The Final Flight

by James Blatch

  JR was not there.

  “I’m Ted Durrant,” said a man sporting RAF wings and a moustache. “I’m one of the pilots here. It’s my job to brief you for your flight. JR apologises for his absence.”

  It took Rob a second to process what he’d heard.

  “My flight?”

  The men looked at each other for a moment before the warrant officer stepped forward and addressed the MU men.

  “None of you have to be here for this. If you choose to stay, you’re implicating yourself in a deception. It’s your choice, boys. No-one will think less of you for leaving. On the other hand, if you want to end the empire of that scheming bastard Kilton, then maybe you should stay.”

  The men laughed and not a soul moved from his position.

  Durrant guided him by his arm. “OK, then. Rob, if you’ll step over here...”

  They moved to an old wooden table with a typical TFU tasking sheet and a chart with drawn-on lines. Next to the chart: the unmistakable sight of Red Brunson’s elaborate flying helmet and mirrored visor.

  “Now, I should tell you, this wasn’t my idea,” Durrant said. “I believe it was cooked up by Brunson along with a couple of your colleagues at TFU, with the help of that young woman.”

  “Susie?”

  “Is that her name? Anyway, the idea, my friend, is to get you inside the Vulcan in place of Red for the final project flight.” He looked at his watch. “Which is due to launch in an hour. So, we don’t have long to get this right. And believe me, a lot needs to go right.”

  “How will this ever work?” Rob said.

  Durrant continued with his brief. “The two key elements are Red’s suggestion to Kilton that Stafford observes the flight from the co-pilot’s seat, not the rear bay. They’ve gone for it. Kilton will be at the navigator radar station. The second element is this.”

  He picked up Brunson’s helmet.

  “The mirrored visor,” Rob said.

  “Correct. With the oxygen mask, it could be anyone under there. Brunson thinks Stafford would be unlikely to spot the difference.”

  “But what about everything else? What about before the flight? Walking out together, the brief?”

  “Red will use the fact that Kilton wants him to fly the Vulcan alone as an excuse to get in the cockpit early.” Durrant looked across at his colleagues. “Now, there is some choreography to carry out on the apron. Basically, swapping you and Red over. But we managed to smuggle you from the mess, so who knows? It might even work.”

  “And if it doesn’t work? When I get back they’ll arrest Red. And you lot.”

  “Then it’d better work,” Durrant said, with a flash of a smile.

  Rob looked uncertain.

  “Look, on the ground, every officer at TFU will back you up. The idea is to give Kilton a chance to personally reverse his decision about Guiding Light. He’s not a man to be overruled, but he should see the way out of the mess.” The man shrugged. “It’s all they could come up with. Red doesn’t know enough to persuade him.”

  Rob stared at the chart, the brief for the trip, and Red’s flying equipment.

  “Will I see Red beforehand?”

  “Not for long. He’s created an additional checklist for you.” Durrant shuffled through some papers and handed Rob a handwritten list.

  It included four circuit breakers with instructions to open them before he took his seat and a small power switch to locate on the rear Guiding Light panel. The function of the breakers and switch wasn’t clear, but it was obvious that the whole operation had been thought through.

  He finished studying the list and looked up; the room was silent.

  Durrant looked at him. “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to, Rob. No-one will judge you here.”

  “Thank you, Ted. But it would be out of character for me this week not to do something very stupid indeed.”

  Durrant nodded with a smile. “Well, just make sure you come back. Either you’ll get your point across or you won’t. There’s no point in taking unnecessary risks.”

  “What about my voice? Won’t that be a giveaway?”

  “Only speak via the intercom and make it monosyllabic. The intercom makes everyone sound the same. Hopefully. I’d get airborne quickly. Once you’re up, you can reveal yourself, I guess. Not much they can do about it then.”

  Rob looked at the sheet and notes; it was not a complex flight. The lines on the chart were mainly for show, as Red had written VFR—Visual Flight Rules—next to the flight description. Basically, go out west, drop to one thousand feet, briefly hand over control to Guiding Light, let the passengers see it working, then return.

