The Final Flight

by James Blatch

  “Maybe you had better come in then.”

  Inside the dark kitchen, the woman unpacked her shopping. She paused and looked over her shoulder.

  “How did he die?”

  “In an aeroplane crash,” Rob said. “I survived, but I’m afraid the other three men didn’t make it.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. The professor liked him very much. I’m Mrs Lazenby.” She turned back to her unpacking. Rob watched as she piled up three jars of fish paste before opening a cupboard.

  “Mrs Lazenby, can I ask you what your husband does?” said Rob.

  The woman laughed. “Not much. He died in 1944.”

  “Then who—”

  “Professor Belkin lives here, and that’s who I suspect you need to speak to. I’m just the housekeeper.” She put away the last of the shopping as the clock in the hall struck the half hour. Rob looked at his watch; it was 10.30AM.

  “But you’ll have awhile to wait, I’m afraid. He’s not here and won’t be back for another week.”

  Rob’s heart sunk.

  “We only have today, Mrs Lazenby. Perhaps you could tell us where he is?”

  “Would you like a cup of tea?”

  Susie smiled at her. “That would be lovely.”

  With great deliberation, Mrs Lazenby took the kettle from the draining board and filled it with water over the sink. She placed it on the stove and then spent a long time fiddling with the gas and box of matches.

  Rob looked across at Susie with impatience, but she put a finger to her lips.

  “Mrs Lazenby, do you know why we are here?” Susie asked.

  The housekeeper pulled a chair from under the table and sat down opposite them.

  “Was it an accident?”

  “I’m sorry?” Rob replied, even though he had heard her clearly.

  She turned to face him. “The aeroplane crash. Was it an accident?”

  Susie answered, “We don’t know. Why do you ask that?”

  Mrs Lazenby looked vague for a moment, as if recalling a dim memory. “It’s not my place to discuss this. You really are best waiting for the professor.”

  “I understand that, Mrs Lazenby,” said Susie, “but we are in a rather desperate position. As I think you realised, Mr Milford took a great risk in coming here and now that he’s gone, we are all he has left to ensure that risk wasn’t for nothing.”

  The kettle whistled. Mrs Lazenby stood up.

  Susie continued. “We think Professor Belkin is the only person who can help bring to a conclusion the work Mr Milford was doing and we need to speak to him today.”

  Mrs Lazenby slowly poured the boiling water into a teapot which she then covered with a knitted cosy. Without turning around, she asked, “And who are you again?”

  Rob watched her lift the teapot onto the table.

  “I took a significant risk coming here today, Mrs Lazenby. If you telephone RAF West Porton to confirm my identity, I guarantee the next thing that will happen is that police officers will arrive at this house and arrest me. I have a career as a test pilot at risk. And a wife.” His voice cracked with the words. “I realise you only have my word on this, but please, Mrs Lazenby, I would give everything I have to ensure that Squadron Leader Milford’s discovery does not die with him. Please help me.”

  Mrs Lazenby reached into a cupboard and retrieved three cups, followed by three saucers.

  Finally, she returned from the refrigerator with a jug of milk.

  “I see,” she said, and sat down. “I’m afraid you won’t want to hear what I’m about to say. The professor is a long way away. More than a day, I fear, with the ferry crossing times.”

  “Is he in France?” Susie asked.

  “No, not France, but he may as well be. The professor takes his summer holiday on Lundy, and he has done every year that I’ve known him.”

  “Lundy?”

  “An island off the north Devon coast,” Rob said. He looked at Mrs Lazenby. “I didn’t know anyone lived there.”

  “I believe there are some holiday cottages. The professor has an arrangement with a gentleman. Mr MacPherson.”

  Susie had visibly slumped.

  But Rob was already thinking about their next move.

  “We can get there today.”

