“After that, we applied the occurrence frequency we found on your tapes. That produced a startlingly high number of incidents.”
“Really? How high?”
“I can’t recall the actual rate, but too high. So high that you would have experienced mishaps every week, just during this trial.”
“So the data is wrong? Or your calculations are wrong?”
“Neither, I’m happy to report. We went back to the detail of the incidents and realised that in the vast majority of cases, the incorrect readings would go unnoticed.”
“Unnoticed? Can you explain that? How would a crew not notice a sudden change in height?”
“Because the erroneous height information would be just a quick burst, in many cases less than a second. So the aircraft would either not have time to react, or would only just start to change velocity, before the correct readings flowed through, cancelling any required change.”
“I see.”
“We refined the search parameters and asked the mainframe to search for those large variations. This is where it gets interesting.”
“Go on,” Millie said, pen poised over the back of one of the data sheets.
“While far rarer, longer bursts of incorrect data that could affect flight do occur. Although, again, in many cases we estimate this would be inconsequential.”
“How so?”
“Firstly, the higher the aircraft is from the ground, the less likely that even three seconds of deviation could cause an actual accident. Secondly, even at low-level, when straight and level, the aircraft would often recover itself, even without pilot interference, as the wrong height readings would run out and be replaced by the actual distance to the surface. But…”
“But?”
“Well, that leaves us those occasions when an aircraft is low, fast and banked, when even two to three seconds worth of incorrect height information could be catastrophic. Add into that scenario a flight at night or with restricted visibility and you have an unwelcome circumstance. Albeit rare.”
“How rare?”
“We estimate 0.014% of the time.”
“Small enough to be inconsequential?” Millie asked.
“Not when you apply that frequency to the overall hours. Now, the number I’m going to give you is based on our predictions and it involves a good deal of extrapolation on a limited data supply. So, fair warning of its accuracy. We estimate the RAF will operate around two hundred and sixty-two hours of training flights at low-level, around the world, per day, over the next couple of years.
“If we guess that fewer than half will employ your new system, that still leaves twenty-five thousand hours over the course of a year.
“Even at just 0.014%, that points to 3.5 aircraft caught in the very worst of scenarios.
“Now, you told me the system will be fitted to a range of aircraft from those with two seats to those with a crew of four or even five?”
“That’s correct.”
“So, another guess is the average number of crew members per aircraft. We rounded that to 2.5.”
Millie quickly did a calculation.
“8.75?”
“Indeed. 8.75 is the number we reached. In our view, based on limited data and much guesswork, the Royal Air Force would expect to lose 3.5 aircraft on average each year, risking the lives of 8.75 crewmen.”
Millie stared at the figure at the base of his scribbled notes.
“8.75. And you’re sure?”
“No, we’re not sure. But with more data, a refined figure will be more certain.” The professor paused. “However, the important point here is that the true number will not be zero.”
There was a long silence on the phone.
Eventually, the professor spoke again. “Mr Milford, may I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“You told me you would speak to the station commander at West Porton, correct?”
“Yes, that’s still my plan.”
“You also told me the man in charge of the project wields a lot of influence?”
“Yes.”
“May I ask, is the station commander trustworthy and able to support you in what you ask for?”
Periwinkle had never come across as a strong character; Kilton got the better of him most of the time.
“I can’t be sure.”
“Well, if you don’t mind me making this observation, I think you may place yourself in a challenging position if, for instance, the conversation with the station commander does not go as you would like.”
“I know what you’re saying, Professor, but I can’t see a less risky option. My alternative is to contact the government, and I wouldn’t know where to start.”
“Well, permit me to make a suggestion.”
“By all means.”
“I will give you a telephone number. You should call it, I suggest sooner, rather than later.”
Millie noted the number and a name on the bottom corner of his sheet.
Leconfield Ho. Ger. 6672
Ask for ‘A W Strutthers’
“And who is this?”
“That will be a matter for them to tell you, should they wish. But I promise you, the fact you have this number and name means you will be taken seriously and given a hearing at least. You may know the Oxford Maths Department has rather useful connections with some of the less well-lit areas of government. I have never given this number out to anyone who I didn’t consider a candidate for employment in such a place. But in your case, I believe this is warranted. I wish you good luck.”
Georgina opened the living room door and walked past Millie as he finished the conversation.
“Boring work thing,” he said and disappeared upstairs.
Next to the old filing cabinet in the spare room, he pulled out a cardboard box labelled VEGETABLES. Under his old log books were the Guiding Light materials he had initially smuggled out of West Porton. He added his precious page of notes to the box, hiding them in the middle of the pile. He could study the statistical conclusions later.
He stayed on his knees with the box in front of him for a moment, before digging the sheet out again, and tearing off the corner containing the number and name Belkin had given him.
Millie left the house and headed down the hill toward the village.
He entered the red telephone box, dialled 100.
“Operator, how may I help you?”
“Ah, yes. Could you connect me to the following number, please? Ger. 6672.”
“That’s a London code. Hold the line, please.”
After a few whirrs, the ring tone sounded, followed by the pips demanding money. He inserted tuppence.
“Hello. Can I help you?”
“May I speak to AW Strutthers, please?”
There was a pause and the sound of rustling papers.
“Please hold.”
The phone clicked.
“Hello? May I help you?”
“Hello. Mr Strutthers?”
“Yes. Can I help you?”
“My name is Squadron Leader Christopher Milford and I think I need to report something.”
“I see. A serving officer or retired?”
“Serving.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m stationed at RAF West Porton in Wiltshire.”
“I see. And are you calling us from a public telephone box?”
“Yes.”
“Can I call you back in one hour?”
Millie looked at his watch; it was 6.17PM. He didn’t think he could get away with being out that long.
“Would it be OK to call me on my home number?”
“As long as you are not overheard. Please have a pen and paper ready when we ring.”