  Not a thorough test; just a pleasure flight for Stafford before he gets his sign-off.

  “We have forty minutes. Rob, you need to get into Red’s coveralls.”

  In the Maintenance Unit Land Rover, Rob was starting to overheat; Brunson’s flight suit was thick. As a precaution they’d decided he should have the helmet on with the visor down at all times.

  He sat on a tin shelf under the canvas as the vehicle sped along the peritrack. Two MU pilots came along with him, including Durrant in the passenger seat up front. They both looked about Millie’s age.

  After he’d first signed up, it was easy to get bored with the war stories from the veterans in the crew room, but now, in an old military vehicle, driving around a former World War Two dispersal airfield, about to climb into an aircraft with an unknown outcome, he felt he had a small glimpse of their once daily routine.

  Eventually, they came to a stop.

  The canvas at the back parted and Durrant’s face appeared.

  “OK, we’re in position.” He looked at Rob. “When Red gets around this side of the jet, he jumps in and you jump out. Got it?”

  Rob tried to nod, but the helmet moved slightly over the leather inner. Would it give him problems in flight?

  They waited. After a few minutes, Durrant spoke again. “He’s on his way.”

  Rob shuffled to the back of the wagon, waiting for his cue.

  His heart was beating fast, but time slowed down.

  “Come on,” he urged Red Brunson under his breath.

  The canvas parted, and there he was. The tall American climbed in.

  “Are you ready for this, buddy?”

  Rob raised the visor and met Red’s intense gaze.

  “Yes.”

  “Make your case, convince them, scare them even. But don’t do anything stupid, OK? We need you back here in one piece. We’ll back you up, every one of us.”

  “Really?”

  “Everyone, buddy. Now listen, in case Kilton tries to override, I’ve added some steps to the checklist—”

  “The circuit breakers?” Rob interrupted.

  Brunson smiled. “Yep. Flip those breakers and only the captain’s side panel will work. No-one else will be able to engage or cancel.”

  “They’re coming.” Ted Durrant spoke with urgency from the front seat.

  Brunson looked back at Rob, eyes wide. “He still might try something. Your number one responsibility to me, Mary and everyone else is to stay safe. You understand, Rob?”

  Rob dropped the visor and jumped out of the back, clutching his checklist and air chart.

  He looked across. The short and stout Ewan Stafford waddled around in oversized flying coveralls, looking like a sack of potatoes. He and Kilton posed for a photograph by the TFU door. They were a couple of hundred yards away, which gave him just a minute or so.

  The Vulcan stood proud on its landing gear; Rob ducked and walked underneath to the yellow crew ladder.

  Once in the rear crew bay, he searched his paperwork for the additional checklist steps from Red, and located a small fuse block on the left side of the panels. He tried to open the fuse marked ‘7a’.

  It wouldn’t budge. He lifted his visor to get a clear view.

  The fuse case was flush with the wall; he needed a small flathead screwdriver.

  He patted his
coveralls, hoping Brunson kept a tool of some description in his pockets.

  Nothing.

  Rob looked around, as he heard Kilton’s voice carried on the breeze.

  “Shit.”

  He tried the trouser pockets of the suit and found a fountain pen. It would have to do. He pulled off the lid.

  Placing his gloves and paperwork on the AEO’s station, he pushed the pen nib into the outside case of the fuse holder. Using the nib as a lever, he got the holder completely open and tipped out the fuse, before pushing it back in. His fingers were now covered in black ink.

  He consulted the list again, smudging the paper with black as he did so. He opened two more traditional circuit breakers on a panel above the radar operator’s station before finally disconnecting a small wire underneath the Guiding Light readout panel.

  Just as he had completed his extracurricular tasks, a shadow appeared below him.

  He snapped the space-like visor back down and pushed the oxygen mask back into place, then quickly moved to the small steps, up to the cockpit itself.

