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

news a lanky young man had brought back from his patrol: the officers’ mess car park was empty, save a few tradesmen’s vans. There was no sign of the usual drinking jamboree.

It was now 6PM, and they had to face facts: the routine they had meticulously noted over previous weeks was not being followed.

Susie’s 4PM call delivered some surprising news of its own. The fourth floor at Leconfield House was happy to let the raid go ahead. They wanted to catch Sampson Parker with incriminating evidence.

He would be a high profile success for the Service, if everything went to plan.

As Roger, her desk officer, had explained what would happen—or what was supposed to happen—she felt the weight of responsibility on her shoulders.

But along with the nerves came excitement.

She knew they had chosen her for this role purely on looks and sex, but here was a chance to gain a significant notch on her belt.

 To complicate matters further, in the grand tradition of the Security Service, they were working alone. The RAF were not informed, partly because no-one was forthcoming to them about the secrets held at West Porton.

But as long as it went to plan, they would save the TFU’s backside.

As long as it went to plan.

At 7.30PM, two more campers who’d been sent out on patrol disguised as an evening ramble returned with more news. Susie was called over to the wigwam.

It was a still night. The cloud hung low, trapping in the heat of the day and softening the sounds of wildlife and chatter.

“According to Charlotte and Purdy,” said Megan, “there’s an event in the mess tomorrow, which is why it’s shut tonight. They overheard a delivery man at the main gate. More pertinently for us, half the security men have been sent home. Presumably they’ll be working long hours tomorrow.”

“So we’re on?” Susie asked.

“Yes.”

She felt a rush of nerves in her stomach.

They went over the details once more.

Susie went for a lie down and woke at 11PM. She headed back to the wigwam and found the others searching through a pile of black clothes with a torch.

Megan threw her a pair of slacks and a thin polo neck. She winced at the fashion, but accepted them for the practical purpose.

The minutes ticked by. The wigwam was quiet, save the occasional report from the fence. Patrols were still taking place, but fewer than normal.

At 1.45AM, Purdy arrived to report a patrol had driven past and disappeared back into the main RAF station.

Megan stood up.

“It’s time.”

Outside, Susie heard a vehicle reversing toward them. Puzzled, she looked out of the flaps to see the blond man climbing out of a battered Morris van.

“Sampson Parker,” she said, under her breath.

He opened the rear doors and lifted out a large glass container of liquid and a set of trays. He took the items into the tent without speaking to anyone.

David appeared next to her and whispered.

“He’s setting up a darkroom. He wants to develop the pictures here before they leave the site, just in case.”

They stashed the final tools into rucksacks. Susie noted the camera disappearing into Megan’s shoulder bag.

At 2AM, they gathered behind the tent closest to the fence. David handed Susie a black rucksack. She heard the gentle clang of metal tools within it.

Megan led them. “No talking,” she hissed, even though they were all silent.

The group began a fast jog toward the corner of the field, continuing around the airfield fence, following a pre-planned route. They passed a small collection of derelict-looking buildings and aircraft on the far side of the airfield, including a black silhouette of a large tail-dragging propeller aircraft.

Just beyond the buildings, they set to work with the wire cutters. Susie sat back in the bushes with the others, listening to the cracks and pops as the fence wires gave way. The first fence had been easy, but the second, newer fence was putting up more of a fight.

Eventually, the cutting team called softly to the waiting group.

Megan moved forward in a crouch. The cutting team held the wire up as the four of them crawled under. Susie had to remove the rucksack and push it through ahead of her.

Across the runway, orange lights flooded the bare aprons.

They ran.

No sooner had they crossed the peritrack, than Megan fell and cried out.

She had tripped on something; it looked like a light housing protruding from the ground.

“Airfield lights,” said Susie, “they’re everywhere.”

Megan put some weight on her ankle and winced.

“You won’t make it across. Give me the camera.”

“No. I’m fine.” She set off ahead, limping.

They came to the wide runway and scampered across. All the time, Susie and the others scanned the areas in front of them for any sign of movement.

Susie could hear David wheezing. He was clearly not fit enough for this run.

As they crossed the taxiway on the other side of the runway, they came closer to the boundary of the floodlighting.

Megan changed direction. The others followed as they headed for the eastern corner of the field. It was as far as possible from the domestic side of the station, and the darkest area close to the hangars.

They reached the internal fence that separated the airfield from the rest of West Porton, and moved along its line, approaching an enormous hangar from its rear, bathed in shadow.

At the bottom corner of the vast building was a door marked TOILETS.

“Rucksack,” said Megan, clicking her fingers at Susie.

Megan rummaged around and produced a huge set of keys.

“Apparently there are only seven different keys for each hangar door across the entire RAF,” David said.

“We’re about to find out if that’s a myth,” Megan replied.

Susie watched as the first key refused to budge. The second was the same and the third.

The fourth key slipped in and easily turned with a satisfying clunk.

It was a large, cold space; clammy, even on a June evening. It stank of urine and toilet cleaner.

On the right hand wall were a row of urinals; on their left were three cubicles.

In front of them