The Final Flight

by James Blatch

  “Thank you, JR.”

  “Good. Well, I’ll find a comfy seat in the ante room of the mess. Don’t want to get in anyone’s way here. How long do you think you’ll be?”

  Millie shrugged. “I can’t be certain. Two hours max, I hope.”

  “Fine. I’ll wander back to the aircraft and make sure we’re ready to depart in an hour and a half or so.” He paused before leaving. “Good luck.”

  “Thank you.”

  After a few minutes, a corporal appeared in front of him.

  “Squadron Leader Milford? Your chariot awaits, sir.”

  Millie was driven through the Abingdon main gate. It was decidedly more relaxed than West Porton’s.

  The driver had noted the professor’s address in his vehicle logbook and Millie again realised he had not thought this through. Everything he was doing was traceable.

  Save for a hundred bicycles, the traffic in Oxford was light. The driver dropped him in front of the cottage and Millie confirmed he would arrange his own taxi back.

  As soon as the corporal’s black saloon disappeared back onto the main road, Millie knocked and waited.

  The door creaked open, and Mrs Lazenby ushered him in.

  The professor, his saviour in an increasingly fraught and dangerous endeavour, wore a green cardigan with a pair of silver-rimmed spectacles hanging from a chain around his neck.

  Millie piled the tapes on the kitchen table. Each sleeve was labelled meticulously to reflect the order in which he had gathered the readings.

  Next to the tapes, he set down a piece of paper with the annotated fields as requested.

  “It took me a while to work it out, but I am fairly certain that what we have here is the time in seconds, which counts up from the moment the laser is switched from standby to on. That happens before I record, so you’ll never see zero on the reels. Does that make sense to you?”

  “It does. And I see the next field is the position in latitude and longitude.”

  “That’s correct, with a ‘1’ or a ‘0’ replacing the hemisphere letter. ‘1’ in front of the latitude for north, ‘0’ for south. Not that we’ve been south of the equator, of course. And ‘1’ in front of the longitude for west, ‘0’ for east. I believe we drifted across the Greenwich meridian on at least one flight.”

  “Excellent work, Mr Milford.”

  With that, the professor sat down and Mrs Lazenby tapped at the door.

  “Yes?”

  She popped her head into the room.

  “Would you like me to make a cup of tea, Professor?”

  Millie glanced at the pile of secret tapes and material on the table.

  Belkin shot him a reassuring look. “Yes please, Mrs Lazenby.”

  They sat in silence for a moment.

  After the kettle reached screaming point, Mrs Lazenby poured the water into the teapot and set it down on a tray on the table, along with four Rich Tea biscuits.

  She left the room. The door closed with a clunk.

  “So,” said the professor, “I have a young man ready to cut his teeth on the routining effort required to interrogate this data. Excuse the word ‘routining’. It is apparently correct in this circumstance.”

  “Thank you.”

  “However, I think we need to know a little more about what we are looking for.”

  “I’ve been careful not to say too much for a variety of good reasons—”

  “If it helps, I believe you may already have let the cat out of the bag.”

  “I have?”

  “Just a moment ago, you referred to switching on the ‘laser’. I’m sure it was inadvertent, but am I to gather that you are testing a laser range-finding device?”

  “Oh, dear me. Yes. I didn’t even notice.” Millie sighed and toyed with a biscuit. “The atmosphere where I work is now at fever pitch and here I am spilling our deepest secrets.”

  “I think it’s something we cannot avoid, I’m afraid.”

  Millie took a breath.

  “I suppose you need to know,” he said and laughed.

  “I do, I think. Is that funny?”

  “Just a private joke, sorry. Well, if I explain the system to you, perhaps we can then devise a way of you explaining it to your student without giving the game away?”

  The professor nodded. “It sounds like a starting point.”

  Millie pointed at the data sheet.

  “So, as I’ve already given away, this all comes from a laser beam. The laser is mounted in the front underside of the aircraft. A rather beautifully engineered mirror on a small gimbal directs the beam in an oval pattern. Quickly, repeatedly. The laser measures the distance to the ground at twenty-seven pre-set positions during each scan. And it does this around three times a second.”

  “Gosh,” said the professor, clearly impressed.

  “This is the clever bit, though. A box of microelectronics sits between the laser and a new flight control system which in turn talks to the rather older autopilot. The result is that the computer flies the aircraft at low-level, avoiding the ground while moving the aircraft in as straight a line as possible to the next waypoint.”

  The professor nodded. “I see. So, an aircraft can fly automatically at low-level to its target. But what is the advantage over a human performing this task?”

  Millie sat back. “Humans are frail and make mistakes. At least that’s the theory. The boffins are doing everything they can to write the crews out of the equation when it comes to flying these days. The real question is, why use a laser instead of a radar? Terrain-following radar is already developed and was to be deployed in the TSR-2. But it has a drawback. It makes a noise.”

  The professor raised an eyebrow. “Radar makes a noise?”