  He settled into the left hand captain’s seat while Ewan Stafford climbed fully into the rear crew area and stood aside to let Kilton up.

  Rob hurriedly consulted Red’s list again. He opened two more circuit breakers above and to the left of his seat.

  He exhaled, just as Stafford appeared next to him.

  “Hello!” the managing director said cheerily. Rob pointed at the empty co-pilot’s seat on the right and Stafford made getting into it look like a trick Houdini would have struggled with.

  Kilton appeared below him between the two seats, his head poking up into the cockpit.

  Rob froze.

  Kilton continued up the pilots’ ladder until his head was level with them.

  “Red, you carry on with the pre-start, I’ll strap him in.”

  Rob exhaled quietly and turned away from the pair to busy himself with the checks.

  Kilton’s hands reached over Stafford, pulling on his straps, and in the process, he pushed against Rob.

  The Vulcan cockpit suddenly felt more cramped than he was used to.

  Kilton told Stafford which pins to remove to make the seat live and then where to store them. Meanwhile, Rob brought the Avro aircraft to life and prepared to start the engines.

  To his relief, Kilton shuffled back down the ladder. An engineer stood on the crew-access ladder, ready to help him close and seal the hatch.

  Once done, Rob craned around to see Kilton move to the Guiding Light position and strap himself in.

  He quickly began the quick engine start sequence; he had a few seconds before Kilton would connect his PEC and access the intercom. Each of the four Olympus engines fired up, utilising a built-in procedure for the Vulcans that sat on standby with Britain’s nuclear deterrent on board. Something else Brunson had arranged in advance; no waiting for ground power units.

  Rob was grateful for the noise and distraction of the auto sequence.

  He got a good start on all four engines and continued with the after-start checks.

  He would have to talk to ATC.

  The engine noise whined in his head through the intercom and he considered taxiing without permission.

  He looked down at the intercom control panel and realised with relief that he could isolate the rear crew. He set the switches, keyed his own press-to-transmit switch and requested taxi.

  He exchanged hand signals with the ground marshaller and set about shifting the large aircraft from its resting place.

  As he swung the Vulcan around and headed for the eastern end of the runway, Mark Kilton appeared next to him, again.

  Rob kept his eyes front, but Kilton tapped him on the shoulder. He reluctantly looked around; Kilton tapped the side of his helmet and shouted over the din.

  “Intercom’s not working!”

  Rob nodded, and Kilton went back down into the dark.

  He flicked the switch to bring the rear crew back onto the circuit.

  “That’s better. I need to talk to Ewan. Red, power the laser on now, Ewan can watch the reading as we climb out.”

  Without replying, Rob reached down to the Guiding Light panel on his left. He flicked the power on, ensuring the flight computer was not yet engaged with the autopilot.

  The single height reading lit up on the small meter fitted above the main panel between the two pilots. He used his hand to direct Stafford’s attention to it.

  “Great to see it live,” said Stafford. “It’s only ever been a simulation on a workshop bench for me.”

  Rob remained enigmatic, trying to look busy and occupied, which was easy, because he was.

  As he rounded the final turn to face the runway at ninety degrees, he realised he was going to have to push his luck again with the intercom. He isolated the rear crew once more and made the quick call to ATC for take-off permission, advising them that he would head west after climb out.

  He switched Kilton’s intercom back on, to pre-empt another visit up the ladder, and he acknowledged the clearance with a curt, “Roger.”

  That was it. He was seconds away from getting airborne and nearly over the first significant hurdle.

  Rob looked across to Stafford and out of the side window to check the approach to the runway, ensuring they were safe to line up.

  He needed to know the civilian had armed his ejection seat correctly.

  More talking.

  “Pins?” he said quickly.

  Stafford pointed at the removed pins, now in their stowage position.

  “Switch?”

  Stafford pointed down to his side and gave a thumbs up. “Armed!”

  Rob turned back and checked the approach lane to the airfield again. All clear.

