The Final Flight James Blatch (e book reading free .TXT) 📖

By the time they arrived in the briefing room, it was standing room only. Steve Bright stood up from one of the soft chairs and offered it to Millie.

He laughed. “Am I that old now?”

“No offence intended,” Bright replied, and Millie took the seat.

Loud chatter bounced off the walls as the assembled officers of TFU awaited their boss. Millie could just see Kilton’s bald head at the front, deep in conversation with someone or other.

As they waited, Millie pulled out his handwritten copy of the tape readings. He’d had the numbers since Sunday morning and although he was sure the first field was the clock, he was nowhere near deciphering the second, longer field.

15105550114922

15105550114810

The magic moment of realisation once again failed to arrive.

He heard a voice over his shoulder.

“Is that for today?” Steve Bright nodded at the worn piece of paper.

Millie folded it up and cursed himself for exposing the numbers in such a public place.

“No, it’s nothing.”

Kilton called the room to order and handed over to the weatherman.

A tall, thin bespectacled man switched on the overhead projector. It showed a loosely packed series of isobars over the west of the country with a second system to the north-east.

“This chappie is the cause of the current stability in our weather,” the man said, pointing at the system in the north. “It’s preventing anything moving in from the Atlantic. That said, it will be a little cooler for the next few days. Seventy-five Fahrenheit, rather than eighty. But again, precipitation is unlikely. Locally today, light winds at surface level, but check winds aloft carefully, as they will be up to sixty-five MPH above twenty thousand feet. For those of you venturing further north, expect a strong sou’westerly at surface level above Carlisle, all the way to Orkney.

“The copied bulletin will be in the admin office before 9AM.”

Millie watched as the pilots and navigators made notes.

The weatherman shuffled out with his wad of papers. Kilton stood before them again.

“The station commander has asked me to read out the following notice.”

There were a few titters as the boss theatrically rolled his eyes.

“The standards to which we must aspire were not present in TFU yesterday. The inadvertent release of a container of irritant was a serious error. It places us in an embarrassing position with our neighbours and it has exacerbated an already fractious relationship with the peaceful campaigners, currently exercising their democratic right.” More titters around the room. “While we have avoided the need for a full Board of Inquiry, I expect those responsible to be left in no doubt that we expect and demand more from the officers and men stationed at RAF West Porton.”

Kilton looked up from the wooden rostrum.

“So that’s us told. Please don’t bomb the peace campaigners.”

The men laughed.

“In all seriousness, we do not wish to draw unwanted attention to ourselves, so no more slip-ups, however hilarious they may be. Now, while we’ve avoided a drawn out and pointless inquiry, we are suffering some consequences. We need to step up vehicle searches.” The room groaned and Kilton put his hands up “I know, I know, but they are there to protect our secrets. I don’t need to remind you that many of our projects lose what value they have if exposed. So let’s be patient with the men at the gate who are doing a good job. In addition, the station commander has ordered each unit to carry out a review into their own security arrangements. So, execs, I need you round the table with me tomorrow morning at 8AM. This takes priority, so rearrange flying around it.”

The four squadron leaders in the room, including Millie, grumbled at the unwanted invitation.

Not only was there no conceivable way to get the reels in his locker out of West Porton, but he was now part of the committee ensuring his options would be even more limited.

The meeting broke up, and he trudged back to the planning room.

Glancing at the flying programme, he saw, for the first time since its inception, two Guiding Light flights were scheduled for the same day: one in the morning with him, Speedy Johnson and Red Brunson and a new young navigator, followed in the afternoon by Rob, Jock and Steve Bright.

Frustratingly, Bright would be in charge of the reel changes in the afternoon.

He lingered on Steve Bright’s name, recalling his comment about Millie’s piece of paper.

“Is that for today?”

He looked around, trying to see if Bright was somewhere he might speak to him alone. As his eyes swept the room, Red Brunson appeared and announced their own pre-flight brief.

It took them an hour to plan the trial and another thirty minutes to dress and prepare for the flight. Millie was happy to let the new young navigator look after the hatch.

As soon as the wheels tucked up into the belly of the Vulcan, he flicked the master switch on the Guiding Light panel and started a tape.

By the time he was required to gather height readings, after their descent into the Welsh hills, he had two more reels for his own collection.

During the official stretch at one thousand feet, Millie watched the orange digits as carefully as possible, waiting for a stream of numbers that made no sense. Several times, he’d seen moments of what looked like anomalous readings, but they were too fleeting to be sure.

The aircraft buffeted along the contour of the ground below. It was impossible for him to tell whether they were exactly tracing the ground level or occasionally deviating. The pilots would have a better idea, but only if they were looking.

He glanced across to the new nav. An eerie green light projected onto his earnest face from the radar hood in front of him.

In the dark of the Vulcan’s rear bay, Millie went back to his task of monitoring a system he was certain hid a fatal flaw.

He drummed his fingers on the black top below the panel. The engine