  Mrs Lazenby looked doubtful. “I can give you the address, but it takes the professor more than five hours to drive to the port, and then I understand there’s only two crossings a day. You’ll be lucky if you’re there before tomorrow lunchtime. So, unless you brought one of your fancy aeroplanes with you, I’m afraid you’re out of luck.”

  Susie looked at Rob with an eyebrow raised.

  He was smiling.

  They stepped onto the street into bright sunshine. Rob turned back to Mrs Lazenby at the door.

  “You’ve been extremely helpful. I can tell you guard the professor’s privacy closely, but I believe you’ve done the right thing.”

  “Mrs Lazenby,” Susie said, “did the professor take any work related items with him on holiday?”

  She shook her head. “Not at all. He goes to get away from all that. He tells me he doesn’t even read the newspaper.”

  “That explains why he hasn’t contacted us.”

  They walked back to Susie’s car. Rob studied the brief address.

  Old Light Cottage, Lundy

  They pulled over at the first phone box and Rob dialled the Ministry operator, asking to be put through to the operations desk at 47 Squadron.

  They quickly found JR.

  The old pilot laughed when he heard the plan.

  “In for a penny, I guess. I’ll do some planning and see if we can’t beg some paraffin from the good people at RAF Abingdon.” He paused. “I’ll have to look at the strip carefully. Getting in is one thing, but we’ll need to get out again.”

  “Thank you, JR.”

  Susie steered them onto the main road again, and they headed back toward Abingdon.

  “I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Rob said.

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself. We need irrefutable evidence, remember. I was hoping we’d be poring over results from the sixty reels by now, preferably with the tapes themselves still intact.” She shrugged. “What are we going to find in Lundy?”

  “The truth?”

  Susie changed into top gear. “Unfortunately, the truth isn’t usually enough.”

  “But we have to try.”

  “I agree. But flying across southern England is a lot more than we bargained for. You’re certain you want to do this?”

  Rob stared out of the window as the colleges gave way to countryside. “I have to,” he said quietly. “We’ve got hours left on the project before it’s too late. Millie worked with Belkin. I’ve got to talk to him, Susie. I’ve got to give it a chance. It’s the least I owe Millie.”

  They drove on in silence for a few minutes.

  As RAF Abingdon’s main gate came into view, Rob turned to Susie.

  “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”

  She smiled. “The chance of a flight? I’m not missing that! Plus, they ordered me not to go to Abingdon, but they didn’t say anything about Lundy.”

  “With respect, sir, I think that’s naive.” Kilton stood in front of Group Captain Periwinkle’s desk.

  “Calm down, Mark. I’m sure there’s a logical explanation.”

  Kilton shook his head in exasperation. “The evidence is clear. May lied about his illness. I’m certain he flew with the Maintenance Unit. In fact I think I saw him in an Anson.”

  “You think? But you’re not sure?”

  “I’m sure, sir.”

  “Might Rob just be at the doctor’s? Didn’t the police say that the house was empty? Mary must have taken him off.”

  “No, sir. He’s up to something, I’m sure of it.”

  The phone in the outer office rang. A moment later, the call was put through to Periwinkle.

  “Station Commander,” he answered. “I see. And that�
��s as much as you can tell us, is it?”

  He said a polite thank you and hung up. “ATC say the only MU traffic this morning was indeed an Anson. There was no flight plan, but the aircraft departed to the north-east.”

  “North-east?” Kilton looked around the office and pulled a southern England chart from a shelf, spreading it open on the conference table. With his finger, he drew a line running north-easterly from West Porton. It led to Cambridge.

  He looked up at the station commander. “Get your corporal to call Cambridge Airport and ask them if they’ve had a visitor this morning. Anson TX183.” He wrote the serial number on a scrap of paper and handed it to Periwinkle. The station commander moved from behind his desk.

  Kilton stood by the chart and listened as Periwinkle relayed the message in the outer office.

  “Oh, and could we have a pot of tea, please?”

  “Call Cambridge first!” Kilton shouted.

