The Final Flight

by James Blatch

  But he could fly. He was good at flying, and following procedures, evaluating systems. He was a good test pilot.

  Until recently.

  Until the moment he stopped listening to his closest friend.

  Rob flew mechanically and accurately as he positioned for his return to the airfield.

  He swept into the circuit, talking to air traffic as he carried out the pre-landing checks. All completed with the consummate ease afforded to a skilled flyer.

  As he descended on the dead side, he looked over at the peace camp. It was dwindling in size. Even since yesterday.

  “Damn her.”

  On the final landing, he let the jet roll long and he turned off the runway and taxied past camp at its closest point to the airfield.

  There was no doubt about it: they were leaving.

  He had made up his mind.

  With the papers and tapes neatly folded into an old blanket, Susie placed them under the rubber mat and tool kit in the front of her VW Beetle.

  She shut the bonnet and locked the car.

  From her tent, she discarded most of her clothes and hoped the Service would approve some modest expenses for a shopping trip to Salisbury.

  The tent itself looked weathered and old; it was a good job it hadn’t rained. Another reason to remove the sensitive documents from such an unsuitable hiding place.

  As she crawled out, David appeared in front of her.

  “Looks like your friend’s back. He must really like you.”

  Rob marched into the field.

  A man and a woman approached him.

  “I’m sorry, I’m not taking no for an answer,” he said, as he changed direction to avoid them.

  “Hey! Mate!” the man shouted. “She doesn’t want to see you. I thought we made that clear?”

  He ignored them and scanned the field.

  “Damn. Where’s she gone?”

  A yellow VW Beetle trundled across the field, with a small, dark-haired woman at the wheel.

  He broke into a run, choosing an interception angle ahead of the slow-moving vehicle.

  The car sped up.

  He knew enough about the angles to know he’d only just make it.

  They converged on the entrance to the field, but the car was now ahead, bouncing on the uneven ground.

  Just a few yards. He puffed and sweated.

  Finally, Rob got close enough to reach out. He banged on the back window with his fist, just as the car put on a last burst of clanking engine noise and disappeared out onto the main road.

  Rob collapsed on to the ground, panting. He looked up to see every remaining peace camper staring at him. One man shook his head in puzzlement and turned his back, walking off toward the last of the tents.

  Rob looked down at the dried mud, took a deep breath, and got up and left.

  He’d parked fifty yards away, as a precaution, so chasing the woman down in his car was a non-starter.

  She was gone.

  Back at the house, he quickly changed, shaking his muddy uniform out of the window.

  Mary served a lamb joint for dinner.

  “I thought I’d do a roast. Something approaching normality.” She stumbled on the last word. “I didn’t mean that, I don’t mean we should… return to normal.”

  He smiled at her. “It’s OK. It looks delicious.”

  They ate quietly.

  “Will you fly again next week?” Mary asked.

  “I flew today, actually.”

  “Oh. Is that not a bit soon?”

  Rob shuffled a piece of brown meat onto his fork. “The boss wanted me up. You know how it is.”

  “And how was it?”

  Rob shrugged. “Fine. Just a short trip in a Hunter.” He paused. “Actually, I quite enjoyed it.”

  Mary reached over and held his hand. “And that’s OK. It’s OK to enjoy things. It’s what Millie would have wanted.”

  She released his hand and they finished the meal in silence.

  After dinner, with a drying up cloth in his hand, he looked out into the street.

  Mary passed him the dripping crockery.

  A couple walked by, pushing a pram.

  A large dog on a short lead pulled a teenager along the pavement.

  The sun shone, the people looked happy.

  “I’m sorry,” Rob said. “I can’t do this.”

  He put the plate on the top, left the kitchen, and hurried upstairs.

  He curled up on the bed. Mary followed, and as he rolled over to look at her, it was clear she’d also been crying.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I just can’t stop it sometimes.”

  She crawled onto the bed. They embraced.

  “I want to help you, Rob.”

  “I can’t explain it, but I feel I’m nowhere at the moment. I don’t feel I’m back at TFU. Nothing feels the same, nothing feels normal.”

  “You miss Millie.”

  “It’s more than that.” He pressed his head onto the pillow.

  “Then what, Rob? What is it? The box?”

  “Yes. There’s something going on, I can feel it, I just don’t know what. I think my only chance to save Millie was somewhere in those papers.”

  “You’re bound to feel guilty, being the only survivor. Maybe that’s what it is?”

  “Maybe.”

  She pushed her head toward him and they kissed. The embrace went on. He rolled over on top of her and she moaned softly.

  Without closing the curtains or windows, they made love.

  Mary giggled as she tried to keep her cries as quiet as possible, aware the neighbours may well be in the garden on a summer’s evening.

  “Mustn’t scare the MacLeishes.”

  After, Rob rolled back onto his side, pushing his discarded trousers to the floor.

  A warmth washed over him.

  He stroked Mary’s hair, bringing his hand down and letting it brush over her breasts.

  “Not much feels right anymore, but this does.”

