Джеймс Блатч - The Final Flight

She slammed the phone down, her hand shaking.

She turned to the doors at the front of the terminal building and walked out into the warm evening light.

For a moment she stood and stared at the sinking sun. Thin clouds drifted across its surface.

Susie wondered what the hell she was going to do next.

STRIPPED OF HIS WATCH, belt and shoelaces, Rob sat by himself in a makeshift cell, with a camp bed and a blanket.

They had ignored him since his arrest.

The entire police station set-up appeared to be inside RAF West Porton, in an adapted office block on the far side of the camp.

It felt more like Soviet Russia than the United Kingdom.

Eventually they led him into a smaller room, with a single desk. Squadron Leader Hoskins arrived, clipboard in hand, and took a seat opposite.

Hoskins took Rob through a torturous recap of the entire day, making extensive notes. Rob hid nothing. They’d already made it clear they had identified Professor Belkin from the address given to them by Abingdon.

As the interview went on, the experience became more and more frustrating. The senior officer was only interested in where he went with the Anson, what time they had landed, what time they had taken off.

Every time he explained what they had discovered, the investigator went back to the logistics of the unauthorised flights.

Rob’s mood passed from impatient to desperate in a matter of minutes.

“Please. Sir. You must understand that a computer has extrapolated a terrible accident rate from the data.”

“So you keep saying.”

“Maybe I should talk directly to Wing Commander Kilton?”

The squadron leader raised an eyebrow.

“Impossible. You’re accusing him of either negligence, or something much worse.”

The room smelled of fresh paint.

Rob had a horrible thought: had this police station been prepared exclusively for him?

And the uniform Hoskins wore; it looked like a branch of the RAF police, but was subtly different.

Everything at West Porton was subtly different.

The reinforced fence didn’t just keep CND out; it kept everyone out.

“We’ll check your assertions against the official trial records,” Hoskins said. “If you can give me some specific occasions to look at?”

Rob huffed. “It’s not like that. I don’t have those specifics. But I do have the conclusions. We’d need to conduct a lot more safe height trials to prove the issue properly.”

“So, it’s not proven? It’s just… speculation?”

“No. No, it’s real.” Everything was slipping through his fingers. “You have to believe me, the computer calculated this. Millie gathered the data and the computer found the problem.”

“And where is this data now?”

Rob hesitated, remembering Susie’s advice not to dwell on the fate of the data.

“It’s been through the computer at Oxford. But we need more to identify the problem fully.”

The squadron leader’s pen hovered over his notepad. “So, do you have the evidence or not?”

“We don’t have that specific evidence anymore, no. Millie was gathering more. He thought he had more time.”

His voice caught on the words.

The squadron leader put down his pen and stopped making notes. “So, you have the conclusions to a study, but no evidence. You accuse a decorated commanding officer of conspiracy on the basis of a scrawl of notes written in fountain pen. You can’t even tell me where to look, because you say that only a computer can see the truth. You can understand the difficulty I’m having with this, Flight Lieutenant? The only actual crimes I have evidence for are those committed by you. And Mr Milford, of course. Now that you confirm to me he was secretly gathering data and taking it off West Porton.”

“Our plummet to the ground, on the 7th June, about 2.30PM, in a Vulcan, mid-Wales. Check the data.”

“We have a report from DF Blackton on all the data from the early trials. It shows no abnormalities.”

“What if they’re lying?”

“You have evidence for that? Then show me.”

“What about our crash? The system caused the ground strike. Last Friday. Check that data.”

“But Guiding Light had been disengaged some time before the impact.”

“No, no, you’re wrong. And what about the professor who looked into it all? I can give you his details.”

“We’re not authorised to discuss this project with outsiders. I can ask for permission, but that would have to come down the chain and have Wing Commander Kilton’s approval.”

Rob stared at him.

“If there’s nothing else?” Hoskins asked, shuffling up his notes.

Rob slumped forward, bowing his head, exhausted. “What will happen to me?” he asked, his voice weak.

Hoskins studied his notes for a moment. “They’ll make a decision whether to prosecute you for disobeying orders, the unauthorised use of government property and breaching the Official Secrets Act. Quite a collection of charges.”

“Will I go to prison?”

The man averted his eyes. “Probably.”

“And you’re happy with this? That I go to prison because I found out that a secret system is fatally flawed?”

He stood up, sighing as he did so. “I think we’ve been through this, Flight Lieutenant.”

As the man walked toward the door Rob sprang to his feet. The man looked briefly alarmed. “What about Millie’s funeral? I need to go.”

Hoskins half-turned, with what looked like an understanding expression. “These are serious charges.”

He left the room, and a moment later a corporal escorted Rob back to his cell. He lay down on the old camp bed and curled up.

He thought of Mary and began to cry.

SUSIE PAID THE TAXI DRIVER, stepped out onto the kerb and assessed the scruffy bungalow. It was a far cry from the neat married quarter patch at West Porton.

The death of Christopher Milford was real; here was his widow and fatherless son.

The crash, the secret guidance system, deciphering the equations, tracking down ancient professors… The whole thing had a surreal, disconnected quality to it. And yet, somewhere in the background, was an unimaginable human loss.

It was inside these walls: the suffering.

She knocked. Through the frosted glass, a diffuse red shape grew larger, and a woman in a striking chiffon dress opened the door and gave her a quizzical look.

“Mrs Milford? My name is Susie, I’m a friend of Rob May’s. I wonder if I could talk to you?”

A wry smile crept across the woman’s face as she appeared to assess her.

“So, you’re the floozy?”

Susie hadn’t expected the news to have travelled here.

“I’m guessing all is not what it seems,” said Georgina. “Which is what I told Mrs May this afternoon, and Red Brunson. And now here you are. I’ve never felt so popular. Perhaps you’d better come in.”

Over the next half an hour, Susie tiptoed her way through the truth, giving Georgina a hint of who she was and what had happened. Millie’s widow laughed a couple of times as Susie explained how he had been courageously taking on the establishment. But then her face turned very serious.

“Is this why he died?”

Susie thought carefully before answering. “Maybe.”

Georgina told Susie what she knew, which was not much for her to go on.

“At the door you mentioned another name?”

“Red Brunson?”

“That’s it. Tell me about him.”

“Tall, handsome, adorable.” She saw the look Susie was giving her. “Well, perhaps more pertinently, a colleague of Rob and Millie’s. I think he’s someone else having second thoughts.”

“What do you mean?”

Georgina thought for a moment. “They don’t talk very much, that lot. It’s not encouraged. If you’re on a secret project, you keep it to yourself. So it doesn’t surprise me that the chaps would have no idea what Millie was up to. But I can tell you, it’s caught Red’s attention.”