  Periwinkle walked back into the office. He eyed Kilton as he dealt with some correspondence on his desk. Kilton stood in silence, gazing down at the chart. Why Cambridge?

  After a few minutes, the corporal appeared at the door.

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “Nothing?” said Kilton. “Really?”

  “No, sir. Cambridge confirms they’ve had no visitors at all this morning.”

  “Bollocks!” Kilton stood up and hunched over the chart again. “North-east. Could just have been their initial heading.” His eyes moved either side of an imaginary line to Cambridge. RAE Bedford was a common destination for test crews; the place hosted a lot of aeronautical engineers.

  The corporal stood next to him, also looking at the chart.

  “RAE Bedford, corporal. That could be it. Call them, will you?”

  “Yes, sir. Would you like me to make a list of the other airfields along the route? They could have gone beyond Cambridge, of course?”

  “Quickly then,” Kilton snapped. He watched as the corporal scribbled at speed.

  Marham

  Wyton

  Alconbury

  RAE Bedford

  Bicester

  Brize Norton

  Abingdon

  As he returned to the outer office, Kilton shouted after him. “Start with RAE Bedford.”

  He paced the room.

  “Cup of tea, Mark?” asked Periwinkle.

  Red Brunson stood by one of the planning desks and drummed his fingers. He’d been watching the comings and goings since their abrupt return to West Porton, including the order of the police to Rob May’s house.

  Jock MacLeish appeared beside him.

  Red looked over his shoulder to ensure no-one was too close.

  “First, they came for Brian, then they came for Millie.”

  “And now they’ve come for Rob.” MacLeish finished the thought.

  “Did he ever say anything to you?” Red asked.

  Jock shook his head. “Nope. I wondered if he would, but he seemed happy with the project.”

  Two West Porton security men in uniform marched into the planning room. They tapped on Jean’s office door. Red and MacLeish watched as she led them to the wooden lockers and handed over a set of keys.

  It didn’t take them long to tip the contents of Rob’s locker into a bag.

  MacLeish shook his head and went back to his planning, but Red loitered for a moment, before heading over to Jean.

  He tapped on the glass window in the door.

  Jean looked up and beamed, waving him in.

  “Well, hello, Lieutenant Brunson.”

  “Hi, Jean. I need to check a few items for the funeral. Do you have the contact list, please?”

  “Of course,” she said brightly, then delved into a file, handing him a sheet with the names and telephone numbers.

  “Thank you. I won’t be long.”

  Rob went into the Abingdon guardroom at the main gate and filled out a visitor form for Susie, making up a name. One of the smaller illegalities of the day.

  At the 47 Squadron operations desk, JR explained they would have a female VIP passenger, and Susie was duly treated like royalty with offers of cups of tea and biscuits.

  JR filled out the departure details, and he sat on the sofa next to Rob as they ran through a copy of the Anson pilots’ notes.

  They hadn’t been able to contact anyone at Lundy. Apparently, the island wasn’t connected to the mainland by wire. However, JR had found a description of the strip; it was one thousand four hundred feet long, which was tight.

  The more they read in the notes, the better they felt their chances were. The handling instructions for take-off at eighty-five knots had a considerable margin of error, as the actual stall speed was closer to fifty knots.

  During his test pilots’ course, Rob had placed various aircraft in all sorts of marginal situations. He felt this was acceptable.

  JR agreed.

  He shrugged. “Well, we’ll find out one way or another.”

  Rob donned his flying coveralls and the three of them headed out to the waiting aircraft.

  A few minutes after JR, Rob and Susie had left, a phone rang on the 47 Squadron operations desk. The duty desk sergeant picked it up.

  “47 Squadron Operations. Sergeant Wilkes… Thank you. Put him through.”

  As he listened, he jotted down an aircraft serial number.

  TX183

  “I think so. Stand by, I’ll check.”

  Wilkes could have done without this extra task on a busy morning. Cupping the receiver, he looked across to his corporal.

