Debut for a Spy (23 page)

“
One minute Frank. David, how would you like to start her up? It'll give you the feel of the thing without flying.”

“Sure, I'd love to,” I said, surprised. “But I don't know the engine-start sequence.”

“I'll guide you through it on the headset. I can tell from the control panel in the booth if you've done the right thing. Here, take my helmet. The microphone is built in. I'll show you where to plug it in.”

He handed me a blue-gray cloth helmet with an oxygen mask and microphone built into the flap. I handed him my forage hat, pulled on the cloth helmet, then climbed up the ladder and into the cockpit. In a moment Bill was beside me, kneeling again on the top platform of the ladder. He plugged in the radio lead. My hands were shaking, I was that nervous. I hoped he didn't see it. Expertly he went over the controls and instruments I would use.

“You won't need the oxygen unless you push the throttle completely forward and tear off out of here. If you reach 10,000 feet you'd better get ready to use it. But try to be back just after lunch, there's a good chap.”

He was smiling at me, and I gave him a crooked grin back. A quick pat on the shoulder, and he was gone. The ladder followed a moment later. Good God! What if I did something stupid and ripped the aircraft right out of the pen. I started to sweat. The seat harness, which I had done up at Bill's suggestion, was making me feel claustrophobic. His voice on the headset made me jump.

“Right. All set, David?”

“Roger. When you're ready.” Could he hear my voice tremor?

“Canopy shut.”

I pulled it down and locked.
“Canopy shut.”

“Oil temperature above zero.”

I looked. Check.
“Oil temperature above zero.”

“Master instrumentation switch on.”

Click.
“Master instrumentation switch on.”

“Booster pumps on.”

Click. Click.
“Booster pumps on.”

“Magnetic indicators black.”

Check.
“Magnetic indicators black.”

“Throttle/HP cock at idling.”

Set.
“Throttle/HP cock at idling.”

“Starter trolley connected.”

The exchange of 'thumbs up’.
“Starter trolley connected.”

“Ignition time switch turned clockwise, fully on.”

Twist.
“Ignition time switch turned clockwise, fully on.”

There was a pause. A whine was increasing in intensity.

“That's it, David. Light up in 9 seconds, and idling speed reached in 35 seconds. Just keep your eye on the jet-pipe temperature. It shouldn't go above 350 to 450 degrees Centigrade.”

The Pegasus roared to life. What power! But how to stand the noise? Perhaps the 'bone dome', as they called the hard helmet, muffled much of it when it went over the inner cloth helmet.

“I want to take you through some control maneuvers, David. Are you game?”

“Roger, Bill. Fire away.” Such bravado, I thought.

“Nozzle control lever to VTOL stop.”

Full back on the stop.
“Roger.”

“Move throttle slowly forward to mid-quadrant.”

Slowly done. The Pegasus rumbled madly behind me. The airframe shifted. It wanted to move. I hoped to hell it didn't.

“Roger. Throttle at mid-quadrant.”

“Nozzle control lever slowly forward about 20 degrees.”

I could sense a shift in the airframe. Chains, hang on!

“Roger. Twenty degrees.”

“Now, smoothly move the nozzle control lever fully forward.”

Now it really wanted to fly. I, however, did not.

“You've run through a simulated vertical take-off, David. Now try to bring it back and pretend to land on your own.”

“Roger. I'll do my best.”

I moved the throttle back to indicate that I was dropping my airspeed to 200 knots. Pausing for a moment, I moved the control lever smoothly and slowly back to the VTOL stop, then lifted it over the spring load to reverse thrust. I increased throttle slightly, simulating a hover. Moving the nozzle lever back to the VTOL stop, I began to ease the throttle back, and after a few moments I dropped the power right off to indicate I had landed. I rotated the nozzle control forward, as though I were going to taxi, then moved the throttle slightly to indicate ground movement.

“Jolly good, David! Now, throttle back and shut her down.”

Throttle back, ignition time switch off, booster pumps off, master instrumentation switch off. The roaring stopped and was replaced by a reducing whine. I undid the canopy latch and pushed it back. The ladder appeared, so I undid my harness and got out. My legs were wobbling as I went down the ladder, so I held on tightly. I felt a great sense of relief. Bill was waiting for me at the bottom, holding my hat.

“Good show, David. How did it feel?”

“The truth? I was scared shitless. But I wouldn't have missed it for all the tea in China.”

