The Final Flight

²² TUESDAY 28TH JUNE

Next morning, the tea bar chatter was less subdued than the day before. Rob supposed it would take just one more day before everything was back to normal, with Millie, Brighty and Speedy consigned to the past.

Red Brunson found him sitting at Millie’s old desk.

“Hey, you look like you need a distraction, and I’ve got one for you.”

They walked over to the admin hatch.

The top line of the flying programme read:

Kilton had tasked him with a re-familiarisation flight in a single seat Hunter. The most basic of flying tasks.

“Now that will be fun,” Red said.

“Or perhaps he thinks I might be a liability in a crew.”

“Just enjoy it, buddy.”

Back in the planning room, men gathered around charts and drew lines on maps. Rob walked through in his coveralls, carrying a yellow Mae West life jacket, silver flying helmet and oxygen mask.

On the apron, he inhaled the fresh air and got a nose full of burnt paraffin.

It took his mind back to the smoking wreck on the ground in Wales.

The twisted fragments of metal, the acrid smoke.

The outstretched arm.

He steadied himself on the wall of the building, then found a bench near the door and sat down.

A group of chaps emerged, laughing and heading out to a waiting Victor.

They glanced at him and he pulled out his local area chart and studied it.

The men piped down and carried on.

A couple of junior marshallers loitered by the Hunter. Rob climbed up a short red ladder attached to the side of the aircraft and placed his helmet on the seat before backing down to check the jet before flight.

Walking around, he occupied himself with the inspection: peering into the engine intakes to ensure they were clear, examining the underside for fluid leaks.

In the aircraft he settled in slowly, confirming his own ability to operate.

If he walked back in now, would they ever let him fly again?

Closing the canopy, he brought the jet to life.

The oxygen started to flow, and he gulped the air.

A teenage marshaller appeared in front of the aircraft. Rob signalled, completed his pre-taxi checks and got permission from the tower. After the chocks were held up by the teenager, Rob pushed the throttle forward and the aircraft lurched. He dabbed the wheel brakes to ensure they were working, then continued to the taxiway.

He felt brighter.

Away from TFU, alone in the single seat aircraft.

He busied himself with the checklists and procedures. It had been a few weeks since he’d last flown the TFU Hunter and he was low on hours.

With the flaps set at thirty-eight degrees and the trims set to neutral, he received his clearance and entered the active runway.

He advanced the throttle and watched the engine revolutions rise. At four thousand five hundred RPM he checked the power indicator; one of the no-go moments in a Hunter would be a lack of power to the flying controls.

Was he looking for an excuse to bin the flight?

The indicator remained black.

He quickly reached a hundred knots and a moment later, the Hunter seemed to take itself up into the air.

Rob looked down at the peace camp to his right.

In one of those tents: the ticking time bomb of the lost papers.

The airspeed crept up; the Hunter vibrated.

He brought his attention back to the cockpit and realised he’d failed to raise the gear or carry out the after take-off checks.

“Concentrate!”

He called the tower and set a heading of one hundred and sixty, allowing the jet to climb to ten thousand feet. Rob took an occasional glance at an air chart of southern England before pushing it back down the side of his ejection seat.

Ahead of him was the coast. The day was clear and he could see Bournemouth and the distinctive outline of the Isle of Wight.

He dropped the nose and settled a little lower at seven thousand feet. As he crossed the beaches below, he banked left and pulled back on the stick, entering a four-G turn.

The nervousness subsided.

Below and ahead, a fast sea vessel created a significant wake. Curious, he pushed the nose of the Hunter further down and brought the visual gun sight over the vehicle.

As the jet sped up, he reduced the thrust to hold the speed at around three hundred knots. About half a mile short of the target, he realised it was a military hovercraft. The grey vessel sat on a shiny black skirt, with white spray billowing in all directions.

He pushed the nose beyond the hovercraft and squeezed the trigger to simulate an attack, imagining the shells curving downward and striking the vessel below the gunsight.

The Hunter flashed over the BH.7 at three hundred feet.

He threw the Hunter into a steep, banking turn.

Rob smiled under his oxygen mask at the sensation.

He continued along the Solent. To his left, an aircraft carrier sat in dock at Portsmouth. Staying at low-level, he used the Napoleonic forts in the sea as aiming points.

A gunmetal grey warship edged out of the harbour as he banked back around, mindful of the controlled airspace around the Daedalus airfield.

The military was everywhere. Frigates, aircraft carriers, hovercraft. All these branches of Her Majesty’s armed forces; and here he was, flying a Hawker Hunter as an RAF pilot.

For the first time in a while, he thought about Millie’s mantra for test flying: that every person to follow them relied on their diligence. Every sailor on every ship, the pilot of the hovercraft, the Royal Marines below decks… they all relied on the men who came before and made sure their equipment was effective. And safe.

The aircraft bumped along in the thick air at five hundred feet. He lined up behind a container ship, presumably out of Southampton. He raised the nose and passed a thousand feet above it. Checking the chart, he saw that controlled airspace began at eighteen thousand feet, so he increased the power, accelerated to four hundred knots, and pulled back on the stick, making sure he was visually scanning the air above him as the Hunter fired upwards. He looped until upside down, facing in the opposite direction.

After rolling the wings, and righting the aircraft, he set the throttle to idle and let it drift back down.

Rob cleared the eastern side of the Isle of Wight, and banked around, wheeling through the air at five thousand feet.

He chose one more target for a practice strafe run before turning north, climbing, and pointing the nose at West Porton.

A hovercraft, two forts, and an oil tanker would now be in flames, had his attacks been real.

He found the idea ridiculous.

He was not a warrior.

But he could fly. He was good at flying, and following procedures, evaluating systems. He was a good test pilot.

Until recently.