  “Those VIPs? Were they in an Anson?”

  “I think so.”

  “Serial?” He waited as the corporal opened the visitor log and ran his finger down to the last entry.

  “Tango X-Ray one-eight-three”

  “What time did they leave?”

  The corporal looked at the wall clock. “Ten minutes ago.”

  The sergeant uncapped the phone. “You’ve just missed them, sorry.”

  A new voice appeared at the other end of the line and the sergeant had to hold the receiver away from his ear.

  “Yes, sir.” He dropped the phone and shouted at the corporal.

  “Stop the Anson!”

  Rob switched on the main magnetos in the aircraft and switched off the starting mags. He scanned the rest of the checklist while a member of the ground crew outside waved to confirm he had screwed down the priming pump and closed the priming cock.

  He watched as JR opened the engine up to one thousand RPM.

  “Pain, but we have to warm the engine for a minute or two.”

  Rob monitored the engine temperature gauges. The white needle inched slowly around the dial.

  Susie appeared between them.

  “You’re best to keep seated,” Rob shouted above the engine noise, but she pointed out of the window.

  An RAF police car was driving toward the air traffic tower. They watched it pull to a halt before a policeman jumped out and looked toward them.

  “For us?” Rob said.

  “I think so. Perhaps we should get going?”

  JR didn’t need asking twice. He released the park brake and gave a wave to the ground crew, who showed him three chocks. He pushed the throttles and the aircraft crept forward.

  Rob kept his eyes on the policeman. He was running toward them.

  “Are you going to radio the tower?” JR asked.

  “I think that would be futile now.”

  “Agreed.”

  JR swung the Anson onto the westerly taxiway and taxied as fast as he dared.

  The radio burst into life. “Anson, Shorthand one-three, you are requested to shut down .”

  Rob watched through the side window as the policeman, reacting to the plane’s movement, stopped and ran back to his car.

  The radio shouted at them again. “Shorthand one-three you are ordered to stop taxi and shutdown immediately.’

  “Shall we turn that off?” Rob said.

  “Good ide
a.” JR turned the rotary dial.

  The crossing point for the main runway was straight ahead, about halfway along its length.

  “Plenty of space for this old girl,” JR said.

  Rob selected a take-off flap setting and craned his head around. The police car swung onto the taxiway and disappeared behind them. It must have been doing fifty MPH; they were doing about twenty. The policeman would be level with them, or worse, in front of them, in moments.

  The turn onto the main runway was still a hundred yards away.

  But they were facing into wind.

  “Just go,” Rob said.

  JR looked at him. “What?”

  “Use the taxiway. We’ve run out of time, JR. Let’s just go!”

  JR pushed the throttles forward, and they both monitored the engines, which should have had more of a chance to warm up.

  The airspeed indicator lumbered slowly up.

  “Come on, come on...” Rob willed the aircraft to accelerate.

  He looked around, pressing against the window, trying to glimpse the police car, only to see it had caught up with them and was now attempting to overtake, one set of wheels on the grass.

  “Shit, he’s going to get in front of us!”

  Forty-five knots, fifty knots.

  The needle was agonisingly slow to respond.

  The police car came level with the leading edge of the wing.

  The driver seemed to find a burst of energy from the engine and it moved ahead, level with the nose.

  Sixty-five knots.

  JR eased the yoke back.

  But the aircraft stayed planted.

  The police car inched further ahead.

  “If he gets clear, he’ll pull in front and we’re done for!” Rob shouted.

  Susie stood up again, gripping the back of the two cockpit seats.

  “COME ON!” she yelled over the din of the engines.

  The Anson’s wings finally began to bite and the aircraft lifted slowly into the air, leaving the police car way behind.

  JR kept the nose close to the horizon, allowing the airspeed to build, before nudging it up, teasing the vintage aircraft into a gentle, if reluctant, climb.