Джеймс Блатч - The Final Flight

Kilton sat down, having had the last word. There were no more speeches. It was a ball, not a dining-in night.

Millie drained his glass. He and Georgina walked out to the anteroom while they cleared the tables for the dancing.

They found their place by a window. Millie looked out at the darkening skies.

He recalled the moment that morning when it looked like the project had been brought to a premature end. Then later being told the items had been recovered.

He assumed it was some kids maybe, looking for cash or something valuable, and imagined them cursing the drab papers and reels.

So there was no need to cancel his trip to RAF Abingdon and onto Oxford on Monday.

THREE MORE DRINKS and one hour later, he was dancing with Georgina, followed by Sarah Brunson, then with Diana Johnson.

And then with Mary May.

Anxiety ebbed away with the alcohol.

Mary was tipsy and fun. The band played ‘In the Mood’. They laughed together as Millie struggled to bring any kind of coordination to his movements.

When the tune finished, he thanked Mary for her charity and they fell down into nearby seats. Rob and Georgina joined them and they ordered a fresh bottle of wine.

They danced more and drank on until the first grey notes of dawn filtered through the mess windows.

A rumour went around: an expedition to Stonehenge was planned.

“It’s your last RAF ball,” said Georgina to Millie. “Let’s make it memorable.”

Millie and Rob followed as the women linked arms and skipped out to the cars.

A few minutes later, Millie pulled on the handbrake, on the side of the A303, and they stepped out into the orange dawn light.

The four of them walked across the grass toward the giant Neolithic slabs.

They weren’t alone. A crowd of youngsters occupied the place: the early twenties set. Despite the warning notices, they climbed over the stones, laughing and hooting.

The four of them stood in the cool air, the men in black tie and the women in ball gowns and furs. They looked like they’d just walked off the set of a David Niven film.

Georgina nodded to the youngsters. “Do you think these are the traitors Mark was warning us about?”

“Treachery will be met by swift and vicious justice!” Mary said in a mock deep voice. More laughter.

Millie stole a glimpse of Rob, pleased to see him joining in with the smiles.

He hugged himself and watched the youngsters on the stones. They didn’t seem to have a care in the world.

“I wonder what they think of us?” Mary asked.

“We’re the squares, no doubt,” Georgina said.

The sun climbed above the eastern horizon. A perfect disc diffused by a thin layer of clouds.

Millie smiled to himself at the glorious vision of a star, ninety-three million miles away, rising to give life to their planet.

He felt the first radiated warmth on his face and linked arms with Georgina.

He smiled at her.

“What are you grinning at, Milford?” she said, with a smile of her own.

“Just noticing how absolutely beautiful you are.”

“Oh, Millie, don’t. You’ll make me cry.”

He leant forward and kissed her.

“Come on,” Rob said from over Millie’s shoulder, “let’s get these lovebirds home.”

As they drove slowly along the country road, Millie pondered his plans to expose the Guiding Light flaws. He had become more resolute during the day, but time was no longer on his side. The logistics were going to be more difficult than ever.

Had Kilton’s angry, panicked speech been inspired by genuine fear for the security of the country? Or out of fear that his own secret might still be insecure?

The bluster was bearable for one reason.

He had a plan.

On Monday it would take a giant step forward.

Just after 7AM. Susie heard a noise in the corridor outside. Doors clanged, and she heard the familiar voices of her campmates.

Finally, her own door swung open. A young police constable stood in the frame.

“Out to the front desk, please. Queue for your personal effects.”

She emerged and saw her earnest peace colleagues, looking worse for wear, shuffling to the front of the police station.

She joined the queue to retrieve personal effects.

At the front, Megan was arguing.

“You’re supposed to charge us. What about the trial?”

“You’re being released without charge, miss. Be grateful.”

Two constables ushered them out onto the street. The group trudged back to the camp; a walk of three miles.

The field was a mess. Tents collapsed, clothes strewn around the entrances. They had combed the place.

It didn’t take them long to discover the rucksack of tools was missing.

But the wigwam still stood. Susie wandered over.

“How long do you think they’ll let us stay here?” she asked David.

“We’ve paid the farmer enough to make it worth his while. They won’t get us out without a court order.”

“Do we need to stay now?” Susie asked, glancing toward Megan, who was bent over a stack of boxes. She straightened her back.

“As long as they’re there, we’re here. But you’re free to leave any time, Susie. This isn’t the police station.”

She went back to her boxes, which appeared to be filled with old clothes.

David gave Susie a sympathetic smile as she backed out of the wigwam.

Many were folding up their tents, preparing to leave. It was clear only a hardcore would remain.

With Megan preoccupied, Susie wandered out onto the main road and walked back to the village phone box.

After waiting an age for a teenage girl to finish her call, she entered and paused before dialling, waiting for the girl to leave the immediate area.

Roger answered.

“In on a Sunday, Roger? Don’t you ever take a day off?”

“Not when there’s such excitement in the West Country. Well done, my dear. Plaudits all round. The hairy blond one is in custody. Caught, as planned, red-handed.”

“What will happen?”

“He’ll be held long enough for us to thoroughly drain him of anything useful. After that, it’s up to the plod and West Porton.”

“And what about me?”

“I said well done. What else do you want? A bit soon for a medal.”

“I mean, shall I pull out?”

“Maybe. What’s the situation? Have they gone home?”

“Some have. But the leaders are still here.”

“Then I suggest you stay put. Sorry, love. You must miss a soft bed. How was the police cell, anyway?”

“All part of being on active field service. You should try it sometime.”

“My time will come. Hopefully in a four-star hotel rather than a field.”

She ended the call, too low on energy for another back and forth.

Acall from Jock MacLeish marred Millie’s Sunday afternoon, informing him an all-personnel meeting would take place in TFU at 7.45AM the next day.

As he set off from home he had to hope whatever Kilton had planned would be over quickly. He needed to be on his way to the far side of the airfield before 8AM. After that, it got tricky. He would have to be in touch with ATC en route. The engineering Land Rover had a built-in radio, but he couldn’t very well take that and abandon it all day.

The planning room was packed out. From the most junior aircraft marshaller to executive officers like himself, they had summoned the entirety of TFU.

Millie looked across to the admin hatch, where he could just see reference to his trip to Wyton on a list pinned to the wall. It looked innocuous enough. Above the hatch was a clock displaying the local time. It was already 7.49AM.