by James Blatch
The guards also stopped the vehicle in front.
Out stepped Dave Berringer.
Rob leant all the way forward, as if tying his shoelaces. With heart thudding, he kept his head down.
JR got back in the driver’s seat.
“Everything all right? Do you think you’ve been seen?”
“Is the person in front still out of their car?” Rob asked.
“There’s no car in front of us.”
Rob unfolded himself. “OK. Let’s go.”
They turned immediately right after the gate and separated themselves from the main station and TFU traffic.
JR drove up to an airfield entrance beyond the officers’ mess and they made their way around the peri-track.
At the Maintenance Unit, JR led Rob to the flying clothing store: a series of cardboard boxes that wouldn’t have looked out of place at a jumble sale.
He picked through until he found coveralls that just about fit him. He also picked out a tatty leather flying helmet with earphones built in. It smelt musty; maybe it had seen action in the last war.
They headed to the aircraft as quickly as possible. Rob had no desire to line up and taxi anywhere near any TFU aircraft.
JR took command. Rob scanned the pilots’ notes.
In a small cloud of black smoke, the two engines fired up one after the other. After waiting for the temperatures to rise, JR made the radio calls and they taxied out.
“Mr Stafford for you.”
Jean’s cheery voice grated with Kilton’s mood. He snatched the receiver.
“What?”
“Good morning to you, too, Mark.”
“I’m busy.”
“I need to know we’re on for tomorrow. The minister’s meeting the Board this afternoon and he’ll want reassurance.”
“I told you, we’re doing it,” Kilton hissed. “I’ve already assured Buttler. The government want this more than you do and they’re not in the mood for hearing bad news.”
“And the missing tapes?”
“Milford’s dead. We can assume that inconvenience died with him. Look, I haven’t got time for this. I’m going flying. Just be here tomorrow. We fly after the funeral.”
“Right, and Rob May? I know you had your concerns about him.”
Kilton paused.
“Don’t worry about May. He’ll do as he’s told.”
“Good. General Leivers is waiting for the word, and the UK is waiting for the money. Can I be assured there’ll be no more surprises?”
“Just be here tomorrow, Stafford. You’ll get your signature.”
He hung up and pushed open the adjoining door to Jean’s office. “No more calls. I have to go flying.”
In the planning room, he found Red. “I’ll take Rob’s place. He’s ill, apparently.”
“Well, we’re getting ready to go. Do you want to see the route?”
Kilton looked over the chart; it looked straightforward. Departure to the west, runs at two thousand and then one thousand.
“Can we get going? I’ve got a lot on.”
“Sure thing, boss.”
Red looked around for Berringer and Smith. “We’re going!”
Berringer looked surprised to see Kilton standing next to him. He put his mug down and came over, along with Smith, a young navigator.
“Ready.”
Kilton worked in silence to pull on his coveralls, before he walked to the airfield door with Red. Together they waited for the others.
Impatient, he led Red out onto the apron. The marshallers towed a Victor out of the hangar to the right, while straight ahead was their Vulcan, hunched on its main gear, waiting.
A whine of props drifted over the wind and Kilton watched as an old Anson rumbled along the opposite taxiway.
“Bloody people. Make the place untidy.”
“The lineys?” said Red, watching the junior ranks busying themselves around the jets.
“The Graveyard. After Guiding Light, I’m going to expand our operations. We’ll need that space.”
Eventually, Berringer and Smith appeared next to them.
The crew walked to the aircraft.
Kilton hauled himself up the yellow ladder into the belly of the bomber, leaving Red to do the walkaround.
He settled into the co-pilot’s position on the right, happy to let Red do most of the work.
Outside, the Anson wound up to full chat and started its laborious roll down the runway. The captain looked like JR; he must have been older than the bloody aircraft he was ferrying to the knacker’s yard.
Kilton squinted.
Some youngster with him?
Unusual for that lot to be working with someone who didn’t have one foot in the grave.
Red appeared. He strapped in, and donned his US-made helmet.
“You look ridiculous,” Kilton said, appraising the mirrored visor.
Red laughed and pulled on his oxygen mask. Between them, they brought the Vulcan to life.
With the four engines at a roar, Brunson taxied to the westerly runway and accelerated into the sky.
They settled into the cruise, ploughing through the air for fifteen minutes.
As they began their descent, Red made some notes and Kilton noticed the Guiding Light panel light up; clearly, Berringer was getting ready.
“What’s wrong with him?” asked Red.
“Who?”
“Rob. You said he was ill. What’s wrong with him?”
“I don’t bloody know. I didn’t ask him.”
“Who’s ill?” Berringer piped up over the intercom from his position in the rear crew bay.
“Rob May.”
There was a pause before Berringer spoke again. “He looked OK this morning.”
Kilton’s head turned. “What do you mean?”
“At the main gate. He looked fine. He was with that old bloke from the Maintenance Unit.”
“Turn the jet around,” Kilton barked into his oxygen mask.
“Sorry?” Red said, but Kilton didn’t wait any longer.