“That was a chance for you to get the feeling of the aircraft without actually flying it. We don't have a simulator yet. That won't come until we're sure it's going into production. I thought it was something you should experience.”

I was about to answer when there was a roar from the runway.

“Come on!” shouted Bill. “That's 972 about to take off.”

We dashed around the corner of the pen, and there, just opposite us on the runway, was the other P1127 prototype, about 200 yards away. With an increased roar it lifted off a grid in the runway, the nose dipping for an instant then correcting. Straight up to about 60 feet, then it hung, suspended on a cushion of air. A little pirouette, and it smoothly flew away from us, accelerating until it disappeared. The silence was deafening.

“Good God! Did I really see what I think I saw?”

Bill laughed at my excitement.

“Nearly two years we've been doing this, and it still moves me to see one of these little wonders doing its bag of tricks. Let's head back, shall we?”

Walking toward the car, Bill asked about my assignment.

“I don't want to pry, old chap, and I realize the need for secrecy and all that, but if I knew what you were looking for I might be able to organize something directed toward your needs.”

I decided to be as candid as I could.

“I wish I knew myself, Bill. I stumbled on some information which told us that the Soviets had something up their sleeves concerning this aircraft. That's why security has been increased. In another context, I'm going to be spending some time with the undercover KGB guy who seems to be the king-pin in this. He knows nothing about my contact with Hammond – to him I'm just a singer. Hammond thought I should have a first-hand look at the P1127 in case I hit on something which connects – the more I know about the aircraft, then the better chance I have of tying threads together. Here I am, having the thrill of my life.”

“Well, now, if it's a thrill you want, wait 'til this afternoon. We'll have some lunch at the Three Compasses, and you can fly XP831 in the hover off the grid. How does that suit you?”

I think I mumbled 'wonderful' or something, hoping that they served cookies at 'The Three Compasses.'

I'd have a head start on chucking them.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Dunsfold
,
Surrey
–
the
same
day

The Three Compasses Pub has been Dunsfold Aerodrome's watering hole from day one. In fact, the southeast gate of the airfield is called 'The Compasses Gate'. No one is quite sure whether this is in honour of the Compasses Bridge over the disused Wey & Arun Junction Canal or the pub 200 yards farther along, but as the canal is largely forgotten and the pub is currently in use, most people associate the gate with the pub. So much for folklore.

As pubs go it is an attractive, no nonsense establishment with blackened beams and whitewashed walls, where people can get down to the serious business of supping and imbibing with nary a bit of wasted time. This is probably why it has appealed to the aircraft people from Dunsfold, whether service or civilian. Bill and I had procured a draft and were sitting in a cheery alcove surrounded by windows. I was on an upholstered bench seat under the window, and the sun from the improved day made the break very pleasant. The pub was filling quickly with a mix of locals and people from the airfield, and business became brisk.

The two American pilots had come in with Hugh Merewether, and were standing near the huge fireplace with its pitch-black mantel. Catching sight of us they came over, and of course we talked flying. Most of us had ordered sandwiches, and in keeping with tradition we were served quickly and abundantly.

I tried to keep the topics away from me as much as possible. When I had to respond to something I kept it pretty much to the truth
– that I had flown briefly in the Canadian Army, that I was a reservist in Britain on a special call-out to examine the P1127 for possible army co-operation duties in the field. It was a position easy to defend, and I didn't have to pretend that I had flown jets or in combat, for army pilots generally fly light aircraft similar to those used in civilian recreational flying.

“I guess what I'm trying to find out is whether it will be easy enough for army pilots to convert to a VTOL jet without having to spend months back in a classroom and retraining,” I volunteered.

“What do you think so far, David?” asked Jack Reeder.

“I haven't seen enough to form an opinion yet, but in theory it should work. I'd say the P1127 is more manageable than a regular jet fighter because of its hover capability, and as a close-support weapon it can operate right up with forward troops. I guess I'll find out what the reality is this afternoon.”

“
Is he taking it up, Bill?” asked Fred Drinkwater.

“
Just some hovers over the grid. David doesn't come here with bags of fighter and test-pilot experience like you NASA superstars, remember. I'm not going to turn him loose the way you two tore off on your first flights.”

Everyone laughed as Bill gently chided the Americans, then Hugh Merewether quietly put it in perspective.

“I think Bill should tell you all about the day that he and XP831 both nearly dropped into the Compasses for lunch.”

