The Onyx Cross agent, known as ‘Falcon’ stood for a few moments, staring at the bright metallic exhaust nozzle, then looked down at the silently still, canvas covered heap on the floor. He shook his head, turned around, and picking up the blood-stained lever, rushed out of the chamber, as the siren shrilled its final warning.
Instead of walking left up the steps to the gantry exit, he turned right and walked along a snaky footpath, alongside the cliff top, jumping down onto a small escarpment and almost losing his footing on the surface gravel. Looking down at the set of three small white rocks jutting out of the water leading to the small red and white lighthouse, he wondered what he should do. Then with one mighty throw, hurled the lever down over the cliff and watched, as it splashed into the water and disappeared beneath the incoming tidal surf. As he ran back up the path, the Siren ceased, indicating the test would soon be on a final countdown. He cursed to himself, suddenly remembering that the clamp had not been fully released, but it was too late to go back in and complete the work now, and he hoped that the vibrations from the test, would finish the job, causing the rocket to smash through the gantry roof and out over the Solent. After then, who knows what would happen. Could it possibly fall on Southampton or Portsmouth? Or maybe somewhere further inland, like Chichester, he thought. If the rocket went high enough, it could even fall onto the southern suburbs of London, an event not experienced in the capital for twenty-five years.
At the top of the hill, the saboteur turned and ran along the road. He could go back and join the observation crew, but then the others may ask him questions, that he knew he was in no fit state to answer. Why did Powell have to come down at this particular time? After considering his next move, he decided there was still time to get to one of the three maintenance huts, and moving quickly up the slightly inclined road, headed towards them. On arrival, he took a key from his pocket, opened the door of the first one, and went inside, shutting it behind him. Then, leaning on the closed door, he sank to his knees and sobbed.
At Gantry 2, the Black Arrow ground test countdown had commenced. At ten second intervals, the klaxon alarm sounded, with its short bursts. Sounding like an ocean liner coming to the end of a long voyage, it warned everyone to quickly get underground. The technicians dressed in their protective white HTP suits watched eagerly, through the slit of the observation bunker, while in the main control room, the Black Arrow’s systems, were being closely monitored by a row of personnel, sitting at their desks. A dark-suited figure paced up and down the row of red, fabric-backed chairs, closely scrutinising the proceedings.
Brian Mitchell was the appointed Firing Officer. He looked at his watch. There was still no sign of Kevin Powell. Maybe, he had decided to remain with the rocket technicians? For a few seconds, he toyed with the idea of telephoning the observation bunker to confirm, but knew that in the next few minutes, this team’s concentration would be vital, and the last thing they needed at this crucial time, was a ringing telephone.
Across the room, sat a lonely figure in a wooden chair, a clipboard resting on his lap. This was one of two inspectors sent from the Ministry of Supply.
In the observation room, all was ready, and two technicians in their white HTP suits, closed the steel doors of the blockhouse.
At the entrance to the site, the red flag indicating a test firing, was hoisted by the guard. He then quickly scurried back into the small guardroom, and sealed the entrance.
In the control room, the automatic clock began its countdown, repeated in complete synchronisation by the clock in the observation bunker.
Brian Mitchell called out for his final checks. One by one, each operator positioned at their station, gave their confirmation that all was a ‘go’. Mitchell watched the clock, as the hand moved towards the red sector on the dial. He then commenced a verbal countdown, ‘Ready in five-four-three-two-one — fire!’ His eyes went straight to the camera monitors, as the rocket’s engines suddenly came to life.
Inside the gantry tower, Black Arrow rumbled; the sound of the ignition being suppressed by the influx of high pressure water being injected into the 60.000 gallon reservoir beneath it, at a rate of 3.000 gallons per minute. The volatile mixture of peroxide and kerosene from the rocket’s fuel, instantly turned to steam, as the fire ejecting into the steel buckets was cooled by a jet of water; a process that cut down the running temperature by half. Because of this, the efflux chamber reached a maximum running temperature of 1.100 degrees centigrade, instead of almost two and a half thousand.
The steam passed down the chamber and channelled out of the side of the cliff, resembling a horizontal fountain, as the gas shot out over the sea.
On the concrete floor of the efflux chamber, the tarpaulin was thrown around in the downdraft from the 28.000 pounds of thrust, generated from Black Arrow’s exhaust nozzles, exposing the fire-suited body on the floor to the intense heat.
Brian Mitchell watched closely on the monitor, the image showing the external shot of the gantry. He looked over at one of the technicians viewing his console. ‘What’s the thrust reading, George?’
The technician checked and replied, ‘two-one-eight, and rising Brian.’
Mitchell turned to another technician. ‘Oscillation reading, Jim?’
The technician replied in an alarming voice, ‘two-seven-three point seven, and rising.’
Mitchell raised an eyebrow. ‘Jesus, that’s not right. She could vibrate right off her coupling and take off!’ He reached for the green telephone and spoke to Paul Baxter. ‘Hello Blockhouse, shut her down. We’re picking up severe vibration. Repeat, shut her down, Paul, right now. Abort test! Abort test!’ Mitchell stood with the receiver to his ear. ‘Harry, give her a chance to cool down, and then you better send a team to check the gantry clamps.’
He was then called by one of the technicians, looking at a monitor above his head. ‘Brian, there seems to be something on the floor of the efflux chamber.’ Mitchell put down the telephone, walked over to the monitor and stared at the scene on the screen. Inside the chamber, the last gas deposits were dispersing; the camera lens was now clear enough to view everything, including what resembled a white sack laying in the well. Mitchell took the control for the camera and zoomed in on the object. ‘Oh my god!’ Speechless, his jaw dropped, mesmerised by the scene of the distinctive shape of a human figure, inside an extremely distorted protective suit.
Chapter 8
In the restaurant at The Furrows, aptly named Wellingtons, after the English Iron Duke, Higgins looked down at his plate. Two of his trout had been boned and filleted, and then pan fried by the chef and placed on a bed of sauté potatoes with wild lettuce. The two friends had identical meals. Higgins took a few mouthfuls and commented on his lunch, ‘excellent, don’t you agree, Alex, my boy?’
Swan nodded in agreement. ‘It is funny, but I prefer the smaller one. I think it tastes more succulent.’ He lifted his glass of Riesling. ‘Cheers to our most successful morning’s fishing.’
Higgins raised his glass. ‘I’ll second that.’
The waiter promptly appeared to remove their empty plates, and Higgins wiped his mouth with his serviette. ‘Complements to the chef.’
The waiter, showed an appreciative gesture. ‘Very good, gentlemen. Would you like to see the dessert list?’
Swan nodded in appreciation. ‘I rather fancy a cheese board to finish, what about you, Sir Alistair?’
Higgins agreed. ‘Yes, a nice wedge of Applewood or Stilton, and some wheat crackers, would go down a treat.’
Within a few minutes, the cheese board had arrived, with an assortment of cheeses, a spread of crackers and bread slices.