The Final Flight

by James Blatch

  Anxiety ebbed away with the alcohol.

  Mary was tipsy and fun. The band played ‘In the Mood’. They laughed together as Millie struggled to bring any kind of coordination to his movements.

  When the tune finished, he thanked Mary for her charity and they fell down into nearby seats. Rob and Georgina joined them and they ordered a fresh bottle of wine.

  They danced more and drank on until the first grey notes of dawn filtered through the mess windows.

  A rumour went around: an expedition to Stonehenge was planned.

  “It’s your last RAF ball,” said Georgina to Millie. “Let’s make it memorable.”

  Millie and Rob followed as the women linked arms and skipped out to the cars.

  A few minutes later, Millie pulled on the handbrake, on the side of the A303, and they stepped out into the orange dawn light.

  The four of them walked across the grass toward the giant Neolithic slabs.

  They weren’t alone. A crowd of youngsters occupied the place: the early twenties set. Despite the warning notices, they climbed over the stones, laughing and hooting.

  The four of them stood in the cool air, the men in black tie and the women in ball gowns and furs. They looked like they’d just walked off the set of a David Niven film.

  Georgina nodded to the youngsters. “Do you think these are the traitors Mark was warning us about?”

  “Treachery will be met by swift and vicious justice!” Mary said in a mock deep voice. More laughter.

  Millie stole a glimpse of Rob, pleased to see him joining in with the smiles.

  He hugged himself and watched the youngsters on the stones. They didn’t seem to have a care in the world.

  “I wonder what they think of us?” Mary asked.

  “We’re the squares, no doubt,” Georgina said.

  The sun climbed above the eastern horizon. A perfect disc diffused by a thin layer of clouds.

  Millie smiled to himself at the glorious vision of a star, ninety-three million miles away, rising to give life to their planet.

  He felt the first radiated warmth on his face and linked arms with Georgina.

  He smiled at her.

  “What are you grinning at, Milford?” she said, with a smile of her own.

  “Just noticing how absolutely beautiful you are.”

  “Oh, Millie, don’t. You’ll make me cry.”

  He leant forward and kissed her.

  “Come on,” Rob said from over Millie’s shoulder, “let’s get these lovebirds home.”

  As they drove slowly along the country road, Millie pondered his plans to expose the Guiding Light flaws. He had become more resolute during the day, but time was no longer on his side. The logistics were going to be more difficult than ever.

  Had Kilton’s angry, panicked speech been inspired by genuine fear for the security of the country? Or out of fear that his own secret might still be insecure?

  The bluster was bearable for one reason.

  He had a plan.

  On Monday it would take a giant step forward.

  13

  Sunday 19th June

  Just after 7AM. Susie heard a noise in the corridor outside. Doors clanged, and she heard the familiar voices of her campmates.

  Finally, her own door swung open. A young police constable stood in the frame.

  “Out to the front desk, please. Queue for your personal effects.”

  She emerged and saw her earnest peace colleagues, looking worse for wear, shuffling to the front of the police station.

  She joined the queue to retrieve personal effects.

  At the front, Megan was arguing.

  “You’re supposed to charge us. What about the trial?”

  “You’re being released without charge, miss. Be grateful.”

  Two constables ushered them out onto the street. The group trudged back to the camp; a walk of three miles.

  The field was a mess. Tents collapsed, clothes strewn around the entrances. They had combed the place.

  It didn’t take them long to discover the rucksack of tools was missing.

  But the wigwam still stood. Susie wandered over.

  “How long do you think they’ll let us stay here?” she asked David.

  “We’ve paid the farmer enough to make it worth his while. They won’t get us out without a court order.”

  “Do we need to stay now?” Susie asked, glancing toward Megan, who was bent over a stack of boxes. She straightened her back.

  “As long as they’re there, we’re here. But you’re free to leave any time, Susie. This isn’t the police station.”

  She went back to her boxes, which appeared to be filled with old clothes.

  David gave Susie a sympathetic smile as she backed out of the wigwam.

  Many were folding up their tents, preparing to leave. It was clear only a hardcore would remain.

  With Megan preoccupied, Susie wandered out onto the main road and walked back to the village phone box.

  After waiting an age for a teenage girl to finish her call, she entered and paused before dialling, waiting for the girl to leave the immediate area.

  Roger answered.

  “In on a Sunday, Roger? Don’t you ever take a day off?”

  “Not when there’s such excitement in the West Country. Well done, my dear. Plaudits all round. The hairy blond one is in custody. Caught, as planned, red-handed.”

  “What will happen?”

  “He’ll be held long enough for us to thoroughly drain him of anything useful. After that, it’s up to the plod and West Porton.”

  “And what about me?”

  “I said well done. What else do you want? A bit soon for a medal.”

  “I mean, shall I pull out?”

  “Maybe. What’s the situation? Have they gone home?”

  “Some have. But the leaders are still here.”

  “Then I suggest you stay put. Sorry, love. You must miss a soft bed. How was the police cell, anyway?”

  “All part of being on active field service. You should try it sometime.”

  “My time will come. Hopefully in a four-star hotel rather than a field.”

