The Final Flight

¹⁸ FRIDAY 24TH JUNE

Rob woke early.

The sun streamed through a gap in the curtain, illuminating a swirl of house dust. He watched the slow rotation for a while.

The sound of an early morning engine run drifted into the room.

He still found it hard to believe that he was a part of it all. West Porton, TFU. Secret projects the outside world would be amazed to learn about.

And not just a part of it, but an important part.

Mary was in the kitchen in her nightie when he came down the stairs.

“Will I see you tonight?” she asked.

“Happy Hour on a Friday. I’m expected to be there.”

“But it’s not a formal do, is it? Do they need the mess secretary to help them drink?”

“We’ve been over this, Mary. The boss will probably be there and at the moment, yes, I think I should, too.”

He decided against a bowl of cereal and made for the door.

“We can do something tomorrow,” he said as he left.

“With Millie and Georgina?” Mary called after him, following him out.

Rob pulled back the canvas top of his Austin Healey.

“What is it, Rob? Why are we suddenly not friends with Millie and Georgina? You and Millie were so close.”

“It’s complicated.” He climbed into the car and drove away before Mary had a chance to reply.

IN THE PLANNING ROOM, Rob spotted Speedy Johnson at a desk. As he went over, he also checked for Millie. No sign.

“Speedy. Now might be a good time to see the boss about our suggestion?”

They headed over to Kilton’s office.

The boss was head down in paperwork as usual.

“Yes?” he said, without looking up.

Rob cleared his throat. “Speedy and I think it might be a good idea to take Guiding Light back down to three hundred feet.”

Kilton stopped writing and looked up. He tapped the pen on the table and leant back.

“Obviously, you’ll want to clear it with the station commander,” Johnson said, “but from our point of view it’s behaved impeccably and there’s no reason for the safety margin.”

“No abnormalities?” Kilton asked.

Both men shook their heads.

“We’ve only got a few flights left, boss,” said Rob. “I think it would be a display of our confidence in the system.”

Kilton smiled. “Good. I agree.”

“And the station commander?” Johnson asked.

“It’s my decision, Speedy. I run TFU.”

“Very good.” Johnson grinned. He and Rob headed out.

“Boys,” Kilton said as they reached the door. “Keep your wits about you.”

THE SKY WAS blue with dusty white streams of high cirrus clouds. Millie sat on the bench in front of the TFU offices, in full flying clothing. The planned departure had been delayed because of some mysterious admin task handed to Speedy and Rob.

His mind was on tomorrow’s clandestine meeting.

He watched as a Shackleton with lethal whirring propellers taxied onto the edge of the apron. A marshaller walked toward it, chocks in hand.

The flight-line was busy. Kilton had always ensured Friday was a normal flying day at TFU.

Millie lifted his face to the warm sun and raised his life vest to generate a breeze around his face. Then closed his eyes.

He saw a vision of a young woman in blue, kneeling in an empty church. He didn’t yet know her name, but it was as if he suddenly had a friend, someone to help him. Someone on his side.

Rob and Speedy bustled out of the building, helmets in hand. Steve Bright joined them.

“Let’s go,” Rob said and Millie followed them out to the waiting jet.

“Joining us today, Brighty?” Millie said. “An almost full size Vulcan crew.”

“Yeah, I think they’re playing it safe, just for this one.”

“Really?”

“Just this one, I think.”

Minutes later, panel lights flickered on as the Vulcan woke from its slumber. A growing whine outside signalled the engine start.

They held for a while as a queue formed at the threshold. It was approaching lunchtime and Millie realised he should have brought something to eat.

Eventually the acceleration force pushed him forward in his rear-facing seat as they thundered along the runway and up into the summer sky.

THIRTY MINUTES LATER, they descended to the entry gate for the low-level run west of Shrewsbury.

Rob pointed the nose at a distinctive oxbow loop on the River Severn. He levelled the Vulcan at one thousand feet.

Carefully managing the thrust and attitude, he settled them at two hundred and seventy-five knots.

“Ready.”

He could see from the modified panel to his left that Millie had activated Guiding Light some time back, as he always did, so it was just a case of Speedy connecting it to the autopilot.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that sensation,” Speedy said over the intercom as the control column moved independently.

Rob lifted his fingers from the stick.

“All yours, Speedy.”

Rob watched as the more experienced pilot’s hands loosely covered the throttle and stick as he took control. Or what passed for control while a laser, a computer and a mechanical autopilot did the actual flying.

After thirty seconds, Speedy seemed to relax and rested his hands on his thighs.

“Shall we take her down?” Rob asked.

