Джеймс Блатч - The Final Flight

But as Brunson backed out of the office, there was a rise in volume in the planning room.

Jock MacLeish arrived, looking pale.

“Rob May has just called in from a farmhouse in Wales. They crashed.”

“Did everyone get out?” Kilton asked.

MacLeish shook his head. “Just Rob.”

“Just Rob?” Red said.

MacLeish nodded.

Kilton dropped his head. “Names?”

“Speedy, Steve Bright and…” MacLeish hesitated and looked directly at Kilton.

“And Millie.”

The men waited in silence, watching their boss.

Eventually Kilton’s head came back up. Slowly, he got to his feet. MacLeish moved out of his way as he walked into the middle of the planning room.

“No phone calls out. Someone order me a car.”

SOMEWHERE IN THE HEDGEROW, a blackbird sounded its alarm call. Such an urgent sound on a peaceful day.

A cat?

Probably.

Georgina closed her eyes and let the sun warm her face.

“Thank you, darling.” Mary finished her drink.

“Think nothing of it, Mar. We all go through this. God knows I hardly saw Millie during the bloody war. Mind you I was digging for victory in Norfolk and he was at Tangmere most of the time.”

Mary laughed. “I’d loved to have seen you in your land girl dungarees.”

“Ha! I can’t remember if I ever wore them, but it was certainly muddy.” She sighed at the memories of those strange days. “Bloody hard work, but good fun in the evenings. Back then, every day felt like it could be your last. Maybe that’s why we enjoyed ourselves so much at night.” She stood up and gathered the two glasses. “Perhaps that’s a tale for another time. One more?”

“One more.”

Georgina smiled and headed into the house.

In the kitchen she noticed an insect of some sort had found its way onto the lemon in her glass. She tipped it into the bin, put the glass in the bowl and took Millie’s whisky tumbler from the draining board.

“That’ll do.”

As she headed to the fridge, a movement caught her eye.

A car turning slowly into Trenchard Close.

A black staff car.

She froze.

A staff car in the middle of the day, in a married quarter patch, brought only one type of message.

Her hand tightened around the tumbler.

The vehicle passed Sarah Brunson’s house, then Louise Richardson’s, in a macabre game of widow roulette.

It drew to a halt, precisely and unmistakably at the end of the short path that led to her front door.

Mark Kilton emerged, looking grave.

The whisky tumbler fell from Georgina’s hand and smashed on the hard kitchen floor.

“Please, god, no…”

She blinked back the first of the tears, before straightening her top and opening the front door.

Kilton stood, stiff back, hat tucked under his arm.

Silence.

He lowered his head.

“One hundred and twelve days, Mark,” said Georgina. “The old bugger only had another one hundred and twelve days to retirement.”

He looked up and stared deep into her eyes.

“I’m so sorry, Georgina. I’m so sorry.”

She tried to hold it off, but the collapse was coming.

She bent forward and clutched her head. Tears flowed between her fingers.

Kilton held her shoulders.

“He was a fine man, Georgina,” he whispered. “A fine man. Let us be proud.”

Kilton guided her inside the house.

She looked back at him. “Rob?”

“Alive. Shaken, but alive.”

“He was with him?”

“Yes.”

Mary was in the kitchen, staring at the broken glass. She looked up and put a hand to her mouth.

“Georgina. No!”

“Rob’s OK. Isn’t that wonderful news?”

Mary’s arms stretched out and they fell into a tight embrace.

ROB SAT at a worn kitchen table in a dark farmhouse kitchen, nursing a lukewarm cup of tea.

Someone would have to move the bodies off the hillside. They would secure the crash site, throw a cordon around the secret military equipment, whatever was left of it.

The farmer appeared in the doorway.

“So what happened?”

Rob shook his head. “I’m not sure. We struck the ground, I think, and bounced back up, but it disabled us.”

Again, a vision: Millie and Bright scrambling to evacuate.

The terror in their eyes.

They knew they were going to die.

He didn’t expand on his answer, and the farmer didn’t pursue the conversation.

A distant beating in the air.

Rob rose from his seat.

“I think that’s my helicopter.”

Immediately beyond the house was a small cottage garden, and beyond that, a paddock with two horses.

“Is it possible to move the horses?”

The farmer bustled out, pushing past Rob, and waddled up to the paddock. The horses, perhaps sensing food, came to greet him. He unlatched a five-bar gate and let them through to a narrow garden that ran down the side of the house.

Rob scanned the sky. A yellow dot, growing larger; an RAF Wessex, with the word RESCUE emblazoned on the side. It came to a loud hover just short of the paddock, dust and soil swirling in the downwash. The machine inched forward before settling down on its vast wheels.

Rob gathered his helmet and harness and thanked the farmer, who handed him his bundled parachute, tied with a cord.

As he left the kitchen and made his way to the open gate, a small contingent of soldiers jumped out of the Wessex. A sergeant with a moustache met him as he approached the paddock.

“Flight Lieutenant May?” he shouted over the noise of the whirring blades.

Rob nodded.

“Where’s the crash site?”

He pointed at the farmer.

“A few miles away. He’ll tell you.”

“OK. Thank you.” The sergeant then looked him up and down. “Rescue 3 has instructions to take you back to West Porton, unless you need urgent medical treatment?”

Rob shook his head. “I’m fine.”

As the helicopter sped above the Welsh borders, Rob stared out of the only window, blind to the rolling countryside.

He saw only the wreckage, the outstretched arm.

The winchman shouted over the intercom.

“About forty minutes.”

SUSIE SAT on a bench opposite the phone box, waiting for a quiet time to make her daily call.

After a procession of pram pushers, she got her chance.

“Any news?” Roger asked in his sing-song voice.

“Nope. I really don’t see the point of being here.”

“You’re protecting England’s precious military assets, my dear. One more week, they think. So be a good girl and sit tight.”

“Fine.”

“There is one more thing. A minor task for you.”

“Oh, yes?”

“You’re to meet an RAF chappie, a squadron leader. He has something for us. Listen to him and report in afterwards.”

“Oh. That’s odd, isn’t it?”

“It happens from time to time. Might be nothing, but he had the wherewithal to find the right number to call us, so they want him heard. Tomorrow morning 8AM, St Mary and St Melor Church, Amesbury. Choose a rear pew and wear something blue.”

“Something blue?”

“Yes, so he knows it’s you. He’s five feet nine, balding, and described himself as ‘podgy’. And be discreet, for god’s sake.”

THE HELICOPTER SETTLED onto the taxiway across from TFU. Rob removed his helmet, thanked the winchman and climbed out. Two NCOs appeared next to him and carried his parachute, harness and helmet.

Mark Kilton stood at the door, waiting. He held out a hand; Rob shook it.

“How are you?”

“Fine.”

Kilton led the way into the planning room. Rob tried not to catch anyone’s eye, but Red intercepted him, placing a firm hand on his shoulder.