Джеймс Блатч - The Final Flight

“And second…” Kilton continued to talk but Millie’s mind was elsewhere. If Kilton had them count the blanks out, and full reels in, how would he generate more height data for Belkin?

“…half the time.”

“I’m sorry, sir. What?”

Kilton looked impatient. “Just make sure the reels and anything else project-related are moved out by the end of the day. You don’t need to concern yourself with the timetable.”

“The timetable?”

Kilton shook his head in despair and stood up. “Get on with it, Millie, for god’s sake.”

Millie picked up the holdall and walked out, heading straight to his car.

THE AVRO ANSON was battered on the outside and worn on the inside.

Millie sat alone in what passed as the passenger compartment, although only three tatty leather seats remained. JR had invited him to sit in the cockpit, but he couldn’t risk a TFU crew member spotting him as they taxied past the buildings.

He looked around and wondered how many troops the old bird had conveyed around the world. It looked like a ghost plane now. The fact it was with the MU meant its prospects were not good.

JR quickly had them in the air and turning north, and in what seemed like no time at all they were descending into the circuit at Abingdon.

After landing, they taxied to the visiting aircraft apron.

JR shut the engines down and opened the door, lowering the steps for Millie.

“Is this what it’s like being an Air Marshal?” Millie joked as he stepped out.

JR followed him onto the Tarmac as two marshallers appeared and placed chocks in front of the wheels.

Millie surveyed the airfield. Typical 1930s hangars with ridged rooves, a red brick control tower and a busy pan of mainly transport aircraft.

A noise erupted to their right and Millie looked across to see a giant Blackburn Beverly burst into life. A cloud of black smoke drifted from each engine in turn as it was fired up.

“Come on,” JR said and led him away. He pointed to the base of the nearest hangar. “47 Squadron. They handle visitors for the airfield. We need to book in. So what are you going to tell them?”

“Hopefully, they’re expecting me. I’ve booked a car from MT.”

“Clever.”

As they arrived at the hangar, JR pushed open the door and strolled into the squadron.

After looking around, he turned to Millie.

“Why don’t you wait here? I’ll book us in and tell them you’ve arrived.”

Millie stayed back, close to the door.

He watched JR arrive at the ops desk and fall into conversation with a sergeant. JR made an entry in a hardback logbook and shared a joke with the sergeant before wandering back over.

“They’ve telephoned MT, Millie. Someone will pick you up from here shortly.” JR studied him. “You OK?”

“Yes. A little nervous I suppose.”

JR gave his arm a quick pat. “It’s all fine. No-one’s batting an eyelid. You’ll be one of dozens of officers ferried somewhere or other by Military Transport this month. Try to relax.”

“Thank you, JR.”

“Good. Well, I’ll find a comfy seat in the ante room of the mess. Don’t want to get in anyone’s way here. How long do you think you’ll be?”

Millie shrugged. “I can’t be certain. Two hours max, I hope.”

“Fine. I’ll wander back to the aircraft and make sure we’re ready to depart in an hour and a half or so.” He paused before leaving. “Good luck.”

“Thank you.”

After a few minutes, a corporal appeared in front of him.

“Squadron Leader Milford? Your chariot awaits, sir.”

MILLIE WAS DRIVEN through the Abingdon main gate. It was decidedly more relaxed than West Porton’s.

The driver had noted the professor’s address in his vehicle logbook and Millie again realised he had not thought this through. Everything he was doing was traceable.

Save for a hundred bicycles, the traffic in Oxford was light. The driver dropped him in front of the cottage and Millie confirmed he would arrange his own taxi back.

As soon as the corporal’s black saloon disappeared back onto the main road, Millie knocked and waited.

The door creaked open, and Mrs Lazenby ushered him in.

The professor, his saviour in an increasingly fraught and dangerous endeavour, wore a green cardigan with a pair of silver-rimmed spectacles hanging from a chain around his neck.

Millie piled the tapes on the kitchen table. Each sleeve was labelled meticulously to reflect the order in which he had gathered the readings.

Next to the tapes, he set down a piece of paper with the annotated fields as requested.

“It took me a while to work it out, but I am fairly certain that what we have here is the time in seconds, which counts up from the moment the laser is switched from standby to on. That happens before I record, so you’ll never see zero on the reels. Does that make sense to you?”

“It does. And I see the next field is the position in latitude and longitude.”

“That’s correct, with a ‘1’ or a ‘0’ replacing the hemisphere letter. ‘1’ in front of the latitude for north, ‘0’ for south. Not that we’ve been south of the equator, of course. And ‘1’ in front of the longitude for west, ‘0’ for east. I believe we drifted across the Greenwich meridian on at least one flight.”

“Excellent work, Mr Milford.”

With that, the professor sat down and Mrs Lazenby tapped at the door.

“Yes?”

She popped her head into the room.

“Would you like me to make a cup of tea, Professor?”

Millie glanced at the pile of secret tapes and material on the table.

Belkin shot him a reassuring look. “Yes please, Mrs Lazenby.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

After the kettle reached screaming point, Mrs Lazenby poured the water into the teapot and set it down on a tray on the table, along with four Rich Tea biscuits.

She left the room. The door closed with a clunk.

“So,” said the professor, “I have a young man ready to cut his teeth on the routining effort required to interrogate this data. Excuse the word ‘routining’. It is apparently correct in this circumstance.”

“Thank you.”

“However, I think we need to know a little more about what we are looking for.”

“I’ve been careful not to say too much for a variety of good reasons—”

“If it helps, I believe you may already have let the cat out of the bag.”

“I have?”

“Just a moment ago, you referred to switching on the ‘laser’. I’m sure it was inadvertent, but am I to gather that you are testing a laser range-finding device?”

“Oh, dear me. Yes. I didn’t even notice.” Millie sighed and toyed with a biscuit. “The atmosphere where I work is now at fever pitch and here I am spilling our deepest secrets.”

“I think it’s something we cannot avoid, I’m afraid.”

Millie took a breath.

“I suppose you need to know ,” he said and laughed.

“I do, I think. Is that funny?”

“Just a private joke, sorry. Well, if I explain the system to you, perhaps we can then devise a way of you explaining it to your student without giving the game away?”

The professor nodded. “It sounds like a starting point.”

Millie pointed at the data sheet.

“So, as I’ve already given away, this all comes from a laser beam. The laser is mounted in the front underside of the aircraft. A rather beautifully engineered mirror on a small gimbal directs the beam in an oval pattern. Quickly, repeatedly. The laser measures the distance to the ground at twenty-seven pre-set positions during each scan. And it does this around three times a second.”

“Gosh,” said the professor, clearly impressed.