Джеймс Блатч - The Final Flight

“Blowing the whole thing open is precisely what they’re trying to avoid, Susie.”

“Even if there’s corruption at the centre of a UK arms project?”

“Obviously not. If that’s the case, then bring it in, but you’ll need irrefutable, solid evidence. Nothing less will do.”

“We’ll get it, if we retrace Milford’s steps.”

She heard shuffling at the other end of the line and then a muffled conversation. Roger must have his hand over the phone.

Eventually he came back on. “I’ll ask. That’s the best I can do. But don’t expect them to say yes. When exactly are you planning this little jaunt?”

“Tomorrow, hopefully.”

“Bloody hell. You are a firecracker.”

TFU WAS the last place Rob wanted to be.

He pulled over while they searched his car. Guards shuffled around the Austin Healey.

Sleep had come to him eventually, in the early hours. But it was fitful and he ached with exhaustion.

“You can go, sir.”

He sat motionless in the driver’s seat, staring ahead.

“Sir!”

At TFU it was business as usual. Pilots and air crew hunched over charts and flight planning paperwork.

Men in orange vests and light blue coveralls heading out to shiny jets.

“Hey, Buddy. Wales OK?”

Red held a chart in front of him. He’d drawn a familiar line through the central valleys to Aberystwyth.

“Fine.” Rob turned away.

“Don’t be too enthusiastic,” Red called after him. “It might catch on.”

Like a robot, he pulled on his coveralls, dressed for the Vulcan and headed out.

He was co-pilot for the trip, which suited him.

At the aircraft, he waited for a member of the ground crew to open the hatch. While he did so, Rob walked around, pausing at the glass-covered laser mounted under the nose. He peered in at the swivel head, noticing for the first time an intricate series of small mirrors set inside the mechanism. A delicate system that decided their fate.

Arriving back at the hatch, he climbed in. Red strapped into the left hand seat, the mirrored visor on his USAF helmet and oxygen mask giving him the look of an illustration on the front cover of an Isaac Asimov novel.

He pulled the mask away to speak.

“All good?”

“Sorry?”

“The walkaround, Rob. All good?”

“Oh, yes.”

Red’s stare lingered. “You OK?”

Rob pulled on his straps. “Yes. Let’s get going.”

“OK, then.”

Rob busied himself with procedure: checklists, radio calls, liaison with Berringer in the rear bay.

Brunson got them airborne and put the Vulcan into a smooth ascending turn to the west.

By the time they’d let down over the borders, Rob had taken the controls, glad of the distraction.

As they handed the jet over to Guiding Light, he monitored the ground ahead, noting every approaching rise and fall of the green and brown landscape.

Ready to disengage.

If something went wrong now, even at the relative safety of one thousand feet, it would save a lot of trouble. With testimony from Brunson and the others, that would surely prompt a stay of execution for the project.

But the equipment performed flawlessly, and they climbed out over the Rheidol estuary.

Rob banked the jet one hundred and eighty degrees and Brunson took over for the transit home.

Another forty minutes low-level ticked off. Another step toward the United Kingdom presenting the United States with a system to beat the Soviets and maybe even end the Cold War.

ROB FLEW a repeat of the track in the afternoon. This time Red supervised the low-level and he handled the transits.

At 4.45PM he walked the completed reels over to the safe, returned to his car and drove home.

He called the operator, who put him through to the Laverstock’s.

“Hello?” Derek’s voice.

“It’s Flight Lieutenant May. Can I speak to my wife, please.”

There was a pause.

“Mr May?” Janet Laverstock’s voice came on the line.

“Yes. Can I speak to my wife, please?”

“She’s resting.”

“Can you tell her I’m on the line? She’s my wife.”

“I’m sorry, she’s had a very difficult day and I don’t want to wake her. I’ll tell her you called and if she wants to speak, she will call you back.”

“Excuse me, Mrs Laverstock—”

The line went dead.

He kicked the telephone table; it collapsed to the ground, taking the phone with it.

FOR A CHANGE of scenery and because of the outside chance she was being watched, Susie walked all the way across Salisbury and found a different phone box for her afternoon call.

The greeting with Roger was more perfunctory than normal. He wasted no time in passing on the bad news.

“Sorry, my dear. They just can’t have an agent involved in such a flagrant breach of rules and with such flimsy evidence. Well. No evidence, in fact.”

“For Christ’s sake, Roger. Did you even try?”

“Of course I did. You know me, I can be very persuasive.”

“I want to talk to them myself.”

“Why? They’ve given their answer.”

She should have gone back to London to present the case herself.

“Damn it, Roger. This is bloody ridiculous. We’re onto something.”

“You could have gone to Oxford to sniff about. But instead you’ve dragged this poor pilot into it. You weren’t even supposed to contact him and yet, here we are.”

“The answer’s most likely at RAF Abingdon. He can get in. I can’t get in.”

“Well, it’s academic now. They want you here tomorrow to debrief.”

“Tomorrow?”

“It is a Wednesday, my dear. Sorry, did you have plans? Oh, that’s right, you were going to commandeer one of Her Majesty’s aircraft. Maybe you could fly home?”

She slammed the phone down and closed her eyes, struggling not to scream.

Outside the phone box, a waiting young woman gave her a startled look. Susie pushed the door open.

“Men!”

She brushed past and walked along the river toward the meeting place with Rob. She was early. A few ducks swam hopefully toward her as she took a seat on a bench facing the river. “You’re out of luck,” she said to them. “If it helps, you’re not alone.”

For ten minutes, she watched the world walk by, trying her best to calm down.

But she was angry. Undermined.

Worst of all, she knew they were wrong.

She checked her watch and walked along to The Old Mill Hotel.

Inside the low-ceilinged building, she asked for two teas and found a table outside, overlooking the mill pond.

Rob appeared along the river path from Salisbury.

He looked terrible.

“You OK?” she asked.

He shook his head, looking as if he was about to cry.

“Christ.” She stood up and led him away from the hotel.

“What’s happened?”

“Mary left me.”

“What?”

“We were spotted, you and me. Some busybody from the church. Mary waited up for me last night. I think she’d spent the evening stewing, getting herself all worked up about it, and of course I was out with you.”

“God, I’m sorry, Rob.”

“What do I do?” He stopped walking and faced her. “You can fix this. You can tell her.”

“Haven’t you told her?”

“I said you were helping me, but she didn’t believe me.”

“Then what do you want me to say?

“Can’t you fix it?”

“I’m not a marriage counsellor, Rob.”

His face fell.

“Please talk to her for me.” He sounded pitiful, in actual pain. “I don’t think I can go on Thursday unless she’s back.”

“Thursday?”

“We can’t go tomorrow. Has to be Thursday.”