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

“Sorry?” Red said, but Kilton didn’t wait any longer.

“I have control,” he said, and grabbed the column and throttles, throwing the jet into a steep bank.

“What’s going on?” Red asked.

Kilton levelled on an easterly heading and released the controls.

“Just fly us back, and tell ATC we’re a priority.”

Even in the lumbering Anson, the trip to Abingdon was a short hop.

JR positioned them to the south-east to join the downwind leg for the southerly runway. Rob did little more than help with flaps and settings. As they lined up, he looked across the RAF airfield to the town, and just visible about ten miles beyond was Oxford.

JR’s experienced hands nudged the throttles as he fine-tuned their final descent; smooth as silk, the wheels caressed the runway.

“Nice landing,” Rob said.

“You have to treat these old girls with care,” JR replied, without taking his eyes off the white lines disappearing under the nose wheel as they rolled out.

Rob let JR make the radio calls and they headed toward the clusters of hangars and buildings.

“Where exactly did you drop Millie?”

JR pointed to an apron to the right of the largest hangar. “It’s used for visiting aircraft, and we have to sign in over there.” He nodded to a single-storey structure on the other side of the apron. “It’s 47 Squadron. Friendly bunch.”

After he’d shut down the two Cheetah engines, JR ran through the checklist.

“You can go, Rob. I’ll wander over to the squadron later for a cup of tea. Good luck.”

Rob entered the 47 Squadron building and approached what looked like an operations desk.

The place was busy, but each person who bustled past said a cheery good morning.

“I need to sign in a visiting aircraft, please.”

The desk sergeant smiled. “Welcome to RAF Abingdon,” he said, as he turned a visitors’ logbook around in front of him.

Rob opened it and made his way to the last entry.

29/6/66 – Lightning 1A – XM184 – Fl Lt RWA Meakins – Diversion (fuel)

He fished a pen out of his coveralls and recorded an entry for their flight. He wrote slowly, waiting for the right moment, as the sergeant turned away.

He quickly flicked the page back and scanned the list of entries. His eyes stopped as he read the name.

Sq Ldr CJ Milford

He brushed the entry with his finger.

The rest of the line read:

Anson – TX183 – MT

Rob tapped the desk for a moment. MT only stood for one thing as far as he knew.

He completed his own entry in the log, adding ‘X-Country Navex’ as a vague reason for his visit.

He pushed the book back toward the sergeant. “I wonder if you could point me toward MT?”

“Have you booked some transport, sir?”

“Actually, no. I was hoping they’d be able to help me?”

“I can ask.” The sergeant picked up the phone. “Where are you headed?”

“Just local.”

The sergeant furrowed his brow.

“Got an officer in need of car at 47 Squadron. Can you oblige? No, I’m not sure.” He cupped the receiver and looked at Rob. “Do you have a requisition?”

“Yes,” Rob lied.

The sergeant finished the call. “Someone will pick you up from here shortly.”

He pointed at an old sofa that lined the wall opposite the desk. Rob walked over, but before he sat down, he removed his flying coveralls and folded them into the holdall.

He crossed his legs and did his best to hide his nerves.

After a few minutes, a corporal appeared at the desk holding his cloth beret. The sergeant pointed at Rob and the man came over.

“You need a transport, sir?”

“Yes, please, Corporal.”

Rob stood up and walked out. A grey Austin 10 staff car sat next to the entrance. Rob winced; it was the sort of official vehicle normally reserved for senior officers.

As the corporal opened the door for him, he tried to summon his most casual tone.

“Actually, Corporal, I have a slight problem, in that I’ve only gone and lost the actual address I need to visit. I wonder if you could help?”

“I’ll try, sir. Do you know the name of the person? Or is it a company?”

“My colleague visited the place at the beginning of last week and I think the MT section provided the transport. Maybe you have a record?”

The corporal didn’t look best pleased. “We have records in the office, sir. Do you know exactly when this took place?” He spoke slowly, clearly reluctant to have to go back to his office and rifle through the cards.

“20th June, in the morning. Wing Commander Milford.”

“Right. Perhaps you could write that down?”

The driver sat behind the wheel and turned, handing Rob a notepad and pen. Rob wrote Millie’s name and the date, and they made the short journey to the MT office.

Kilton fidgeted while Red brought the Vulcan onto a short final.

By the time the last engine had shut down, he was out of his seat and disembarked through the hatch, leaving the others scratching their heads.

Still in his coveralls and Mae West, carrying his helmet and oxygen mask, Kilton marched into the planning room and headed straight to his secretary’s office.

“Get me security, now.”

At his desk, he fell into his seat, crashing a fist onto the table.

The phone rang; he snatched at the handset. “Kilton.”

“Squadron Leader Hoskins for you.”

There was a click.

“Hoskins, Rob May called in sick this morning, but I’ve had a report he entered the station with a dinosaur from the Maintenance Unit. I don’t know what he’s up to, but there’s a good chance he’s trying to interfere with the project. I need him tracked down and arrested immediately.”

“OK. Are you sure? Shouldn’t we check his house first?”

“Check everywhere!”

Kilton hung up and stared at the phone for a moment.

He left the office and walked through the planning room out onto the apron.

Looking across the airfield, his eyes rested on the ramshackle nest of huts and hangars that made up the Graveyard.

“Damn this.”

After a short trip in the TFU Land Rover, Kilton marched into the MU crew room.

Two men—one slumped into an old sofa and one