operated day and night, and the permanent presence of armed security guards put finality to the uncertain Cold War menace that threatened to lurk and listen in the grounds.
On this sunny, cold early Saturday morning, the car park in front of the house was full, proving that the military gentry of the nation was in residence this weekend. A highly polished silver 1958 Rolls Royce Phantom was one of the many classic vehicles on the shingled parking area shining in the morning sun.
Driving his three-year old racing green Triumph TR-4 convertible, Swan turned off the A25 into the main entrance and showed his pass to the uniformed guard at the gate. After parking, he opened up the boot and retrieved a small overnight bag and shotgun case, then walked up to the front entrance of the house.
Approaching the reception desk, he looked at the concierge, clad in a white tunic, who greeted him and handed him the attendance book.
‘Has Air Commodore Higgins arrived yet?’
The concierge was about to answer when Swan suddenly heard a gruff voice to the side of him.
‘Good Morning, Alex my boy.’
Swan turned to see that Higgins was typically dressed for shooting in a Harris Tweed Hunting jacket and short legged trousers and gaiters, with a matching deer stalker hat, beige woollen socks and brown brogues.
‘I’ve brought along two guns, a six bore, and old Bessie, my double twelve bore Purdey. Now Alex my lad, lead the way to breakfast, I hear the smoked mackerel is excellent at the moment.’
Higgins rubbed his huge hands at the thought of this culinary feast. After a hearty breakfast of mackerel, Eggs Benedict, rye toast and preserves, accompanied by the finest Columbian roast coffee, the shooting party made their way out to the front of the mansion, where the Land Rovers waited to transport them to the designated shooting area.
Before the driver could climb out and open it for him, the Chief Designer of Brinton Aviation opened the door of the company’s grey 1959 Daimler Majestic Major and stepped out into an overcast morning onto the RAF Pembridge service area tarmac. Barnett walked over to the blue tarpaulin resting on five wooden pallets in front of the hangars, lifted up the heavy canvas and surveyed the sight beneath. He was soon joined by a young technician in RAF overalls, holding a clipboard.
‘Mr Barnett sir, Sergeant Kevin Nunn. I’m one of the service technicians.’ The small yet stocky-built NCO held is hand out to greet him.
‘Good morning, Kevin. Have you a damage report?’
The technician held the clipboard in front of him and was just about to read from it, when he paused and passed it to Barnett. The big Yorkshireman read through the notes to himself and shook his head a few times.
‘The crack in the wing root is the main worry, sir. It will need a completely new support strut,’ he concluded.
Barnett shook his head again.
‘Aye, lad. We’ll be lucky to have her up in the air by July.’
He handed back the clipboard to the technician and looked around. ‘Where are the engines being kept?’
‘We’ve just finished removing them, they’re over in Hangar Two. Miraculously the good news is that the starboard unit is undamaged, I guess the separation casing protected it.’ The technician then took on a look of disappointment. ‘As for the port engine, it looks as though this got most of the impact when the trailer turned over. The casing is cracked, the turbine blades are buckled, and there’s some internal damage to the chamber. I think we can say she’s a goner.’ The technician abruptly finished his narrative, allowing the news to sink in.
Howard Barnett shook his head. ‘We didn’t need this to happen, not with Government White Paper due out next month. We’re over budget as it is and that’s not even taking P-Two here into account, let alone the bloody damage to it.’
The technician just stood, not really knowing what to say to this.
Barnett sighed. ‘Any road, there’s nowt much we can do right now. Let’s get something to eat, I’m starving. Been on the road from Ellenborough for nearly three hours, and I could murder a bacon butty. We’ll look at the engines after breakfast.’
‘A bacon butty sounds an excellent idea, sir,’ agreed Nunn.
The two men then turned and walked towards the direction of the mess building. ‘Where’s Jim Lewis, the driver of the trailer?’ Barnett enquired.
‘He’s over in the mess, sir. He’s okay, just a bit shaken up that’s all. The poor sod was pulled out of the cab upside down.’
Swan watched as the black clay disc shattered. ‘Good shot, old boy.’
He could hardly hear himself above the sounds from the guns, now almost going off in unison down the firing line. Swan called out for a clay to be pulled and gracefully eyed it streaking into the sky, He lined up his gunsight and was satisfied with his shooting.
Higgins also watched it. ‘Looks like you may beat your score, Alex my boy, especially with shooting like that,’ Higgins remarked, reloading his gun.
They continued for another two and half hours with more successful shot clays. At the end, their shoot had gone well; Swan had just failed to meet his personal best, but Higgins was in a very jovial mood, as he had beat his 47 achieving 52 on the singles. Swan and the others of the shooting party had to endure his boastful blow by blow account of every shot, as the Land Rovers headed back to the hotel.
It was almost lunchtime when Howard Barnett sat looking through his notebook opposite Jim Lewis. He had been talking to the driver of the transported load for almost an hour. The thin, wiry man was still shaken, clutching his third white ceramic mug of tea.
Barnett checked through his notes. ‘So you recall the cab suddenly veering to one side, and then you saw everything go upside down?’
‘That’s right, HB. Before that, it was all a smooth run. I took it slow through the village and allowed the outriders to guide me through. How is the chap who got blown of his bike by the burst?’
‘I think he was a little shaken, but by all accounts just got on his bike again.’ There was a slight pause, then Barnett shook his head. ‘This is awful, she’s not going to fly next week, that’s for sure. We could be looking at months before she’s ready again,’ he sighed. ‘At least she can stay here for her repairs. I suppose that’s something.’
Lewis stared at his tea. ‘Sorry HB, I can’t think what could have happened, it all happened in a flash.’
Barnett looked at the lorry driver for a few moments, then began to stare through him as he tried to imagine the incident. His thoughts returned to the previous night, and suddenly he remembered an image of the men around the load at Brinton’s, before the convoy had left.
Barnett mumbled to himself. ‘What was he up to?’
Lewis interrupted his thoughts. ‘What was that, sir?’
Barnett was brought back to the current situation. ‘I was thinking about last night, before you left Brinton’s. The Yanks were out watching us go off and one of them was fiddling with the securing straps.’
Lewis looked up. ‘You don’t think they may have something to do with this, do you sir?’
Barnett stood up, then responded. ‘Not sure, Jim. They are a strange bunch right enough, certainly keep themselves away from everything, but I don’t think they would want to sabotage their own allies. Don’t worry, as long as you’re okay Jim, that’s all that matters right now.’