The Final Flight

¹¹ FRIDAY 17TH JUNE

The cold woke Susie up. That was a first. She’d arrived during the heatwave but now the nights carried a chill.

Her watch said 6.10AM. She wound it for the new day and dressed.

As the village church bells struck 7AM, she was back at the village phone box, dialling a familiar London number.

A man’s clipped voice answered. “Yes.”

“It’s Susie.”

“Ah, Twiggy. How the devil are you?”

“What did you call me?”

“We’re calling you Twiggy now. She’s a model, was on the front page of the Express yesterday. Looks like a boy, curious isn’t it? Anyway, you fit the bill.”

“You think I look like a boy, Roger?”

“Well, you have short hair.”

“Right, well, how about shutting up and taking down some notes?”

“Keep your short hair on. Let me get a pen.”

She tapped her foot.

“Go ahead, Twigs.”

She sighed. “They’re planning a raid on RAF West Porton. This secret squadron I mentioned, it’s the target. Apparently it’s called Test Flying Unit, and there’s a project called Guiding Light. They seem to know what they’re doing. TFU may have a leak.”

“It sounds like you know more about West Porton than we do.”

“I thought we knew everything?”

“It’s time to stop believing what they told us in training, dear. Even Her Majesty’s Security Service hits a brick wall sometimes. We do know something about TFU. It’s independent of the squadron structure. Set up last year to handle the sensitive stuff. But, and this is odd, we know very little more. The unit has a direct line of command to Whitehall, so our usual sources aren’t much help. What we do know is one of their projects has Downing Street’s attention.”

“Guiding Light?”

“That, we don’t know. But you might be right. We do however know the identity of your mysterious blond gentleman.”

“Sampson?”

“Yes, well, that confirms it if you’ve heard that name as well. Sampson Parker. A dangerous sort. Got a bunch of ne’er-do-wells all the way into Faslane last year.”

“The Polaris subs?”

“Indeed. They ended up doing some damage a few feet away from Britain’s independent nuclear deterrent. He was clever enough to stay outside the wire, so they couldn’t pin anything on him. But you say he’ll be on the raid tonight? That could be useful.”

“No. He’s not part of the raid itself. Just seems to be the brains behind it.”

“Same MO as Faslane. Disappointing. The plan was to let the raid go ahead and nab him red-handed.”

“That might still be possible. He’s due to receive what we find and take it off site in the small hours.”

“I see. Well, I’ll pass that up the line and they can decide what should happen. Good work. You’ll need to check in later. Let’s say 4PM, unless something changes significantly at your end.”

A LAND ROVER lurked in the shadows, in the corner of the TFU hangar. It was used by the engineers and mechanics to ferry parts and people around. The junior engineering officer was happy to let Millie borrow it for a run across the airfield.

He climbed in and found the key was already in the ignition, next to a note telling drivers to inform air traffic control before they drove on the active taxiways.

Millie cursed but then noticed a large radio built into the underside of the dashboard.

He followed instructions pinned next to the ignition switch to pre-heat the coil for thirty seconds, glancing around the hangar, hoping no other officers noticed him.

The vehicle spluttered into life and he edged out onto the apron.

A Victor taxied nearby, and he was suddenly aware of the small vehicle’s vulnerability.

Switching on the radio, he heard the end of a sign-off from the Victor crew. He waited for them to finish and keyed the press-to-transmit button.

“Tower, this is the TFU Land Rover. I need to cross the airfield to the Maintenance Unit.”

Millie followed instructions to use the southern taxiway and wait at the western threshold. As he got closer to the end of the runway, he looked out of the right hand window at the peace camp.

A group of the protestors were gathered outside a white wigwam in the centre of the field. From this range, Millie could see their faces: young men and women. In other circumstances, he would describe them as fresh faced, but it looked as if rough living had taken its toll.

He pulled up in front of thick white lines that marked the boundary of the runway and called the tower again, as instructed. They told him to wait.

Millie opened the door and stood next to the vehicle. Looking back down the runway, just visible above an undulation that took it a few feet down, was a distinctive white tail.