Speedy gave a thumbs up. Rob reached down to his left.

The aircraft descended until it plateaued at five hundred feet.

The ride was stiffer, the large jet reacting more quickly to changes in the terrain beneath. They rolled right, then gently left; nothing too dramatic, but a distinctly busier sensation. With the ground closer, everything felt faster.

Rob enjoyed the sensation, grateful for the return to proper low-level.

“Let’s take her all the way,” Rob said. A moment later, the aircraft sunk to three hundred feet above the grassy plains as they approached the first set of hills.

“Hey! Height!” Millie’s voice sounded over the intercom.

Speedy and Rob exchanged a look.

“Oh, did I forget to mention it, Millie?” Rob said. “We’re cleared back to three hundred.”

“What? No. No. That’s ridiculous. Who cleared us? No-one spoke to me.”

“We met with the boss this morning. Sorry, I should have told you.”

“The staish signed it off, Millie,” Speedy said. “We need to get back down. It’s no good loitering at one thousand feet. We need to test this thing properly.”

“What the hell? You spoke to Kilton about this, but forgot to talk to me? And no brief for the flight? We’re supposed to be a project team, for god’s sake, Rob! And I’m supposed to be project leader.”

“Sorry, it was a genuine error,” Rob lied. “But we do need to trial Guiding Light properly. We haven’t got it for much longer and we all need to have faith in the system.”

“Faith? Jesus, Rob, you were on board when it failed last time, and don’t give me that blarney about hitting the stick accidentally. Neither of us believe that.”

“That’s enough.” Speedy’s voice came over the intercom. He had his head turned, glaring back at Millie below. “We’re airborne. Save it for the ground.” He turned back to face front.

Rob concentrated on the picture in front of him; it was relatively flat for the moment and the ride was smooth, but it was about to get interesting. Should he concede and move them back to one thousand feet?

He adjusted the intercom to cut Millie and Bright out of the loop. “Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to spring this on him?”

“It’s done. Let’s just concentrate on the flight,” Speedy said, staring forward.

Rob opened the intercom to the rear bay again. “We’re watching everything, Millie. Worry not.”

“Rob…” Millie’s tone had changed; he spoke quietly. “I’m begging you. Now’s not the time to put your trust in this system. There’s something wrong with it.”

Rob looked across at Speedy, but Speedy shook his head.

“Sorry, Millie. I promised the boss we’d carry this one out at three hundred. Tell you what, let’s run in at three hundred for the first fifteen minutes, and we’ll go back to one thousand as the hills steepen. How about that?”

“Promise me you won’t take your eyes off the view outside? First sign of anything and you cancel?”

“Of course.”

They crossed a hatched pattern of arable fields that stretched over the Welsh border, with rising ground ahead.

Forty-five seconds later, the aircraft made its first steep bank and positioned them for a run down the northern side of a wide valley.

Rob imagined the laser flashing across the approaching terrain. This was where the system came alive, down with the trees.

Under the enemy’s nose.

STRAPPED into his dark cave with no windows, Millie grimaced.

“Come on, Mills,” said Brighty. “It’s not that bad. At least we’re not on our way to Tbilisi to drop the bomb. Imagine low-level for four hours.”

“The aircraft wasn’t designed for this,” Millie said.

“Well, as ever, ours not to reason why, eh?”

The Vulcan dipped sharply and rose again; Millie scanned the height readings. He rotated the black dial to get an idea of the terrain around them. Two thousand and thirty-four feet to their left, three hundred and sixty-one feet to their right. As usual the system was taking the Vulcan down one side of a valley.

According to Belkin, the error would occur down in the one hundredths of a per cent. And even less frequently, it would occur in a situation that would cause an irrecoverable situation. He’d added up over a year of RAF flying, but the chances on an individual flight were extremely low.

As far as they knew.

Millie looked over his shoulder. The curtain separating the rear bay from the cockpit was tied to one side. He could see Rob, thankfully looking forward.

When had he let his friend down? When did their relationship become so bad, he’d cut him out of important conversations?

Another sudden plunge, and Millie snapped his head back. But the aircraft levelled off. He switched the dial to the first position, looking directly down. Three hundred and sixteen feet. He took another deep breath and checked his watch.

Eight more minutes of this.

MARY MAY KNOCKED ON THE MILFORDS’ front door. It flew open.

“Mar! My favourite gorgeous person in the whole wide world.” Georgina beamed at her.

Mary burst into tears.

“Oh, blimey. Mar, whatever is wrong? Come here.” Georgina stepped out of the house and enveloped Mary in her arms.

