Джеймс Блатч - The Final Flight

Jock nodded. “I agree. Doesn’t seem the right response, does it?”

“It wasn’t like this at Boscombe Down. We took it seriously, someone dropping a clanger like that would be for the high jump.”

“Aye. But this is the empire of Mark Kilton and if he finds it funny, so do we.” Jock gave him a friendly slap on the shoulder and wandered off.

BEFORE HE DROVE off the station, Millie called in at the sergeant’s mess. He stood in the entrance, not wanting to overstep his welcome without a proper invite. But after a quick search it was clear Nigel Woodward wasn’t there. As he drove out, he took a detour to the Non-Commissioned Officers’ married quarter.

Mrs Woodward opened the door.

“Is he in trouble?” She looked terrified.

“I’m not here in an official capacity, Mrs Woodward. In fact, I just want to check he’s OK?”

She led him in. Nigel was in the kitchen, drinking a beer. Mrs Woodward offered Millie a drink; he declined. She shut the door, leaving them alone.

“What happened, Nigel?”

He looked confused.

“Today, in the Argosy? The gas bomb?”

Slowly, the loadmaster nodded.

“Ah, yes. It went well.”

“Nigel. You released a canister over the peace camp. It wasn’t supposed to go there.”

Again, a slow nodding as if he was hearing this for the first time. “That’s right. They told me that.”

“Who did?”

“Oh, you know. Wing Commander Kilton.”

“Nigel, is everything OK?”

“I think maybe I pulled the pins out and then Mr Brunson flew us up quickly.”

Millie watched him for a moment; he was in a world of his own.

“Maybe go see the doc tomorrow, hey, Nigel?”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Just call me Millie, at least here.” Millie patted his arm and stood up.

As he left, Mrs Woodward stopped him at the door. She lowered her voice. “He’s not been right for a while, if truth be told.” She glanced back.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s his memory. He forgets things. He goes through phases. Good days, bad days. This is a really bad one.”

“Forgets things? What sort of things?”

“My name.”

Millie stared at her.

“He doesn’t want to tell anyone, in case it’s the end of his career. He’s worried about the money, you know, if he can’t work.”

“Of course he is. But he needs to see a doctor.”

Mrs Woodward studied the ground for a moment. “The only person he sees is the landlord at The Black Horse. Goes most nights.”

“That doesn’t sound like a good idea.”

“He says it helps to talk to strangers, but he won’t talk to me.” Tears formed in her eyes.

“Strangers?”

“I don’t know. He’s found some new friend. Anything but face the facts. He’s not right, Mr Milford.” She bowed her head. “Something like this was bound to happen.”

Nigel appeared behind his wife.

“Nigel, you’ve got to go to the medic,” said Millie. “You understand?”

“Oh, I expect I will tomorrow.” He disappeared upstairs.

Millie turned back to the loadmasters wife. “Leave it with me. I’ll see what I can do.”

The buzz from the previous day’s mishap was still tangible. The pilots, used to existing in a vacuum of secrecy, seemed to enjoy announcing TFU’s presence to the outside world, albeit via an avoidable accident.

“Everyone in the meeting.”

A voice from behind. Rob.

“Sorry?”

“Kilton wants everyone in the morning meeting. Think we might be about to get a rocket for yesterday.”

“I doubt that,” Millie said as he lifted his frame out of the chair.

By the time they arrived in the briefing room, it was standing room only. Steve Bright stood up from one of the soft chairs and offered it to Millie.

He laughed. “Am I that old now?”

“No offence intended,” Bright replied, and Millie took the seat.

Loud chatter bounced off the walls as the assembled officers of TFU awaited their boss. Millie could just see Kilton’s bald head at the front, deep in conversation with someone or other.

As they waited, Millie pulled out his handwritten copy of the tape readings. He’d had the numbers since Sunday morning and although he was sure the first field was the clock, he was nowhere near deciphering the second, longer field.

15105550114922

15105550114810

The magic moment of realisation once again failed to arrive.

He heard a voice over his shoulder.

“Is that for today?” Steve Bright nodded at the worn piece of paper.

Millie folded it up and cursed himself for exposing the numbers in such a public place.

“No, it’s nothing.”

Kilton called the room to order and handed over to the weatherman.

A tall, thin bespectacled man switched on the overhead projector. It showed a loosely packed series of isobars over the west of the country with a second system to the north-east.

“This chappie is the cause of the current stability in our weather,” the man said, pointing at the system in the north. “It’s preventing anything moving in from the Atlantic. That said, it will be a little cooler for the next few days. Seventy-five Fahrenheit, rather than eighty. But again, precipitation is unlikely. Locally today, light winds at surface level, but check winds aloft carefully, as they will be up to sixty-five MPH above twenty thousand feet. For those of you venturing further north, expect a strong sou’westerly at surface level above Carlisle, all the way to Orkney.

“The copied bulletin will be in the admin office before 9AM.”

Millie watched as the pilots and navigators made notes.

The weatherman shuffled out with his wad of papers. Kilton stood before them again.

“The station commander has asked me to read out the following notice.”

There were a few titters as the boss theatrically rolled his eyes.

“ The standards to which we must aspire were not present in TFU yesterday. The inadvertent release of a container of irritant was a serious error. It places us in an embarrassing position with our neighbours and it has exacerbated an already fractious relationship with the peaceful campaigners, currently exercising their democratic right .” More titters around the room. “ While we have avoided the need for a full Board of Inquiry, I expect those responsible to be left in no doubt that we expect and demand more from the officers and men stationed at RAF West Porton .”

Kilton looked up from the wooden rostrum.

“So that’s us told. Please don’t bomb the peace campaigners.”

The men laughed.

“In all seriousness, we do not wish to draw unwanted attention to ourselves, so no more slip-ups, however hilarious they may be. Now, while we’ve avoided a drawn out and pointless inquiry, we are suffering some consequences. We need to step up vehicle searches.” The room groaned and Kilton put his hands up “I know, I know, but they are there to protect our secrets. I don’t need to remind you that many of our projects lose what value they have if exposed. So let’s be patient with the men at the gate who are doing a good job. In addition, the station commander has ordered each unit to carry out a review into their own security arrangements. So, execs, I need you round the table with me tomorrow morning at 8AM. This takes priority, so rearrange flying around it.”

The four squadron leaders in the room, including Millie, grumbled at the unwanted invitation.

Not only was there no conceivable way to get the reels in his locker out of West Porton, but he was now part of the committee ensuring his options would be even more limited.