Through the heat mirage, the shape of the Victor emerged, just as it lifted into the air.

Millie plugged his ears as the four jet engines climbed overhead.

The radio crackled into life with clearance to cross and five minutes later he found himself in the drab interior of 206 Maintenance Unit.

The walls were covered with faded photographs of ancient aircraft. Millie squinted at a black-and-white print of a biplane that had two machine guns mounted in front of an open cockpit.

“That’s a B.E.2C, Millie.” JR’s voice over his shoulder. “And no, none of us are quite that old. We keep it up as a reminder.”

“A reminder of what? The good old days?”

“Not exactly,” JR said as he led him into what passed as a planning room, complete with old leather chairs that looked like they’d been thrown out of an officers’ mess as unserviceable. “The B.E.2C was a death trap. Too slow and too difficult to manoeuvre. It should have stayed as a reconnaissance kite, but they kept sending the RFC pilots up to their inevitable deaths. Worth remembering the type of organisation we work for.”

Millie sank into a red armchair.

“So, to what do we owe this rare privilege?”

“I need a lift. To Abingdon. Soon. Preferably Monday.”

JR nodded. “You have about twenty aircraft over there, don’t you? And more pilots than Pan Am. Any particular reason you need a lift from us?”

Millie looked around the room. There were five others in various corners, a couple of men in conversation by the kettle. No-one seemed to be listening in.

“I need to fly below the radar on this one.”

“I see.” JR studied him. After a moment’s pause, he looked across to the couple at the kettle. “Beanie, how’s the Anson behaving?”

“Purrs like a cat on heat.”

“That sounds like a doubtful claim for that heap of rust, but I’ll assume it will get to Oxford and back?”

“A very good chance of success.”

JR turned back to Millie. “What time would sir like his carriage?”

“As easy as that? You don’t need an authorisation?”

“We’re masters of our own destiny here, sort of. We work for Support Command and our boss flies a desk in Brampton. As long as we don’t start a war, he’s happy not to be involved in day-to-day.”

“Must be lovely.”

“It was until TFU turned up. I suspect our days here are numbered.”

Millie sighed. “It’s all a little different over there.”

“Indeed. Anyway, what time on Monday?”

“How about 9.30?”

“Fine. I’m sorry but we’ve lost our own airfield gate, since the security hysteria, so you must drive around the peritrack. If you’re here before 8AM you don’t need to clear it with ATC.”

“Thank you, JR. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”

“Think nothing of it, Millie.” The old pilot stood up.

Millie raised himself from the depths of the armchair. JR stepped forward and offered him an arm. For all the age lines writ into his face, JR was nimble.

As they walked out, JR stopped at the front door. “You can always talk to me, Millie.”

“Thank you. For now, I think it’s best I keep you in the dark.”

“Your decision, old chap.”

Millie headed back across the airfield, careful to give a Twin Pioneer a wide berth as one of the MU team started her up.

Back in the planning room he retrieved a folder from a cabinet labelled TFU GLOSTER JAVELIN ACQUISITION.

At his desk he dialled the number for 64 Squadron at RAF Duxford.

“64 ops, Flight Lieutenant Digby.”

“Hello, it’s Squadron Leader Chris Milford from West Porton here. We’re having one of your Javelins, I believe?”

“Are you? What squadron again?”

“Test Flying Unit.”

“Ah! The unit that dare not speak its name. We were told not to discuss it.” The man laughed.

“Yes, well, it’s not a secret that we’re having one of your aircraft and I just need to make sure we have an engineering plan in place. Can I pop over on Monday to chat with your senior engineering officer?”

“I’ll have to check the SENGO’s around. Stand by, please.” The man went off the line briefly, before reporting back that the appointment had been accepted.

After the call, Millie made sure they marked him as out of TFU on Monday for a meeting at Duxford. They would expect him to take the train, so he went the extra mile and asked for a rail permit.

THERE WAS a problem with the raid plan.

Two more campers were dispatched to confirm the news a lanky young man had brought back from his patrol: the officers’ mess car park was empty, save a few tradesmen’s vans. There was no sign of the usual drinking jamboree.

