Джеймс Блатч - The Final Flight

Millie looked up to find Jock MacLeish standing over him.

“Oh. Unusual, isn’t it? For Kilton to take a junior pilot.”

“Yes. But then Mark Kilton works in mysterious ways, Millie.”

He helped MacLeish with his own project paperwork, instructing him on what could safely remain in his locker or case and what had to be placed in the secure cabinets.

“What would we do without you, Millie?” MacLeish said, and headed off to deposit his trial reports.

After lunch, Millie spent the afternoon on more admin, tea drinking and wondering how the hell he was going to smuggle Top Secret tapes out of the country’s most secure Royal Air Force station.

ROB AND KILTON arrived back at 2.30PM, a long time after they left for a simple check of a pilot’s flying proficiency.

Rob was all smiles on his return; clearly it had gone well.

Millie kept an eye on the clock, trying to judge the best time to leave and avoid a random search.

Best when it’s busy? Quiet? He couldn’t recall many car searches after leaving the mess in the evening. They were generally carried out during the morning and evening rushes.

Jock MacLeish worked at a desk nearby.

“Hey, Jock. Are you heading to the mess tonight?”

“It’s Friday, Millie. Need you ask?”

“Ah, of course. Happy Hour.”

As soon after 4PM as they could get away with, a group left TFU heading to the mess.

Millie stood up, lifted his case, and walked to the door. The case suddenly felt heavy in his hand and he was conscious of every step he took.

He left the planning room and walked the few yards toward the door that opened out into the car park. As he got closer, it swung open and the commanding officer of the RAF West Porton security police walked in.

The man, in smart light blue uniform with green stripes on his sleeves and cap, walked directly toward him.

Millie held his breath, but the officer brushed past him without making eye contact.

He exhaled and headed to his car, placing his flight bag in the passenger footwell.

At the mess, he carefully locked every door before heading inside to the bar.

He spotted MacLeish sitting with the old men of the Maintenance Unit. The Scot waved and held up a pint for him.

Millie took his seat and clinked glasses.

JR, one of the MU pilots, looked as old as the aircraft they flew. His dark, sunken eyes seemed to swallow light. But there was a twinkle in his eye and Millie always enjoyed the old boys’ company.

The beer tasted good.

The room filled with smoke and chatter. Millie spied Rob at the bar, surrounded by the senior test pilots.

Jock informed him that Rob and the boss had landed away at Daedalus, a Navy base near Portsmouth. Had lunch together in the mess, apparently.

Around 8PM, several hours after he’d started drinking, Millie said his goodbyes and headed toward his car. He was a bit wobbly and realised he was not in the best state to cope with his first attempt to smuggle out a tape. Maybe the alcohol would provide Dutch courage.

After two attempts, he persuaded the Rover’s engine to start. He steered through the full car park, peering across the playing-field toward the lights of the main gate.

There was one man on the barrier, maybe a corporal. In the hut next to him, a sergeant with a clipboard.

He got to the main road that ran through the middle of the domestic side of the station and turned left.

Slowing down, he willed the barrier to rise.

Nothing.

The sergeant, complete with clipboard, appeared by the side of his car.

Millie wound down the window.

The sergeant leant down to bring his head level.

“Good evening.”

“Hello,” Millie managed.

“Just a word of caution, sir. We’ve spotted protestors out and about tonight. Best not to stop on the way home.”

“I wasn’t planning to, Sergeant, but thank you for the tip.”

The sergeant nodded, then appeared to scrutinise Millie, before he glanced at his car.

“You haven’t had too much to drink, have you, sir?”

“Certainly not. Just one or two, Sergeant.”

The man nodded again, but didn’t change his expression. He raised himself back up and moved to the front of the hut.

After an age, the barrier slowly lifted.

Millie put the car into first gear, pushed the accelerator with his foot, released the clutch. The car lurched forward and stalled.

His heart pounded.

He waited for the sergeant to reappear, probably convinced that he was drunk.

Before he tried to restart the engine, he forced himself to pause. He put the car in neutral, left his foot on the clutch and turned the key.

It started.

This time, Millie made sure he pulled away with no further issues. He glanced into his wing mirror to see the sergeant staring, his image growing smaller.

Susie woke next to David. She lay still on her back for a while as the tent grew lighter.

Friday evening had taken an unexpected turn; they had shared a long conversation away from the throng around the camp-fire, and at some point he had leant in and kissed her. The sudden feel of his bushy beard around her mouth took her by surprise. But the conversation was excellent, and she felt she’d made progress.

She allowed his advance to unfold.

The sex was predictably disappointing. Perfunctory , was the word she would use if she was back at Cambridge reporting to her girlfriends. But that was neither here nor there.

She quietly pulled on a pair of shorts and a thin jumper, and crawled out of the tent. She glanced back; David was awake and looking at her. She flashed him a smile and left.

The camp was quiet.

She made her way out of the field, onto the main road. The dawn air was cool on her lightly covered body, yet she felt the odd pocket of warmth as the sun began another day of heating England beyond its wildest expectations.

The hot days felt alien to an Englishwoman, reminding her of a childhood camping holiday deep in the south of France where the climate felt as exotic as the foreign language.

A memory floated in. She played cricket with her brothers on the sand, to the bemusement of the locals. Later, she became annoyed with her mother, always pushing her to make friends with the other girls in the campsite.

She entered the village, casually glancing around to ensure she was alone before pulling on the heavy, cast-iron door of the bright red phone box.

MILLIE ROLLED out of bed and made his way to the spare bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

He slowly drew open the curtains, trying not to make any more noise.

The sun was climbing; he guessed it was about 6AM. A movement outside caught his eye: a figure wandering along the road from the direction of the peace camp. A slip of a girl. Somebody’s daughter. How would he feel if, instead of studying maths at Oxford, Charlie was living in a field?

He moved away from the window to a wonky filing cabinet that sat in the corner of the room. An untidy pile of paperwork, to be filed, lay on top.

He opened the top drawer and winced as the rollers complained at the lack of lubrication.

The file he wanted was nestled at the back.

CHARLIE – OXFORD.

Along with Charlie’s formal letter of acceptance from the college, were a series of introductory leaflets for the new student.

He scanned the first few, but saw only notes about college rooms with a heavy accent on the rules they must obey. NO FEMALE VISITORS seemed to be a recurring theme.

On the fourth sheet of paper, he found details of Charlie’s tutor.

Professor Leonard Belkin FRS, CBE.