  “Good.” She kissed him on the forehead. “I think it’s time to let the box go.”

  A chill woke Rob. It was dark. He pulled on a pair of pyjama bottoms and covered Mary with a sheet.

  He crept downstairs and poured a glass of water in the kitchen, drinking it by the orange glow of the street lamps.

  The living room light was still on. He walked in and found the French doors open. Moths and insects busied themselves around the hot bulb. He switched it off and went to close the doors to the garden.

  The lawn looked a pale grey colour as a full moon struggled to assert itself over the orange sodium of RAF West Porton’s perimeter floodlights.

  He stood for a moment looking out at the still night.

  Straight into the eyes of the young woman.

  He stumbled back and nearly cried out.

  She put a finger to her lips and stepped into the dim light of the patio.

  Framed in the doorway, she hissed at him.

  “Robert May?”

  “Yes.”

  “We need to talk. Thursday evening at this public house.”

  She handed him a slip of paper.

  “Do not tell anyone. Act normally at work. Do you understand?”

  He nodded.

  “And stop turning up at the bloody peace camp.”

  23

  Wednesday 29th June

  At the tea bar, Rob poured himself a mug and added two sugars.

  Alone behind the wooden top, he removed the small slip of paper from his pocket and read it one more time.

  The Bell Inn

  Wyle

  7.30PM SHARP

  “How was the hop in the Hunter?”

  Rob clenched his fist, holding the paper tight. He looked up to see Jock MacLeish.

  “Very enjoyable, thank you.”

  MacLeish raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Feeling better?”

  “Yes, well, it doesn’t do to dwell on the past, does it?”

  MacLeish didn’t look convinc
ed, but he gave Rob a pat on the shoulder.

  Rory Davies announced his presence in the planning room.

  “Bloody hippies all over the bloody road. I nearly killed one of them.”

  “You should have,” someone replied.

  “Seriously. Idiots holding tents and bags, taking up the whole bloody street, ambling off to god knows where. They deliberately ignored my horn.”

  “At least they’re leaving,” Jock said.

  “About bloody time. Snivelling little pinko commies. A danger to society and menace to drivers. Good riddance.”

  Rob watched the exchange without joining in. He wandered over to the planning desk. After yesterday’s return to flying status, they had handed him an unexciting trip in a Canberra, making polar diagrams with a newly fitted compass system. The trial would require nearly three hours of high level orbits over the same track north of Warrington.

  The assigned navigator, a junior Flight Lieutenant called Watkins, joined him, and they planned the trip.

  Rob looked up to see a group captain flanked by a pilot he recognised from Boscombe Down and another officer, without wings, striding past the desks.

  Kilton emerged from his office, shook their hands, and ushered them inside.

  As he closed the door, Kilton’s eyes swept the room. Rob looked quickly down at his flight plan.

  “Board of Inquiry, I suppose,” Watkins said.

  “I know who they are. Let’s just plan this thing and get airborne.”

  After retrieving flying clothing and equipment, they walked out to the jet. Rob dropped his helmet and life vest by the open hatch before carrying out his walkaround checks.

  As he rounded the nosecone, pressing the latch to ensure it was secure, Kilton walked out onto the apron with the group captain, and pointed at Rob.

  The senior officer approached, leaving Kilton by the door.

  “Flight Lieutenant May?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m Group Captain Gordon McClair. They have appointed me as the Chairman of the Board of Inquiry into the loss of Vulcan XH441.”

  McClair had blue eyes and fair hair. He looked like he’d fit on the cover of a romantic novel, but the eyes were sharp and searching.

  “Well, I don’t want to disturb you. I can see you’re about to fly, which is pleasing. I just wanted to hear how you are and whether you’re ready to sit down and go through the events with us.”

  “I’m fine, thank you, sir. I had a sore back, but it cleared up over the weekend.”

  “Good. Your boss tells me you’re an exemplary pilot and informally I thought you should know that we do have a very early indication of the cause. But of course I will need your version of events to corroborate. I don’t want you to unduly worry, though. Now, I’m in Farnborough tomorrow and back here on Friday. Can I slot you in then?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good.” McClair lingered for a moment. “Are you quite certain you’re feeling OK?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We want no more mishaps up there.” He glanced at the Canberra.

  “It’s fine, sir. I went up yesterday and got it out of my system, so to speak.”

  “Good. We’ll see you on Friday.”

  McClair turned and walked back to Kilton with the stiff-backed gait common in many senior officers.

  “He seemed nice,” the navigator said.

  “Let’s go.” Rob donned his Mae West and climbed into the cockpit.

  Fifteen minutes later, he signalled to the marshallers that he was about to perform a cartridge start. He pressed the button and looked over his shoulder as a stream of black smoke emanated from the top of the starboard engine. Back in the cockpit, he watched the revolutions climb, and the engine caught.

  The flight was as uneventful as it appeared on paper.

  During the slow, straight legs, it was hard to keep his thoughts only on the flying.

  What if it was a trap? What if she was blackmailing him?

