The Final Flight

by James Blatch

  Kilton got his first view of the downed Vulcan as they rounded a small rise. The blackened remains were scattered in an elongated triangle pattern. The heavier parts had continued higher up the hill, but the main fuselage seemed to be largely intact in the centre of the debris field.

  They left the vehicles a hundred yards short of the first piece of aircraft. A squadron leader with an engineering badge on his camouflage fatigues greeted them.

  “Good morning. As you can see the site is barely accessible. We can’t get the low-loaders anywhere close, so recovery is going to take a while, I’m afraid. We’ve already recovered Squadron Leader Johnson’s body and ejection seat, but they were way down the hill. Our priority now is the bodies in the fuselage, but it’s not straightforward.”

  “You have a new priority for now, Squadron Leader,” said Kilton. “We need to remove certain items from the aircraft this morning.” He looked beyond the engineer to the wisps of smoke from the wreckage.

  “The base of the wreck is still hot. I can’t send my men in I’m afraid. Also, sir, with respect, I think we should remove the men before we move other parts of the wreckage. It’s a matter of dignity.”

  “And this is a matter of national security. What’s the state of cockpit and rear bay?”

  The engineer looked across at the group captain.

  “It’s OK, Michael,” said McClair. “Mark here is overseeing an important project. They have instructed us to make it a priority.”

  “I see. You’d better follow me, then.”

  As they got closer to the wreck, Kilton stared into the twisted fragments. It took him a second to realise what he was seeing in the centre of the mess: human legs.

  “Christ.”

  “We don’t normally leave them in there this long,” said the engineer. “But we also want to extract bodies as completely as possible, while disturbing little for the investigators. And that takes time. Now, the cockpit panels are roughly together there.” He pointed toward the front section of the site. Rolled over on to one side was the back end of the nose section. Kilton could see where the canopy once was.

  The group walked further around.

  “Jesus!” the group captain said as they came across an outstretched arm.

  “And the rear bay panels?” said Kilton.

  “Indeed,” said the engineer. Just back from that arm, facing upward. I think that’s one set of panels. However, the others—”

  “That’s them,” Kilton said. Despite the charred and blackened metals, he recognised the distinctive Guiding Light switches and dials.

  “Well,” the engineer said, “they should be safe to access if they’re clear of the centre section.”

  “Who will remove them?” McClair asked.

  “We can have a go, as long as it’s a standard fit.”

  The Blackton technician stepped forward.

  “There’s nothing standard about it. I installed these panels at Warton using specialised torque retainers. They’re also on spring mechanisms to protect them in flight. I’ll need to remove the retaining assembly before anything else.”

  The squadron leader looked across to the BOI chairman, who nodded.

  Kilton watched carefully as the engineer led the technician, step by step, toward the remains of the rear bay.

  When he arrived, just beyond the outstretched arm, he crouched down and began work on the fixings.

  The men watched as he worked, carefully removing eight long bolts.

  Kilton turned toward Stafford and made a small motioning movement with his head.

  Stafford walked over to the group captain.

  “Sir, you’re going to need some information about Guiding Light. Perhaps now’s the time for me to brief you?” He looked over his shoulder at the small group of engineers from the recovery team. “Perhaps over here?”

  Stafford led him away from the wreckage and they stopped on the path fifty yards down the hill.

  Kilton looked back to the technician; the squadron leader in charge of the recovery crew stood over him as he worked.

  The young man released another of the bolts and handed it up to the officer, who looked across to his men and called out,

  “We’ll need a stretcher to get this lot out.”

  As the man spoke, the technician’s hands moved quickly over the panels before returning to the retaining bolts. After ten minutes, he announced he was done. “The panels will come out easily now.”

  As he stepped past Millie’s arm, careful to tread only where he’d been told to, the young man looked up at Kilton and gave him the faintest of nods.

  21

  Monday 27th June

  Rob dressed quietly that morning. Donning each item of uniform seemed like an effort. Each movement he made would lead him closer to TFU.

  Mary kissed him on the lips at the door.

  “I’ll go to Georgina’s. When do you think the funeral will be?”

  Rob shook his head. “I don’t even know where Millie is. Or Brighty. They might still be on the side of the mountain.”

  She smiled at her husband and brushed a tear from his cheek.

  “Come on now, Rob. You’ll need to keep that inside today.”

  The morning briefing began with Kilton addressing the aircrew at the tea bar.

  “In the aftermath of Friday’s crash, it has been discovered that our most important and Top Secret project has been compromised. Precautions are now being taken to recover materials. An investigation is underway. If you see anything, hear anything, you are to report it. Withholding information could cause serious difficulties for you. As an additional precaution, I would like any contact with Millie’s family to be carried out through my office.”

  Rob winced at the mention of his friend’s name. He looked around; his colleagues’ expressions didn’t change.

  “There are logistical difficulties with the crash site which I visited yesterday. Unfortunately, extracting the remains is going to be a slow process, so the funerals will have to wait. Please be sensitive. No-one outside TFU needs to know these details. Refer any enquiries from relatives directly to me.”

