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

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