Part One
Part One
X-542
3
Back on the ground, it was clear to all the invited spectators that things were not going according to plan. They had expected the X-542 to disappear at some stage, but fifteen minutes had passed and there was no sign of the state of the art fighter jet making a spectacular reappearance.
Clarke had disappeared a few minutes earlier, dragged back into the large warehouse by three panicked looking officials who were trying their best not to show that they were panicked. It had not exactly been persuasive.
'What do you think could have happened?' asked Moneypenny, as the gentle murmur which had been floating through the crowd began to transform in a more agitated state of chattering.
'Easy answer: our test pilot isn't as patriotic as his medals make him out to be,' replied Bond, keeping one eye on the frantic comings and goings of the hanger.
M calmly agreed. If there was one thing Bond had to admit admiring his superior for, it was her ability to keep a cool head in hot situations. 'However medals a man has, they aren't going to pay for that new pool extension,' she said now. 'This is a brand new revolutionary machine. I was very surprised to see as little security as there was when we arrived.'
'Yes, well, we didn't want to too much draw attention to ourselves,' explained Colonel Clarke, who had reappeared looking somewhat shaken from the chaos in the hanger. Immediately questions were hurled at him from all angles, all at the same time, all differently worded, yet all with the same basic message: what was going on? 'Yes, yes,' he struggled to say without sounding too nervous. 'Ladies and gentlemen, I can assure you that we are very much on top of the situation. Please just bare with me for one moment, and then more will be revealed, I'm sure.'
As he turned to go Bond stood up behind him and quietly said in his ear, 'Colonel, with your permission I'd like to see what's happening in the hanger. Although I've never flown anything like the X-542 before, I may be able to help with something.'
Clarke seemed to hesitate, reluctant to let an outsider enter his own work kingdom, before shrugging and motioning Bond to follow him. They crossed quickly back to the vast hanger, where Bond's eyes were greeted with the sight of almost pandemonium. A large crowd of white coated people were huddled together by the computer screens, each giving a completely different opinion of what should be done. Several others were hurrying from to and fro, talking on mobile phones or scribbling down almost illegible notes on scraps of paper, which were passed back to the larger group and read out as part of other suggestions.
'I hate working with scientists' muttered Clarke through gritted teeth. 'No discipline among the lot of them.' He led Bond to the computers where, after clearing the majority of the white coats to one side, the two men were left with the single solitary nervous coffee drinker who Bond had noticed when first arriving half an hour ago. He was introduced to Bond as Colin Huxley, a man who had worked in close relationship with Professor Extron on the designs of the X-542. Bond asked him to fill him in on every little detail he had witnessed since the take off of the fighter jet.
'Well, we started smoothly; it couldn't have been better. The computer chip was working perfectly, everything was running like clockwork. Then we had an indication that Lt Rowe had switched to manual, which was nothing to be alarmed about, because we knew he was planning on doing that at some point during the demonstration. But then the chip is replaced, and we're back to the same, perfect readings we had before. Except…'
'Except the X-542 is going in completely the wrong direction,' Bond finished for him. 'You're sure there's no chance it could be a fault on the chip, or the on board computer itself? Maybe even your computer?'
Huxley shook his head. 'I've spent the last year looking over the same procedures, the same figures, over and over again with Professor Extron. I know it all off by heart and backwards. I recite it instead of singing in the shower. It doesn't make sense, sir. That plane simply can't be going in the direction it is, not with the guidance chip in its system.'
'You said you didn't want to raise attention, so you purposefully went for little security?' Bond asked Clarke, who was noticeably sweating and looked badly in need of a stiff drink.
'If we'd had as much security as normal we'd have drawn in every Tom, Dick and Harry in the local area. And news spreads fast – within hours we'd have had other "enthusiasts" on our doorsteps.'
'So you haven't had any side effects from the lack of security? No unwanted guests?'
'Nobody,' replied Clarke. 'I've been living here for a week now in preparation, and slept soundly every night. Nobody unauthorised could have gone near the X-542.'
Bond cursed silently. He didn't like the sound of that; it suggested there was a mole somewhere, and that meant a seriously bad lapse of military security. 'Do you know where it's flying now?' he asked Huxley, who looked at all computer screens plus a read out that was been fed from the printer every five seconds.
Finally the scientist said, 'I don't quite believe this, but apparently she's just crossed over to France!'
'What's the fuel situation like?'
Huxley scratched his neck. 'We gave her enough to last the test flight, plus a little extra as mandatory procedure. But she's been going faster than normal, burning up a lot of Extronite. That taken into account…I don't know how she's still up in the air!'
Neither did Rowe. He tried to push the tiny thoughts of alarm to the back of his brain and focus on the reward that he would get when this whole ordeal was over. He had also been promised a genuine escape route into a far off distant country of his choice. He'd immediately opted for Jamaica.
Admittedly he had been given very little information by the people who had contacted him. They had told him to trust what would be put on the computer chip, and that their men would handle every other detail regarding the jet. How they'd managed to make any modifications on this secret project was, though tempting to be curious about, none of his concern. He had asked at the time where exactly he would be taken to, but the emphasis had apparently been on secrecy, so they couldn't even tell him that.
Various towns, cities and villages went by underneath him as the X-542 continued its never ending journey. Rowe kept himself mildly amused by trying to spot the Eiffel Tower to help him work out how close to Paris he was. At other times he half-wondered whether he had flown into another European country and not realised it, not having the obvious marker of a border check point to physically cross through.
A loud, clear voice through his headphones woke him from his thoughts. 'Pterodactyl, this is Triceratops, over.'
'Go ahead, Triceratops, reading you loud and clear, over.'
'Good. I have T-Rex here beside me, he'd like a word with you, over.'
Now Rowe's attention was fully directed on the conversation. T-Rex…he had heard that name before, in his initial conversations with this organisation. Was this another code name for security reasons?
A new voice came through the headphones; it was a rich, deep voice. 'Pterodactyl, this is T-Rex. Good afternoon, sir. How are you, over?'
'T-Rex, I'm doing reasonably well for a man who hasn't a clue where he's flying, over.'
There was a light chuckle before T-Rex replied, 'Ah, yes. On behalf of my organisation may I be the first to give you my deepest apologies over what must be a most frustrating assignment? I hope you can forgive us, over.'
'Er…sure, no problem,' said Rowe, taken aback by the sudden display of good manners that he had not heard since childhood. 'Though I would like to know how much longer this is going to take. I'm worried about the fuel situation, over.'
'Of course, and again, my apologies. It may please you to know that according to my friend's numbers here, it should not be very much longer. As for the fuel situation, please try not to worry so much. I have it on good authority that the Extronite in your fuel tank is good to go for a very long time still, over.'
'But….that doesn't make sense…' Rowe began to protest, more puzzled than ever.
'Now I'm afraid that from this point onwards we will be unable to communicate much further due to some rather tiresome security hurdles, so I wanted to speak to you now and say thank you properly. Thank you Pterodactyl, for all that you have done; it means a lot to us. Enjoy the rest of your flight, over and out.'
'No, wait, wait!' cried Rowe, but it was too late. The line was dead. He was left to his own thoughts in the now stuffy cockpit of the X-542, where more and more suspicions and frightening half-ideas began to invade his mind and started to make him sweat a lot more than he had been.
