Джеймс Блатч - The Final Flight

He went back into TFU, eager to get the afternoon’s flight out of the way before he could head to the bar and seek a quiet corner with some old friends.

THE FLIGHT WENT BETTER than expected. Not only did Millie capture two tapes on the way out and way back, but at Jock MacLeish’s request they carried out part of the low-level run a second time, allowing Millie to load and record two more extra reels.

He stood in front of his locker, waiting for two of the chaps to walk past before he opened it up. He now had two stacks of reels up against the rear wall, with his jumper barely covering them. It was time to get rid.

He’d been lucky today, extremely lucky. But that wouldn’t last.

He closed the locker and dropped off his flying clothing.

By the time he got back to the planning room and entered the official tapes into the system, it was 5.20PM. He headed to the mess.

Just inside the front door was a notice informing all that the bar would be closed tomorrow night in preparation for the Summer Ball on Saturday.

“No Happy Hour?” said Speedy as he passed the notice with Rob. “It’s a disgrace.”

“Well, it’s the VIP reception,” Rob replied as Millie caught up with them.

Speedy frowned. “What VIP reception?”

Rob looked taken aback, as if he’d said something he shouldn’t have.

“The local dignitaries. Just a few drinks. I believe it’s instead of inviting them to the ball which got rowdy last year. Station Commander’s idea.”

“Really, and who’s invited?” the senior pilot said.

“I’m only going because I’m mess secretary now.”

“You kept that quiet.” Speedy gave Rob a slap on the shoulder as they arrived in the bar. “So you are a high flyer. Remember us won’t you?”

“Well done, chap,” Millie said and shook his hand.

“Thanks, Millie.” Rob beamed back. He and Johnson continued over to a group of pilots at the far end of the bar, leaving Millie on his own.

He looked around the room.

The MU boys usually occupied a circular table in the far corner, but it was empty.

He ordered a scotch and drank it by himself. The nearby group of test pilots laughed loudly at their own jokes.

By 6.30PM it was clear the Graveyard men were not showing up.

Millie cursed under his breath, remembering there was no bar tomorrow night.

His locker was full of incriminating evidence, and he still had no way to safely transfer it to Belkin.

The cold woke Susie up. That was a first. She’d arrived during the heatwave but now the nights carried a chill.

Her watch said 6.10AM. She wound it for the new day and dressed.

As the village church bells struck 7AM, she was back at the village phone box, dialling a familiar London number.

A man’s clipped voice answered. “Yes.”

“It’s Susie.”

“Ah, Twiggy. How the devil are you?”

“What did you call me?”

“We’re calling you Twiggy now. She’s a model, was on the front page of the Express yesterday. Looks like a boy, curious isn’t it? Anyway, you fit the bill.”

“You think I look like a boy, Roger?”

“Well, you have short hair.”

“Right, well, how about shutting up and taking down some notes?”

“Keep your short hair on. Let me get a pen.”

She tapped her foot.

“Go ahead, Twigs.”

She sighed. “They’re planning a raid on RAF West Porton. This secret squadron I mentioned, it’s the target. Apparently it’s called Test Flying Unit, and there’s a project called Guiding Light. They seem to know what they’re doing. TFU may have a leak.”

“It sounds like you know more about West Porton than we do.”

“I thought we knew everything?”

“It’s time to stop believing what they told us in training, dear. Even Her Majesty’s Security Service hits a brick wall sometimes. We do know something about TFU. It’s independent of the squadron structure. Set up last year to handle the sensitive stuff. But, and this is odd, we know very little more. The unit has a direct line of command to Whitehall, so our usual sources aren’t much help. What we do know is one of their projects has Downing Street’s attention.”

“Guiding Light?”

“That, we don’t know. But you might be right. We do however know the identity of your mysterious blond gentleman.”

“Sampson?”

“Yes, well, that confirms it if you’ve heard that name as well. Sampson Parker. A dangerous sort. Got a bunch of ne’er-do-wells all the way into Faslane last year.”

“The Polaris subs?”

“Indeed. They ended up doing some damage a few feet away from Britain’s independent nuclear deterrent. He was clever enough to stay outside the wire, so they couldn’t pin anything on him. But you say he’ll be on the raid tonight? That could be useful.”

“No. He’s not part of the raid itself. Just seems to be the brains behind it.”

“Same MO as Faslane. Disappointing. The plan was to let the raid go ahead and nab him red-handed.”

“That might still be possible. He’s due to receive what we find and take it off site in the small hours.”

“I see. Well, I’ll pass that up the line and they can decide what should happen. Good work. You’ll need to check in later. Let’s say 4PM, unless something changes significantly at your end.”

A LAND ROVER lurked in the shadows, in the corner of the TFU hangar. It was used by the engineers and mechanics to ferry parts and people around. The junior engineering officer was happy to let Millie borrow it for a run across the airfield.

He climbed in and found the key was already in the ignition, next to a note telling drivers to inform air traffic control before they drove on the active taxiways.

Millie cursed but then noticed a large radio built into the underside of the dashboard.

He followed instructions pinned next to the ignition switch to pre-heat the coil for thirty seconds, glancing around the hangar, hoping no other officers noticed him.

The vehicle spluttered into life and he edged out onto the apron.

A Victor taxied nearby, and he was suddenly aware of the small vehicle’s vulnerability.

Switching on the radio, he heard the end of a sign-off from the Victor crew. He waited for them to finish and keyed the press-to-transmit button.

“Tower, this is the TFU Land Rover. I need to cross the airfield to the Maintenance Unit.”

Millie followed instructions to use the southern taxiway and wait at the western threshold. As he got closer to the end of the runway, he looked out of the right hand window at the peace camp.

A group of the protestors were gathered outside a white wigwam in the centre of the field. From this range, Millie could see their faces: young men and women. In other circumstances, he would describe them as fresh faced, but it looked as if rough living had taken its toll.

He pulled up in front of thick white lines that marked the boundary of the runway and called the tower again, as instructed. They told him to wait.

Millie opened the door and stood next to the vehicle. Looking back down the runway, just visible above an undulation that took it a few feet down, was a distinctive white tail.

Through the heat mirage, the shape of the Victor emerged, just as it lifted into the air.

Millie plugged his ears as the four jet engines climbed overhead.

The radio crackled into life with clearance to cross and five minutes later he found himself in the drab interior of 206 Maintenance Unit.

The walls were covered with faded photographs of ancient aircraft. Millie squinted at a black-and-white print of a biplane that had two machine guns mounted in front of an open cockpit.