  She ended the call, too low on energy for another back and forth.

  14

  Monday 20th June

  A call from Jock MacLeish marred Millie’s Sunday afternoon, informing him an all-personnel meeting would take place in TFU at 7.45AM the next day.

  As he set off from home he had to hope whatever Kilton had planned would be over quickly. He needed to be on his way to the far side of the airfield before 8AM. After that, it got tricky. He would have to be in touch with ATC en route. The engineering Land Rover had a built-in radio, but he couldn’t very well take that and abandon it all day.

  The planning room was packed out. From the most junior aircraft marshaller to executive officers like himself, they had summoned the entirety of TFU.

  Millie looked across to the admin hatch, where he could just see reference to his trip to Wyton on a list pinned to the wall. It looked innocuous enough. Above the hatch was a clock displaying the local time. It was already 7.49AM.

  Kilton emerged from his office and pushed his way into the centre of the room.

  Back against the wall, Millie couldn’t see him, save the occasional glimpse of his bald head.

  But he certainly heard him.

  “One of you has given the enemy an advantage that could cost lives and freedom. One of you is heading to prison. You do not under any circumstances ever discuss any aspect of your work outside of these walls. IS THAT CLEAR?”

  General mutters.

  “PARDON?”

  A louder “YES, SIR!” resonated from all quarters.

  Kilton droned on about serving Queen and Country before eventually getting into announcements of new procedures, although he was vague on details.

  Millie kept one eye on the clock and another on Nigel Woodward.

  The forlorn-looking loadmaster was standing close to the
airfield door with his head bowed, shuffling from foot to foot.

  Writing off the chance of making it across the airfield in his own car, Millie had to get to Woodward before he said something.

  By the time the boss had finished and stormed back into his office, it was 7.58AM.

  Definitely too late.

  He hurried to a phone on one of the aircrew admin desks.

  “JR, it’s Millie. Look, I hate to ask, but is there any chance you could pick me up in one of your wagons, discreetly?”

  They agreed to meet at the NAAFI shop at 8.45AM.

  Millie headed to the airfield door and made his way to the cramped office used by some of the sergeants, close to the hangar entrance.

  Woodward was sitting at a table on his own; Millie closed the door behind him. The loadmaster looked pale and frightened.

  “It was you, wasn’t it Nigel?”

  He didn’t respond.

  “Your wife told me you’ve been drinking your troubles away at The Black Horse. And talking to strangers. In your state that’s not a good idea.”

  Finally he looked up.

  “Will I go to prison?”

  Millie tapped the table while he thought quickly. He pulled out a chair and sat opposite Woodward.

  “No-one needs to know. We didn’t lose anything. I can’t see any good coming from it.” Millie shuffled his chair close and looked Woodward directly in the eyes. “But you have to promise me you’ll go to the doctor. Get a full medical.”

  Woodward nodded.

  “You agreed before Nigel, but you haven’t been. Say it. You’ve got to promise me. I’ll book the appointment myself if needed.”

  He shook his head. “I’ll go today.”

  “Good. In the meantime, tell no-one you spoke to a stranger about TFU. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’ll blow over. But you’ve got to get yourself sorted.”

  “What will happen to me?”

  “I don’t know, Nigel. But you can’t keep flying and putting yourself and others in danger, can you?”

  Woodward bowed his head. Millie glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to go.”

  Back in the planning room, he tapped on Kilton’s door.

  “Come.”

  Millie went in but didn’t wait for Kilton to look up.

  “I think Nigel Woodward is unwell.”

  “Unwell?”

  “Some sort of dementia, I think.”

  “Is that why he removed four pins from a payload that was supposed to remain in the aircraft?”

  “I think so.”

  Kilton leaned back on his chair. “Makes sense. He couldn’t explain himself to me.”

  “He’s a couple of years from retirement. I suspect the docs will sign him off flying. Can we keep him on ground duties? Or give him his pension early?”

  Kilton dropped his pen on the desk. “We haven’t got space for people who can’t do their jobs.”

  “Then let him retire. He’s scared.”

  Kilton appraised Millie for a moment. “I haven’t had a medical report yet.”

  “You’ll get one soon.”

  Kilton nodded. “We’ll see.”

  “Thank you.”

  As Millie left, Kilton resumed his work. “The trouble with you, Millie, is you’re too soft.”

  The corridor with the lockers was disappointingly busy.

  Just when Millie thought it might be clear, more men appeared, walking back from the equipment counter with helmets, oxygen masks, and other flying paraphernalia in hand.

  The clock ticked on.

  For the second time in quick succession, he found himself up against a stressful deadline.

  He cursed himself for not having a better plan. The locker was too exposed.

  It was now 8.38AM. A large group of aircrew pushed open the door to the airfield and disappeared toward their aircraft.

  He looked around the planning room at those who remained, either at the tea bar or hunched over charts, drawing lines.

  For the moment at least no-one needed flying clothing. The corridor was clear.

  He picked up an empty black holdall brought in from home and marched to his locker, dropping it at his feet as he unlocked the wooden door.

  One more check to ensure the corridor was clear.