There was a great hubbub about the table as everyone teased Bill and coaxed him to tell the story.

“There's nothing to it, really. We were trying to induce the yaw effect which occasionally sets in between 30 and 100 knots, searching for a solution. I was in a turn at about 60 knots and 200 feet, suddenly putting full aileron on to counteract a wing drop. I realized I had no control, and one false step would have meant curtains. Luckily I chose the correct rudder pedal, or I would have come right through the roof of the pub – I was bang overhead when it happened.”

Everyone joined in the laughter. All pilots have been in a dicey situation at one time or another, and if you didn't laugh at it later you'd never fly again. It also helps to share the moment with people who understand. But I couldn't restrain my quip.

“Is that when they put that sign up over there, Bill? 'No Hawkers?'“

There were groans all round. A few minutes later I was able to get in the question which was puzzling me about the Americans' participation in the flight-testing.

“Since you're both with NASA, are you here to evaluate the P1127 program, or to make recommendations about adopting the aircraft for the U.S.?”

“I guess it's a little of both,” said Fred Drinkwater, “but there's also the research aspect. The more we know about VTOL technique the better equipped we are to consult with designers who want assistance from NASA on their own projects.”

“Will there be more Americans coming over?”

“Nobody from NASA, but the USAF or the Navy might get interested based on our reports. Of course, there's Joe Stavic, who's already here.”

“Who's he with?”

“He just retired as a major in the USAF,” answered Reeder. “The rumor is that he's going to be working for McDonnell-Douglas or Boeing, and that he's checking out the P1127 for one of them to study the feasibility of developing a night-fighter version. He's had more experience in night flying than anyone we know.”

“Has the P1127 been flown at night?”

“Not until now,” answered Bill. “831 has just had a night-flying conversion, and Stavic is going to give her a preliminary flight tomorrow at 2000 hours. I don't think we're ready for this yet, but we're getting pressure from the American ambassador, so the company is going along with it.”

“Why is Dwight Vandenberg involved?”

“Stavic worked for him in the air force,” replied Reeder. “We're guessing that Vandenberg had a lot to do with Stavic's new job, so the squeeze is on.”

“And you can understand Hawker's desire to interest the Americans in this project,” commented Bill. “It could mean the difference between success and failure for the whole program.” It was time to go back to the airfield. The Americans went with Hugh Merewether, and I drove with Bill.

“Did you bring a flying suit, David?”

“Yes, I have my old Canadian army suit. Actually, it was an air force flying suit. I don't think the army had one of its own.”

“You'll need some extra kit for this afternoon, so we'll drop in on the flight safety department and get you fixed up.”

We went around the perimeter track, past the hangar and flight control, and turned in to one of the Nissen huts. There I was introduced to the flight safety officer, Harold Duffield, and received a cloth helmet, a 'bone dome', and gloves.

“No parachute, Bill? I'll be at least 2 feet off the ground.”

I think I was trying to be funny to alleviate my fears.

“No need, old chap. The Martin-Baker ejector seat could blow you straight through the canopy 200 feet in the air and bring you down safely, even from a height of 2 feet.”

“Through the canopy? Isn't that a mite rough on the head?”

“The canopy is designed to blow just before you hit it. Works most of the time, I'm told. If it doesn't, you end up an inch or two shorter than before, otherwise no ill effects.”

I caught the glint in his eye and the suppressed smile. He could dish it out as well as take it.

“May I use the phone in your office, Bill?”

“Of course. We're going to change there anyway.”

We drove to the parking area near the hangar, and went up to Bill's office. Changing quickly, he excused himself and told me to use the phone at my convenience and just tell the operator the number for her to ring through. I pulled on my flying suit and sat down, then ran the call instructions. Hammond came on the line.

“Yes, Minstrel. How's the day going?”

“Just fine, sir. Bill Bedford has been more than helpful. I'm actually going to lift it off the ground this afternoon.”

“I told you it would be worthwhile, didn't I?”

“I hate to admit it, colonel, but you were right. It's fascinating. I'm still nervous about it, but I'm glad I came. Now, I must tell you something. There's something big in the wind being planned by the KGB, and very soon. Nalishkin is directly involved, and three others at the embassy who are KGB. They've all been out of the country, due back today.”

“Good. At least we can check exactly who they are through passport control. Can you tell me how you know?”