It was now 6PM, and they had to face facts: the routine they had meticulously noted over previous weeks was not being followed.

Susie’s 4PM call delivered some surprising news of its own. The fourth floor at Leconfield House was happy to let the raid go ahead. They wanted to catch Sampson Parker with incriminating evidence.

He would be a high profile success for the Service, if everything went to plan.

As Roger, her desk officer, had explained what would happen—or what was supposed to happen—she felt the weight of responsibility on her shoulders.

But along with the nerves came excitement.

She knew they had chosen her for this role purely on looks and sex, but here was a chance to gain a significant notch on her belt.

To complicate matters further, in the grand tradition of the Security Service, they were working alone. The RAF were not informed, partly because no-one was forthcoming to them about the secrets held at West Porton.

But as long as it went to plan, they would save the TFU’s backside.

As long as it went to plan.

AT 7.30PM, two more campers who’d been sent out on patrol disguised as an evening ramble returned with more news. Susie was called over to the wigwam.

It was a still night. The cloud hung low, trapping in the heat of the day and softening the sounds of wildlife and chatter.

“According to Charlotte and Purdy,” said Megan, “there’s an event in the mess tomorrow, which is why it’s shut tonight. They overheard a delivery man at the main gate. More pertinently for us, half the security men have been sent home. Presumably they’ll be working long hours tomorrow.”

“So we’re on?” Susie asked.

“Yes.”

She felt a rush of nerves in her stomach.

They went over the details once more.

Susie went for a lie down and woke at 11PM. She headed back to the wigwam and found the others searching through a pile of black clothes with a torch.

Megan threw her a pair of slacks and a thin polo neck. She winced at the fashion, but accepted them for the practical purpose.

The minutes ticked by. The wigwam was quiet, save the occasional report from the fence. Patrols were still taking place, but fewer than normal.

At 1.45AM, Purdy arrived to report a patrol had driven past and disappeared back into the main RAF station.

Megan stood up.

“It’s time.”

Outside, Susie heard a vehicle reversing toward them. Puzzled, she looked out of the flaps to see the blond man climbing out of a battered Morris van.

“Sampson Parker,” she said, under her breath.

He opened the rear doors and lifted out a large glass container of liquid and a set of trays. He took the items into the tent without speaking to anyone.

David appeared next to her and whispered.

“He’s setting up a darkroom. He wants to develop the pictures here before they leave the site, just in case.”

They stashed the final tools into rucksacks. Susie noted the camera disappearing into Megan’s shoulder bag.

At 2AM, they gathered behind the tent closest to the fence. David handed Susie a black rucksack. She heard the gentle clang of metal tools within it.

Megan led them. “No talking,” she hissed, even though they were all silent.

The group began a fast jog toward the corner of the field, continuing around the airfield fence, following a pre-planned route. They passed a small collection of derelict-looking buildings and aircraft on the far side of the airfield, including a black silhouette of a large tail-dragging propeller aircraft.

Just beyond the buildings, they set to work with the wire cutters. Susie sat back in the bushes with the others, listening to the cracks and pops as the fence wires gave way. The first fence had been easy, but the second, newer fence was putting up more of a fight.

Eventually, the cutting team called softly to the waiting group.

Megan moved forward in a crouch. The cutting team held the wire up as the four of them crawled under. Susie had to remove the rucksack and push it through ahead of her.

Across the runway, orange lights flooded the bare aprons.

They ran.

No sooner had they crossed the peritrack, than Megan fell and cried out.

She had tripped on something; it looked like a light housing protruding from the ground.

“Airfield lights,” said Susie, “they’re everywhere.”

Megan put some weight on her ankle and winced.

“You won’t make it across. Give me the camera.”

“No. I’m fine.” She set off ahead, limping.

They came to the wide runway and scampered across. All the time, Susie and the others scanned the areas in front of them for any sign of movement.

Susie could hear David wheezing. He was clearly not fit enough for this run.