“I have control,” he said, and grabbed the column and throttles, throwing the jet into a steep bank.
“What’s going on?” Red asked.
Kilton levelled on an easterly heading and released the controls.
“Just fly us back, and tell ATC we’re a priority.”
Even in the lumbering Anson, the trip to Abingdon was a short hop.
JR positioned them to the south-east to join the downwind leg for the southerly runway. Rob did little more than help with flaps and settings. As they lined up, he looked across the RAF airfield to the town, and just visible about ten miles beyond was Oxford.
JR’s experienced hands nudged the throttles as he fine-tuned their final descent; smooth as silk, the wheels caressed the runway.
“Nice landing,” Rob said.
“You have to treat these old girls with care,” JR replied, without taking his eyes off the white lines disappearing under the nose wheel as they rolled out.
Rob let JR make the radio calls and they headed toward the clusters of hangars and buildings.
“Where exactly did you drop Millie?”
JR pointed to an apron to the right of the largest hangar. “It’s used for visiting aircraft, and we have to sign in over there.” He nodded to a single-storey structure on the other side of the apron. “It’s 47 Squadron. Friendly bunch.”
After he’d shut down the two Cheetah engines, JR ran through the checklist.
“You can go, Rob. I’ll wander over to the squadron later for a cup of tea. Good luck.”
Rob entered the 47 Squadron building and approached what looked like an operations desk.
The place was busy, but each person who bustled past said a cheery good morning.
“I need to sign in a visiting aircraft, please.”
The desk sergeant smiled. “Welcome to RAF Abingdon,” he said, as he turned a visitors’ logbook around in front of him.
Rob opened it and m
ade his way to the last entry.
29/6/66 – Lightning 1A – XM184 – Fl Lt RWA Meakins – Diversion (fuel)
He fished a pen out of his coveralls and recorded an entry for their flight. He wrote slowly, waiting for the right moment, as the sergeant turned away.
He quickly flicked the page back and scanned the list of entries. His eyes stopped as he read the name.
Sq Ldr CJ Milford
He brushed the entry with his finger.
The rest of the line read:
Anson – TX183 – MT
Rob tapped the desk for a moment. MT only stood for one thing as far as he knew.
He completed his own entry in the log, adding ‘X-Country Navex’ as a vague reason for his visit.
He pushed the book back toward the sergeant. “I wonder if you could point me toward MT?”
“Have you booked some transport, sir?”
“Actually, no. I was hoping they’d be able to help me?”
“I can ask.” The sergeant picked up the phone. “Where are you headed?”
“Just local.”
The sergeant furrowed his brow.
“Got an officer in need of car at 47 Squadron. Can you oblige? No, I’m not sure.” He cupped the receiver and looked at Rob. “Do you have a requisition?”
“Yes,” Rob lied.
The sergeant finished the call. “Someone will pick you up from here shortly.”
He pointed at an old sofa that lined the wall opposite the desk. Rob walked over, but before he sat down, he removed his flying coveralls and folded them into the holdall.
He crossed his legs and did his best to hide his nerves.
After a few minutes, a corporal appeared at the desk holding his cloth beret. The sergeant pointed at Rob and the man came over.
“You need a transport, sir?”
“Yes, please, Corporal.”
Rob stood up and walked out. A grey Austin 10 staff car sat next to the entrance. Rob winced; it was the sort of official vehicle normally reserved for senior officers.
As the corporal opened the door for him, he tried to summon his most casual tone.
“Actually, Corporal, I have a slight problem, in that I’ve only gone and lost the actual address I need to visit. I wonder if you could help?”
“I’ll try, sir. Do you know the name of the person? Or is it a company?”
“My colleague visited the place at the beginning of last week and I think the MT section provided the transport. Maybe you have a record?”
The corporal didn’t look best pleased. “We have records in the office, sir. Do you know exactly when this took place?” He spoke slowly, clearly reluctant to have to go back to his office and rifle through the cards.
“20th June, in the morning. Wing Commander Milford.”
“Right. Perhaps you could write that down?”
The driver sat behind the wheel and turned, handing Rob a notepad and pen. Rob wrote Millie’s name and the date, and they made the short journey to the MT office.
Kilton fidgeted while Red brought the Vulcan onto a short final.
By the time the last engine had shut down, he was out of his seat and disembarked through the hatch, leaving the others scratching their heads.
Still in his coveralls and Mae West, carrying his helmet and oxygen mask, Kilton marched into the planning room and headed straight to his secretary’s office.
“Get me security, now.”
At his desk, he fell into his seat, crashing a fist onto the table.
The phone rang; he snatched at the handset. “Kilton.”
“Squadron Leader Hoskins for you.”
There was a click.
“Hoskins, Rob May called in sick this morning, but I’ve had a report he entered the station with a dinosaur from the Maintenance Unit. I don’t know what he’s up to, but there’s a good chance he’s trying to interfere with the project. I need him tracked down and arrested immediately.”
“OK. Are you sure? Shouldn’t we check his house first?”
“Check everywhere!”
