‘Jesus!’ Gable put down the receiver and grabbed his coat. Outside, he climbed into the Sapphire and fumbled in the glove compartment for a roadmap. After checking for a route, he turned on the ignition.
Swan looked at the clock on the wall. It was ten minutes to one. An idea came to him. ‘Is there an aircraft available to use?’ he asked the medical officer.
Twenty minutes later the Brinton Aviation twin engine De Havilland Devon VIP transport took off from the company’s runway, climbing into the early afternoon sunshine. Pilot Brian Turnbull banked the aircraft to the left and headed south across the Lake District, setting a course for Farnborough.
His passenger sat back in his cabin chair and took stock of the events of the last few hours. He had informed the medical officer of the body in the hangar and the circumstances behind it, and then managed to speak with the duty manager and arrange the flight to Farnborough.
Earlier, while the Devon was being prepared for flight, Swan had had a quick conversation with Inspector George Lake, and shortly afterwards, in disbelief, the policeman had got into his car and stared at the small speck as the aircraft disappeared into the clouds.
He sat and wondered if he was maybe in a dream, and would suddenly wake up to his alarm clock, bring his wife Doreen a cup of tea, then go to work to have a normal day of police work, away from CIA spies, secret agents and attempts of industrial sabotage.
Climbing the Rapier prototype into the sky, Eddie Kershaw spoke into his microphone. ‘Pembridge Control, Angel-One airborne, heading on course Zero South-South East, Airspeed — 400 knots, ETA Farnborough MATZ at 14.20.’
Glimmering in the sunshine, the sleek aircraft banked to the right and straightened on a holding course over the Bristol Channel, where it would then rendezvous with the chaser aircraft.
From there, they would both run in over the Chiltern Hills in close formation and overfly Windsor Castle, ready for the display at the SBAC show.
Swan looked out the portside window of the Devon’s cockpit and caught glimpses of the Malvern Hills, as the aircraft flew over at 4000ft. Turnbull looked over at Swan. ‘Sir it may be nothing, but as I was signing for this aircraft, I spoke to the mechanic who did the flight checks. He had just done the flight checks on the Rapier, before it left for Pembridge. I don’t know what the Yanks are using inside that drone thing of theirs, but according to him, it is as light as a feather and there’s no power connections, so it can’t be running on an internal battery, as it would weigh a ton. He also said that he gave it a soft kick, and it seemed like the whole thing was hollow.’
‘Hollow?’ Swan confirmed.
‘That’s right. It doesn’t make any sense, does it?’
Swan stared out the window as the white cotton wool clouds shot past. ‘No it doesn’t, Brian. No sense at all.’ He thought for a second, and remembered that he had been shown the control panel for the Python Hawk during the inspection. Why was this put into the Rapier, if the pod didn’t actually work? He pondered on this thought for a few minutes, then it suddenly struck him.
‘The bomb is in the panel!’
Turnbull turned his head to one side. ‘Sorry, sir, I didn’t quite hear you,’ Turnbull shouted to his passenger above the pitch of the engines.
Swan turned to him. ‘Brian, can you put me in contact with RAF Pembridge?’
Turnbull nodded. ‘No problem sir, I think we are still within their MATZ.’
He clicked on his radio microphone. ‘Pembridge Control, Pembridge Control, this is Brinton Two-Five calling, over.’
A few seconds of static followed, then a voice was heard through the cockpit speaker system.
‘Brinton Two Five, this is Pembridge Control receiving, over.’ Warrant Officer Phil Munroe sat in the control tower at RAF Pembridge and listened to the call coming in.
‘Pembridge, this is Alex Swan of the MOD. I’m en route to Farnborough,’ Swan looked over at Turnbull’s watch. It was 13.50. He spoke again. ‘Contact the pilot of the Rapier en route for Farnborough, and instruct to return to base-over.’
Munroe listened and needed confirmation ‘Brinton Two-Five, please say again, over.’
Swan repeated himself and added something that made the controller suddenly jump up from his chair. ‘Bloody hell,’ Munroe pushed a button on his panel. ‘Angel-One, this is Pembridge Control come in — over.’
There was static silence from the loudspeaker. He tried again, but still received no reply.
Heading out over the Bristol Channel, Kershaw checked his position, then spoke into his radio. ‘Angel-One to Farnborough Control, over.’
He listened but all he heard was static. ‘Farnborough Control, Farnborough Control this is Angel-One, on a heading two four zero standing off — over.’
He then noticed the chase plane beside him. ‘Chaser-Three receiving — over. He listened but still received static. Damn, he thought, I have a radio malfunction.
Timmy Bell had now come alongside the starboard wing of the Rapier and into view with Kershaw. He glanced over and put up his hand to acknowledge his friend, and Kershaw placed his hand to the side of his flying helmet and then placed it across his neck. Bell had instantly recognized this as the international aviation sign, for the radio was not working.
Kershaw spoke on the internal frequency to his number two sitting in the cockpit behind him. ‘Sandy, the bloody radio’s not working. I can’t communicate with Farnborough, or with Timmy over on our starboard wing — shall we abort, old chap?’
Ludlow instantly responded: ‘I reckon we should go, Eddie. Remember, we need the public on our side to save the poor girl.’
Kershaw agreed. ‘I‘m with you, Sandy. I’ll sign to let Timmy know and take her in.’ He looked at his watch. It was 13.55. On his left, the black box bolted to the port side of his instrument panel showed a small green light, and as far as Kershaw was concerned, he understood that this indicated that the device had power. However, what it really meant was that as soon as Kershaw had left Pembridge and changed frequency, this had triggered the jamming device inside the box, and it was now doing its job of blocking external radio transmissions to and from the aircraft.
Beneath this small box of tricks in a recess under the super imposed GK Inc label sat the detonator, leading to the block of TNT behind it. With just one controlled signal to the built-in receiver, the blast would be enough to blow a large hole in the port side of the front cockpit, causing enough damage to send the big silver war machine prototype plummeting into a dive to destruction.
Brian Turnbull spoke into his radio. ‘Farnborough Tower — this is Brinton Two-Five approaching and requesting landing — Over.’
The reply was instant. ‘Brinton Two-Five, this is Farnborough Tower. You are clear to land on Runway 24, wind speed is 30 knots, south westerly. You have a window of five minutes — Over and out.’
Turnbull brought the Devon through the cloud and, lining up with the lights of Farnborough’s Runway 24, pulled the lever to lower the undercarriage and glided over the black and white threshold markings, touching down onto the concrete.
A few minutes later, Arthur Gable was standing beside an operator in the control tower, and out of the large glass panes, watched a dark blue delta shaped jet land at the end of the runway. As it moved along, a parachute sprung from the rear and spread itself to slow the aircraft down.
The flight controller turned to him. ‘Sir, we’ve just received a message from the chase aircraft. Angel-One has a radio malfunction.’