PART FOUR: CHAPTER THREE

Steven/ Sol

Johnson expertly landed the aircraft, and as we taxied to a halt, a couple of blue-uniformed RAF ground crew ran forward to help Johnson out of the cockpit.

"Any cargo to unload, sir?" one of them asked.

"Yes, but he can walk off himself," Johnson said to the mystified airmen. "Direct him towards the officer's mess and refuel the bus."

Still in full flying kit, Johnson entered the mess and walked straight into the bar.

"Joe, old boy, how nice to see you again," said an airman, wearing the two cuff bands of an RAF flight lieutenant, the equivalent rank to Captain Johnson, RCAF.

"Can I tempt you to a pint?"

"Just half a tin, thanks Nigel," said Joe. "I can only take that warm beer of yours in small doses."

"Britain's finest ale, old boy; drink up; you'll soon get a taste for it," he said.

Nigel wore a DFC medal ribbon below the famous wing's emblem of a pilot. The King of England himself awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross on the recommendation of the RAF for' an act or acts of valour, courage, or devotion to duty whilst flying in active operations against the enemy.'

Flight Lieutenant Nigel Braddock had recorded a record number of 'kills' against enemy aircraft and had a reputation throughout the service as an 'ace' fighter pilot.

"Where is everybody?" said Joe, looking around the empty bar.

"The whole bloody flight got scrambled half an hour ago."

Nigel pointed to his bandaged foot. "I'm grounded. It was a warm night in here last night, and wanting to help, I leapt on the bar and gave all and sundry a cooling shower with a fire extinguisher. My good deed received a mixed reception, but in all the hullabaloo, the ruddy extinguisher dropped on my foot. It was a heavy old thing, and I was positively writhing with agony, but the boys thought it was hilarious and asked me to do it again. The doctor put on a dressing, but he was half-pissed and could hardly stand up himself. The nurse is supposed to be coming to see me this morning to change the dressing. By the way, was that you who just came in on the Douglas Skytrain? Where is your own kite?"

"En route. I had to leave it and bring back a rather special cargo. Prepare yourself for a surprise, Nigel; let me present Sol the robot in person."

He gestured to the doorway where Sol was standing.

Nigel spluttered into his beer. "Where the hell did you dig up that monstrosity, Joe?"

He paused for a moment and then broke out in a wide smile.

"You crafty bugger, this is going to be the biggest wheeze ever. I know your game. The dummy will stroll up to the bar and ask for a pint when the boys are sinking their first one of the day. Then, you turn off the lights and plunge the place into darkness while Sol goes on the rampage. It will be chaos! Genius, dear boy, pure genius!"

"It's not a joke, Nigel; this is a real robot, and I suspect enemy forces are behind his sudden appearance in England. It is a matter of national security."

"Really?" Nigel said, twirling his moustache, "Cloak and dagger stuff, eh? Fifth column and all that? Count me in, Joe. I'm your man, but listen, what's that I hear? Aeroplane engines, old chap, the prodigal sons are returning. Stand back for the rush."

Johnson said, "Go into the corridor, Sol, and keep well out of sight."

He turned to the flight lieutenant.

"Don't mention Sol to the boys, Nigel. I want to do some checking up first."

I moved into the corridor, and within a couple of minutes, there was the sound of voices as the pilots trailed into the mess.

"Good show all round," said an authoritative voice, and I looked through the door to see an RAF squadron leader with two broad bands enclosing a thinner stripe on his tunic sleeve.

"Jimmy and Peter, you bagged a bandit each, I see, and Jeremy, you jammy sod, downed two of the blighters. All three of you report to the intelligence officer for debriefing and to record your kills. I'm going to claim a probable on a Junkers Ju-87. I hit him in both engines, but I lost him in the mist over the channel as he tried to sneak back home. Pity about young Tommy. A bogey jumped him from below, but he would persist in wandering. I don't know how many times I have to tell you, lads, always maintain formation discipline before an attack. The boy managed to bail out before his aircraft exploded, but the Channel was terribly rough today. We have to hope there was a ship close by, but in the meantime, you can take over his bed space, Pilson. Call in a replacement from the new intake, would you, Peter, and sub him for Tommy on the duty roster? The heroes of the day can accompany me to the debriefing; the rest of you can get yourself on the other side of a pint."

