Джеймс Блатч - The Final Flight

Kilton emerged from his office and pushed his way into the centre of the room.

Back against the wall, Millie couldn’t see him, save the occasional glimpse of his bald head.

But he certainly heard him.

“One of you has given the enemy an advantage that could cost lives and freedom. One of you is heading to prison. You do not under any circumstances ever discuss any aspect of your work outside of these walls. IS THAT CLEAR?”

General mutters.

“PARDON?”

A louder “YES, SIR!” resonated from all quarters.

Kilton droned on about serving Queen and Country before eventually getting into announcements of new procedures, although he was vague on details.

Millie kept one eye on the clock and another on Nigel Woodward.

The forlorn-looking loadmaster was standing close to the airfield door with his head bowed, shuffling from foot to foot.

Writing off the chance of making it across the airfield in his own car, Millie had to get to Woodward before he said something.

By the time the boss had finished and stormed back into his office, it was 7.58AM.

Definitely too late.

He hurried to a phone on one of the aircrew admin desks.

“JR, it’s Millie. Look, I hate to ask, but is there any chance you could pick me up in one of your wagons, discreetly?”

They agreed to meet at the NAAFI shop at 8.45AM.

Millie headed to the airfield door and made his way to the cramped office used by some of the sergeants, close to the hangar entrance.

Woodward was sitting at a table on his own; Millie closed the door behind him. The loadmaster looked pale and frightened.

“It was you, wasn’t it Nigel?”

He didn’t respond.

“Your wife told me you’ve been drinking your troubles away at The Black Horse. And talking to strangers. In your state that’s not a good idea.”

Finally he looked up.

“Will I go to prison?”

Millie tapped the table while he thought quickly. He pulled out a chair and sat opposite Woodward.

“No-one needs to know. We didn’t lose anything. I can’t see any good coming from it.” Millie shuffled his chair close and looked Woodward directly in the eyes. “But you have to promise me you’ll go to the doctor. Get a full medical.”

Woodward nodded.

“You agreed before Nigel, but you haven’t been. Say it. You’ve got to promise me. I’ll book the appointment myself if needed.”

He shook his head. “I’ll go today.”

“Good. In the meantime, tell no-one you spoke to a stranger about TFU. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“It’ll blow over. But you’ve got to get yourself sorted.”

“What will happen to me?”

“I don’t know, Nigel. But you can’t keep flying and putting yourself and others in danger, can you?”

Woodward bowed his head. Millie glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to go.”

BACK IN THE PLANNING ROOM, he tapped on Kilton’s door.

“Come.”

Millie went in but didn’t wait for Kilton to look up.

“I think Nigel Woodward is unwell.”

“Unwell?”

“Some sort of dementia, I think.”

“Is that why he removed four pins from a payload that was supposed to remain in the aircraft?”

“I think so.”

Kilton leaned back on his chair. “Makes sense. He couldn’t explain himself to me.”

“He’s a couple of years from retirement. I suspect the docs will sign him off flying. Can we keep him on ground duties? Or give him his pension early?”

Kilton dropped his pen on the desk. “We haven’t got space for people who can’t do their jobs.”

“Then let him retire. He’s scared.”

Kilton appraised Millie for a moment. “I haven’t had a medical report yet.”

“You’ll get one soon.”

Kilton nodded. “We’ll see.”

“Thank you.”

As Millie left, Kilton resumed his work. “The trouble with you, Millie, is you’re too soft.”

THE CORRIDOR with the lockers was disappointingly busy.

Just when Millie thought it might be clear, more men appeared, walking back from the equipment counter with helmets, oxygen masks, and other flying paraphernalia in hand.

The clock ticked on.

For the second time in quick succession, he found himself up against a stressful deadline.

He cursed himself for not having a better plan. The locker was too exposed.

It was now 8.38AM. A large group of aircrew pushed open the door to the airfield and disappeared toward their aircraft.

He looked around the planning room at those who remained, either at the tea bar or hunched over charts, drawing lines.

For the moment at least no-one needed flying clothing. The corridor was clear.

He picked up an empty black holdall brought in from home and marched to his locker, dropping it at his feet as he unlocked the wooden door.

One more check to ensure the corridor was clear.

He quickly raised the bag to the open locker and scooped in the bulk of the reels.

He also withdrew his annotation of the fields.

The holdall was nearly full. He could have squeezed in his day jumper as well, to cover the contents. But he couldn’t risk leaving anything behind. This was his one chance to clear his locker of incriminating evidence.

Just as Millie reached in for the final items, someone appeared in his peripheral vision.

He grabbed his jumper and slammed the locker shut, leaving behind a couple of tapes and the Guiding Light schematics.

Dropping the holdall to the ground, he crouched, fumbling with the straps.

Polished shoes appeared next to the bag.

Slowly, reluctantly, he looked up.

Mark Kilton stared down at him.

Millie raised himself upright, clutching the bag to his stomach, as if this would somehow protect his secret.

“There’s something else. Follow me.”

Kilton turned on his heels and walked back to the planning room.

Millie was stunned and for a moment failed to move.

Kilton turned back. “Come on.”

He followed, unable to dispose of the holdall. Kilton loitered at his office door and beckoned him in.

Millie’s eyes were wide with fear. As he moved to the middle of the room, he slowly set the bag down at his feet.

Kilton sat back down behind his desk and peered over it to look at the holdall.

“You flying today?”

“Maybe,” Millie croaked, then cleared his throat.

“What does that mean?”

The phone rang; Kilton thumped on the frosted window behind him and shouted “Not now!”

He turned back. He looked agitated, even more than usual.

“Right,” Kilton began, apparently having forgotten Millie’s stupid answer to his question, “we need to improve our security and everything about this project. We’ve been amateurs, outwitted by hippies.

“We should have expected an attack, Millie. We’ve been wasting time, drawing things out and leaving the project exposed.”

The TFU boss picked up a pen and turned it over in his fingers.

“I want all Guiding Light material to live in the safe in the station commander’s office. Most of it’s been moved, but there’s a pile of reels in Cabinet Two. I assume they’re blank tapes?”

“Yes, boss.”

“Right. Well, there’s forty-eight of them. I want you to move them as well. And be careful not to mix them with the used reels.”

“That will make it time consuming, sir, if we have to trawl over to the HQ building just for blank reels before every flight.”

“So? Get into work ten minutes earlier. Even the blanks will be signed out. We can’t take any more chances, Millie. We’ve been lackadaisical.”

Millie glanced to his left. He could just see the admin clock. It was 8.50AM.