As they crossed the taxiway on the other side of the runway, they came closer to the boundary of the floodlighting.

Megan changed direction. The others followed as they headed for the eastern corner of the field. It was as far as possible from the domestic side of the station, and the darkest area close to the hangars.

They reached the internal fence that separated the airfield from the rest of West Porton, and moved along its line, approaching an enormous hangar from its rear, bathed in shadow.

At the bottom corner of the vast building was a door marked TOILETS.

“Rucksack,” said Megan, clicking her fingers at Susie.

Megan rummaged around and produced a huge set of keys.

“Apparently there are only seven different keys for each hangar door across the entire RAF,” David said.

“We’re about to find out if that’s a myth,” Megan replied.

Susie watched as the first key refused to budge. The second was the same and the third.

The fourth key slipped in and easily turned with a satisfying clunk.

It was a large, cold space; clammy, even on a June evening. It stank of urine and toilet cleaner.

On the right hand wall were a row of urinals; on their left were three cubicles.

In front of them sat the two internal walls, but neither had a door.

Susie walked forward and ran her hand against them.

“They’re pretty solid.”

“No internal door,” said David, pointing out the obvious. “What kind of arrangement is this?”

“Doesn’t matter, we have more keys,” said Megan, and she went back outside.

They followed her along the side of the hangar, hugging the building in the shade, but it was getting brighter. The car parks on the other side of the fence were lit by street lamps.

Susie was at the back and couldn’t see where they were going.

Samantha halted in front. Susie bumped into her and whispered an apology. Ahead, she could see Megan looking back and holding her finger to her mouth.

Then Susie heard it.

Men talking.

No, not talking. Singing.

They pressed themselves against the hangar and silently shrunk to the ground.

The men appeared at the far side of the car park. Arms around each other, three of them.

With horror, Susie realised that two of the three cars directly opposite were facing them.

“We’ve got to move,” she hissed at Samantha.

No reply.

“The lights. The car lights!”

Slowly, Samantha shuffled forward, stretching out on the ground, following Megan and David’s lead.

She did the same, lying as flat as she could on her front, arms stretched out along her side.

The drunks were close now. The singing had been replaced by a chirpy discussion.

“I’ll drive,” announced a slurred voice.

“No way,” replied the other two in chorus. “Americans can’t hold their drink.”

The first man protested, but appeared to give in.

The car started, followed by a grinding of gears. Susie raised her head. The car was facing them, but the headlights were off.

The car backed away, did a clumsy three-point manoeuvre and drove out of the car park, lights still off.

She let out a breath.

The others took off again, and she leapt up to follow.

The next door yielded to another key and once inside they found an unlocked internal door that opened into a corridor. They turned left, but this led only to another enclosed office. Turning around, Susie found herself at the front of the band of activists. As she moved forward, she came to an additional door, but this had a glass panel which revealed the inside of the actual hangar.

Her eyes stared at millions of pounds worth of modern military aircraft.

A Victor faced them with its sad eyes; beyond that, under its tail, a Hawker Hunter. Beyond both of them: a huge white Vulcan. Aircraft took up every inch of the hangar.

She tried the door; it was locked.

Megan appeared and ran through her collection of keys.

The fifth one she tried made another clunk as the lock sprung open.

The four of them entered.

“They’re huge,” Samantha said. “I hadn’t realised.”

“Shhh!” Megan hissed.

Susie watched as she retrieved the camera.

Megan turned to Susie and Samantha. “Find the offices. Remember, anything that looks secret.”

They set off and walked past a yellow ladder hanging down from the underbelly of the Vulcan.

The internal door between the hangar and the offices that ran along the front of the building was unlocked.

After walking down a corridor lined with pictures of experimental aircraft, they came to a large room with high desks.

The orange light from the apron threw strange shapes on the walls.

Susie read the sign on the nearest office door.

CO ‘TFU’.

And above a hatch at the far end of the room: ROYAL AIR FORCE TEST FLYING UNIT.

At the opposite end of the room was a bar, complete with tea urn and kettles. On the left side ran a wide corridor. Susie investigated.

