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

that’s why Guiding Light dived us toward the ground. It couldn’t see it.”

Millie shook his head in bewilderment. “I suppose it was doing what we asked it to do. Fly us at three hundred feet. It was just trying to get us back down.”

“It chose a perfect time to go blind,” said Brian Hill. “A state of the art, one hundred thousand-pound system descending a four engine Vulcan jet bomber with four people on board into the Welsh rock? Someone, somewhere better get the sack.”

Millie took out the chart and with Steve Bright’s help, they did their best to draw the aircraft’s track along the valley, marking the spot with an X where it had all gone wrong.

“And you definitely didn’t have a tape running?” Rob asked Millie.

“No. I brought four tapes based on the low-level run time and I’d just finished the last one.”

“Damn shame,” Hill said. “The tapes record everything, don’t they?”

“Erm, I think so,” said Millie. “I’ve never seen what they do or don’t record. They all go off to Cambridge for a mainframe computer to read. But it doesn’t matter, does it? If we’d been in a standard fit Vulcan and the autopilot had misbehaved, we’d report it just like this.” He motioned to the chart and notes on the table. “Just everyone write it down now while it’s fresh and I’ll speak with Kilton.”

Hill laughed. “Good luck with that, old boy.”

“He won’t have a choice, Brian. We have to shut it down.”

“I agree, chap. But all the same, good luck.”

Millie folded up the chart and gathered the notes.

Hill stood up to his full six feet four inches and put his arms around Rob and Steve Bright.

“You know what I need?”

Rob tilted his head. “Does it have something to do with the mess bar?”

“Exactly. Beer. I need beer and I need drinking companions. I’ve had enough of this malarkey for one day.” He led the two younger men out of the room.

“I’ll secure the paperwork,” Millie said to the empty room.

There was a short queue at the NAAFI shop as Millie picked up a packet of John Player No. 6. Five minutes later, he pushed open the door to the mess bar to discover the usual crowd of men, back in uniform but looking a little dishevelled from the day’s airborne activities.

Beers in hand, cigarettes in mouth; tales of flying and smoke filled the air.

Brian Hill, Steve Bright and another TFU pilot, Jock MacLeish, stood by one of the pillars in the middle of the room. Millie went to the bar first, where the white-coated steward was already pouring an Islay single malt scotch.

“I’ve been here too long,” he said as he took the tumbler.

When he arrived at the pillar, Hill was speaking, and he caught the tail-end.

“… anyway, it was damn close.”

Millie opened his new packet of cigarettes and screwed up the flap of silver paper folded over the filter ends. He offered the pack around, and Hill leaned forward to take one. When they were close, Millie spoke quietly.

“I hope you’re not being indiscreet, Brian?”

Hill shrugged, and tapped his cigarette on the drinks shelf surrounding the pillar.

“We can trust old MacLeish. He’s Scottish. The most trustworthy of the Celts, I believe.”

“That may be,” Millie continued, more quietly than Hill, “but he doesn’t need to know.”

Hill snorted at the incongruous use of Kilton’s new buzz phrase, but Millie continued to look at him, waiting. Eventually, Hill gave a resigned look and nodded in acknowledgement.

In the awkward silence that followed, Millie drained half the measure of scotch, savouring the smoky flavour. The alcohol dulled his senses; it felt good.

He scanned the room, looking for Rob. The bar was filling up quickly as officers came off duty from various parts of the station: air traffickers in one corner, station adminners in another.

An ageing man with sunken eyes raised his glass. Millie lifted his tumbler in return, nodding at JR, a pilot with 206 Maintenance Unit, an unglamorous outfit nestled in the far corner of the airfield.

The rest of the room was TFU. Loud, brash, elite. His colleagues occupied the bar and most tables. What would it have been like thirteen months ago, with 206 MU as the sole flying unit? Rather nice, he suspected, and he suddenly felt a pang of jealousy for aircrew whose only task was the final flight of retired aircraft.

Finally his eyes landed on Rob. He was nestled among the elite of the elite: the chosen few senior test pilots, grouped at one end of the bar.

Millie raised an eyebrow and looked at Brian Hill.

“How did Rob end up over there?”

Hill glanced over. “Ah, the big boys came and took him before you got here, I’m afraid”.

Millie studied Rob. On one side of him was Red Brunson, an American on exchange from Edwards. Glamorous and larger than life, he flew with his own grey ‘flight suit’ as he called it, and a fancy helmet complete with mirrored visor. He looked like an Apollo astronaut.

At the other side was Speedy Johnson, a legend to every schoolboy in the 1940s and 1950s. Kept breaking speed records for the RAF as the jet age blossomed.

“You can’t blame him,” Hill said and it took Millie a moment to notice he was being spoken to.

“Huh?”

“You can’t blame Rob, having his head turned by that lot. He’s a promising test pilot.”

“Let’s hope they don’t corrupt him,” Millie eventually said.

A round of drinks arrived; as Millie reached for his next glass of scotch, he noticed a ripple of movement across the room.

Mark Kilton had arrived.

This precipitated a stiffening of backs and subconscious opening of groups, hoping he would join them.

Kilton inevitably moved in to drink with the set crowded at the bar. Rob smiled at Kilton, who slapped him on the back.

The room was now heaving. Thick smoke hung in the air, and the heat of the day was making it uncomfortable.

Millie glanced at his watch. Six already. Georgina and Mary would be waiting for him and Rob,