  “You’ve missed it!” Watkins called over the intercom.

  “What? Oh, sorry.” Rob looked down at the needles they’d set for the orbit. He banked left, glancing ahead to check the airspace was clear.

  “Want me to count you down to the next turn?” the navigator called.

  “No. It’s fine.”

  He shook the errant thoughts from his mind and concentrated on the flight.

  After two hours and seventeen minutes they departed the orbit track and headed south.

  As soon as they’d shut down, the navigator opened the hatch to let some cool air in.

  Rob followed him into TFU where Kilton’s secretary, Jean, was waiting for him.

  “Wing Commander Kilton would like your logbook, please, Mr May.”

  “Oh, I haven’t completed it yet.”

  Jean just stood there. Clearly, she wasn’t about to leave without it.

  He put his helmet down, and, still wearing the rest of his bulky flying gear, he leant over a desk and filled in the entry for the Canberra flight before handing it over.

  “What’s this about?”

  “No need to be nervous. It’s just part of the investigation.” She headed back to Kilton’s outer office.

  As home time approached, MacLeish, Red and a few of the others headed to the bar for a couple of drinks. Rob joined them.

  He downed his first pint and leant over to MacLeish.

  “Jean took my logbook.”

  MacLeish shrugged. “For the BOI?”

  “Maybe. But she used the word ‘investigation’, which I thought was odd.”

  “Ah. Then not the BOI. That’ll be the other thing. Millie’s locker and all that.”

  MacLeish drank his beer and turned away.

  24

  Thursday 30th June

  The following evening, Rob drove the Healey cross-country through the Winterbournes, a cluster of small villages littered with army buildings.

  The Bell Inn was ancient, with a small wooden door, forcing him to duck as he entered.

  An old man with a white beard nursed a glass of dark ale at the bar. A golden retriever slept at his feet.

  Behind the bar, a short, stout woman regarded Rob over her half-moon glasses.

  “What will it be?”

  Rob scanned the draught beers.

  “A pint of Harp, please.”

  A stuffed fish sat in a glass case mounted on the wall above the bearded man. It looked like a pike: long, with nasty-looking teeth.

  The landlady gave Rob a pleasant enough smile and lifted a glass down from a hook.

  She poured the lager, while the man half-turned to take him in, before reaching down to pat his dog.

  “Just you, is it?” the landlady asked.

  “I’m expecting a friend.”

  “I can run a tab, if you like?”

  “Thanks.” He nodded, and she noted the drink on a pad next to the till.

  Rob picked up the pint and made his way to a small, round table furthest from the bar. He tucked himself into a corner by the fireplace.

  The place smelled of old wood. Brass horseshoes were tacked to the beams and ugly Toby jugs stared out at the empty chairs.

  The door opened and the young woman walked in.

  She’d undergone a transformation. The black bob of hair was now shoulder-length blonde. She looked smarter, too.

  He stood up. She smiled at him, waved and called out.

  “Hi!”

  The landlady picked up a wine glass, in anticipation of a fresh order. “The gentleman has a bill running, so what would you like?”

  “Half a Guinness,” the woman said brightly. The landlady replaced the wine glass and poured the stout into a straight half-pint glass. There was a pause while she let the beer settle before topping it up. Rob remained standing, feeling awkward.

  The young woman came over to the table. She looked friendly and confident, as if they met here every Thursday evening. Following years of behaviour training, he let her take
her seat before resuming his.

  She leant over and kissed him on the cheek.

  “How are you?” she said, loud enough for the pub’s other two occupants to hear.

  “Fine, thank you.”

  Her new hair made a difference, but her clothes changed everything. Gone were the loose fitting tops and scruffy jeans. She now wore a smart, cream blouse and black slacks, and had a shiny new handbag. She looked as if she’d just come from an office job, not the peace camp.

  She studied him with clear, green eyes. She had a turned down mouth, dimples in both cheeks.

  She hung her handbag on the chair, before crossing her hands on the table.

  “How was your day?”

  “Fine, thank you.”

  She leant in close. “Let’s wait for the background noise to rise a bit.”

  His eyes scanned the empty pub.

  The door swung open again and three men bustled in wearing boots, wax jackets and ruddy complexions.

  They laughed about something, and the landlady greeted them by name. The woman leant forward again.

  “Why did you steal Top Secret documents from the military?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You had them in your house.”

  “I didn’t steal them.”

  “Then why did you have them?”

  She kept her serene smile. At a glance, anyone would think they were having a cosy chat about holiday plans.

  The three newcomers stood at the bar and tucked into their hard-earned pints, chatting loudly about some adventure with a bailer.

  She spoke again. “Georgina Milford gave them to you to hide?”

  “No.”

  “Then what was the arrangement, Robert?”

  He shook his head. “Who are you?”

  “Don’t look so worried, it will attract attention.”

  “I can’t look like anything else at the moment.”

  “Well, being caught with Guiding Light material means jail time. Why risk it?” She spoke with such casualness, but Rob winced at the project name.

  “I wanted to return them, but… it’s complicated.”