Джеймс Блатч - The Final Flight

“That’s a B.E.2C, Millie.” JR’s voice over his shoulder. “And no, none of us are quite that old. We keep it up as a reminder.”

“A reminder of what? The good old days?”

“Not exactly,” JR said as he led him into what passed as a planning room, complete with old leather chairs that looked like they’d been thrown out of an officers’ mess as unserviceable. “The B.E.2C was a death trap. Too slow and too difficult to manoeuvre. It should have stayed as a reconnaissance kite, but they kept sending the RFC pilots up to their inevitable deaths. Worth remembering the type of organisation we work for.”

Millie sank into a red armchair.

“So, to what do we owe this rare privilege?”

“I need a lift. To Abingdon. Soon. Preferably Monday.”

JR nodded. “You have about twenty aircraft over there, don’t you? And more pilots than Pan Am. Any particular reason you need a lift from us?”

Millie looked around the room. There were five others in various corners, a couple of men in conversation by the kettle. No-one seemed to be listening in.

“I need to fly below the radar on this one.”

“I see.” JR studied him. After a moment’s pause, he looked across to the couple at the kettle. “Beanie, how’s the Anson behaving?”

“Purrs like a cat on heat.”

“That sounds like a doubtful claim for that heap of rust, but I’ll assume it will get to Oxford and back?”

“A very good chance of success.”

JR turned back to Millie. “What time would sir like his carriage?”

“As easy as that? You don’t need an authorisation?”

“We’re masters of our own destiny here, sort of. We work for Support Command and our boss flies a desk in Brampton. As long as we don’t start a war, he’s happy not to be involved in day-to-day.”

“Must be lovely.”

“It was until TFU turned up. I suspect our days here are numbered.”

Millie sighed. “It’s all a little different over there.”

“Indeed. Anyway, what time on Monday?”

“How about 9.30?”

“Fine. I’m sorry but we’ve lost our own airfield gate, since the security hysteria, so you must drive around the peritrack. If you’re here before 8AM you don’t need to clear it with ATC.”

“Thank you, JR. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”

“Think nothing of it, Millie.” The old pilot stood up.

Millie raised himself from the depths of the armchair. JR stepped forward and offered him an arm. For all the age lines writ into his face, JR was nimble.

As they walked out, JR stopped at the front door. “You can always talk to me, Millie.”

“Thank you. For now, I think it’s best I keep you in the dark.”

“Your decision, old chap.”

Millie headed back across the airfield, careful to give a Twin Pioneer a wide berth as one of the MU team started her up.

Back in the planning room he retrieved a folder from a cabinet labelled TFU GLOSTER JAVELIN ACQUISITION .

At his desk he dialled the number for 64 Squadron at RAF Duxford.

“64 ops, Flight Lieutenant Digby.”

“Hello, it’s Squadron Leader Chris Milford from West Porton here. We’re having one of your Javelins, I believe?”

“Are you? What squadron again?”

“Test Flying Unit.”

“Ah! The unit that dare not speak its name. We were told not to discuss it.” The man laughed.

“Yes, well, it’s not a secret that we’re having one of your aircraft and I just need to make sure we have an engineering plan in place. Can I pop over on Monday to chat with your senior engineering officer?”

“I’ll have to check the SENGO’s around. Stand by, please.” The man went off the line briefly, before reporting back that the appointment had been accepted.

After the call, Millie made sure they marked him as out of TFU on Monday for a meeting at Duxford. They would expect him to take the train, so he went the extra mile and asked for a rail permit.

THERE WAS a problem with the raid plan.

Two more campers were dispatched to confirm the news a lanky young man had brought back from his patrol: the officers’ mess car park was empty, save a few tradesmen’s vans. There was no sign of the usual drinking jamboree.

It was now 6PM, and they had to face facts: the routine they had meticulously noted over previous weeks was not being followed.

Susie’s 4PM call delivered some surprising news of its own. The fourth floor at Leconfield House was happy to let the raid go ahead. They wanted to catch Sampson Parker with incriminating evidence.

He would be a high profile success for the Service, if everything went to plan.

As Roger, her desk officer, had explained what would happen—or what was supposed to happen—she felt the weight of responsibility on her shoulders.

But along with the nerves came excitement.

She knew they had chosen her for this role purely on looks and sex, but here was a chance to gain a significant notch on her belt.

To complicate matters further, in the grand tradition of the Security Service, they were working alone. The RAF were not informed, partly because no-one was forthcoming to them about the secrets held at West Porton.

But as long as it went to plan, they would save the TFU’s backside.

As long as it went to plan.

AT 7.30PM, two more campers who’d been sent out on patrol disguised as an evening ramble returned with more news. Susie was called over to the wigwam.

It was a still night. The cloud hung low, trapping in the heat of the day and softening the sounds of wildlife and chatter.

“According to Charlotte and Purdy,” said Megan, “there’s an event in the mess tomorrow, which is why it’s shut tonight. They overheard a delivery man at the main gate. More pertinently for us, half the security men have been sent home. Presumably they’ll be working long hours tomorrow.”

“So we’re on?” Susie asked.

“Yes.”

She felt a rush of nerves in her stomach.

They went over the details once more.

Susie went for a lie down and woke at 11PM. She headed back to the wigwam and found the others searching through a pile of black clothes with a torch.

Megan threw her a pair of slacks and a thin polo neck. She winced at the fashion, but accepted them for the practical purpose.

The minutes ticked by. The wigwam was quiet, save the occasional report from the fence. Patrols were still taking place, but fewer than normal.

At 1.45AM, Purdy arrived to report a patrol had driven past and disappeared back into the main RAF station.

Megan stood up.

“It’s time.”

Outside, Susie heard a vehicle reversing toward them. Puzzled, she looked out of the flaps to see the blond man climbing out of a battered Morris van.

“Sampson Parker,” she said, under her breath.

He opened the rear doors and lifted out a large glass container of liquid and a set of trays. He took the items into the tent without speaking to anyone.

David appeared next to her and whispered.

“He’s setting up a darkroom. He wants to develop the pictures here before they leave the site, just in case.”

They stashed the final tools into rucksacks. Susie noted the camera disappearing into Megan’s shoulder bag.

At 2AM, they gathered behind the tent closest to the fence. David handed Susie a black rucksack. She heard the gentle clang of metal tools within it.

Megan led them. “No talking,” she hissed, even though they were all silent.

The group began a fast jog toward the corner of the field, continuing around the airfield fence, following a pre-planned route. They passed a small collection of derelict-looking buildings and aircraft on the far side of the airfield, including a black silhouette of a large tail-dragging propeller aircraft.