The Final Flight by James Blatch (books to read in your 30s .TXT) 📗

of notes written in fountain pen. You can’t even tell me where to look, because you say that only a computer can see the truth. You can understand the difficulty I’m having with this, Flight Lieutenant? The only actual crimes I have evidence for are those committed by you. And Mr Milford, of course. Now that you confirm to me he was secretly gathering data and taking it off West Porton.”

“Our plummet to the ground, on the 7th June, about 2.30PM, in a Vulcan, mid-Wales. Check the data.”

“We have a report from DF Blackton on all the data from the early trials. It shows no abnormalities.”

“What if they’re lying?”

“You have evidence for that? Then show me.”

“What about our crash? The system caused the ground strike. Last Friday. Check that data.”

“But Guiding Light had been disengaged some time before the impact.”

“No, no, you’re wrong. And what about the professor who looked into it all? I can give you his details.”

“We’re not authorised to discuss this project with outsiders. I can ask for permission, but that would have to come down the chain and have Wing Commander Kilton’s approval.”

Rob stared at him.

“If there’s nothing else?” Hoskins asked, shuffling up his notes.

Rob slumped forward, bowing his head, exhausted. “What will happen to me?” he asked, his voice weak.

Hoskins studied his notes for a moment. “They’ll make a decision whether to prosecute you for disobeying orders, the unauthorised use of government property and breaching the Official Secrets Act. Quite a collection of charges.”

“Will I go to prison?”

The man averted his eyes. “Probably.”

“And you’re happy with this? That I go to prison because I found out that a secret system is fatally flawed?”

He stood up, sighing as he did so. “I think we’ve been through this, Flight Lieutenant.”

As the man walked toward the door Rob sprang to his feet. The man looked briefly alarmed. “What about Millie’s funeral? I need to go.”

Hoskins half-turned, with what looked like an understanding expression. “These are serious charges.”

He left the room, and a moment later a corporal escorted Rob back to his cell. He lay down on the old camp bed and curled up.

He thought of Mary and began to cry.

Susie paid the taxi driver, stepped out onto the kerb and assessed the scruffy bungalow. It was a far cry from the neat married quarter patch at West Porton.

The death of Christopher Milford was real; here was his widow and fatherless son.

The crash, the secret guidance system, deciphering the equations, tracking down ancient professors… The whole thing had a surreal, disconnected quality to it. And yet, somewhere in the background, was an unimaginable human loss.

It was inside these walls: the suffering.

She knocked. Through the frosted glass, a diffuse red shape grew larger, and a woman in a striking chiffon dress opened the door and gave her a quizzical look.

“Mrs Milford? My name is Susie, I’m a friend of Rob May’s. I wonder if I could talk to you?”

A wry smile crept across the woman’s face as she appeared to assess her.

“So, you’re the floozy?”

Susie hadn’t expected the news to have travelled here.

“I’m guessing all is not what it seems,” said Georgina. “Which is what I told Mrs May this afternoon, and Red Brunson. And now here you are. I’ve never felt so popular. Perhaps you’d better come in.”

Over the next half an hour, Susie tiptoed her way through the truth, giving Georgina a hint of who she was and what had happened. Millie’s widow laughed a couple of times as Susie explained how he had been courageously taking on the establishment. But then her face turned very serious.

“Is this why he died?”

Susie thought carefully before answering. “Maybe.”

Georgina told Susie what she knew, which was not much for her to go on.

“At the door you mentioned another name?”

“Red Brunson?”

“That’s it. Tell me about him.”

“Tall, handsome, adorable.” She saw the look Susie was giving her. “Well, perhaps more pertinently, a colleague of Rob and Millie’s. I think he’s someone else having second thoughts.”

“What do you mean?”

Georgina thought for a moment. “They don’t talk very much, that lot. It’s not encouraged. If you’re on a secret project, you keep it to yourself. So it doesn’t surprise me that the chaps would have no idea what Millie was up to. But I can tell you, it’s caught Red’s attention.”

“Do you think he’s going to do something?”

Georgina shrugged. “I don’t know. But he’s sniffing about.”

They sat for a while. Susie turned the events of the day over in her mind.

Rob was behind bars. Belkin had told them as much as he could.

Chris Milford was dead.

That only leaves one person, whose name had suddenly entered the conversation.

She looked at Georgina. “How would I get back to Porton from here?”

Georgina smiled at her. “We have a lumbering old red car, if you’d like to borrow it.”

“Your husband’s? Are you sure?”

“Well, I suppose it’s mine now. And yes. I think I am sure. Mr Kilton has arranged official cars for us tomorrow, although now I come to think of it, I wonder if that’s so we don’t hang about afterwards and talk to the wrong people.”

“Possibly. You really wouldn’t mind? It would be tremendously helpful.”

“It’s a tank to drive, I’ll warn you now.”

At the front of the bungalow, they shook hands and said their goodbyes. Susie stepped out onto the road and with a scrap of paper and a scribbled address, she set off back to West Porton.

As she pulled out of Totton, she glanced around the car. The red leather seats were worn and tatty, and the engine complained at every use of the accelerator. And yet the car had warmth to it. She inhaled the smell of the interior; how much of it was the scent of Christopher Milford, a man she had never known. Yet somehow, they were now colleagues in the same fight.

At 7PM Mary told the Laverstocks she needed to pick a few bits up from her married quarter, waving off the overbearing offers of help.

As she pulled