It contained rows of lockers, each with a name. Bryan Dillain, Chris Milford, Frank Vansertima, Speedy Johnson.

Two of the wooden doors were unlocked and half open. She peered inside and saw only jumpers and odd items of clothing.

Susie moved on, monitoring Samantha across the room.

She walked between the map tables, back toward the hatch.

Alongside the internal wall that enclosed what appeared to be an admin area were a row of padlocked cabinets. Each was labelled SECURE CABINET with a number.

“Bingo,” said Samantha.

Susie examined the flimsy padlock. None of the keys they had would fit it.

She retrieved the bolt croppers from her rucksack and handed them to Samantha. But the teeth were too big for the small metal loop.

Susie examined the lock again; it was held on by four screws that had been painted over.

She rummaged in the rucksack and produced a couple of screwdrivers.

It only took a couple of minutes before the fastening fell away and one side of the cabinet opened.

Inside, in the gloomy light, there were folders and a pile of cardboard sleeves. Samantha picked up a wad of folders and leafed through them. She held one up for Susie to see.

Susie nodded, and Samantha stuffed it into the rucksack.

Susie picked up one of the cardboard sleeves.

Inside was a reel of magnetic tape.

“Do they make music here? Is that their secret?” She slung the tapes into the rucksack and moved to the next cabinet.

As they removed the first screw in the next lock, they heard an engine noise.

Both women froze.

A vehicle door slammed close by.

“Shit,” Samantha said.

Susie looked back along the room to the tea bar. She pushed the cabinet doors shut, but had to leave the lock hanging off.

“Follow me.” She ran in a crouch across the full length of the room, just as a door swung open on the airfield side.

The two women reached the bar as the beam of a torch swung over the surrounding desks.

They tucked themselves in. Susie was out of puff but desperately trying not to pant.

She clutched the rucksack, now full of stolen documents, and opened her mouth wide to breathe as quietly as possible.

Samantha, who was nearest the edge of the bar, leant out.

“I think he’s gone into the hangar,” she whispered.

“Nothing we can do.”

They waited.

After what seemed an age, they heard footsteps back in the room. The torchlight swung about again.

The footsteps grew louder.

The women’s hearts thudded in their chests.

The man shuffled up to the tea bar; Susie could hear his breathing.

She rolled her eyes up, without moving her head. If he stepped behind the bar, they were caught.

A hand appeared. She almost let out a whimper.

The hand settled on the tea urn, followed by a disappointed grunt, and the footsteps receded.

A minute later, they heard the vehicle start up and drive off.

Susie and Samantha rose to their feet.

The room was empty; the open cabinet hadn’t been spotted.

Megan and David appeared at the door.

“Over here,” said Susie.

They walked over, Megan with a pronounced limp.

“He didn’t see you?” asked Samantha.

“No, we were inside the Vulcan but we switched the light off in time.”

“Are you OK?” Susie asked, nodding at Megan’s foot. “Do you want me to carry your stuff?”

“I’ll be fine.” She waved a hand.

Susie glanced down. Megan held the camera.

“I think this is the quickest way out,” Samantha said, pointing at the door the security guard had used.

It had a Yale key they could open from the inside. The group spilled out onto the brightly lit apron.

They stood still for a moment, and Susie strained her ears. She could just about hear the guard’s vehicle retreating.

This time they didn’t avoid the shadows; instead they ran across the apron. After thirty seconds they found themselves back in cover on the grass.

They eventually reached the fence, adrenaline flowing, but couldn’t locate the cut wire.

Megan whimpered with pain.

“You did a good job disguising the entry point,” Susie said to David.

“It’s here somewhere…” He ran his hand along the lower part of the wire.

Behind them: the distant sound of an engine. Susie spun around to see a pair of headlights heading across the apron.

“Quickly, for Christ’s sake!” Megan shouted, no longer worried about being overheard.

“Over here!”

They ran in the shout's direction, a hundred yards further along.

Susie held back and helped Megan through, keeping an eye on the patrol vehicle. It hadn’t spotted them.

