The Final Flight

¹⁴ MONDAY 20TH JUNE

A call from Jock MacLeish marred Millie’s Sunday afternoon, informing him an all-personnel meeting would take place in TFU at 7.45AM the next day.

As he set off from home he had to hope whatever Kilton had planned would be over quickly. He needed to be on his way to the far side of the airfield before 8AM. After that, it got tricky. He would have to be in touch with ATC en route. The engineering Land Rover had a built-in radio, but he couldn’t very well take that and abandon it all day.

The planning room was packed out. From the most junior aircraft marshaller to executive officers like himself, they had summoned the entirety of TFU.

Millie looked across to the admin hatch, where he could just see reference to his trip to Wyton on a list pinned to the wall. It looked innocuous enough. Above the hatch was a clock displaying the local time. It was already 7.49AM.

Kilton emerged from his office and pushed his way into the centre of the room.

Back against the wall, Millie couldn’t see him, save the occasional glimpse of his bald head.

But he certainly heard him.

“One of you has given the enemy an advantage that could cost lives and freedom. One of you is heading to prison. You do not under any circumstances ever discuss any aspect of your work outside of these walls. IS THAT CLEAR?”

General mutters.

“PARDON?”

A louder “YES, SIR!” resonated from all quarters.

Kilton droned on about serving Queen and Country before eventually getting into announcements of new procedures, although he was vague on details.

Millie kept one eye on the clock and another on Nigel Woodward.

The forlorn-looking loadmaster was standing close to the airfield door with his head bowed, shuffling from foot to foot.

Writing off the chance of making it across the airfield in his own car, Millie had to get to Woodward before he said something.

By the time the boss had finished and stormed back into his office, it was 7.58AM.

Definitely too late.

He hurried to a phone on one of the aircrew admin desks.

“JR, it’s Millie. Look, I hate to ask, but is there any chance you could pick me up in one of your wagons, discreetly?”

They agreed to meet at the NAAFI shop at 8.45AM.

Millie headed to the airfield door and made his way to the cramped office used by some of the sergeants, close to the hangar entrance.

Woodward was sitting at a table on his own; Millie closed the door behind him. The loadmaster looked pale and frightened.

“It was you, wasn’t it Nigel?”

He didn’t respond.

“Your wife told me you’ve been drinking your troubles away at The Black Horse. And talking to strangers. In your state that’s not a good idea.”

Finally he looked up.

“Will I go to prison?”

Millie tapped the table while he thought quickly. He pulled out a chair and sat opposite Woodward.

“No-one needs to know. We didn’t lose anything. I can’t see any good coming from it.” Millie shuffled his chair close and looked Woodward directly in the eyes. “But you have to promise me you’ll go to the doctor. Get a full medical.”

Woodward nodded.

“You agreed before Nigel, but you haven’t been. Say it. You’ve got to promise me. I’ll book the appointment myself if needed.”

He shook his head. “I’ll go today.”

“Good. In the meantime, tell no-one you spoke to a stranger about TFU. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“It’ll blow over. But you’ve got to get yourself sorted.”

“What will happen to me?”

“I don’t know, Nigel. But you can’t keep flying and putting yourself and others in danger, can you?”

Woodward bowed his head. Millie glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to go.”

BACK IN THE PLANNING ROOM, he tapped on Kilton’s door.

“Come.”

Millie went in but didn’t wait for Kilton to look up.

“I think Nigel Woodward is unwell.”

“Unwell?”

“Some sort of dementia, I think.”

“Is that why he removed four pins from a payload that was supposed to remain in the aircraft?”

“I think so.”

Kilton leaned back on his chair. “Makes sense. He couldn’t explain himself to me.”

“He’s a couple of years from retirement. I suspect the docs will sign him off flying. Can we keep him on ground duties? Or give him his pension early?”

Kilton dropped his pen on the desk. “We haven’t got space for people who can’t do their jobs.”

“Then let him retire. He’s scared.”

Kilton appraised Millie for a moment. “I haven’t had a medical report yet.”

“You’ll get one soon.”

Kilton nodded. “We’ll see.”