  Kilton paused.

  “Friday was a difficult day for TFU. We’re a young unit, but we practice a high-risk profession. We must remain operational and dedicated. It serves no-one to dwell on the past.”

  After the brief, Rob walked back into the planning office with the twenty other pilots.

  Red Brunson appeared beside him. “How you holding up, buddy?”

  “Look. I’m sorry about Saturday—”

  “No apology necessary, friend. We know it’s tough on you. Hell, it’s tough on all of us. I thought you might come over yesterday.”

  “I wanted to stay with Mary. Sorry.”

  “That’s fine, but anytime. OK?”

  Rob looked across as Kilton disappeared back into his office. “The boss made it sound like we’re done with it. Time to move on. What was it he said? ‘It doesn’t do to dwell on the past’? It was only bloody Friday, Red. Is that it now? We just move on?”

  Red put a hand on his arm. “I don’t know what to say, buddy. No-one’s going to find this easy, but we pretend, don’t we?”

  “I’m not sure I can.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  Red’s crew called him over for planning. Rob scanned the flying programme but couldn’t see his name.

  “Flight Lieutenant May?” It was Jean, Kilton’s secretary.

  “Hello, Jean.”

  “You’re to report to medical for an examination. After that, the wing commander would like your written report of Friday’s incident.”

  “I give my report to Wing Commander Kilton, not the Board of Inquiry?”

  “I’m just relaying the request.”

  “OK. Thank you, Jean.”

  With his colleagues getting on with their morning routines, Rob wandered alone to the Station Medical Officer.

  The thin, wrinkled doctor drew heavily on his cigarette and proffered
the open packet toward Rob.

  “No, thank you.”

  The doctor looked in his ears, eyes and throat before prodding him a few times and declaring him fit.

  “Is that it?” Rob asked.

  “That’s the physical side. How are your nerves? Must have been quite a moment.”

  Rob looked down at the floor. He wanted to tell the SMO that he felt on the verge of tears at every waking moment.

  “I’m fine.”

  The SMO smiled. “Well, cigarettes can help with nerves and of course a wee dram of the hard stuff if it all gets too much.” He finished writing a brief report with a flourish of his fountain pen.

  “That’s it. You can go.”

  Back in TFU, Rob sat down at Millie’s old desk with a pile of blank report pages, each one pre-marked SECRET.

  He ran his fingers over the wooden surface, savouring the soft indentations that could well have been made by his old friend’s pen.

  He set about a longhand description of the flight.

  When it came to the last few seconds, he composed every word with careful precision.

  He had checked the chart, assessing the area ahead for a suitable place to disengage Guiding Light and climb out of low-level.

  Speedy had said something to him, but he couldn’t remember what. He just remembered Johnson, oxygen mask on, head turned, peering across at the chart.

  Neither of them looking forward.

  The initial jolt had dazed him, and he struggled to recall any immediate detail beyond the feeling of disorientation.

  He described the moment Johnson ejected. He knew it was the wrong time, but his only concern was the rear crew.

  After he noted the final traumatic seconds, he set the pen down.

  Something small had lifted from his shoulders. He couldn’t place what, exactly, but somehow describing the experience had helped.

  In the afternoon, he felt at a loose end. Officers and NCOs worked around him. The sense of normality grated.

  At 4PM he tapped on Kilton’s door.

  “Come.”

  The boss looked at him, eyebrows raised. Opposite him was a security officer. The conversation stopped as he stood in the doorway.

  “Sorry to interrupt. I thought I might go home to Mary, if that’s alright with you, boss?”

  “Yes, that’s fine, May.” Kilton picked up a piece of paper from his desk; Rob recognised the SMO’s writing. “Check the flying programme in the morning.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Rob said, backing out and closing the door.

  Without saying goodbye to anyone else, he walked to his Healey and sat for a moment, hands on the steering wheel, thinking.

  He drove off.

  Staff at the gate checked his boot and carried out a search of the footwells before letting him go.

  At the main road, he turned left.

  The gate to the peace camp field was only a few hundred yards along the road. As he got closer, he slowed, finally pulling over about twenty yards short.

  He put a hand on the door handle, but a green military Land Rover with a blue light on top appeared in his wing mirror. West Porton Security Police.

  He waited as it passed, and then drove home.

  22

  Tuesday 28th June

  Next morning, the tea bar chatter was less subdued than the day before. Rob supposed it would take just one more day before everything was back to normal, with Millie, Brighty and Speedy consigned to the past.

  Red Brunson found him sitting at Millie’s old desk.

  “Hey, you look like you need a distraction, and I’ve got one for you.”

  They walked over to the admin hatch.

  The top line of the flying programme read:

  Fl lt May. - HUNTER F.4 - XF940 - REFAMIL

  Kilton had tasked him with a re-familiarisation flight in a single seat Hunter. The most basic of flying tasks.

  “Now that will be fun,” Red said.

  “Or perhaps he thinks I might be a liability in a crew.”

  “Just enjoy it, buddy.”