  “Not an audible noise, but it gives off energy. The exact type of energy the enemy’s aircraft defence system is looking for. Initially, we believed it would be too weak to be picked up. But it turns out the Soviets are rather good at this aspect of modern warfare.”

  “So, this laser system solves a rather big problem for the RAF?”

  Millie took a sip of tea. “Not just the RAF. If it works, this system will go into virtually every United States attack aircraft as well.”

  “I see. And why do you need my help?”

  “It’s flawed. We suffered a sudden height drop a couple of weeks back.”

  “The sort of thing you’re testing it for? Why hasn’t it gone through the usual channels at Boscombe Down?”

  “If this project was at Boscombe Down, I’m convinced it would have been grounded. But I now work at a new unit, cloaked in secrecy, somewhat autonomous from the rest of the RAF and it’s… not the same, shall we say. It’s almost as if it’s gone too far to fail. There’s so much riding on it. A massive export order for the UK, for one. And I have a boss who places human life further down the list of priorities when it comes to fighting the Soviets. So he’s prepared to press on.”

  “Even so, won’t it be noticed if it goes into production? What happens when an aircraft crashes?”

  “I might be wrong but my hunch is, they know it’s flawed. I think they would find a way of covering it up. The manufacturer is the sole expert on the system and will likely be consulted by any Board of Inquiry. As I found out, only they can analyse the height readings.” He looked at the pile of cardboard sleeves. “Until now.”

  The professor sat up, grabbed a pen and started writing.

  “Righty-ho. Let us sketch what we’re looking for. Firstly, height readings that vary significantly, and implausibly, from the previous and subsequent readings. Secondly, we should look at these… events and extrapolate the frequency. Of course, that depends on whether we see more than two or three events. We can’t extrapolate from fewer than three and, even then, the reliability of the extrapolation will be down to the sample size.”

  “The more data, the more reliable the conclusion?”

  “Indeed.”

  Millie toyed with his moustache. “I’m working on
that, but I may be about to run out of time.”

  “Well, we can make a start, I suppose.”

  Millie propped his elbows on the table and tried to read the professor’s notes, which appeared upside down to him. “There’s something else.”

  “Go on.”

  “This data was gathered at a safe height, a minimum of one thousand feet. Sometimes without the autopilot even engaged. In reality, this system will be used at low-level, very low and very fast. I need to be able to show what the effect would be from one of these ‘events’, as you call them, occurring at various phases of flight.”

  The grandmother clock struck midday on the other side of the kitchen door; Millie glanced at his watch.

  “Well,” said the professor, “once we know the frequency of the events, and the percentage variance, we should be able to apply that to different flying circumstances. In fact, this is precisely the type of exercise we set the boys. Usually it involves the weather for some reason. The chance of a certain type of weather event based on historic data which is then used to decide where to build houses, for instance.”

  Millie frowned in confusion.

  The professor smiled. “I’m sorry, I’m rambling. I’ll set this as a theoretical task for a couple of the boys. Leave it with me.”

  “Thank you, Professor. When do you think you might have a result for me?”

  Belkin stood up slowly. “It will take a few days, but I head to Devon for a fortnight on Friday, so it will have to be before then, otherwise you’ll be waiting rather a long time. Why don’t you call me on Thursday evening?”

  “That sounds wonderful, thank you.” Millie nodded at the pile of Top Secret material on the professor’s kitchen table. “Can you destroy this after you’ve got what you need? Is that possible?”

  Belkin scratched his chin. “Well, we do have a rather large and fearsome boiler in the department's basement. I dare say we could make use of the firebox. Unless you would need the physical evidence?”

  Millie pondered. “I can’t be sure, but it’s probably better not to hold on to any of this material a second longer than needed.”

  Belkin nodded. “The furnace it is, then.”

  As they got to the front door, the old professor turned to Millie. “What exactly do you intend to do with the results, Squadron Leader Milford?”

  “I think I’ll start with the station commander. If he buckles to my boss, I’ll go above both their heads to the government minister.”

  Millie was dropped back at 47 Squadron. He didn’t go inside, but instead walked out to the Anson. JR peered into the radial engines, appearing to brush away some dirt.

  “He returns! All go well?”

  “Yes. Thank you so much, JR. You’ve no idea how grateful I am to have you with me.”

  JR wiped his hands on a rag. “Think nothing of it. Whatever it is you’re doing, I can see it’s important to you. Which makes it important to us.”

  Millie followed him back on board and took his seat in the body of the aircraft.

  He watched the experienced pilot’s hands glide over the controls. After pausing for the engine to warm, JR advanced the throttles to taxi.

  A couple of minutes later, they accelerated down the main runway.

  Millie stared down at the countryside through the small window. Largely brown after the heatwave, with occasional tractors and a combine harvester busy at work; an early harvest for the wheat.

  The journey took a few minutes. JR taxied down the western perimeter and paused for Millie to leave the aircraft just beyond the TFU hangar; out of sight of the offices, but close enough to walk back inside.

  No-one paid him any attention as he arrived in the planning room.

  He checked his locker. Not much left. A few pages of schematics, two of the early test tapes. He might need the schematics, but it was too risky to keep the tapes.