“Thank you.”

As Millie left, Kilton resumed his work. “The trouble with you, Millie, is you’re too soft.”

THE CORRIDOR with the lockers was disappointingly busy.

Just when Millie thought it might be clear, more men appeared, walking back from the equipment counter with helmets, oxygen masks, and other flying paraphernalia in hand.

The clock ticked on.

For the second time in quick succession, he found himself up against a stressful deadline.

He cursed himself for not having a better plan. The locker was too exposed.

It was now 8.38AM. A large group of aircrew pushed open the door to the airfield and disappeared toward their aircraft.

He looked around the planning room at those who remained, either at the tea bar or hunched over charts, drawing lines.

For the moment at least no-one needed flying clothing. The corridor was clear.

He picked up an empty black holdall brought in from home and marched to his locker, dropping it at his feet as he unlocked the wooden door.

One more check to ensure the corridor was clear.

He quickly raised the bag to the open locker and scooped in the bulk of the reels.

He also withdrew his annotation of the fields.

The holdall was nearly full. He could have squeezed in his day jumper as well, to cover the contents. But he couldn’t risk leaving anything behind. This was his one chance to clear his locker of incriminating evidence.

Just as Millie reached in for the final items, someone appeared in his peripheral vision.

He grabbed his jumper and slammed the locker shut, leaving behind a couple of tapes and the Guiding Light schematics.

Dropping the holdall to the ground, he crouched, fumbling with the straps.

Polished shoes appeared next to the bag.

Slowly, reluctantly, he looked up.

Mark Kilton stared down at him.

Millie raised himself upright, clutching the bag to his stomach, as if this would somehow protect his secret.

“There’s something else. Follow me.”

Kilton turned on his heels and walked back to the planning room.

Millie was stunned and for a moment failed to move.

Kilton turned back. “Come on.”

He followed, unable to dispose of the holdall. Kilton loitered at his office door and beckoned him in.

Millie’s eyes were wide with fear. As he moved to the middle of the room, he slowly set the bag down at his feet.

Kilton sat back down behind his desk and peered over it to look at the holdall.

“You flying today?”

“Maybe,” Millie croaked, then cleared his throat.

“What does that mean?”

The phone rang; Kilton thumped on the frosted window behind him and shouted “Not now!”

He turned back. He looked agitated, even more than usual.

“Right,” Kilton began, apparently having forgotten Millie’s stupid answer to his question, “we need to improve our security and everything about this project. We’ve been amateurs, outwitted by hippies.

“We should have expected an attack, Millie. We’ve been wasting time, drawing things out and leaving the project exposed.”

The TFU boss picked up a pen and turned it over in his fingers.

“I want all Guiding Light material to live in the safe in the station commander’s office. Most of it’s been moved, but there’s a pile of reels in Cabinet Two. I assume they’re blank tapes?”

“Yes, boss.”

“Right. Well, there’s forty-eight of them. I want you to move them as well. And be careful not to mix them with the used reels.”

“That will make it time consuming, sir, if we have to trawl over to the HQ building just for blank reels before every flight.”

“So? Get into work ten minutes earlier. Even the blanks will be signed out. We can’t take any more chances, Millie. We’ve been lackadaisical.”

Millie glanced to his left. He could just see the admin clock. It was 8.50AM.

“And second…” Kilton continued to talk but Millie’s mind was elsewhere. If Kilton had them count the blanks out, and full reels in, how would he generate more height data for Belkin?

“…half the time.”

“I’m sorry, sir. What?”

Kilton looked impatient. “Just make sure the reels and anything else project-related are moved out by the end of the day. You don’t need to concern yourself with the timetable.”

“The timetable?”

Kilton shook his head in despair and stood up. “Get on with it, Millie, for god’s sake.”

Millie picked up the holdall and walked out, heading straight to his car.

THE AVRO ANSON was battered on the outside and worn on the inside.

Millie sat alone in what passed as the passenger compartment, although only three tatty leather seats remained. JR had invited him to sit in the cockpit, but he couldn’t risk a TFU crew member spotting him as they taxied past the buildings.

