The Final Flight

by James Blatch

  Rob leant forward. “But Guiding Light was flying us. It can’t have been off. And Millie was right. There was something wrong. Something buried inside it that didn’t work.”

  McClair shot him a look of sympathy. “I’m told you were close to Christopher Milford?”

  “With respect, sir, why is that relevant?”

  “Well, Wing Commander Kilton suggested you may find any blame put on Milford hard to digest. But I have to tell you what we found. The master switch, as you may know, is caged. I’ve inspected the other TFU Vulcan and seen it for myself. The investigators at Farnborough, who have a wide experience of such matters, are determined the crash forces could not have moved the switch. The metal cage guards are not damaged and like all such switches, it requires a specific force. No, it’s an immutable fact of our investigation that the master switch was in the off position and therefore Guiding Light was not operational at the time of the ground strike. The good news for you is that the project continues. I believe you are to resume as early as next week. That is, as long as you wish to? No-one will blame you, Robert, if you ask to transfer to something different.”

  Rob’s head swam. The room was unbearably hot and stuffy.

  “Are you feeling alright, Flight Lieutenant?”

  “I don’t understand… It can’t be...”

  “I can see this has been a bit of a shock for you. If it’s any consolation, I am strongly minded to leave the last possibility out of the final report. I doubt anyone will object and it just seems unlikely to me.”

  “But you find it likely that Millie, with decades of flying experience, accidentally switched off a critical piece of equipment? Endangering his and everyone else’s life?”

  “Accidentally? Yes. I’m afraid we’ve seen it all too often in the past. This is my third Board of Inquiry and I can tell you in all three cases the aircraft were perfectly serviceable but put into a configuration by the crew that led to a crash. It’s far too common unfortunately. Of course, we will never know for sure, but as it stands we have no other conclusions we can draw.” McClair stood up. “Look, I understand this has been upsetting for you. I should probably go now, but please do use this room for as long as you want. It’s booked for the afternoon. It might be a nice place to recover yourself before heading back out.”

  Rob should have stood for a senior officer, but he stayed slumped in his seat.

  McClair loitered for a second.

  “Well, I’ll be off then. Very best of luck, Flight Lieutenant May.” He picked up his briefcase and pushed his chair under the table. “No need to salute.” He headed out.

  His heels clicked on the wooden floor as he departed.

  An image filled Rob’s mind.

  A box of secret conclusions; pages of Millie’s precious, scrawled handwriting.

  Evidence that Guiding Light was fatally flawed, burning on a bonfire.

  He leapt from his seat and walked as quickly as he could without running down the corridor and back to TFU.

  In the planning room he headed straight for his locker, picked out his car keys and turned to find Mark Kilton blocking his way.

  “How did it go?”

  “Fine.”

  “Just fine? Did he explain the BOI’s theory to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. So you know the project resumes flying next week? I’d like to hit the ground running.”

  Rob winced at the clumsy metaphor.

  “We’ll carry out the remaining hours back at one thousand feet just as a precaution,” Kilton continued. “It’s good news for the unit and for you, May. I’d like you to take the lead. We’ll need a signature on the project recommendation and I know I can rely on you.”

  “You want me to take Millie’s place?”

  “I can’t think of a better man for the job. You’ve come a long way in a short time. Don’t let this unfortunate incident put the brakes on a career that has so much promise.”

  “Can I think about it?”

  Kilton looked surprised, then suspicious. “If you must.”

  “Thank you. Now, if you don’t mind, boss. I’d like to go home to Mary. I found the interview rather upsetting.”

  Kilton moved aside.

  In the car park, he started up the Healey and sped out, thankfully avoiding a car search.

  On the way into the village he pulled over into a long lay-by with a phone box.

  He dialled the operator. “Yes, I need a bed and breakfast called Prickwillow.”

  “In which area?”

  “Try Amesbury.”

  A few seconds of pages turning.

  “Nothing listed, I’m afraid. Would you like me to look further afield? How about Andover?”

  “Yes, please. It’s urgent.”

  Seconds ticked by. More pages turning. Other operators in the background.

  “Sorry, sir. There’s a Willows Surgery in Andover, but nothing like Prickwillow.”

  His heart sunk.

  “I could try Salisbury?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Hold on.”

  The line went quiet. More seconds went by. He couldn’t get the image out of his mind: Susie tipping the box onto a raging fire.

  “Please… hurry up,” he said to the silence.

  The line opened again. “Sorry about that. I had to get a different directory. Now, let’s have a look. Porch Hall, Practice… Ah, Prickwillow Bed and Breakfast. It’s Salisbury 2197. Would you like me to connect you?”

  “Can you give me the address first?”

  “Bell View Road. I’ll connect you now.”

  He waited as the line clicked and whirred. The phone rang four times with agonising pauses between each tone. A woman answered, but the pips interrupted her.

  He pulled out a handful of coins; several clattered to the floor. He fumbled a tuppence into the slot, pushing it hard against the clunky mechanism.

  “Susie?”

  “Do you mean Miss Attenborough?”

  He didn’t even know her surname. And what if she’d made up a first name?