“Nothing. It’s nothing, really. Just silly marriage stuff.” She wiped away her tears, delving into her cardie for a tissue. “I didn’t mean to cry. I feel embarrassed.”

“Nonsense. Get in here, my lovely.”

Mary stepped into the married quarter.

“What you need, young lady, is gin. What do you say that we set up a couple of chairs in the garden, get ourselves G&Ts and you can tell me all about it?”

THE VULCAN WORKED HARD. They entered a steep valley complex, and the huge delta wings rolled with strong rudder and throttle input to negotiate the tight turns.

Rob tried not to fight it, allowing his body to ebb and flow with the movements.

He learned in the single seats to roll with the aircraft and resist the temptation to lean upright.

He kept half an eye outside and half an eye on Speedy, who looked relaxed, with his hands on his thighs.

But it all looked good. Guiding Light, back in its natural habitat, was performing well, as expected.

They rolled level and went over a small ridge, the aircraft rising and dipping before sweeping over a long reservoir.

Four minutes until the end of the fifteen-minute stretch he promised Millie would be the extent of their run at three hundred feet.

The aircraft flew across a flattish area of plain between two sets of hills. They were about to enter Snowdonia.

He retrieved the chart from the side of his seat and checked the route. The computer had taken them slightly away from the intended path, but that was part of its method; it would choose the best route and get them to the fixed waypoints.

A large wood passed underneath; the ground became more undulating. The aircraft rocked and bumped as the autopilot responded to the instructions from the computer.

Three more minutes.

He thought about where he would command the system to go back to one thousand feet. He wanted to be level and avoid asking for height changes while banked.

He turned the chart over in his hands. His eyes searched ahead of the aircraft’s track, looking for a feature he could use to initiate the climb.

Typically, they were flying toward a fold in the paper. He opened the map up, orientating it to show a good thirty miles ahead, then refolded it.

“Something up?” Speedy asked, leaning across, peering at the chart.

“No, I just—”

There was a loud bang. Rob smashed down into his seat. The chart fell from his hands as a violent, crushing weight forced his body ever lower. His helmet struck something hard, and his sight began to turn grey. He felt woozy.

The aircraft creaked around him. He struggled to get upright, to see clearly, to urgently assess the situation.

The g-force subsided. He pushed himself back up in his seat.

Looking out, all he could see was sky.

“What’s happening?”

As he regained full vision, his eyes darted to the artificial horizon; they were seventy degrees nose up, and rolling.

Shit.

Speedy shouted something at him.

Was he injured?

They must have hit something.

No hesitation, Rob.

He grabbed the stick and hit the cancel button.

Nothing changed.

“Groundstrike!”

He finally resolved what Speedy was yelling.

The sky outside was replaced by green and yellow hills as the aircraft rolled all the way over.

They were upside down, and still rolling.

Another loud bang behind them; it sounded like the main spar.

The aircraft was about to break up.

He and Speedy were hanging in their straps, with the Welsh hills above them. They couldn’t even eject now.

Shit. SHIT.

But they had some height on their side.

Rob stared at the Guiding Light panel; it showed all nines. It was useless now, with the laser pointed into the sky. The altimeter needle seemed to be around two thousand five hundred feet.

But they were coming back down.

He tried the stick again, and the rudder pedals.

“Nothing’s working!”

He looked at the engine gauges; both the port side engines had wound down. They only had thrust on the starboard side.

He closed all four throttles, hoping to restore balance.

Keep working, he said to himself.

But there was no emergency drill to cover this.

He could shut down the broken engines, but that would take time and wouldn’t achieve anything.

They needed to roll upright.

He snapped the braking parachute handle to STREAM.

There was a jolt, and the rolling seemed to slow.

“Damn!” He switched the lever to RELEASE, praying the roll rate would pick up again.

The green grass and rocks grew larger as the Vulcan hurtled downwards.

The stick still moved in his hands, but had no noticeable effect on the aircraft.

THINK!

He stabbed the ABANDON AIRCRAFT button to light up the notice in the back for Bright and Millie.

“GET OUT! GET OUT!” he shouted over the intercom.

An enormous bang.

Light filled the cockpit.

It took Rob a beat to register what had happened.

The canopy was gone.

“Speedy! No!” he shouted, but it was too late.

He shielded his face against a burst of orange flame as Speedy’s seat fired out of the aircraft.

The roll rate had increased.

Finally, they were coming through ninety degrees back to upright.

It was his only chance to live: to eject while the aircraft was the correct way up.

He wrenched his head around and looked back.

“GET OUT! GET OUT!” he screamed again.