He looked around and wondered how many troops the old bird had conveyed around the world. It looked like a ghost plane now. The fact it was with the MU meant its prospects were not good.

JR quickly had them in the air and turning north, and in what seemed like no time at all they were descending into the circuit at Abingdon.

After landing, they taxied to the visiting aircraft apron.

JR shut the engines down and opened the door, lowering the steps for Millie.

“Is this what it’s like being an Air Marshal?” Millie joked as he stepped out.

JR followed him onto the Tarmac as two marshallers appeared and placed chocks in front of the wheels.

Millie surveyed the airfield. Typical 1930s hangars with ridged rooves, a red brick control tower and a busy pan of mainly transport aircraft.

A noise erupted to their right and Millie looked across to see a giant Blackburn Beverly burst into life. A cloud of black smoke drifted from each engine in turn as it was fired up.

“Come on,” JR said and led him away. He pointed to the base of the nearest hangar. “47 Squadron. They handle visitors for the airfield. We need to book in. So what are you going to tell them?”

“Hopefully, they’re expecting me. I’ve booked a car from MT.”

“Clever.”

As they arrived at the hangar, JR pushed open the door and strolled into the squadron.

After looking around, he turned to Millie.

“Why don’t you wait here? I’ll book us in and tell them you’ve arrived.”

Millie stayed back, close to the door.

He watched JR arrive at the ops desk and fall into conversation with a sergeant. JR made an entry in a hardback logbook and shared a joke with the sergeant before wandering back over.

“They’ve telephoned MT, Millie. Someone will pick you up from here shortly.” JR studied him. “You OK?”

“Yes. A little nervous I suppose.”

JR gave his arm a quick pat. “It’s all fine. No-one’s batting an eyelid. You’ll be one of dozens of officers ferried somewhere or other by Military Transport this month. Try to relax.”

“Thank you, JR.”

“Good. Well, I’ll find a comfy seat in the ante room of the mess. Don’t want to get in anyone’s way here. How long do you think you’ll be?”

Millie shrugged. “I can’t be certain. Two hours max, I hope.”

“Fine. I’ll wander back to the aircraft and make sure we’re ready to depart in an hour and a half or so.” He paused before leaving. “Good luck.”

“Thank you.”

After a few minutes, a corporal appeared in front of him.

“Squadron Leader Milford? Your chariot awaits, sir.”

MILLIE WAS DRIVEN through the Abingdon main gate. It was decidedly more relaxed than West Porton’s.

The driver had noted the professor’s address in his vehicle logbook and Millie again realised he had not thought this through. Everything he was doing was traceable.

Save for a hundred bicycles, the traffic in Oxford was light. The driver dropped him in front of the cottage and Millie confirmed he would arrange his own taxi back.

As soon as the corporal’s black saloon disappeared back onto the main road, Millie knocked and waited.

The door creaked open, and Mrs Lazenby ushered him in.

The professor, his saviour in an increasingly fraught and dangerous endeavour, wore a green cardigan with a pair of silver-rimmed spectacles hanging from a chain around his neck.

Millie piled the tapes on the kitchen table. Each sleeve was labelled meticulously to reflect the order in which he had gathered the readings.

Next to the tapes, he set down a piece of paper with the annotated fields as requested.

“It took me a while to work it out, but I am fairly certain that what we have here is the time in seconds, which counts up from the moment the laser is switched from standby to on. That happens before I record, so you’ll never see zero on the reels. Does that make sense to you?”

“It does. And I see the next field is the position in latitude and longitude.”

“That’s correct, with a ‘1’ or a ‘0’ replacing the hemisphere letter. ‘1’ in front of the latitude for north, ‘0’ for south. Not that we’ve been south of the equator, of course. And ‘1’ in front of the longitude for west, ‘0’ for east. I believe we drifted across the Greenwich meridian on at least one flight.”

“Excellent work, Mr Milford.”

With that, the professor sat down and Mrs Lazenby tapped at the door.

“Yes?”

She popped her head into the room.

“Would you like me to make a cup of tea, Professor?”