  He quickly raised the bag to the open locker and scooped in the bulk of the reels.

  He also withdrew his annotation of the fields.

  The holdall was nearly full. He could have squeezed in his day jumper as well, to cover the contents. But he couldn’t risk leaving anything behind. This was his one chance to clear his locker of incriminating evidence.

  Just as Millie reached in for the final items, someone appeared in his peripheral vision.

  He grabbed his jumper and slammed the locker shut, leaving behind a couple of tapes and the Guiding Light schematics.

  Dropping the holdall to the ground, he crouched, fumbling with the straps.

  Polished shoes appeared next to the bag.

  Slowly, reluctantly, he looked up.

  Mark Kilton stared down at him.

  Millie raised himself upright, clutching the bag to his stomach, as if this would somehow protect his secret.

  “There’s something else. Follow me.”

  Kilton turned on his heels and walked back to the planning room.

  Millie was stunned and for a moment failed to move.

  Kilton turned back. “Come on.”

  He followed, unable to dispose of the holdall. Kilton loitered at his office door and beckoned him in.

  Millie’s eyes were wide with fear. As he moved to the middle of the room, he slowly set the bag down at his feet.

  Kilton sat back down behind his desk and peered over it to look at the holdall.

  “You flying today?”

  “Maybe,” Millie croaked, then cleared his throat.

  “What does that mean?”

  The phone rang; Kilton thumped on the frosted window behind him and shouted “Not now!”

  He turned back. He looked agitated, even more than usual.

  “Right,” Kilton began, apparently having forgotten Millie’s stupid answer to his question, “we need to improve our security and everything about this project. We’ve been amateurs, outwitted by hippies.

  “We should have expected an attack, Millie. We’ve been wasting time, drawing things out and leaving the project exposed.”

  The TFU boss picked up a pen and turned it over in his fingers.

  “I want all Guiding Light material to live in the safe in the station commander’s office. Most of it’s been moved, but there’s a pile of reels in Cabinet Two. I assume they’re blank tapes?”

  “Yes, boss.”

  “Right. Well, there’s forty-eight of them. I want you to move them as well. And be careful not to mix them with the used reels.”

  “That will make it time consuming, sir, if we have to trawl over to the HQ building just for blank reels before every flight.”

  “So? Get into work ten minutes earlier. Even the blanks will be signed out. We can’t take any more chances, Millie. We’ve been lackadaisical.”

  Millie glanced to his left. He could just see the admin clock. It was 8.50AM.

  “And second…” Kilton continued to talk but Millie’s mind was elsewhere. If Kilton had them count the blanks out, and full reels in, how would he generate more height data for Belkin?

  “…half the time.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. What?”

  Kilton looked impatient. “Just make sure the reels and anything else project-related are moved out by the end of the day. You don’t need to concern yourself with the timetable.”

  “The timetable?”

  Kilton shook his head in despair and stood up. “Get on with it, Millie, for god’s sake.”

  Millie picked up the holdall and walked out, heading straight to his car.

  The Avro Anson was battered on the outside and worn on the inside.r />
  Millie sat alone in what passed as the passenger compartment, although only three tatty leather seats remained. JR had invited him to sit in the cockpit, but he couldn’t risk a TFU crew member spotting him as they taxied past the buildings.

  He looked around and wondered how many troops the old bird had conveyed around the world. It looked like a ghost plane now. The fact it was with the MU meant its prospects were not good.

  JR quickly had them in the air and turning north, and in what seemed like no time at all they were descending into the circuit at Abingdon.

  After landing, they taxied to the visiting aircraft apron.

  JR shut the engines down and opened the door, lowering the steps for Millie.

  “Is this what it’s like being an Air Marshal?” Millie joked as he stepped out.

  JR followed him onto the Tarmac as two marshallers appeared and placed chocks in front of the wheels.

  Millie surveyed the airfield. Typical 1930s hangars with ridged rooves, a red brick control tower and a busy pan of mainly transport aircraft.

  A noise erupted to their right and Millie looked across to see a giant Blackburn Beverly burst into life. A cloud of black smoke drifted from each engine in turn as it was fired up.

  “Come on,” JR said and led him away. He pointed to the base of the nearest hangar. “47 Squadron. They handle visitors for the airfield. We need to book in. So what are you going to tell them?”

  “Hopefully, they’re expecting me. I’ve booked a car from MT.”

  “Clever.”

  As they arrived at the hangar, JR pushed open the door and strolled into the squadron.

  After looking around, he turned to Millie.

  “Why don’t you wait here? I’ll book us in and tell them you’ve arrived.”

  Millie stayed back, close to the door.

  He watched JR arrive at the ops desk and fall into conversation with a sergeant. JR made an entry in a hardback logbook and shared a joke with the sergeant before wandering back over.

  “They’ve telephoned MT, Millie. Someone will pick you up from here shortly.” JR studied him. “You OK?”

  “Yes. A little nervous I suppose.”

  JR gave his arm a quick pat. “It’s all fine. No-one’s batting an eyelid. You’ll be one of dozens of officers ferried somewhere or other by Military Transport this month. Try to relax.”