Steve Bright stood over the hatch, but Millie was on the ground, trying to get back up.

Rob glanced forward. He estimated they were at six hundred feet.

This was it.

A terrible, awful dread filled him.

There was nothing he could do, unless he chose to die with them.

It was an option.

He looked back a final time.

“Get up, Millie!”

Rob’s voice was weak and broken.

They were now too low.

Millie stared at him, terrified eyes wide above his oxygen mask.

Blood leaked from a gash on his forehead.

“Please, Millie.” His voice croaked. “Please get out. Please.”

He broke eye contact, turned around, and saw the last two seconds of his life as a collection of grey rocks and yellow flowers raced towards them.

Yellow life amid grey death.

I have to live.

His hand went down to the ejection handle.

Did he even have the strength to pull it?

He felt the kick as the seat erupted upwards.

He blacked out.

EMILY TRIGGS TAPPED a pencil on the desk and considered her options.

She cross-checked the flying programme.

Evergreen-four-two was now twenty-five minutes overdue.

Up in the glass-house at the top of the control tower, she had an unobstructed view of the airfield and a few miles around. She scanned the skies, but there was no white Vulcan.

She reported it to the senior air traffic controller, who reached for his binoculars and confirmed they were not in sight.

The SATCO leaned over her shoulder to check the record of aircraft movements.

“It definitely took off, sir. I remember it. Vulcan XH441, four persons on board.”

“It may have diverted, can you call TFU, see if they’ve heard anything from the crew? It would, of course, be typical of them to keep us in the dark.”

She picked up one of three telephones and dialled the operations desk at the Test Flying Unit.

A FLAPPING NOISE, like sheets being shaken out of a bedroom window.

Rob was on a hard surface, his eyes closed.

Birdsong. Cheery whistles filled the air, along with the strange flapping.

An orange glow formed through his eyelids. He tried to open them, but the sunlight was too much.

His head was heavy. He reached up, and with his eyes still shut, pulled his flying helmet off.

Rolling onto his side, he felt a sharp pain in his lower back.

He inched open his eyes, allowing his pupils to adjust.

His head pounded.

He had no idea how much time had passed.

The flapping sound came from above. He craned his head to see his parachute rippling in the breeze.

The straps tugged at him. He rolled onto his back and fumbled with the five-point harness, twisting until it released with a clunk. The pressure on his legs disappeared.

He lay still, facing up, watching the thin clouds gently rove across the sky.

Images formed in his mind. Unwanted, intrusive images.

The final few seconds of the flight.

Chaotic and violent.

He shut his eyes tight and waited for the moment to pass.

To distract him from the visions, he focused on practicalities.

He pushed himself up onto his elbows.

He was in a relatively flat field on the bottom of a slope. There was no sign of the jet or Speedy Johnson.

Twisting around, he saw a plume of black smoke rising beyond the hill.

Another image entered his mind.

Millie, wide-eyed, staring at him.

He searched the memory for a sign of forgiveness in those brown eyes. But he saw only terror.

An abject, appalling terror; the type only a condemned man knows.

He lay back down, not wanting to leave this place, not wanting to face reality.

The parachute continued to flap, drifting across the craggy land.

The birds continued their song.

Eventually, the sound of a vehicle engine carried across the field.

Reality was coming for him.

The vehicle stopped. A door slammed. A dog barked.

Rob remained on the ground. A black-and-white collie appeared over him and licked his face.

“Meg!” a voice said.

A man leaned over him.

“You’re alive then?”

Rob stared at him.

“Broken anything?”

“I don’t know.”

He propped himself up and again felt a pain in his lower back. He brought his knees up.

Both legs appeared to be in one piece.

His ribs ached, but nothing felt broken. With help from the farmer, he got up.

“Luckier than your friend, I’m afraid.” The farmer put an arm around Rob and walked him toward the Land Rover.

“I’m sorry?” Rob asked weakly.

“He’s over yonder.” The farmer pointed to the winding narrow road that ran along the bottom of the hill. “Still in his seat. Not a pretty sight, I’m afraid. All bent up. Hit the ground hard. Very nasty.”

“He’s dead?” Rob asked weakly.

“’fraid so.”

They got to the vehicle and Rob climbed in gingerly.

Meg jumped up and sat next to him. Rob put his hand on her neck. Soft and warm. She looked up at him, panting, with her tongue hanging out. It looked like she was smiling.

He gently stroked her, as she curled up on the bench seat.

The farmer drove slowly down the hill, speeding up when they got to a Tarmac road.