  “Susie Attenborough,” said the woman. “Is that who you mean?”

  “Yes. Yes, please.”

  “Please wait.”

  The phone went down, but was quickly picked up again. “Sorry, who shall I say is calling?”

  “Rob,” he said, immediately wondering if he was breaking all her rules.

  The phone went down again. In the background he heard a tap on a door and a mumbled exchange.

  A moment later, Susie’s voice appeared on the line, bright and friendly.

  “Hello?”

  “Have you burned the stuff?”

  “Oh, hello, Robert. How are you? Everything OK?”

  “Have you burned the stuff? Please tell me you haven’t.”

  “It’s all fine here, thank you. No fires. Ha ha. How’s your father?”

  Rob was at a loss. How to take part in this conversation… Clearly the landlady was listening in.

  “So you haven’t burned the stuff?”

  “No, no. Not yet. The weather’s been lovely, hasn’t it? How’s it looking over there?”

  “It’s all changed. They’re pressing on with the project. They’ve blamed Millie for the crash. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Oh, that’s so sweet of you, but really. You didn’t have to. I’ll tell you what. Why don’t I buy the drinks next time? I’ve been going to a very nice place in Salisbury. Do you know The Haunch of Venison? It’s quite famous.”

  “Yes, yes. I do. When?”

  “Oh, you know. The usual. Same, same. Anyway, we mustn’t chat on like this, it must be costing you a fortune. Do give my love to Sandra. Byeeee!”

  She hung up.

  His hand shook as he replaced the receiver.

  Same, same.

  7.30PM sharp?

  He looked at his watch; it was nearly 5PM.

  At dinner, he wrestled with the idea of telling Mary everything.

  But he
decided news of a secret meeting with a young, attractive woman might not go down well and he didn’t need any more complications.

  “I’ve got to head off to the mess. I promised the boys.”

  “OK,” Mary replied and smiled at him.

  He paced the garden, willing away the minutes. At one point he caught Mary staring at him from the dining room.

  Susie’s admonishing first words came to him.

  Act normally.

  The Haunch of Venison was packed. It was a small pub and 7.20PM on a Friday was the middle of the overlap period, mixing office workers and Friday night revellers.

  Smoke stung his eyes as he pushed his way to the bar.

  The landlord, with reading glasses on a chain around his neck, poured a succession of pints before he caught Rob’s eye.

  “I’ll be with you in a moment, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  A voice piped up beside him. “Bloody Friday nights.”

  It was Susie. Still blonde. She flashed a smile.

  “The usual?” he asked.

  “Yes, please. Why not make it a pint? It’ll take a while to get back to the bar.”

  “A pint?”

  Rob couldn’t remember ever seeing a woman with a whole pint.

  A group of drinkers had spilled onto the pavement outside and they headed out with them. A couple of men were clearly taken by this slim blonde with a pint of Guinness.

  They walked along the Tudor exterior of the pub and found themselves a quiet spot.

  “So, what’s changed?” she asked.

  “I had my Board of Inquiry interview today.”

  “I see. And who runs that?”

  “A group captain. They always appoint someone more senior than anyone on board. Anyway, it was all awful, going through it again. But at the end, he said it wasn’t Guiding Light that caused the crash.”

  Susie didn’t look surprised.

  “Did he say what did cause it?”

  “Millie.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “He’s going to blame Millie. He says the master switch on Millie’s Guiding Light panel was off.”

  “So who was flying the aircraft?”

  “That’s just it. No-one. If that was the case, and I’m bloody certain it wasn’t. But if Millie had switched it off, the aircraft would have reverted to manual control. Unfortunately, on this version of the equipment, there’s no alarm that goes off to alert us that the autopilot’s been cancelled. So in theory, the Vulcan just drifts without any input from the crew. In our case, he’s going to say it must have drifted lower until we glanced off the rocks, ripping the elevons off on one side.”

  Susie looked puzzled.

  “So what’s this group captain’s theory? That Millie did it deliberately?”

  “That’s one option, although he says he’s minded to leave it out. But someone, and by someone I mean Mark Kilton, must have suggested to him that Millie did it to trigger a manual intervention from us, which he’d then blame on Guiding Light to prove his point. It’s a neat theory, I’ll give him that.”

  “Rob, is there any chance Milford was that desperate? Maybe he was wrong about Guiding Light, but felt too committed to his theory. Could he have done something like this?”

  “Absolutely not. No.”

  “He was your friend, Rob. Are you being honest with yourself?”

  “I promise you, it’s beyond any possibility that he would have done it deliberately. And frankly, I don’t buy for one second he did it accidentally.”

  “But yet they found the switch in the off position. Do you have any reason to suspect this group captain of anything? You think he’s working with Kilton?”

  Rob thought for a moment. “It’s possible, I suppose, but doesn’t seem likely. Look, I can’t explain it, but I’m certain of a few things. Millie didn’t switch it off. The system failed. And someone is covering that up to keep the project going, despite everything we should know about it.”

  They stood in silence for a moment. The light was fading, and Salisbury’s street lamps were starting to illuminate.

