Gable looked around the cockpit. ‘How quick will the reserve kick in, should there be an initial power failure?’
Smith answered the question. ‘The reserve has direct link to the power sensors. Should there be a failure, the warning lights on their panels will flash up like Christmas trees. The aircraft will experience no difference in operational function and carry on as if nothing happened.’
Gable showed his appreciation and recorded it on his clipboard.
Smith rose from the Navigator’s ejection seat. ‘Well gents, why we’re still up here, are there any more questions about the cockpit? Oh, I almost forgot, the navigator has total monitoring control over the avionic systems, but can relinquish control to the pilot manually. Say, he may be injured or something from flak in a typical low level strike mission, the pilot has an override panel on his right side console.’ The Brinton technician looked at his watch. ‘Ok, gentlemen. I make it 11.03 on the Rapier’s digital cockpit clock, which has both GMT and TAI as standard. So why don’t we now go and have a cup of coffee and I will show you the systems test performance data history afterwards.’
Larry Smith shut down the electrics and climbed out of the cockpit, following Swan and Gable down the ladder. They allowed him to move in front of them as he headed for a small room at the side of the hangar.
Gable whispered at Swan. ‘Very impressive, I must say. To think we were only reading about this beautiful piece of machinery last week, and now we’ve had a personal guided tour of her.’
Swan took Gable by the arm. ‘Calm yourself, Arthur, we don’t want your over-excitement to give us away, but I have to agree with you, the Silver Angel is truly magnificent.’
In the canteen, Howard Barnett saw them enter and waved his hand to them. ‘Morning gents, how was your tour of my beautiful lady then?’
Swan nodded. ‘Truly marvellous, thank you, Howard. She really is a credit to you.’
‘Oh, I only do the thinking. It’s all these lads who make my dreams come true. The credit all goes to them. Anyway, glad I found you. How are you and Mr Gable fixed for this evening? I was wondering if you both would permit me to introduce you to some real Cumbrian hospitality.’
Swan smiled. ‘Well, that sounds just the ticket. What about you Arthur?’
‘I think it will be good to put some real ale into our veins for a change,’ agreed Gable.
Barnett shook their hands. ‘Well, that settles it then, gents. I will wait for you to finish your first day reports, and then collect you for five o’clock. We can start with The Duck and Goose, have a nice meal and then see where we go from there.’ Barnett left them and walked over to a table where his technicians were sharing a joke.
The afternoon was spent going over the test pilot’s reports on the avionic trials, and Gable studied lists of data and made some recordings on his clipboard. ‘I do hope I’m doing this right, I’ve tried to make my scribbles as convincing as possible,’ he remarked, worried.
‘Relax Arthur, just record what you have to, following Hammer’s list, and he will sort it out when we get back,’ Swan assured him.
‘Do you think HB will tell us a bit more about the Yanks this evening?’
‘I’m banking that he will be able to give us more of a picture, so I can get authority for a full investigation. I have a suspicion that James McGregor’s death was not an accident and that there has been some sort of cover up. Whether HB is in on it, I’m unsure, but I think he’s holding something back about the second prototype. What I don’t know is why, and where this could all be going.’
The two men continued in their disguise, reading through the pilot’s and navigator’s reports and making their own notes each time the text mentioned something that related to the list provided by Air Commodore Higgins.
Chapter 9
In the workshop hangar at RAF Hemingford, a small maintenance base in Shropshire near the Welsh border, Leading Aircraftsman Peter Trimble dismantled the petrol tank from an ageing BSA M20 military motorcycle and commented to his colleague, Aircraftman Brian Gowans, on the damage that the bike had sustained in the tyre burst of trailer, in the Shobdon incident. He was pleased that the rider had survived the sudden blast, and had walked away with only a few cuts and a damaged bike.
Looking at the damage, Trimble could see the force that had taken the rider off the bike in Shobdon village. He took a screwdriver and started to clean the metal residue from the scorched area behind the tank. As he casually scraped and picked his way through the debris, he noticed something odd about the contents, and placed his fingers into the charred remains, pulling out a small piece of plastic. It had traces of bare wire protruding from an opening at the bottom of a strange looking object. Trimble knew the old BSA M20 backwards, so instantly dismissed this component as being part of the machine.
He walked over to Gowans. ‘Here Brian. Look what I’ve found. What do you make of this?’
Gowans examined the object as Trimble held it in his fingers.
‘No idea, mate. Something that attached to the bike when it crashed maybe.’
‘It was really embedded into the back of the tank, so it looks as though it got there sometime before that. Hang on, I have the maintenance record for this bike in the office and can check when it was last serviced.’
Trimble walked into the office and searched through the filing cabinet until he pulled out a file. He opened the flap and searched the registration numbers in the left hand corner of each document.
‘Aha!’ he exclaimed, returning to his colleague and placing the document on the workbench.
‘Here we go. This bike only had a service eight weeks ago.’
‘Who did it?’ Gowans asked.
Trimble looked down at the signature and name at the bottom.
‘John did it. It wouldn’t be like him to be sloppy and leave any foreign objects on the bike, would it?’
Trimble picked up the small object again and, on closer inspection, noticed some scorch marks, and that the object had been broken off at one end. He picked up a magnifying glass and examined them more closely. Gowans watched his colleague and joined in his curiosity. ‘What do you think it is?’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea, Brian. I’m gonna take this over to the Sarge and see what he makes of it.’
Trimble walked out of the hangar and over to a small hut. He then walked up the steps and knocked on the door.
Trimble walked into the hut into a chaotic looking office.
At the desk was a slightly balding NCO, filling in a form. He looked up and smiled.
‘Pete. What can I do for you?’
‘Hello, Sarge. Sorry to bother you, but I’ve been working on the bike that was involved in the BR-101 trailer accident and found this stuck behind the tank.’
The NCO held out his hand palm up, allowing Trimble to place the object into it. He took it in his fingers and examined it.
‘There’s some scorch marks on the side, and wires hanging down. It’s something I’ve never seen before’
The Sergeant looked at it more closely, observing the scorch marks. ‘Not part of the bike, then?’
Trimble nodded. ‘I know the M20 inside out Sarge, and it definitely is not part of it.’
‘Leave it with me. I will have a word with a Darts mate of mine over in the armoury. Perhaps these scorch marks could give us a clue.’