As they rounded the bend at the end of the valley, Rob saw the white and orange of Speedy’s parachute. A tractor was parked nearby and two men stood to one side. They had stretched the silk over the scene and weighted it down with stones.

Rob stared at the lifeless bulge.

He thought back to Speedy’s ejection. They were rolling, still inverted. His eagerness to abandon the aircraft had killed him.

He looked around for the black smoke.

“Can you take me to the aircraft, please?”

The farmer looked surprised. “Don’t you want to go to the doctor?”

“Please, I need to see.”

They reached a T-junction. The farmer turned right and they headed toward the black smoke.

The road wound around the hill. The crash scene was somewhere over the next slope.

From a distance, it looked like the Vulcan hit the ground flat, as the distinctive triangle shape still recognisable.

But as they got closer, he could see the aircraft was ripped down its centre, fire consuming what was left of the wings, the white paint giving way to the unruly metal framework.

Scattered fragments sat further up the hill, including what looked like a fan assembly from an engine.

“This is as close as we can get,” the farmer said, pushing the Land Rover’s front two wheels onto the base of the steep slope.

Rob opened the door and climbed out, followed by the dog. The farmer called to her and she stopped and sat by the vehicle.

As Rob walked, he winced at the back pain, but pushed on, picking his way over loose rock, tufts of grass and occasional yellow flowers.

Soon, he felt the heat of the fire on his face.

As he approached, he began a methodical scan of the twisted remains.

The nose section was recognisable. He gave the debris a wide berth, walking around the right hand side. Behind the nose, the missing canopy revealed the inside of the cockpit and behind that, a tear in the frame of the fuselage gave him glimpses of the rear crew bay.

He moved further around, his eyes tracking along the blackened, distorted outline. Jagged metal protruded at untidy angles. The painstakingly constructed modern bomber, torn into thousands of barely recognisable pieces in an instant.

He continued to search, moving slowly, ensuring he could see into every area of the downed jet.

He needed to know. He had to be sure.

Finally, his eyes settled on a shape.

Two legs. Twisted, charred.

He moved further around.

Just visible in the dark recesses: a helmet. Wisps of smoke partially obscured the blackened face within.

He wobbled, his legs in danger of giving way.

He crouched, steadying, then forced himself back up.

The farmer had made his way a few yards up the hill.

“Come on, now,” he shouted. “This is no good for you.”

Rob moved further around the far side of the wreck, continuing to search with his eyes.

Beyond the central rise of collapsed metal, he saw an outstretched, lifeless arm.

He followed it back and stared at the torso.

A moment later, he emerged from the smoke.

“We can go now.”

THE PLANNING ROOM at TFU was filling up. Even with the full flying programme, the chaps usually found a way to be done a little earlier and head off to Happy Hour on a Friday.

When the call came in from the tower, a couple of pilots near the hatch overheard the sergeant take down the details of the overdue aircraft.

They exchanged looks, but nothing was said.

The missing crew could have diverted with a technical problem.

They could have extended the trial in the air.

They could be carrying out a touch and go at Boscombe.

But sometimes, they could just sense it: none of the above would be the case.

In the thirty minutes that followed, the mood grew sombre, although still no-one speculated out loud.

They delegated Red to let the boss know.

“No need to panic, Brunson,” said Kilton, carrying on with his paperwork.

But as Brunson backed out of the office, there was a rise in volume in the planning room.

Jock MacLeish arrived, looking pale.

“Rob May has just called in from a farmhouse in Wales. They crashed.”

“Did everyone get out?” Kilton asked.

MacLeish shook his head. “Just Rob.”

“Just Rob?” Red said.

MacLeish nodded.

Kilton dropped his head. “Names?”

“Speedy, Steve Bright and…” MacLeish hesitated and looked directly at Kilton.

“And Millie.”

The men waited in silence, watching their boss.

Eventually Kilton’s head came back up. Slowly, he got to his feet. MacLeish moved out of his way as he walked into the middle of the planning room.

“No phone calls out. Someone order me a car.”

SOMEWHERE IN THE HEDGEROW, a blackbird sounded its alarm call. Such an urgent sound on a peaceful day.

A cat?

Probably.

Georgina closed her eyes and let the sun warm her face.

“Thank you, darling.” Mary finished her drink.

“Think nothing of it, Mar. We all go through this. God knows I hardly saw Millie during the bloody war. Mind you I was digging for victory in Norfolk and he was at Tangmere most of the time.”

Mary laughed. “I’d loved to have seen you in your land girl dungarees.”

