Джеймс Блатч - The Final Flight

“There’s no car in front of us.”

Rob unfolded himself. “OK. Let’s go.”

They turned immediately right after the gate and separated themselves from the main station and TFU traffic.

JR drove up to an airfield entrance beyond the officers’ mess and they made their way around the peri-track.

At the Maintenance Unit, JR led Rob to the flying clothing store: a series of cardboard boxes that wouldn’t have looked out of place at a jumble sale.

He picked through until he found coveralls that just about fit him. He also picked out a tatty leather flying helmet with earphones built in. It smelt musty; maybe it had seen action in the last war.

They headed to the aircraft as quickly as possible. Rob had no desire to line up and taxi anywhere near any TFU aircraft.

JR took command. Rob scanned the pilots’ notes.

In a small cloud of black smoke, the two engines fired up one after the other. After waiting for the temperatures to rise, JR made the radio calls and they taxied out.

“MR STAFFORD FOR YOU.”

Jean’s cheery voice grated with Kilton’s mood. He snatched the receiver.

“What?”

“Good morning to you, too, Mark.”

“I’m busy.”

“I need to know we’re on for tomorrow. The minister’s meeting the Board this afternoon and he’ll want reassurance.”

“I told you, we’re doing it,” Kilton hissed. “I’ve already assured Buttler. The government want this more than you do and they’re not in the mood for hearing bad news.”

“And the missing tapes?”

“Milford’s dead. We can assume that inconvenience died with him. Look, I haven’t got time for this. I’m going flying. Just be here tomorrow. We fly after the funeral.”

“Right, and Rob May? I know you had your concerns about him.”

Kilton paused.

“Don’t worry about May. He’ll do as he’s told.”

“Good. General Leivers is waiting for the word, and the UK is waiting for the money. Can I be assured there’ll be no more surprises?”

“Just be here tomorrow, Stafford. You’ll get your signature.”

He hung up and pushed open the adjoining door to Jean’s office. “No more calls. I have to go flying.”

In the planning room, he found Red. “I’ll take Rob’s place. He’s ill, apparently.”

“Well, we’re getting ready to go. Do you want to see the route?”

Kilton looked over the chart; it looked straightforward. Departure to the west, runs at two thousand and then one thousand.

“Can we get going? I’ve got a lot on.”

“Sure thing, boss.”

Red looked around for Berringer and Smith. “ We’re going!”

Berringer looked surprised to see Kilton standing next to him. He put his mug down and came over, along with Smith, a young navigator.

“Ready.”

Kilton worked in silence to pull on his coveralls, before he walked to the airfield door with Red. Together they waited for the others.

Impatient, he led Red out onto the apron. The marshallers towed a Victor out of the hangar to the right, while straight ahead was their Vulcan, hunched on its main gear, waiting.

A whine of props drifted over the wind and Kilton watched as an old Anson rumbled along the opposite taxiway.

“Bloody people. Make the place untidy.”

“The lineys?” said Red, watching the junior ranks busying themselves around the jets.

“The Graveyard. After Guiding Light, I’m going to expand our operations. We’ll need that space.”

Eventually, Berringer and Smith appeared next to them.

The crew walked to the aircraft.

Kilton hauled himself up the yellow ladder into the belly of the bomber, leaving Red to do the walkaround.

He settled into the co-pilot’s position on the right, happy to let Red do most of the work.

Outside, the Anson wound up to full chat and started its laborious roll down the runway. The captain looked like JR; he must have been older than the bloody aircraft he was ferrying to the knacker’s yard.

Kilton squinted.

Some youngster with him?

Unusual for that lot to be working with someone who didn’t have one foot in the grave.

Red appeared. He strapped in, and donned his US-made helmet.

“You look ridiculous,” Kilton said, appraising the mirrored visor.

Red laughed and pulled on his oxygen mask. Between them, they brought the Vulcan to life.

With the four engines at a roar, Brunson taxied to the westerly runway and accelerated into the sky.

They settled into the cruise, ploughing through the air for fifteen minutes.

As they began their descent, Red made some notes and Kilton noticed the Guiding Light panel light up; clearly, Berringer was getting ready.

“What’s wrong with him?” asked Red.

“Who?”

“Rob. You said he was ill. What’s wrong with him?”

“I don’t bloody know. I didn’t ask him.”

“Who’s ill?” Berringer piped up over the intercom from his position in the rear crew bay.

“Rob May.”

There was a pause before Berringer spoke again. “He looked OK this morning.”

Kilton’s head turned. “What do you mean?”

“At the main gate. He looked fine. He was with that old bloke from the Maintenance Unit.”

“Turn the jet around,” Kilton barked into his oxygen mask.

“Sorry?” Red said, but Kilton didn’t wait any longer.

“I have control,” he said, and grabbed the column and throttles, throwing the jet into a steep bank.

“What’s going on?” Red asked.

Kilton levelled on an easterly heading and released the controls.

“Just fly us back, and tell ATC we’re a priority.”

EVEN IN THE LUMBERING ANSON, the trip to Abingdon was a short hop.

JR positioned them to the south-east to join the downwind leg for the southerly runway. Rob did little more than help with flaps and settings. As they lined up, he looked across the RAF airfield to the town, and just visible about ten miles beyond was Oxford.

JR’s experienced hands nudged the throttles as he fine-tuned their final descent; smooth as silk, the wheels caressed the runway.

“Nice landing,” Rob said.

“You have to treat these old girls with care,” JR replied, without taking his eyes off the white lines disappearing under the nose wheel as they rolled out.

Rob let JR make the radio calls and they headed toward the clusters of hangars and buildings.

“Where exactly did you drop Millie?”

JR pointed to an apron to the right of the largest hangar. “It’s used for visiting aircraft, and we have to sign in over there.” He nodded to a single-storey structure on the other side of the apron. “It’s 47 Squadron. Friendly bunch.”

After he’d shut down the two Cheetah engines, JR ran through the checklist.

“You can go, Rob. I’ll wander over to the squadron later for a cup of tea. Good luck.”

Rob entered the 47 Squadron building and approached what looked like an operations desk.

The place was busy, but each person who bustled past said a cheery good morning.

“I need to sign in a visiting aircraft, please.”

The desk sergeant smiled. “Welcome to RAF Abingdon,” he said, as he turned a visitors’ logbook around in front of him.

Rob opened it and made his way to the last entry.

He fished a pen out of his coveralls and recorded an entry for their flight. He wrote slowly, waiting for the right moment, as the sergeant turned away.

He quickly flicked the page back and scanned the list of entries. His eyes stopped as he read the name.

He brushed the entry with his finger.