Millie glanced at the pile of secret tapes and material on the table.

Belkin shot him a reassuring look. “Yes please, Mrs Lazenby.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

After the kettle reached screaming point, Mrs Lazenby poured the water into the teapot and set it down on a tray on the table, along with four Rich Tea biscuits.

She left the room. The door closed with a clunk.

“So,” said the professor, “I have a young man ready to cut his teeth on the routining effort required to interrogate this data. Excuse the word ‘routining’. It is apparently correct in this circumstance.”

“Thank you.”

“However, I think we need to know a little more about what we are looking for.”

“I’ve been careful not to say too much for a variety of good reasons—”

“If it helps, I believe you may already have let the cat out of the bag.”

“I have?”

“Just a moment ago, you referred to switching on the ‘laser’. I’m sure it was inadvertent, but am I to gather that you are testing a laser range-finding device?”

“Oh, dear me. Yes. I didn’t even notice.” Millie sighed and toyed with a biscuit. “The atmosphere where I work is now at fever pitch and here I am spilling our deepest secrets.”

“I think it’s something we cannot avoid, I’m afraid.”

Millie took a breath.

“I suppose you need to know,” he said and laughed.

“I do, I think. Is that funny?”

“Just a private joke, sorry. Well, if I explain the system to you, perhaps we can then devise a way of you explaining it to your student without giving the game away?”

The professor nodded. “It sounds like a starting point.”

Millie pointed at the data sheet.

“So, as I’ve already given away, this all comes from a laser beam. The laser is mounted in the front underside of the aircraft. A rather beautifully engineered mirror on a small gimbal directs the beam in an oval pattern. Quickly, repeatedly. The laser measures the distance to the ground at twenty-seven pre-set positions during each scan. And it does this around three times a second.”

“Gosh,” said the professor, clearly impressed.

“This is the clever bit, though. A box of microelectronics sits between the laser and a new flight control system which in turn talks to the rather older autopilot. The result is that the computer flies the aircraft at low-level, avoiding the ground while moving the aircraft in as straight a line as possible to the next waypoint.”

The professor nodded. “I see. So, an aircraft can fly automatically at low-level to its target. But what is the advantage over a human performing this task?”

Millie sat back. “Humans are frail and make mistakes. At least that’s the theory. The boffins are doing everything they can to write the crews out of the equation when it comes to flying these days. The real question is, why use a laser instead of a radar? Terrain-following radar is already developed and was to be deployed in the TSR-2. But it has a drawback. It makes a noise.”

The professor raised an eyebrow. “Radar makes a noise?”

“Not an audible noise, but it gives off energy. The exact type of energy the enemy’s aircraft defence system is looking for. Initially, we believed it would be too weak to be picked up. But it turns out the Soviets are rather good at this aspect of modern warfare.”

“So, this laser system solves a rather big problem for the RAF?”

Millie took a sip of tea. “Not just the RAF. If it works, this system will go into virtually every United States attack aircraft as well.”

“I see. And why do you need my help?”

“It’s flawed. We suffered a sudden height drop a couple of weeks back.”

“The sort of thing you’re testing it for? Why hasn’t it gone through the usual channels at Boscombe Down?”

“If this project was at Boscombe Down, I’m convinced it would have been grounded. But I now work at a new unit, cloaked in secrecy, somewhat autonomous from the rest of the RAF and it’s… not the same, shall we say. It’s almost as if it’s gone too far to fail. There’s so much riding on it. A massive export order for the UK, for one. And I have a boss who places human life further down the list of priorities when it comes to fighting the Soviets. So he’s prepared to press on.”

“Even so, won’t it be noticed if it goes into production? What happens when an aircraft crashes?”

“I might be wrong but my hunch is, they know it’s flawed. I think they would find a way of covering it up. The manufacturer is the sole expert on the system and will likely be consulted by any Board of Inquiry. As I found out, only they can analyse the height readings.” He looked at the pile of cardboard sleeves. “Until now.”

The professor sat up, grabbed a pen and started writing.