“Ha! I can’t remember if I ever wore them, but it was certainly muddy.” She sighed at the memories of those strange days. “Bloody hard work, but good fun in the evenings. Back then, every day felt like it could be your last. Maybe that’s why we enjoyed ourselves so much at night.” She stood up and gathered the two glasses. “Perhaps that’s a tale for another time. One more?”

“One more.”

Georgina smiled and headed into the house.

In the kitchen she noticed an insect of some sort had found its way onto the lemon in her glass. She tipped it into the bin, put the glass in the bowl and took Millie’s whisky tumbler from the draining board.

“That’ll do.”

As she headed to the fridge, a movement caught her eye.

A car turning slowly into Trenchard Close.

A black staff car.

She froze.

A staff car in the middle of the day, in a married quarter patch, brought only one type of message.

Her hand tightened around the tumbler.

The vehicle passed Sarah Brunson’s house, then Louise Richardson’s, in a macabre game of widow roulette.

It drew to a halt, precisely and unmistakably at the end of the short path that led to her front door.

Mark Kilton emerged, looking grave.

The whisky tumbler fell from Georgina’s hand and smashed on the hard kitchen floor.

“Please, god, no…”

She blinked back the first of the tears, before straightening her top and opening the front door.

Kilton stood, stiff back, hat tucked under his arm.

Silence.

He lowered his head.

“One hundred and twelve days, Mark,” said Georgina. “The old bugger only had another one hundred and twelve days to retirement.”

He looked up and stared deep into her eyes.

“I’m so sorry, Georgina. I’m so sorry.”

She tried to hold it off, but the collapse was coming.

She bent forward and clutched her head. Tears flowed between her fingers.

Kilton held her shoulders.

“He was a fine man, Georgina,” he whispered. “A fine man. Let us be proud.”

Kilton guided her inside the house.

She looked back at him. “Rob?”

“Alive. Shaken, but alive.”

“He was with him?”

“Yes.”

Mary was in the kitchen, staring at the broken glass. She looked up and put a hand to her mouth.

“Georgina. No!”

“Rob’s OK. Isn’t that wonderful news?”

Mary’s arms stretched out and they fell into a tight embrace.

ROB SAT at a worn kitchen table in a dark farmhouse kitchen, nursing a lukewarm cup of tea.

Someone would have to move the bodies off the hillside. They would secure the crash site, throw a cordon around the secret military equipment, whatever was left of it.

The farmer appeared in the doorway.

“So what happened?”

Rob shook his head. “I’m not sure. We struck the ground, I think, and bounced back up, but it disabled us.”

Again, a vision: Millie and Bright scrambling to evacuate.

The terror in their eyes.

They knew they were going to die.

He didn’t expand on his answer, and the farmer didn’t pursue the conversation.

A distant beating in the air.

Rob rose from his seat.

“I think that’s my helicopter.”

Immediately beyond the house was a small cottage garden, and beyond that, a paddock with two horses.

“Is it possible to move the horses?”

The farmer bustled out, pushing past Rob, and waddled up to the paddock. The horses, perhaps sensing food, came to greet him. He unlatched a five-bar gate and let them through to a narrow garden that ran down the side of the house.

Rob scanned the sky. A yellow dot, growing larger; an RAF Wessex, with the word RESCUE emblazoned on the side. It came to a loud hover just short of the paddock, dust and soil swirling in the downwash. The machine inched forward before settling down on its vast wheels.

Rob gathered his helmet and harness and thanked the farmer, who handed him his bundled parachute, tied with a cord.

As he left the kitchen and made his way to the open gate, a small contingent of soldiers jumped out of the Wessex. A sergeant with a moustache met him as he approached the paddock.

“Flight Lieutenant May?” he shouted over the noise of the whirring blades.

Rob nodded.

“Where’s the crash site?”

He pointed at the farmer.

“A few miles away. He’ll tell you.”

“OK. Thank you.” The sergeant then looked him up and down. “Rescue 3 has instructions to take you back to West Porton, unless you need urgent medical treatment?”

Rob shook his head. “I’m fine.”

As the helicopter sped above the Welsh borders, Rob stared out of the only window, blind to the rolling countryside.

He saw only the wreckage, the outstretched arm.

The winchman shouted over the intercom.

“About forty minutes.”

SUSIE SAT on a bench opposite the phone box, waiting for a quiet time to make her daily call.

After a procession of pram pushers, she got her chance.

“Any news?” Roger asked in his sing-song voice.

“Nope. I really don’t see the point of being here.”

“You’re protecting England’s precious military assets, my dear. One more week, they think. So be a good girl and sit tight.”

“Fine.”

“There is one more thing. A minor task for you.”

“Oh, yes?”