  He made quick work of the line-up and advanced the throttles to a take-off setting. The engines responded well; they rolled, gathering pace. A white needle climbed around the airspeed indicator.

  The noise level rose. Rob’s nostrils had already filled with the familiar smell of the Vulcan’s interior, filling his mind with unwanted images.

  For a moment he imagined the ghost of Christopher Milford watching Kilton in his seat, and then chastised himself for not concentrating. He closed and opened his eyes as the centre lines disappeared under the nose at an increasing rate.

  Rob eased the stick back, allowed the nose to rise to the horizon, and held it there as the four-engined, large delta wing bomber left the ground.

  He tapped the wheel brakes and moved the landing gear handle up.

  Loud whirring and bangs from below as the gear tucked itself away.

  He banked right and headed west.

  The tasking called for a gentle flight in the area immediately west of the airfield, but that didn’t suit Rob’s purpose. He needed a full demonstration, deep in the hills.

  Somewhere their lives would depend on the integrity of the Guiding Light system.

  That wasn’t the downs around Wiltshire; he needed to get them into Wales.

  Kilton spoke to Stafford, taking him through the height readings.

  Rob climbed the Vulcan to expedite their transit.

  Eventually, Kilton called to him. “When you’re ready, Red, let’s get down to one thousand feet and begin the demo.”

  Rob ignored him and continued to climb.

  Kilton didn’t seem to notice at first. He and Stafford discussed how the equipment would be installed in existing aircraft.

  Rob kept the aircraft moving fast. It was a perfect day for visibility and he tried to pick out Bath ahead, aiming for the city as a convenient run toward the Severn Estuary.

  “Come on, Brunson, let’s get this thing down.”

  Rob managed to get them to twelve thousand feet. The ground speed was pleasingly high in the thin air, but he could sense Kilton’s patience being stretched. He levelled off and then tipped the aircraft into a very gentle descent. He hoped it would placate the CO.

  “Brunson?” Kilton urged again, a couple of minutes later.<
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  They were already over Bath; he’d done well to get them in spitting distance of the hills. Finally, Rob lowered the nose another ten degrees and edged the throttles back as gravity added to their airspeed.

  He levelled out at one thousand feet between Newport and Cardiff. The Brecon Beacons were on the nose.

  He pushed the nose down and let the Vulcan settle at five hundred feet. Looking down to the Guiding Light panel, he selected three hundred feet as the target height and, using a waypoint that was about two hundred miles north, in Anglesey, he engaged the system.

  There was a familiar jolt as the autopilot took over, fed from Guiding Light.

  The nose wrenched down and the aircraft repositioned three hundred feet above the ground. The auto-throttle was busy with the four levers to his right. Rob checked they’d reached the target speed of 320 knots.

  The aircraft started to complain as it heaved through the turns. The physical nature of the flight had changed significantly from the relatively genteel cruise. Guiding Light was working hard.

  “This is low,” said Stafford next to him, although he seemed nonchalant.

  It was taking Kilton a while to register that Rob had deviated significantly from the flight plan.

  Meanwhile, aware of the frailty of the system, Rob kept his eyes fixed on the terrain ahead, ready to intervene.

  Kilton finally spoke over the intercom. “Hey! Up please, Brunson.”

  Rob ignored him.

  “Red. Up. Can we get back to one thousand, please? We’re at bloody three hundred.”

  Rob was breathing heavily; the combination of anxiety from his situation and a fierce focus on the flying was straining his energy levels.

  “Red!” Kilton shouted.

  Rob raised his hand away from the control column he was shadowing. He pulled his oxygen mask away from his face. Cooler air washed over him and he raised his visor and turned toward Ewan Stafford.

  The stout businessman’s eyes bulged over his own mask.

  “What’s going on?” Kilton shouted over the intercom from the back. “For the last time, Brunson, climb this aircraft to a safe height.”

  But the next voice he heard was Stafford’s.