"Any chance of a quick one before the debriefing, skipper?" asked Jeremy, a flying officer.

"You are a bloody dipsomaniac, Jeremy, "said the squadron leader, "and the answer is no. We have all night if we are lucky. It will be dark in a couple of hours. Let's hope we don't get a second wave."

The pilots converged on the bar, and the beer was flowing free and fast when, half an hour later, the sound of a telephone ringing plunged the bar into instant silence.

"It bloody well can't be," said an anonymous voice.

We heard somebody answer the telephone and take a short message before slamming down the receiver and hurrying away.

"It bloody well is," replied another.

The call was from Fighter Command.

A klaxon went off, and the Tannoy system broadcast.

 'Scramble all the available aircraft, scramble! Scramble! Bandits approaching Angels One Five.'

All the men raced for the airfield, struggling to get their kit back on, and boarded their fighter planes, assisted by the ground crew. I watched as the aircraft took off and formed an attacking formation.

Then they were gone.

Nigel was once again alone in the bar. Johnson must have taken an unallocated plane. The flight lieutenant looked morose as he sat in one of the club chairs, nursing half a pint of bitter. He turned his head as the door opened, and a male medic in an RAF uniform, carrying a case, came over to where he was sitting.

"The nurse, I presume," he said to the man. "How one longs for the days when a pretty popsy in a white uniform dealt with one's medical needs, but do your worst. I will prop my gammy leg on this footstool to show you what a good patient I am."

The nurse removed the rugby sock that Nigel had put on to protect the bandage and carefully unwound the dressing. The foot was badly bruised, and the nurse ran a finger around the whole of the foot, searching for any other damage.

Nigel winced.

"Sorry, sir, I will give you something to relieve the pain. You have twisted your tendons, and the injury may be more serious than we thought."

The nurse gave Nigel a local anaesthetic. "Lie back and relax, sir. It will take me a few minutes to prepare the treatment."

A radio transmitter on the bar was broadcasting the sounds of the battle going on in the air and the voices of the pilots as they radioed messages to each other.

"Red 2 to Red 5. Watch out, Jimmy, there is a bandit on your tail."

"Red 5 to Red 2. Thank you, Red 2. I have him covered."

"Bandits at ten o'clock. Hundreds of them.

"Plenty for everybody, then; don't rush. Tallyho!"

And so, it continued. It was like the soundtrack of a war movie punctuated with the rat-a-tat of machine gun fire and aircraft exploding. Acting on impulse, I walked out into the corridor and onto the airfield to the point where I had watched the squadron take off or thought I had.

All the planes were still on the ground.

Their engines were roaring as if they were in flight, and inside every illuminated cockpit, pilots were throwing their joysticks around, eager to engage with an enemy only they could see. The air was thick with the sound of combat, and I could smell cordite in the air. It was an elaborate fake, an illusion that engaged all the senses. I hurried back inside, aware that Sol was all too visible to anyone watching.

I looked through a window in the corridor into the bar and saw that the nurse was ready to begin Nigel's treatment.

"It will be a brief procedure, but you should sleep through it," he said, giving Nigel an injection in the upper arm. The anaesthetic was quick-acting, and the nurse gently removed the beer mug from Nigel's hand and turned his head to one side as he fell into a deep sleep.

The nurse rolled up Nigel's trouser leg and began to probe around the top of his ankle. He found the place he was looking for and pushed a sharp pin through the skin until there was an audible 'click. Grasping the ankle firmly in his left hand, he held the heel of his foot firmly in his right and turned it sharply.

The ankle and foot came off in his hand.

The nurse applied a rubber cover over the wound to suction the blood away, then sprayed a sealant over the bottom of the severed limb.

Blood! If Nigel was an android, he was the most perfect copy of a human being that I had ever seen. My mind rapidly moved on. Is the nurse an android, and is that why a heavily clad Johnson had not perspired in the heat when I first met him?

Meanwhile, the nurse had fitted Nigel with a new, but identical, ankle and foot and smeared a substance over the divide, rubbing it in until it presented a flawless finish. He sprayed the surface of the new foot with something that created the appearance of a faint bluish-red bruise that was healing well, and covered it with a fresh dressing. The nurse replaced the rugby sock and gently aroused Johnson after giving him another injection.