Kilton hung up and stared at the phone for a moment.
He left the office and walked through the planning room out onto the apron.
Looking across the airfield, his eyes rested on the ramshackle nest of huts and hangars that made up the Graveyard.
“Damn this.”
After a short trip in the TFU Land Rover, Kilton marched into the MU crew room.
Two men—one slumped into an old sofa and one standing at a desk—stood up as he entered.
“Who’s in charge? Where’s JR?”
“He’s flying,” said a pilot by the sofa.
“Where? Who with?”
Furtive glances between the men.
“Tell me!”
“He’s taken an officer to a meeting, I think.”
“Which officer? What meeting? Come on, don’t you keep records?”
The man by the tea bar pointed at a sheet on the wall.
“It just says ‘transport’. Not sure of the destination. But he’ll be back at some point. I can have him visit TFU if you like, sir?”
Kilton walked up to the sheet and scrutinised it.
Anson – TX183 - Transport
“Who was the officer?” he barked.
“Not sure.”
Kilton turned and walked toward the man; he wore squadron leader stripes.
“Do you have any idea how much trouble you’re in? Now, I’ll ask again. Where have they gone?”
“I’m sorry, Wing Commander Kilton. I don’t know. As I say, I can send them over when they return.”
“You won’t need to.”
As the car pulled away from the MT compound and toward the exit from RAF Abingdon, Rob turned a small square of paper over in his hand.
Rhodes Cottage, Merton Street, Oxford
The main gate was a lot more relaxed than West Porton’s. He wound down the window and sat up.
If Susie was watching, he needed her to see him.
They passed through the gate. A blue MG turned in, blocking his view. The corporal swung left onto the main road and sped up.
Rob shifted in his seat, craning his neck to look back at the entrance.
Susie was at the wheel of her Herald, parked about fifty yards away from the airfield entrance. She was reading a newspaper.
As they left her behind, he willed her to look up.
She didn’t.
They reached a roundabout, maybe half a mile from the gate. The Herald still hadn’t moved.
“Everything all right, sir?” said the corporal. Rob looked forward to see the man staring at him in the rear-view mirror.
“Fine, thank you.”
Rob kept his eyes fixed ahead. Why the hell hadn’t she spotted them leaving?
Thirty seconds after they navigated around a roundabout, the distinctive blue car flashed across the wing mirror.
He whipped his head around and saw Susie, with her black bob of hair returned, about fifty yards behind.
Before long, they were on the outskirts of the city.
Rob had never been to Oxford; he felt like they were driving onto the set of a film. Sandstone college buildings as far as he could see; spectacled men in corduroy jackets on bicycles, gliding around the car.
The car slowed to turn into a narrow road. Rob looked back and could just see Susie’s car two vehicles behind.
“Are we close?” Rob asked.
“It’s just down here, sir. Next left.”
“Actually, Corporal, I think I might walk the rest of the way, as it’s a nice day.”
The driver pulled over and looked back at him. “Are you sure, sir?”
“Yes, it will be good to get some fresh air.”
“What time should I collect you, sir?”
“I won’t need a lift back, thank you, Corporal.”
“Very good, sir.”
Rob climbed out and watched as the Austin drove off in a cloud of smoke.
He turned
to see Susie walking toward him.
“Nice hair.”
“So, I assume you’ve spotted some breadcrumbs, Flight Lieutenant May?”
Rob pointed ahead. “Merton Street. It’s along here. The address Millie was taken to.”
Rhodes Cottage was a terraced Tudor house with a gated drive to one side. The ancient walls were crumbling in places.
Rob and Susie stood at the front porch.
“Let’s see what’s behind the green door,” Susie said, as she knocked.
It was a quiet street; the odd student cycled past.
An elderly woman with a shopping bag ambled along the pavement toward them.
They leant in to the door, trying to detect any sounds of life from within.
Rob knocked again.
“Can I help you?”
The woman with the shopping bag stopped by the door.
“Ah,” said Rob. “Yes.”
She put the shopping down and produced a small bunch of keys.
Susie leant forward and held out her hand. “Hello, I’m Susie, and this is my colleague Robert. We were friends of Christopher Milford. I believe you may have met him?”
The woman gave them a puzzled look and shook her head.
“I don’t think so. You must have the wrong house.”
With that, she pushed her key into the door and picked up her shopping.
“I’m sorry,” said Susie. “Maybe he used a different name. Rob, why don’t you describe him to Mrs…?”
The woman shook her head again and pushed the door open.
Rob gabbled out a description of Millie. “Fifties, balding, bit of middle-age spread. Moustache…” He tailed off, before adding, “and the nicest person you will ever meet.”
The women hesitated as she crossed the threshold into the cottage. She turned and gave Rob a polite smile.
“I wish you luck in finding your friend.”
She closed the door.
Rob looked at Susie; she bent down and opened the letterbox.
“We won’t find him. He’s dead. And that’s why we’re here.”
She stood up again. After a moment, the door opened a crack.
An eye appeared in the gloom of the doorway.