“Righty-ho. Let us sketch what we’re looking for. Firstly, height readings that vary significantly, and implausibly, from the previous and subsequent readings. Secondly, we should look at these… events and extrapolate the frequency. Of course, that depends on whether we see more than two or three events. We can’t extrapolate from fewer than three and, even then, the reliability of the extrapolation will be down to the sample size.”

“The more data, the more reliable the conclusion?”

“Indeed.”

Millie toyed with his moustache. “I’m working on that, but I may be about to run out of time.”

“Well, we can make a start, I suppose.”

Millie propped his elbows on the table and tried to read the professor’s notes, which appeared upside down to him. “There’s something else.”

“Go on.”

“This data was gathered at a safe height, a minimum of one thousand feet. Sometimes without the autopilot even engaged. In reality, this system will be used at low-level, very low and very fast. I need to be able to show what the effect would be from one of these ‘events’, as you call them, occurring at various phases of flight.”

The grandmother clock struck midday on the other side of the kitchen door; Millie glanced at his watch.

“Well,” said the professor, “once we know the frequency of the events, and the percentage variance, we should be able to apply that to different flying circumstances. In fact, this is precisely the type of exercise we set the boys. Usually it involves the weather for some reason. The chance of a certain type of weather event based on historic data which is then used to decide where to build houses, for instance.”

Millie frowned in confusion.

The professor smiled. “I’m sorry, I’m rambling. I’ll set this as a theoretical task for a couple of the boys. Leave it with me.”

“Thank you, Professor. When do you think you might have a result for me?”

Belkin stood up slowly. “It will take a few days, but I head to Devon for a fortnight on Friday, so it will have to be before then, otherwise you’ll be waiting rather a long time. Why don’t you call me on Thursday evening?”

“That sounds wonderful, thank you.” Millie nodded at the pile of Top Secret material on the professor’s kitchen table. “Can you destroy this after you’ve got what you need? Is that possible?”

Belkin scratched his chin. “Well, we do have a rather large and fearsome boiler in the department's basement. I dare say we could make use of the firebox. Unless you would need the physical evidence?”

Millie pondered. “I can’t be sure, but it’s probably better not to hold on to any of this material a second longer than needed.”

Belkin nodded. “The furnace it is, then.”

As they got to the front door, the old professor turned to Millie. “What exactly do you intend to do with the results, Squadron Leader Milford?”

“I think I’ll start with the station commander. If he buckles to my boss, I’ll go above both their heads to the government minister.”

MILLIE WAS DROPPED BACK at 47 Squadron. He didn’t go inside, but instead walked out to the Anson. JR peered into the radial engines, appearing to brush away some dirt.

“He returns! All go well?”

“Yes. Thank you so much, JR. You’ve no idea how grateful I am to have you with me.”

JR wiped his hands on a rag. “Think nothing of it. Whatever it is you’re doing, I can see it’s important to you. Which makes it important to us.”

Millie followed him back on board and took his seat in the body of the aircraft.

He watched the experienced pilot’s hands glide over the controls. After pausing for the engine to warm, JR advanced the throttles to taxi.

A couple of minutes later, they accelerated down the main runway.

Millie stared down at the countryside through the small window. Largely brown after the heatwave, with occasional tractors and a combine harvester busy at work; an early harvest for the wheat.

The journey took a few minutes. JR taxied down the western perimeter and paused for Millie to leave the aircraft just beyond the TFU hangar; out of sight of the offices, but close enough to walk back inside.

No-one paid him any attention as he arrived in the planning room.

He checked his locker. Not much left. A few pages of schematics, two of the early test tapes. He might need the schematics, but it was too risky to keep the tapes.

Then there was the material still at his house.

He could have a bonfire this weekend. A nervous chat over the fence with Jock MacLeish as Top Secret papers went up in smoke behind him.

He shut the locker and checked his notebook for the day’s tasks.

Reluctantly, he transferred the remaining blank tapes to the safe in the headquarters building.

He watched, dispirited, as a corporal carefully counted and noted the exact number.

As the corporal pushed the heavy safe door shut and double-locked it, the opportunity to record any more secret data disappeared.

Everything now relied on Belkin.