Джеймс Блатч - The Final Flight

He ignored them and scanned the field.

“Damn. Where’s she gone?”

A yellow VW Beetle trundled across the field, with a small, dark-haired woman at the wheel.

He broke into a run, choosing an interception angle ahead of the slow-moving vehicle.

The car sped up.

He knew enough about the angles to know he’d only just make it.

They converged on the entrance to the field, but the car was now ahead, bouncing on the uneven ground.

Just a few yards. He puffed and sweated.

Finally, Rob got close enough to reach out. He banged on the back window with his fist, just as the car put on a last burst of clanking engine noise and disappeared out onto the main road.

Rob collapsed on to the ground, panting. He looked up to see every remaining peace camper staring at him. One man shook his head in puzzlement and turned his back, walking off toward the last of the tents.

Rob looked down at the dried mud, took a deep breath, and got up and left.

He’d parked fifty yards away, as a precaution, so chasing the woman down in his car was a non-starter.

She was gone.

BACK AT THE HOUSE, he quickly changed, shaking his muddy uniform out of the window.

Mary served a lamb joint for dinner.

“I thought I’d do a roast. Something approaching normality.” She stumbled on the last word. “I didn’t mean that, I don’t mean we should… return to normal.”

He smiled at her. “It’s OK. It looks delicious.”

They ate quietly.

“Will you fly again next week?” Mary asked.

“I flew today, actually.”

“Oh. Is that not a bit soon?”

Rob shuffled a piece of brown meat onto his fork. “The boss wanted me up. You know how it is.”

“And how was it?”

Rob shrugged. “Fine. Just a short trip in a Hunter.” He paused. “Actually, I quite enjoyed it.”

Mary reached over and held his hand. “And that’s OK. It’s OK to enjoy things. It’s what Millie would have wanted.”

She released his hand and they finished the meal in silence.

After dinner, with a drying up cloth in his hand, he looked out into the street.

Mary passed him the dripping crockery.

A couple walked by, pushing a pram.

A large dog on a short lead pulled a teenager along the pavement.

The sun shone, the people looked happy.

“I’m sorry,” Rob said. “I can’t do this.”

He put the plate on the top, left the kitchen, and hurried upstairs.

He curled up on the bed. Mary followed, and as he rolled over to look at her, it was clear she’d also been crying.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I just can’t stop it sometimes.”

She crawled onto the bed. They embraced.

“I want to help you, Rob.”

“I can’t explain it, but I feel I’m nowhere at the moment. I don’t feel I’m back at TFU. Nothing feels the same, nothing feels normal.”

“You miss Millie.”

“It’s more than that.” He pressed his head onto the pillow.

“Then what, Rob? What is it? The box?”

“Yes. There’s something going on, I can feel it, I just don’t know what. I think my only chance to save Millie was somewhere in those papers.”

“You’re bound to feel guilty, being the only survivor. Maybe that’s what it is?”

“Maybe.”

She pushed her head toward him and they kissed. The embrace went on. He rolled over on top of her and she moaned softly.

Without closing the curtains or windows, they made love.

Mary giggled as she tried to keep her cries as quiet as possible, aware the neighbours may well be in the garden on a summer’s evening.

“Mustn’t scare the MacLeishes.”

After, Rob rolled back onto his side, pushing his discarded trousers to the floor.

A warmth washed over him.

He stroked Mary’s hair, bringing his hand down and letting it brush over her breasts.

“Not much feels right anymore, but this does.”

“Good.” She kissed him on the forehead. “I think it’s time to let the box go.”

A CHILL WOKE ROB. It was dark. He pulled on a pair of pyjama bottoms and covered Mary with a sheet.

He crept downstairs and poured a glass of water in the kitchen, drinking it by the orange glow of the street lamps.

The living room light was still on. He walked in and found the French doors open. Moths and insects busied themselves around the hot bulb. He switched it off and went to close the doors to the garden.

The lawn looked a pale grey colour as a full moon struggled to assert itself over the orange sodium of RAF West Porton’s perimeter floodlights.

He stood for a moment looking out at the still night.

Straight into the eyes of the young woman.

He stumbled back and nearly cried out.

She put a finger to her lips and stepped into the dim light of the patio.

Framed in the doorway, she hissed at him.

“Robert May?”

“Yes.”

“We need to talk. Thursday evening at this public house.”

She handed him a slip of paper.

“Do not tell anyone. Act normally at work. Do you understand?”

He nodded.

“And stop turning up at the bloody peace camp.”

At the tea bar, Rob poured himself a mug and added two sugars.

Alone behind the wooden top, he removed the small slip of paper from his pocket and read it one more time.

The Bell Inn

Wyle

7.30PM SHARP

“How was the hop in the Hunter?”

Rob clenched his fist, holding the paper tight. He looked up to see Jock MacLeish.

“Very enjoyable, thank you.”

MacLeish raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Feeling better?”

“Yes, well, it doesn’t do to dwell on the past, does it?”

MacLeish didn’t look convinced, but he gave Rob a pat on the shoulder.

Rory Davies announced his presence in the planning room.

“Bloody hippies all over the bloody road. I nearly killed one of them.”

“You should have,” someone replied.

“Seriously. Idiots holding tents and bags, taking up the whole bloody street, ambling off to god knows where. They deliberately ignored my horn.”

“At least they’re leaving,” Jock said.

“About bloody time. Snivelling little pinko commies. A danger to society and menace to drivers. Good riddance.”

Rob watched the exchange without joining in. He wandered over to the planning desk. After yesterday’s return to flying status, they had handed him an unexciting trip in a Canberra, making polar diagrams with a newly fitted compass system. The trial would require nearly three hours of high level orbits over the same track north of Warrington.

The assigned navigator, a junior Flight Lieutenant called Watkins, joined him, and they planned the trip.

Rob looked up to see a group captain flanked by a pilot he recognised from Boscombe Down and another officer, without wings, striding past the desks.

Kilton emerged from his office, shook their hands, and ushered them inside.

As he closed the door, Kilton’s eyes swept the room. Rob looked quickly down at his flight plan.

“Board of Inquiry, I suppose,” Watkins said.

“I know who they are. Let’s just plan this thing and get airborne.”

After retrieving flying clothing and equipment, they walked out to the jet. Rob dropped his helmet and life vest by the open hatch before carrying out his walkaround checks.

As he rounded the nosecone, pressing the latch to ensure it was secure, Kilton walked out onto the apron with the group captain, and pointed at Rob.

The senior officer approached, leaving Kilton by the door.

“Flight Lieutenant May?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m Group Captain Gordon McClair. They have appointed me as the Chairman of the Board of Inquiry into the loss of Vulcan XH441.”