Until the moment he stopped listening to his closest friend.

Rob flew mechanically and accurately as he positioned for his return to the airfield.

He swept into the circuit, talking to air traffic as he carried out the pre-landing checks. All completed with the consummate ease afforded to a skilled flyer.

As he descended on the dead side, he looked over at the peace camp. It was dwindling in size. Even since yesterday.

“Damn her.”

On the final landing, he let the jet roll long and he turned off the runway and taxied past camp at its closest point to the airfield.

There was no doubt about it: they were leaving.

He had made up his mind.

WITH THE PAPERS and tapes neatly folded into an old blanket, Susie placed them under the rubber mat and tool kit in the front of her VW Beetle.

She shut the bonnet and locked the car.

From her tent, she discarded most of her clothes and hoped the Service would approve some modest expenses for a shopping trip to Salisbury.

The tent itself looked weathered and old; it was a good job it hadn’t rained. Another reason to remove the sensitive documents from such an unsuitable hiding place.

As she crawled out, David appeared in front of her.

“Looks like your friend’s back. He must really like you.”

ROB MARCHED INTO THE FIELD.

A man and a woman approached him.

“I’m sorry, I’m not taking no for an answer,” he said, as he changed direction to avoid them.

“Hey! Mate!” the man shouted. “She doesn’t want to see you. I thought we made that clear?”

He ignored them and scanned the field.

“Damn. Where’s she gone?”

A yellow VW Beetle trundled across the field, with a small, dark-haired woman at the wheel.

He broke into a run, choosing an interception angle ahead of the slow-moving vehicle.

The car sped up.

He knew enough about the angles to know he’d only just make it.

They converged on the entrance to the field, but the car was now ahead, bouncing on the uneven ground.

Just a few yards. He puffed and sweated.

Finally, Rob got close enough to reach out. He banged on the back window with his fist, just as the car put on a last burst of clanking engine noise and disappeared out onto the main road.

Rob collapsed on to the ground, panting. He looked up to see every remaining peace camper staring at him. One man shook his head in puzzlement and turned his back, walking off toward the last of the tents.

Rob looked down at the dried mud, took a deep breath, and got up and left.

He’d parked fifty yards away, as a precaution, so chasing the woman down in his car was a non-starter.

She was gone.

BACK AT THE HOUSE, he quickly changed, shaking his muddy uniform out of the window.

Mary served a lamb joint for dinner.

“I thought I’d do a roast. Something approaching normality.” She stumbled on the last word. “I didn’t mean that, I don’t mean we should… return to normal.”

He smiled at her. “It’s OK. It looks delicious.”

They ate quietly.

“Will you fly again next week?” Mary asked.

“I flew today, actually.”

“Oh. Is that not a bit soon?”

Rob shuffled a piece of brown meat onto his fork. “The boss wanted me up. You know how it is.”

“And how was it?”

Rob shrugged. “Fine. Just a short trip in a Hunter.” He paused. “Actually, I quite enjoyed it.”

Mary reached over and held his hand. “And that’s OK. It’s OK to enjoy things. It’s what Millie would have wanted.”

She released his hand and they finished the meal in silence.

After dinner, with a drying up cloth in his hand, he looked out into the street.

Mary passed him the dripping crockery.

A couple walked by, pushing a pram.

A large dog on a short lead pulled a teenager along the pavement.

The sun shone, the people looked happy.

“I’m sorry,” Rob said. “I can’t do this.”

He put the plate on the top, left the kitchen, and hurried upstairs.

He curled up on the bed. Mary followed, and as he rolled over to look at her, it was clear she’d also been crying.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I just can’t stop it sometimes.”

She crawled onto the bed. They embraced.

“I want to help you, Rob.”

“I can’t explain it, but I feel I’m nowhere at the moment. I don’t feel I’m back at TFU. Nothing feels the same, nothing feels normal.”

“You miss Millie.”

“It’s more than that.” He pressed his head onto the pillow.

“Then what, Rob? What is it? The box?”

“Yes. There’s something going on, I can feel it, I just don’t know what. I think my only chance to save Millie was somewhere in those papers.”

“You’re bound to feel guilty, being the only survivor. Maybe that’s what it is?”

“Maybe.”

She pushed her head toward him and they kissed. The embrace went on. He rolled over on top of her and she moaned softly.

Without closing the curtains or windows, they made love.

Mary giggled as she tried to keep her cries as quiet as possible, aware the neighbours may well be in the garden on a summer’s evening.

“Mustn’t scare the MacLeishes.”

After, Rob rolled back onto his side, pushing his discarded trousers to the floor.

A warmth washed over him.

He stroked Mary’s hair, bringing his hand down and letting it brush over her breasts.

“Not much feels right anymore, but this does.”

“Good.” She kissed him on the forehead. “I think it’s time to let the box go.”

A CHILL WOKE ROB. It was dark. He pulled on a pair of pyjama bottoms and covered Mary with a sheet.

He crept downstairs and poured a glass of water in the kitchen, drinking it by the orange glow of the street lamps.

The living room light was still on. He walked in and found the French doors open. Moths and insects busied themselves around the hot bulb. He switched it off and went to close the doors to the garden.

The lawn looked a pale grey colour as a full moon struggled to assert itself over the orange sodium of RAF West Porton’s perimeter floodlights.

He stood for a moment looking out at the still night.

Straight into the eyes of the young woman.

He stumbled back and nearly cried out.

She put a finger to her lips and stepped into the dim light of the patio.

Framed in the doorway, she hissed at him.

“Robert May?”

“Yes.”

“We need to talk. Thursday evening at this public house.”

She handed him a slip of paper.

“Do not tell anyone. Act normally at work. Do you understand?”

He nodded.

“And stop turning up at the bloody peace camp.”