She was the last to crawl out. As they made their way around, she kept her eyes fixed on the camera while she carried the documents.

Back at the peace camp, they hurried to the wigwam.

Sampson was waiting. He emptied the contents of the rucksack on a trestle table and shone a light at the documents.

Susie caught sight of some headings.

‘Laser Function Parameters’ was one.

A laser? She whistled to herself.

She picked up a tape. “What are these?” she asked Sampson.

He shrugged and said nothing.

Megan placed the camera on the table.

“You got something?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Right. Give me five minutes.”

Sampson disappeared behind a screen into his makeshift darkroom.

Samantha took Megan off to her tent to inspect her ankle, leaving David and Susie alone.

“We need to hide the rucksacks and tools in the woods,” said David. “Sampson will take the keys.”

Susie glanced at the camera. “Would you mind doing that? I’m shattered.”

“Of course.”

He checked the rucksacks to make sure they had retrieved everything bar the tools, and headed out.

Susie figured she had a few seconds before Sampson would reappear from the screens. She pointed the torch directly at the camera, turned its back toward the light and fiddled with the catch on its base until the back flipped open.

She held it in the light for as long as she dared.

Too long.

Sampson appeared next to her.

Shit.

She closed her eyes. There was nothing she could do. Caught red-handed.

Nothing happened.

Opening her eyes, she reached forward and as softly as possible pressed the camera shut.

“Move, please,” he eventually said.

She looked to her left to find him crouching under the table, groping for something.

As he stood up, with a brown A4 size envelope marked ILFORD PHOTOGRAPHIC PAPER, he nodded toward the torch. “Switch that off, please. Go outside and make sure no-one comes in. I’m about to open the camera. Where is it?”

She handed it to him.

“Susie,” she said as he walked away. “I’m Susie.”

“Thank you, Susie,” he said without looking back.

She pulled the flaps of the wigwam closed and took her position guarding the entrance.

Megan reappeared in shorts with a neat bandage around her ankle.

“Samantha’s done a good job,” Susie said.

“It’s fine.”

Susie handed over guard duty and slipped off to her tent.

She sat cross-legged in the opening, pulling a sleeping blanket around her to keep off the overnight chill.

And waited.

Her watch said 4.10AM. They were just a few days from the summer solstice, and the sun was about to come up.

It was deathly quiet.

After a few minutes, she saw Sampson appear at the wigwam opening.

A rising inflection in Megan’s voice.

It sounded like panic.

“No! Impossible!”

Susie got up and walked over.

“Everything all right?”

Megan shot her a look like thunder.

“There’s nothing on the bloody film. It was all for nothing.”

“What do you mean, nothing on it?” Susie asked, looking wide-eyed and innocent.

Megan pulled out a packet of cigarettes and lit one. Sampson appeared through the flaps of the wigwam, his arms laden with the darkroom equipment.

“The film’s exposed,” he said, as he headed to the back of his van.

“Exposed? How did that happen?”

“It happens,” Sampson said.

“Or someone sabotaged us,” Megan said, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

Sampson didn’t look up but he made a derisory snorting sound.

“Sabotage?” Susie said.

“Leaky camera,” Sampson said. “I told you to test it.” He disappeared back into the tent to retrieve the rest of his kit.

Susie turned to Megan and spoke with as much sympathy as she could muster.

“We still have the folder. Where is it?”

The lines of Megan’s face looked deep in the grey first light. She didn’t reply, and wandered off.

When Sampson came back out, he held a bulging rucksack.

She followed him, not taking her eyes off the bag.

“Can I help with anything?”

“No.”

There was something in the way he looked at her. The first signs of suspicion, maybe?

She decided not to push her luck.

It was out of her hands, now.

As she walked back toward her tent, he drove past, the Morris van rocking as it trundled over the uneven grass. It turned onto the main road and disappeared from view on the other side of a hedge.

She bit her lip, listening to the receding engine noise.

The van came back into view in the distance, heading toward the S-bends south of the airfield.

After what seemed an age, a second set of headlights came on and a car swung out behind the van.

The two vehicles disappeared from sight.