It was no secret in the company that the Board had risked the house on this new technology. The computer itself was cripplingly expensive.
It was also no secret that he was the one who had persuaded his fellow directors to part with Blackton’s hard-earned cash.
He promised to resurrect the company’s fortunes with a ground-breaking system. Years ahead of the British competition still relying on drawing boards and old men who designed World War Two bombers.
On his desk, under the packet of Woodbines, was the first contract for the American government. The numbers were big. Big enough to call Guiding Light an instant success and secure Blackton’s future for years to come.
He knew from his days flying Hurricanes, you rarely got to a kill without taking a few risks. And he’d risked the house on Guiding Light.
He moved the cigarettes and opened the contract, staring at the final figure for the initial seven hundred and fifty units. With more promised, DF Blackton’s deals would positively affect the UK’s balance of payments. An incredible thing.
This was that moment, when you rolled out of your high-risk manoeuvre to find the Luftwaffe Me.109 in front and just below. Time to squeeze the trigger.
The printer noise stopped.
Stafford listened as the paper was collated.
By the time he got to the dimly lit computer room, the young technician was bent over a huge stack of perforated, green-lined sheets.
He had a desk lamp just above the pile, and scanned the columns, making the occasional mark with a pencil.
“Found anything?” Stafford asked as he stood in the doorway.
“Two, but I’ve only just started.”
“Damn it,” Stafford said and pushed the man out of the way.
His eyes needed to adjust to the harsh light from the angle-poise light reflecting off the paper. He blinked, and eventually saw the marks the technician had made.
Lines that met his parameters included a small star at one end.
A small star that said a lot.
Stafford ran his finger along the first starred line.
1,261, 1,261, 1,262, 1,278, 1,277, 1,298, 1,301, 1,265, 1,252, 1,998, 2,010, 2,618, 2,911, 2,871, 2,850, 2,799, 2,811, 1,261, 1,277, 1,279.
He circled 1,252 and 1,998. A jump of seven hundred and forty-six feet.
Unless the aircraft had flown over an unlikely hole in the ground, the equipment had suffered an aberration.
He counted the number of height readings that appeared wrong. Eight. He stood up and winced at a spike of lower back pain.
“The laser records, what is it, forty-seven readings a second? So, this was just a fraction of a second?”
The technician shook his head.
“No. The laser records twenty-seven readings a second, and the computer makes forty-seven decisions a second. But…” He tapped the sheets. “These are samples. The tapes only capture three height readings a second, and we limit the system to how much it can record.”
Stafford looked back at the numbers.
“So, it was wrong for three seconds?”
“More like two and a half.”
“And you’ve found two so far?
“Yes, sir.”
“Carry on. It’s essential we find them all. I’ll need to know exact details. Leave the results on my desk. I’ll be in very early, so be smart about it.”
He walked to the door. “And have the day off tomorrow.”
3
THURSDAY 9TH JUNE
A Handley-Page Victor emerged from the dark recesses of the TFU hangar, towed into the bright morning light. The TFU pan was filling up.
Men in green coveralls hurried about the aircraft, some with chocks in their hands carried by the rope that held them together, others on small tractors.
Millie watched them for a while from a bench, his incident report in hand.
He was in early to prepare, sensing a battle was coming.
Millie lifted himself from the wooden bench and headed inside, taking a seat in the empty meeting room. He re-read his notes one more time.
He went to the admin cabinets and pulled out a folder of memorandums from last year about the formation of TFU. Standing alone in the room, he read Mark Kilton’s missives about the purpose and function of the newly established Royal Air Force Test Flying Unit.
It would be an aircrew led unit, Kilton stated. Industry to be kept at arm’s length. Unlike their neighbours at Boscombe Down who rubbed shoulders with company pilots every day, TFU would be RAF only.
A place where they could assess aircraft and systems unencumbered by the usual politics that surrounded government contracts.
And yet Kilton was the most political animal he’d come across in his thirty-seven years in the RAF.
But the principles were helpful, so he tucked a copy of the paper in his folder and went back to the meeting room.
Just after 8AM the door swung open and in swept Kilton, Rob May, Speedy Johnson, a corporal note-taker and Ewan Stafford.
The Blackton MD’s appearance was a surprise, but not unprecedented. Stafford took his seat, looking tired.
Rob sat next to Millie and looked as if he was about to say something, but Kilton began the meeting still on his feet, rattling at speed through the agenda.
“The equipment’s now installed on one Canberra, one Vulcan and soon to be fitted to a second Vulcan when Blackton can get a new set to Woodford.”
“It’s already there,” said Stafford. “We’ve sent a team up to carry out the installation.”
“Excellent. We’re through the high level, medium-level and now into the low-level phases of the trial. More than half the required hours are logged.” He consulted his notes. “The evaluation is progressing satisfactorily. We must decide how to tackle the remaining hours for the project but I think we can all agree, these are the final stages. The icing on the cake.”
“I’m sorry, boss, can we talk about Tuesday?” said Millie.
Kilton didn’t look up from his notes, but paused long enough for Millie to continue.
“Unfortunately, we experienced a serious failure that almost resulted in the loss of an aircraft and crew.” He looked directly at Stafford; surprisingly the civilian was expressionless.
He already knows.
Millie pressed on. “I’ve completed an initial report. It describes how the system tried to descend a Vulcan into the ground at two hundred and sixty knots. It was only the intervention of Mr May here that saved us.” He paused. “And I’m afraid the only option open to us now is to suspend the trial pending a full investigation.”
Kilton sighed. “Millie, while I appreciate your diligence in this matter, the fact remains, this is anecdotal.”
Millie shifted in his chair. “It’s true that I wasn’t able to capture the data from the incident, but that doesn’t deflect from the fact that it happened and was witnessed.”
“And yet, without evidence, we are left with the possibility that it could have been anything that caused the temporary loss of height. One option I’ve been told of is that a pilot may have inadvertently put pressure on the control column while changing position in his seat.”
Millie laughed at the ludicrous suggestion, before realising that the rest of the room was quiet.
“You’re not serious, Mark?” he asked.
“Unless you have some evidence to the contrary, I must consider testimony from one of my pilots the likely explanation.”
Millie sat back in his chair. “I’m sorry, Mark, but that’s just not credible. Brian Hill said nothing to me whatsoever and he’s no longer here to provide any such testimony—”
“Who said anything about Hill? The pilot who touched the control column is sitting next to you.”
Millie took a moment to register what Kilton had said. He slowly turned his head to see Rob staring down at the table.