  Back in the planning room, men gathered around charts and drew lines on maps. Rob walked through in his coveralls, carrying a yellow Mae West life jacket, silver flying helmet and oxygen mask.

  On the apron, he inhaled the fresh air and got a nose full of burnt paraffin.

  It took his mind back to the smoking wreck on the ground in Wales.

  The twisted fragments of metal, the acrid smoke.

  The outstretched arm.

  He steadied himself on the wall of the building, then found a bench near the door and sat down.

  A group of chaps emerged, laughing and heading out to a waiting Victor.

  They glanced at him and he pulled out his local area chart and studied it.

  The men piped down and carried on.

  A couple of junior marshallers loitered by the Hunter. Rob climbed up a short red ladder attached to the side of the aircraft and placed his helmet on the seat before backing down to check the jet before flight.

  Walking around, he occupied himself with the inspection: peering into the engine intakes to ensure they were clear, examining the underside for fluid leaks.

  In the aircraft he settled in slowly, confirming his own ability to operate.

  If he walked back in now, would they ever let him fly again?

  Closing the canopy, he brought the jet to life.

  The oxygen started to flow, and he gulped the air.

  A teenage marshaller appeared in front of the aircraft. Rob signalled, completed his pre-taxi checks and got permission from the tower. After the chocks were held up by the teenager, Rob pushed the throttle forward and the aircraft lurched. He dabbed the wheel brakes to ensure they were working, then continued to the taxiway.

  He felt brighter.

  Away from TFU, alone in the single seat aircraft.

  He busied himself with the checklists and procedures. It had been a few weeks since he’d last flown the TFU Hunter and he was low on hours.

  With the flaps set at thirty-eight degrees and the trims set to neutral, he received his clearance and entered the active runway.

  He advanced the throttle and watched the engine revolutions rise. At four thousand five hundred RPM he checked the power indicator; one of the no-go moments in a Hunter would be a lack of power to the flying controls.

  Was he looking for an excuse to bin the flight?

  The indicator remained black.

  He quickly reached a hundred knots and a moment later, the Hunter seemed to take itself up into the air.

  Rob looked down at the peace camp to his right.

  In one of those tents: the ticking time bomb of the lost papers.

  The airspeed crept up; the Hunter vibrated.

  He brought his attention back to the cockpit and realised he’d failed to raise the gear or carry out the after take-off checks.

  “Concentrate!”

  He called the tower and set a heading of one hundred and sixty, allowing the jet to climb to ten thousand feet. Rob took an occasional glance at an air chart of southern England before pushing it back down the side of his ejection seat.

  Ahead of him was the coast. The day was clear and he could see Bournemouth and the distinctive outline of the Isle of Wight.

  He dropped the nose and settled a little lower at seven thousand feet. As he crossed the beaches below, he banked left and pulled back on the stick, entering a four-G turn.

  The nervousness subsided.

  Below and ahead, a fast sea vessel created a significant wake. Curious, he pushed the nose of the Hunter further down and brought the visual gun sight over the vehicle.

  As the jet sped up, he reduced the thrust to hold the speed at around three hundred knots. About half a mile short of the target, he realised it was a military hovercraft. The grey vessel sat on a shiny black skirt, with white spray billowing in all directions.

  He pushed the nose beyond the hovercraft and squeezed the trigger to simulate an attack,
imagining the shells curving downward and striking the vessel below the gunsight.

  The Hunter flashed over the BH.7 at three hundred feet.

  He threw the Hunter into a steep, banking turn.

  Rob smiled under his oxygen mask at the sensation.

  He continued along the Solent. To his left, an aircraft carrier sat in dock at Portsmouth. Staying at low-level, he used the Napoleonic forts in the sea as aiming points.

  A gunmetal grey warship edged out of the harbour as he banked back around, mindful of the controlled airspace around the Daedalus airfield.

  The military was everywhere. Frigates, aircraft carriers, hovercraft. All these branches of Her Majesty’s armed forces; and here he was, flying a Hawker Hunter as an RAF pilot.

  For the first time in a while, he thought about Millie’s mantra for test flying: that every person to follow them relied on their diligence. Every sailor on every ship, the pilot of the hovercraft, the Royal Marines below decks… they all relied on the men who came before and made sure their equipment was effective. And safe.

  The aircraft bumped along in the thick air at five hundred feet. He lined up behind a container ship, presumably out of Southampton. He raised the nose and passed a thousand feet above it. Checking the chart, he saw that controlled airspace began at eighteen thousand feet, so he increased the power, accelerated to four hundred knots, and pulled back on the stick, making sure he was visually scanning the air above him as the Hunter fired upwards. He looped until upside down, facing in the opposite direction.

  After rolling the wings, and righting the aircraft, he set the throttle to idle and let it drift back down.

  Rob cleared the eastern side of the Isle of Wight, and banked around, wheeling through the air at five thousand feet.

  He chose one more target for a practice strafe run before turning north, climbing, and pointing the nose at West Porton.

  A hovercraft, two forts, and an oil tanker would now be in flames, had his attacks been real.

  He found the idea ridiculous.

  He was not a warrior.