“You’re to meet an RAF chappie, a squadron leader. He has something for us. Listen to him and report in afterwards.”

“Oh. That’s odd, isn’t it?”

“It happens from time to time. Might be nothing, but he had the wherewithal to find the right number to call us, so they want him heard. Tomorrow morning 8AM, St Mary and St Melor Church, Amesbury. Choose a rear pew and wear something blue.”

“Something blue?”

“Yes, so he knows it’s you. He’s five feet nine, balding, and described himself as ‘podgy’. And be discreet, for god’s sake.”

THE HELICOPTER SETTLED onto the taxiway across from TFU. Rob removed his helmet, thanked the winchman and climbed out. Two NCOs appeared next to him and carried his parachute, harness and helmet.

Mark Kilton stood at the door, waiting. He held out a hand; Rob shook it.

“How are you?”

“Fine.”

Kilton led the way into the planning room. Rob tried not to catch anyone’s eye, but Red intercepted him, placing a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Buddy, tough situation. Come and see me when you want.”

Rob nodded and followed Kilton into his office.

Kilton shut the door.

“What happened?”

“I don’t know. We were at three hundred, as planned. It was all fine. I looked at the chart just for a few seconds and we struck the ground. It must have been a glancing blow, as we went back up. But the port side was wrecked and we rolled. Speedy ejected when we were banked over. Millie and Brighty got themselves out of their seats, but not much more…” He tailed off.

“Speedy had control?”

“Yes.”

Kilton made a note.

“Millie didn’t want us to go down to three hundred. In fact, he—”

“Of course he didn’t. We knew he was against it. But it’s what we agreed. You were right.”

Rob furrowed his brow. “But we didn’t listen to him—”

“Robert.” Kilton held up a hand. “We did. Look, there’s a procedure to follow. We will recover the wreckage and find out what happened. Do not, and I repeat, do not speculate to anyone about the cause, is that clear? Be especially careful what you tell Georgina. She doesn’t need an unpleasant situation made worse with ill-informed speculation.”

Kilton opened his office door and motioned Rob to leave.

“Can I go home?”

“We drink tonight for the men. You need to be there. So, come back. Understood?”

“I don’t want to.”

“You need to. I’ll see you later.”

CARS LITTERED the street around Millie and Georgina’s married quarter. Rob approached and paused for a moment, listening to the sounds of tea and sympathy within.

He pushed open the door.

Mary appeared in the hallway and rushed up to him. She hugged him tightly, and he screwed his face up, willing the tears to stay away.

He wrapped his arms around her, gripping her shoulders. He didn’t want to be anywhere else in the world but in her arms.

She pulled back and kissed him.

“Are you OK? Mark says you ejected.”

He nodded.

“What happened?”

“What did he tell you?”

Her arms slipped down his body and she held on to his hands.

“Only that it was routine. There was some sort of problem and that the others didn’t make it out.”

She let go of one hand.

“He also phoned a few moments ago and told us that you should go to the mess tonight. He says it’s important you’re all together. I honestly don’t mind and I think he’s right. You need your friends tonight.”

Rob stared at her and saw something terrible in her eyes: relief.

She had the winning ticket. Her husband had come home.

She led him into the living room. “Come and see Georgina first.”

The new widow sat on the sofa, eyes puffy, a hanky in her hand.

He couldn’t bear it. He shouldn’t be there.

She spotted him and let out a little yelp.

“Darling, darling, Robert.”

She held out her arms, beckoning him in. He knelt down. They locked together in another tight hug. He inhaled, trying to smell Millie on her clothes.

Rob felt dizzy. The room was warm. He pulled back from the hug but remained on his knees. Someone put a small glass of whisky in his hands. The smell brought a smiling Millie to mind.

He downed it in one gulp. The smoky scotch tasted sweet.

“Are you OK?” Georgina asked.

He stared at her; the room was spinning.

“Rob?”

Mary eased him back into a soft chair. The room settled down.

He leant back and closed his eyes, listening as they talked about Charlie.

He was still at Oxford, helping with the summer school. The college bursar had relayed the news and he was on his way back home.

Mary appeared in front of him.

“Are you OK? You went very pale.”

He nodded.

“I think Kilton’s right. I should go.”

OFFICERS from every quarter of West Porton crowded into the mess bar; men and women from Boscombe Down, too.

Everyone knew Millie.

Everyone loved Millie.

As Rob stumbled into the room, a few heads turned.

Red led him to the bar. On the way, he received several pats on the shoulder and a few muttered words of sympathy.

Red pushed his way through the throng and held up a hand to attract a white-coated steward.