“No, sir. Sorry. I might compromise the source. Another thing, sir. I think your fears are well founded. There's a Soviet mole inside MI6. His code name is 'Amethyst'.”

“Is there, by God,” he breathed. “Well, well. That ties in to something I had already picked up, but we never knew what 'Amethyst' referred to. Now we have to find him. Anything else?”

I deliberately held back about the house in Bracklesham Bay. I was afraid it might be traced to Marijke. But I described the antenna I had seen, and asked Hammond to check it out and tell me what it could be used for.

“Does this have a bearing on something?”

“Playing a hunch, sir. If it ties together I'll tell you.”

“Minstrel, about that license plate you wanted me to check. The car belongs to Kurt Werner, a first secretary in the West German embassy. Is there something about him we should know?”

“Not yet, sir. It's just another hunch. I don't want to give you any false trails. I'm just keeping my eyes and ears open, and I'm definitely going to keep out of trouble.”

“Well done again, Minstrel. Good luck this afternoon.”

A few minutes later Bill and I were on the way down the perimeter track toward the engine-running pens.

“We'll leave the car and walk over to the grid. 831 is there now, by the look of things.”

I looked toward the field and saw the squat outline of the aircraft and several people around it.

“You mentioned the grid before, Bill. What is it?”

“It has several uses. Basically, it's a hole in the runway covered by steel mesh. No one was sure what effect the jet exhaust would have on the tarmac when the nozzles are straight down. We didn't want it all broken up. Over the grid there’s no ground effect – buffeting which is caused by the bouncing of the exhaust back up to the aircraft under 20 or 30 feet. Finally, the re-ingestion of hot gases into the intakes – this impedes the efficiency of the engine, and in the early days especially, this was critical.”

“Is it still necessary to use the grid?”

“Not so much now, but for a prolonged low-level hover it's still wise.”

We parked and began to walk, helmets and gloves in hand.

“I'll lift her off once, David, to see that everything is in order. Oh, yes, you'll have to have a radio call-sign. I'm Hawker Alpha, so you should choose a phonetic alphabet word farther down the list for yourself and I'll inform the tower.”

“How about Hawker X-ray? Seems to fit what I'm doing.”

“Fair enough. When you get clearance from the tower to hover, then he'll hand you over to me. I'll have a portable radio set and be able to guide you from the ground right beside you. Are you feeling up to this?”

“I won't kid you, Bill. I'm pretty nervous. But I think I can handle it, and I don't panic easily.”

“You've already got the feel of the cockpit, the engine and nozzle controls. That's a help. If I'm not comfortable about letting you go farther than a two-foot hover, then we'll stop right there. That's a promise.”

We arrived at the grid area. Everything seemed ready. Bill and I did a walk around the aircraft, checking control surfaces. Then, without more than a word to the technicians, he climbed into the cockpit. I stood well back, but in a spot where I could watch his face. The canopy closed, and more quickly than I expected the starting trolley fired. When the whine crescendo began I popped both helmets on to save my ears from the roar.

After waiting as the seconds counted down, Bill applied throttle, and after a moment's hesitation XP831 lifted into the air. He continued up to about 50 feet, then hovered. He rotated a couple of times, then retracted the undercarriage and gradually accelerated away toward the southwest. Putting on left bank, he brought the aircraft around the field, approaching from the opposite end of the runway. The speed eased up, and he came into the hover just over the grid. Out popped the undercarriage, and XP831 floated down to bounce slightly and then stop, the engine noise winding down. Bill wasted no time in getting out.

“You make it look too easy, Bill. I almost feel I could do it.” I gave him a hopeful grin.

“We'll see, old chap. Now, here's a card with the engine start procedure on it. Clip it on your knee. If you must ask me a question, do it, but try to get to this sequence on your own if you can. Off you go.”

I walked over on jelly knees. It was hard to navigate the ladder. When I had settled into the cockpit I plugged in the radio cord and switched on. There was no activity. I fastened the harness, glanced out at Bill and he gave me a thumbs up. The ladder was gone. I took a deep breath.

Glancing at the card clipped on my knee, I ran through the sequence that I had done in the morning. I got the signal from the technician on the cart, and in a few moments the whine had turned into the throaty rumble I was beginning to recognize. I waited the 35 seconds, then keyed the mike.

“Dunsfold tower, this is Hawker X-ray.”

“Hawker X-ray, this is Dunsfold tower. Pass your message.”