  Then there was the material still at his house.

  He could have a bonfire this weekend. A nervous chat over the fence with Jock MacLeish as Top Secret papers went up in smoke behind him.

  He shut the locker and checked his notebook for the day’s tasks.

  Reluctantly, he transferred the remaining blank tapes to the safe in the headquarters building.

  He watched, dispirited, as a corporal carefully counted and noted the exact number.

  As the corporal pushed the heavy safe door shut and double-locked it, the opportunity to record any more secret data disappeared.

  Everything now relied on Belkin.

  15

  Tuesday 21st June

  “We’re off to get the second Vulcan,” Rob said to the growing group of men who made up the Guiding Light project. They all stood around a map table in their own secret huddle, away from the crowd. “Red and I will fetch her tomorrow. From the afternoon, the boss wants both birds in the air twice a day. We should be able to knock off the remaining hours in no time, maybe less than a week.”

  “What?” said Millie. “No, no. He’s not said anything to me about this.”

  Rob looked surprised. “The boss said he briefed you yesterday?”

  Millie looked across at Kilton’s office. It must have been part of the half-heard ramblings about the project timetable. Millie hadn’t been paying attention, distracted by the trauma of getting the tapes out of the building.

  “A week? How’s that even possible?”

  “Well, we have forty-eight tapes left to fill, and with two Vulcans available every day, he thinks we could get through them. He wants to invite Ewan Stafford up next week for the handover. Apparently we’re going to demo it to him and that will be that. A good job all round.”

  “Christ,” Millie said, more to himself than anyone else.

  They moved into planning mode. Another trip to Wales. A long winding route at one thousand feet from Shrewsbury down to Swansea.

  “Plenty of time for recording, Millington,” Speedy said, smiling at him.

  Millie stared at him. Unwanted thoughts cascaded into his mind.

  Did they know?

  An hour before they were due to get airborne, Millie walked over to the squadron HQ building where the door to the station commander’s outer office was open. Two secretaries sat at typewriters, tapping away. He coughed and one of them looked up.

  “I need to access some files.” Without replying, the woman picked up a phone and dialled.

  “John, you have your first customer.”

  Moments later, a corporal arrived and led Millie to the safe. As he opened it, Millie exchanged a nod with Periwinkle, who was behind his desk working.

  “Take what you need,” the corporal said.

  Millie withdrew six reels from the pile. The corporal made a careful note of each item. Millie checked the dwindling stack of cardboard sleeves. Forty-two left.

  Last week he needed to get extra blanks into the aircraft and run the machine as much as possible. Today, it was the opposite.

  He needed time.

  They brought the Vulcan to life. Millie locked his seat and tested his straps.

  The pilots went through the checklists and spoke to air traffic control.

  Millie loaded the first tape out of habit. They all contributed to the completion of the project now. Fewer, not more, was the new order of battle.

  He waited until they were established at one thousand feet, held on for another minute, then started the recorder.

  The run was bumpy.

  Around eighteen minutes in, Millie lifted the plastic cover from the two rotating reels.

  He studied the tape’s intricate journey through the mechanism. It wound through two rubber rollers which stretched it over two metal heads, which he assumed contained the magnetising process. He pulled a pencil from his coveralls and gently pressed the left side rubber rollers together. Immediately the tape curled up and out of the machine. He stabbed at the stop button, dimly recalling instruction on how to deal with a jam. He began to wind the tape back onto the right-side reel, then stopp
ed the process, leaving the tape loose and hanging out of the recorder.

  To his right, Steve Bright looked bored.

  Millie unclipped one of the reels and lifted it up, with the magnetic tape trailing back into the recorder.

  “Something’s jammed,” he said, and Bright looked across. The navigator leaned closer and squinted.

  “Do you know how to un-jam it?”

  “I think so. Will take a while, though.”

  Millie fiddled with the mechanism for as long as he felt he could get away with it, before eventually appearing to free the tape from the clutches of the machine. He slowly loaded a second reel, just as they turned toward the final waypoint of their low-level run.

  As they emerged from the Vulcan, Millie reported the tape jam to Rob, to add to the list of aircraft defects.

  “What does this mean?” Rob asked him. “Can we still use it?”

  Millie removed his helmet and ran his hand over his sweaty head, enjoying the cool air. “No, I’d rather they looked into it. We don’t want to waste precious time in the air. I only got two tapes done this time.”

  Rob sighed. “Fine. Can you speak to engineering?”

  “I am still the project leader, Rob. It’s my responsibility to ensure we get the hours flown as well.”

  “Yes. Of course, Millie. Sorry, old boy. It’s just you know how Kilton is about this. He’s worried.”

  “He’s always worried.”

  Millie headed off to engineering. He looked at his watch and stopped.

  He would report the defect later in the day. That should take the aircraft out of action tomorrow morning.

  16

  Wednesday 22nd June

  Millie smiled when he saw the annotation U/S appear next to Vulcan XH441 on the admin board. The jet was unserviceable while they looked at the tape recorder.