He turned back to Rob to check what he wanted and ordered a couple of beers.

As the pints appeared, the TFU boys gathered around them.

“Put this on Squadron Leader Christopher Milford’s tab,” Red told the barman, following the tradition to drink on the dead man’s bill, knowing it would never be settled.

The boys raised their glasses in unison.

“To Speedy, Brighty and Millie,” someone said. They all muttered their own personal toasts.

Rob downed half a pint in a single go.

There was an awkward silence. Rob stared at the rising bubbles in his Skol.

Red broke the moment by putting a hand on his shoulder. “You wanna talk about it, buddy?”

He desperately wanted to talk to him. He wanted to tell him everything.

“No, it’s fine.”

“Listen, man, you need to get this off your chest. If you want to talk over the weekend, just holler. Remember, we all have to go flying again on Monday.”

“I can’t imagine ever flying again.”

Red squeezed his shoulder. “You will, buddy, and you’ll make Millie proud. Y’know, I think you always were the son he really wanted.” He picked up the empty glasses. “I’ll get a refill.”

The other pilots talked among themselves: tales of Millie, and the many comical moments he had presented them with over the fourteen months of TFU’s existence.

“He was clumsy, but no-one knew the electronics like him,” one said.

Rob stood on the edge of the group. Someone tapped him on the shoulder and he turned to see one of the oldest officers at West Porton: JR from the Maintenance Unit, and two of his colleagues.

Rob stepped away from the TFU set.

“We wanted to pay our respects, Robert. Millie was a fine man. More one of us than one of you, I think.” He smiled, nodding toward the gaggle of TFU pilots. “And I know you two were close, so we just want to say how sorry we are. If there’s anything we can do, Rob… If you need to finish anything Millie started, you know where we are.”

“Here you go, buddy.” Red appeared next to them and handed him his second drink. JR smiled a greeting at Red and then looked back at Rob.

“As I say, you know where we are.” He and the other MU men headed back to their corner of the bar.

Red laughed. “Living fossils. Quite something to see.”

“Yes. Indeed.”

He rejoined the TFU men and downed his next pint.

The crash had left him aching, particularly his lower back. His head was slowly spinning. If it was the beer, why wasn’t it helping with his emotional pain?

He found the drinking ritual distasteful. He looked around at the sea of laughing and smiling heads in the bar, but he couldn’t bring himself to join in.

This was the RAF way. To tell stories of the fallen, to drink. And to forget.

Perhaps it was OK for everyone else, but not him.

The thick fog of cigarette smoke and stench of booze was a comfort blanket for them, but Rob was surrounded by jagged edges. He was still in the centre of the broken remains.

Another vision: Millie’s cold, dead arm in the dark on the Welsh hillside.

In the centre of the room, his eyes rested on Mark Kilton. The boss stood by a pillar with two junior pilots.

Something told him his only salvation was through the boss. The man in charge, whose orders he followed.

The two men with Kilton made their excuses as he approached.

“May,” Kilton said in greeting, before sipping his pint.

“What happens now?” Rob asked.

“There’ll be a Board of Inquiry, but because of the nature of the project we’ll have some control over it, purely to protect the secrecy.” He appraised Rob for a moment. “Why? Are you worried?”

“So, Millie was right. There was a problem with the laser. And we didn’t listen to him.”

Kilton put down his glass down and leant closer. “They will comb the wreckage for clues. You’re free to describe what happened, but you will not second-guess the outcome of the inquiry. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

Kilton smiled, a look that didn’t suit his face. “You’re part of my team, Rob, don’t forget it. Come in tomorrow and write everything down before the memory fades, and leave the rest to me.” Kilton looked over Rob’s head toward the bar. “You do not discuss this with anyone. If you do, I won’t be able to protect you and you’ll land yourself in deep water, quickly.”

Rob felt confused, as if he was missing something, but Kilton walked off, leaving him standing alone by the pillar.

For the first time in weeks, he wanted to talk to Millie properly. To talk to him about Guiding Light.

Red Brunson appeared with fresh drinks.

“There you are!”

Rob took another long drink of soothing beer.

He felt dizzy again, but finally the beer was taking the edge away, dulling his heightened senses.

Jock MacLeish joined them and told a story of the time Millie rode in his sidecar with an open-faced helmet on backwards. They all laughed at the vision.

“He was adept at many things,” Jock said. “But borderline incompetent at the menial tasks. Like putting on a crash helmet.”

Toward the end of the evening, Rob was very drunk, pushed into a corner of the room with Jock and Red keeping watch over him.

He wanted to go home. To climb into bed next to Mary. And to cry without being seen.