"All done," the nurse said cheerfully. The bruising is going down, and you will be able to resume your duties in two days. Be careful about putting too much weight on your foot; it may feel a little strange at first, but you will soon readjust."

 The nurse left, and Nigel reached over for his beer.

He didn't know.

Who was behind the deception—this contrived fantasy of a fighter squadron on a WW2 airbase?

The nurse knew the true status of his 'patient', but anybody could have programmed it, human or AI. And were all the flyers the same as Nigel? Captain Johnson, RCAF, for example, seems to have influence above his rank, and he was the one the drone crew contacted when they discovered Sol's identity, plus Johnson was able to summon the Douglas Skytrain to the site on his own authority.

I was confused, and by 'I,' I meant Steven Mandell. I had almost swamped Sol out of existence; he had become little more than my means of locomotion recently and an invaluable source of information, but I had to be careful. It was Sol who ran the machine that housed my mind. I could not afford to lose his cooperation.

" We need to get out of here, Sol, and I am relying on you to pilot the aircraft, so no sulking."

I left the mess and hurried past a stationary aircraft in full battle mode, its engines screaming at full power as its guns opened up on an invisible target. Then came the chattering of a different type of machine gun, and a row of bullet holes appeared in the fuselage of the aircraft. I was close enough to see the panic in the pilot's eyes as he swung his joystick one way and then the other, trying to avoid an enemy aircraft only he could see. I was too close for comfort and stepped back as another burst of fire raked through his fuselage, and the pilot slumped forward into his seat. Then came the high-pitched whine of an aircraft going into an uncontrollable dive and, moments later, the sound of a distant crash and an explosion. Where five seconds ago, there had stood a stationary Spitfire with its throttle fully open, was now an empty bay.

Somewhere, this dogfight was really happening.

I melted back into the shadows as the sound of battle petered out. Then came the steady thrum of aircraft engines as if the squadron was returning home. All the pilots here on the ground were staring straight ahead, and I could see their shoulders moving slightly from side to side as they moved their joysticks to keep their aircraft on course.

I wondered what they were seeing from their cockpits. The green fields of England at twilight, perhaps, as they searched for a landmark, a railway line or river to guide them home.

Here on the ground, the five remaining aircraft taxied forward until they were in a straight line and trundled down the runway like a flock of geese. We watched through Sol's telescopic sight as they reached the top and then wheeled off to the right, coming to a halt to form a line at right angles to the runway. The visible exhaust fumes from the Spitfires pumped out a regular pattern, indicating the engines were all running.

I was determined to see this out and took up a position close to the bottom of the runway. It was becoming quite dark now, and the cloudless sky had become velvet black. There was an atmosphere of calm and silence; we could have been in the middle of a field on a summer's night anywhere in England.

Without warning, the sky became uniformly lighter, like a cinema film about to start, and we saw the red lights of an aircraft coming into land. It was on a perfect approach and glided down slowly to meet the tarmac of the runway. Behind it, as it landed, was one of the grounded Spitfires, closing in rapidly at a slightly faster speed. A collision seemed inevitable, but the aircraft in front vanished, and it was the grounded Spitfire that came to a controlled halt at the end of the runway and taxied forward into a landing bay. A ground crew swarmed the aircraft, and an airman jumped on the wing to help the pilot out of his cockpit.

A couple of minutes later, another Spitfire came into land, and it followed the same procedure until eventually, all the Spitfires, which had not left the ground in this reality, were in the landing bays, and the pilots, laughing and joking, streamed towards the mess.

This was the most coordinated and sophisticated illusion I had ever witnessed, but there was no time for an inquest; it was time for us to go.

I hurried to the other side of the airfield where Johnson had parked the Skytrain, and Sol opened the cargo hold by brute strength. We got on board, and Sol closed the door behind him as we hurried up the reinforced floor of the cargo area. Now for the tricky bit, and it was over to Sol, who entered the cockpit and somehow squashed himself into the pilot's seat. He had automatically recorded every move that Johnson had made at the controls, and now it was time to put them into action. Sol did not disappoint; the aircraft made a perfect take-off, and he set a course for us to go back the way we came.