Джеймс Блатч - The Final Flight

The same went for the interior of the vehicle itself.

He simply couldn’t risk transferring the tapes through the checks. There had to be another way.

At TFU, he took his seat at the meeting to help tighten security even further.

“We need to be certain our system is watertight,” Kilton began. “No papers going astray, everything accounted for. The cabinets, for instance. How secure are they?”

“They’ve got padlocks,” Speedy Johnson offered.

“They look weak. Beef them up.”

Speedy added a line to his to-do list, and Millie made a mental note not to answer questions in case he got lumbered with an impossible task.

But Kilton looked directly at him. “And what about the lockers?”

“What about them?”

“Are they secure, Millie? What do people keep in them? We need to do an audit.”

“An audit?” His heart thumped.

“Yes. Search them all. Make sure there’s nothing compromising and remind people they’re for unclassified jumpers and hats, not secret project paperwork.”

A familiar prickly heat crept up his neck.

Kilton stared at him.

“Well?”

“Well what, sir?”

“Wake up, Millie! Can you carry out the audit?”

“You want me to? To search people’s lockers?

“If it’s not an inconvenience. Yes, please.”

“Yes, boss. No problem at all.”

“Right, have I missed anything?”

“What about when we fly out?” Millie said.

“What do you mean?”

“Land-aways for instance? We carry secret equipment and its paperwork all the time. What do we do at another airfield? I mean, it’s unlikely, I know, but one of us might accidentally carry classified documents to another station, leave them in a meeting room, or even on the aircraft while we brief or…”

Suddenly, he saw it: the only way to get the reels out of West Porton and avoid the security forces at every gate.

He could fly them out.

Except, like the world’s most colossal idiot, he had just alerted Mark Kilton to the option. The only loophole he could conceivably have exploited was about to be closed.

Kilton looked impatient. “You OK, Milford?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, you’re absolutely right. We need a procedure in place. From now on, all land-aways must be authorised by me personally. A security officer can sign classified material out of the building and back in again. Excellent idea.”

“Won’t the chaps resent this, boss?” Speedy asked. “They might feel like they’re being spied on?”

“I don’t care what they think. This is for their own protection. To ensure they don’t make a mistake that could cost us, and them, dear.” Kilton stood. “Right, well, let’s be getting on with it.”

The meeting broke up; Millie stayed in his seat.

He thought back to the recent land-aways. He’d been to Oakington for a meeting with Red Brunson and Wyton a few weeks earlier. He and Rob flew to Warton in the Canberra. On any of those trips, he could so easily have carried an extra bag.

He could have packaged the tapes into a parcel and posted them to his own home address, or directly to Belkin.

But that door was closed now.

And he had closed it.

SUSIE LISTENED INTENTLY. She needed to remember every detail.

Since the gas bomb had dropped, the camp felt galvanised and ready for action.

And she was part of the raiding party. A team of just six.

Megan paced the wigwam.

“We now know what they’re hiding.”

The room went quiet. David stood up.

“Sampson has extracted vital information for us.”

So, the mysterious blond man had a name. But how could he have extracted the information?

“The secret squadron occupies the large green hangar on this side of the airfield,” David continued. “The collection of old aircraft on the other side is a maintenance facility. Much less interesting.”

Megan spoke again. “Sampson has befriended a serving member of the squadron. This man has unwittingly passed on some very interesting information. There’s something fitted to a white Vulcan. A Top Secret project. He believes the project is called Guiding Light. He claims not to know any more than that. He’s probably telling the truth. That’s how secret Guiding Light is. Even people inside TFU aren’t aware of the details. So, we’re going to blow it wide open”

David picked up a camera. “We have two tasks once inside. Take close-up photographs of whatever is on the aircraft, and retrieve any paperwork relating to Guiding Light. For that purpose, we’ll split into two teams.

“We will arm the aircraft team with this camera and a light. The paperwork team will have a rucksack and some tools to open filing cabinets and drawers.”

“We have an extensive set of keys accumulated over the years,” said Megan. “Most hangar doors use the same locks and we’re confident we’ll find a match. But it may take a while to go through them, which means we won’t have long on the inside. Do not restrict yourselves to just Guiding Light. Pick up anything relating to nuclear, biological and chemical weapons.”

“Right, let’s get down to the detail,” David said. He led the group to a trestle table with a hand-drawn map of the airfield and lists of times. Susie was impressed. It turned out all the lying around by the fence had a purpose. They had meticulously noted the times and nature of the security patrols for weeks.

“We’ve identified our best chance,” Megan said. “Overnight on Friday through to Saturday.”

“They call it Happy Hour,” David continued, “but as far as we can see, it starts mid-afternoon and finishes in the small hours of the morning.

“The men are drunk and behaviour around the gate becomes erratic. The guards congregate around the entrance, leaving the rest of the airfield unpatrolled. 2.15AM is our chance.

“The two wire cutters will remain at the fence, so if you’d prefer not to be part of the team that goes all the way in?” He looked expectantly at the group.

Susie raised her hand. But Megan intervened.

“No. She’s small. We need her with us.”

A range of implements were laid out on an adjoining table, from heavy jemmies to tiny Allen keys. David placed an Olympus camera in the centre of the tools.

MILLIE SEARCHED the lockers as requested.

He found a couple of items that shouldn’t be there, including a flight plan annotated ‘G/L’ in Speedy Johnson’s own cubby hole.

Nothing too sinister, but Millie dealt with it quietly, directly with Johnson.

After finishing the lockers, he went out of the airfield door and stood in the June sunshine. Leaning back against the red brick extension that nestled at the base of the large hangar, he took out a packet of cigarettes.

A long draw on his John Player Number 6 went some way to calming him down.

On the apron in front of him stood the Guiding Light Vulcan, ready for its afternoon trip. He looked at his watch and realised he had only forty minutes to prepare.

He dropped his cigarette and stamped it out.

A noise caught his attention. He looked across the runway to see a lumbering Valetta taxiing up toward the eastern threshold.

The Maintenance Unit. The Graveyard.

In that moment he envied them, recovering withdrawn aircraft from around the country and ferrying them to final resting places.

No secrets, no pressure, no paranoid security.

He watched the Valetta lining up on the main runway.

No-one searches their lockers.

And no-one checks their aircraft.

The old men of 206 MU. Those wonderful old men and their eccentric flying machines.

No-one pays them any attention. Kilton would have got rid of them if he’d had his way, but for once he hadn’t had his way.