  “Before we go any further,” said Susie, “let’s examine your options. Firstly, the earlier incident you mentioned. Why not use that to have the project grounded? Tell them you regret agreeing with Kilton and get everyone else on board. Go in as a team. Go straight to the station commander.”

  Rob shook his head. “The other people on that flight are dead or gone. Millie and Steve Bright are dead, Brian Hill was effectively sacked from TFU for insubordination. And…”

  “And?”

  “I’d have to say I lied, which doesn’t make me a good witness. Plus, Kilton was right. We had no evidence, anyway. Millie wasn’t running a tape. I just can’t see Periwinkle overruling Kilton based on my say-so.”

  “Periwinkle’s the station commander?”

  “Yes.”

  “OK.” Susie took a deep breath. “Let’s say you’re Millie, coming to me with … what, exactly? That sheet of notes? Is that the evidence I need to take upstairs at my place? I can tell you the burden of proof for corruption is pretty high when you’re dealing with a national security project that reports directly to Whitehall.”

  “The answer’s in there somewhere, I’m sure of it. I just need to decode it. Where is the box now?”

  “Back at the B&B, but they strictly forbid visitors of the opposite sex after 6PM. It’s Saturday tomorrow. How about you come to me in the morning?”

  He nodded.

  “There’s one more thing, Rob. I can’t promise I’ll be here next week. Even telling them the project’s running again might not change their minds. As a matter of fact, I think they’re scared of this one. It’s a huge deal. We go in guns blazing, making serious accusations… We would need to have solid gold evidence.”

  “I can’t let him down again.”

  “I know. But the focus is now on your black-and-white evidence. Nothing more, nothing less. It can’t be about your remorse, Rob.”

  26

  Saturday 2nd July

  The B&B was a red brick Victorian semi. Rob found a parking space close by and walked the short distance, feeling self-conscious in his RAF uniform.

  An elderly woman opened the door; she wore a pinny and had rollers in her hair. Her eyebrows raised as she took in the uniform.

  “Mr Attenborough?”

  Susie appeared behind her.

  “Hello, Robert.”

  “You didn’t tell me your brother was an RAF pilot, my dear,” Mrs Holleroid said.

  “Oh, did I not? He’s the family hero.”

  Rob followed Susie upstairs to the first room on the left. She shut the door and then put her finger to her lips and whispered. “The old bat will listen for a bit.”

  Rob nodded.

  “How was dad when you saw him?”

  “Fine, yes. On excellent form.”

  “Right. So making a good recovery from the heart attack?”

  Rob nodded. “Yes.” He whispered. “I’m not very good at this.”

  She switched on a small transistor radio. A man was reading a tennis match report from Wimbledon.

  Standing by the bed, Susie lifted the mattress and retrieved two black leather pouches. She spread the contents of Millie’s box over the bed.

  “Why the bloody uniform? It’s Saturday.”

  “I had to tell Mary something. I told her I had to work.”

  Rob created separate piles for the papers.

  The technical documents, the most damning to possess outside TFU, were straight from the project folders. But they contained no obvious clues.

  The data sheets were more promising. Two large printouts containing lines of numbers, some of them were circled.

  “I remember these. We saw them early in the project. They came back from DF Blackton.”

  “What do the numbers mean?” Susie asked.

  “They’re height readings from the laser. They’re sent to some sort of magic box that sits b
etween Guiding Light and the autopilot. If I remember rightly, just one reel of tape produced a foot-high pile of paper, so this is just a few seconds’ worth.”

  “That’s a lot of numbers for a few seconds.”

  “The only fact I really remember is that the laser reported half a million height readings every hour.”

  Susie picked up the sheet of Millie’s handwriting and placed it between the two of them.

  Rob stared at Millie’s equations and notations.

  Again, his eyes went to the bottom of the page and the underlined 8.75.

  “This looks like a conclusion. The summary of what he was looking for. I just don’t know what kind of conclusion.”

  Susie walked around the room. The radio now played classical music.

  “Explain something to me. These tapes…” She pointed at the two cardboard sleeves. “You mentioned Millie recording something yesterday, when you talked about the first incident.”

  “That’s how we got all these height readings. Millie recorded the numbers on the reels. We sent them off to DF Blackton and they checked everything. But that was more at the start of the project. In the early days we didn’t engage the autopilot. We just flew about with the laser running, collecting readings so the technicians could look at them.”

  “Look at them? What does that mean? Did they play them?”

  “Sort of. They have a powerful computer which looks at them and makes sense of it all.” Rob picked up one sleeve and tipped the reel onto his hand. “Millie definitely became more interested in these after the incident.”

  “Rob, is it possible Millie was creating tapes for his own assessment of Guiding Light? Is this them?” Susie held up the two reels from the box.

  “It’s possible, but those two tapes would hold a maximum of forty minutes’ flying time. Doesn’t seem like a lot.”

  “Could there be more tapes? Somewhere at West Porton?”

  “I doubt it. Firstly, he’d have to have dozens for anything meaningful and secondly, what’s the point of having them at West Porton? We can’t read them. As far as I know, only the DF Blackton computer can do that.”