Джеймс Блатч - The Final Flight

“As it stands, he’s won. Rob will be dealt with harshly. Any credibility will be stripped away. And to make matters worse, I’ve been told by my own superiors to back off.” She gave a grim smile. “I can’t say I’m keen on that idea. So I’ve decided to stay.”

“And do what?” one of the men asked.

“Well, that’s why I’m here.” She looked around, taking in her new partners. “I’m hoping we have the brains and ability in this room to come up with something.”

The men stayed silent for a moment.

“So, who’s with me?”

Susie groaned. It felt like she’d only dropped onto the bed a few minutes ago.

With an effort, she pulled herself upright and allowed her mind to wake up.

Snatches of conversations came back to her, along with sketchy details of the plan.

Her doubts also returned

It was too complex. There was too much that could go wrong. The outcome was uncertain.

It was 8.05AM. She needed to go shopping.

AN HOUR LATER, Susie was the first customer of the day at Turner’s department store in Salisbury.

She strode past the sofas and mahogany desks until she reached Ladies’ Wear.

Briefly distracted by the new stock from Mary Quant, she pulled a miniskirt from the rack and held it to her waist.

An elegant, middle-aged woman appeared.

“I can see madam has the figure for the skirt.”

Susie smiled and placed it back on the hangar.

“Thank you, but I don’t think it’s what I need today.”

She turned to look at an area of more conventional clothes, spying a David Windsmoor dress her mother might well have worn.

The assistant followed her gaze. “Is madam shopping for a particular occasion?”

“Yes. A funeral.”

THE FULL LENGTH mirror in the hall was cracked, and the dim light from the single bulb above made it barely usable. But Georgina managed to draw on a thin layer of eye-liner and a thicker layer of bright red lipstick.

She pulled on her wide brimmed navy hat with a cream trim to match her dress.

Standing back, she noticed how pale her skin looked, accentuated by the lipstick. Or maybe it was the low wattage bulb.

A low wattage bulb in a low wattage house on the edge of nowhere.

How had it come to this so quickly? How could Millie have let her down so badly?

Carrying on with something, gambling with their future.

And losing.

It was such a pleasant Friday afternoon, when Mark Kilton had arrived to take her life away.

A movement behind her. She turned to see Charlie hunting for a piece of mirror to help fit his tie.

She turned and took over the task.

“You look so handsome, darling.”

He grimaced, and didn’t reply.

“Come on, the car will be here in a minute. Let’s be brave together.”

MOST OF THE men arrived into the planning room in their full service dress.

The chat around the tea bar was subdued.

Red Brunson stood on one side of the room and watched Kilton emerge from his office, medals in place.

He looked the picture of authority; a steady rock in the uncertain world of the test pilot.

Red should have known from his time at Edwards that appearances can be deceptive.

Jock MacLeish was hunched over a chart; one of only two pilots in working clothes. They were drawing a line, not on an air chart but on an Ordnance Survey map; the sort of detailed map a walker might use. Red peered at the initial point MacLeish had selected: a crossroads on the A345 three miles south of Amesbury. He nodded his approval and patted Jock on the back, confident he would do Millie proud.

Red felt the men next to him stiffen as Kilton looked over.

“It’s odd now, isn’t it?” MacLeish said quietly to the others. “Looking at him now?”

Red didn’t reply, but he followed Kilton’s progress out of the door.

For good measure, he moved into the entrance area to TFU and watched as the boss got into the back of a black staff car complete with flag.

The car pulled away and turned right, not left toward the main gate.

Puzzled, Red checked his watch. Still two hours until the funeral.

ROB ROLLED himself off the camp bed and struggled to his feet.

The walls glistened with moisture; the room clearly wasn’t designed to hold a sleeping man. The unventilated, moist air clung to his skin.

A plate of breakfast sat on the table; he had barely moved when the corporal brought it in.

He’d heard nothing following his interrogation.

By the early hours, alone in the silence, any lingering hope vanished.

They’d given him a set of exercise clothes to wear as pyjamas.

They even had his watch; he had no idea what time it was.

They were going to bury Millie without him.

The cell door pushed open; Rob stood up.

“Corporal, please let me go to—” He cut his question short when the corporal stepped aside and ushered in Mary.

He ran forward, like a toddler to his mother. The guard looked startled.

“It’s all right,” said Mary. “I’m here to take you to the church,” she whispered into his ear.

The corporal ushered them both out of the temporary cell.

“There are showers in the gymnasium if you want to use them,” he said. “But you haven’t got long.”

The guard picked up a pile of clothes from a trestle table next to the entrance to the building.

Next to the clothes was a document with a fountain pen on top.

The corporal handed him his dress uniform, and his spirits rose at the thought of Mary retrieving his clothes, back in their home.

There was so much he wanted to say to her. But she backed away, apparently unwilling to have a conversation.

“I’ll wait for you.”

The corporal ushered him out of the building and marched alongside as they walked the short distance to the station gym.

“Is it strictly necessary to guard me to the showers, Corporal?”

“Just my orders, sir. You no longer have a pass to West Porton. You’re a visitor and must be escorted.”

He undressed in the changing room and stood under one of the silver heads in the empty communal showers. He closed his eyes, letting the water flood over him.

He screwed the tap shut. The water became a dribble and then a series of drips. He leaned with one hand on the cold tiled wall. The shower had felt like an oasis, a haven.

He wrenched himself away and stepped out to see Mark Kilton standing in the centre of the room.

Medals gleaming, RAF hat tucked under his arm.

Rob was naked, with water pooling around his feet. Kilton stood between him and his towel and clothes.

“You have a choice, May. Put your signature to the completed project today and I will not prosecute you. We will record nothing that occurred yesterday or in the previous week on your file. You will be transferred to Transport Command and posted to Hong Kong, with Mary. It’s a staff job, but you will retain your General Duties branch status and be available for a flying position in the future. I shall see that you receive a favourable evaluation from your time here.

“You’ll be sipping G&Ts on the veranda in the Far East with all this behind you. And you’ll be free to attend Millie’s funeral, under escort of course.”

“Or?”

“You’ll face a court martial. Your views on the project will be inadmissible under the Official Secrets Act. You will have no defence to a series of detailed charges that include insubordination, unauthorised and unsafe operation of both Royal Air Force and Ministry of Aviation aircraft, and breach of the Official Secrets Act. We are also considering a charge of treason. Either way, the sentence for your inevitable conviction will be around twenty-five years in prison. Oh, and by the way, Guiding Light will be in full service regardless of your choice, of course.”