The Final Flight by James Blatch (fastest ebook reader .TXT) 📕

hundred times every ten thousand hours flown.”

Susie leaned forward, hands on the table. “You’re telling us, this system would cause one hundred crashes in ten thousand hours?”

“No. Again, there is another layer below this. For the vast majority of those occurrences, the incoherent data would cause a small deviation, but not enough to be a major problem. Mr Milford was keenly interested in very specific circumstances. Low-level, high speed and banked or approaching rising ground, and for the deviation to instigate a downward deviation rather than cause the aircraft to rise.”

He picked up the paper. “This, I believe, is his conclusion.”

262 ll/day

100/TFR

5 dys

250/y

= 25,000

0.014% = 3.5

2.5 Cr/ = 8.75

Rob crouched down next to Belkin and peered at the sheet. “I still don’t understand the figures.”

“This is a classic application of statistics. Mr Milford has started with the number of flights, here…” He pointed at the number 262. “And down here is an extrapolation from the data of the more serious anomalies. As I recall, it was a very low number and yet because of the sheer volume of flights every year, it appears that 3.5 flights annually would be critically endangered. I must say, from my recollection of our findings, this is about right.”

“Hence the 8.75 figure at the end. He’s averaged the crew size across the low-level fleet and come up with 2.5.”

“2.5 times 3.5?” Susie asked.

“8.75,” Rob confirmed. “The number of lives in danger annually if Guiding Light goes into service. Here it is, Susie. Here’s the evidence, in black-and-white.”

Susie turned to Belkin.

“Professor, where is the actual evidence? Do you still have the tapes and the data?”

“I’m afraid we destroyed them, on Squadron Leader Milford’s instructions. But there is something else rather important here. These conclusions are not reliable. There simply wasn’t enough data. Not nearly enough. The true figure, that number at the end, has much that is assumed and extrapolated from a very small sample size. I imagined this would be the beginning of an investigation, not the end.”

Rob didn’t reply; Susie rested a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry if that’s unwelcome news.”

They sat in silence for a while. Rob toyed with the sheet of statistics. He stared at the final figure.

8.75

 “Shall we have that tea now?” Belkin said.

The three of them drank from old mugs that looked like they’d seen service in the war. Belkin told them he’d stayed on Lundy with his wife Winifred the year after they were married in 1931. She was hit by a bus and died, crossing the road in Edinburgh in 1942.

“I thought she was safe up there.”

“Where were you during the war?” Rob asked.

“I suppose I can tell you now. I worked at Bletchley Park. Have you heard of it?”

Rob shook his head.

“I have,” Susie said. “Ultra.”

“That’s right. Your friends across the river.”

“We had a couple of lessons on it during training,” said Susie. “It was amazing. They captured the German code machines and cracked them. For most of the war, we were one step ahead. They never did find out.”

“So this was child’s play in comparison,” said Rob.

“Yes, it was a tough assignment. Much pressure on our shoulders and frequent setbacks. Rationing the information was the biggest challenge. If we used too much of it, it would be obvious we’d cracked the Enigma machines and the precious supply would suddenly end.” He poured himself another cup of tea as he spoke. “I never did get used to the idea that we would let a ship sink and all those men die, just to keep our secret safe.”

“But it was the right thing to do,” Susie said.

“Yes, it was. It shortened the war considerably and saved many more lives in the long run.” Belkin stirred in another sugar.

“You think this is how Kilton sees Guiding Light?” Rob asked Susie.

“Undoubtedly. He’s done these figures. With more data, his numbers will be more accurate, no doubt. Maybe higher than 8.75 men a year, maybe lower. But either way, he clearly considers it a price worth paying for the advantage gained.”

“But Mr Milford did not think it a price worth paying,” Belkin said. “And neither do you, Mr May, do you?”

“No.”

They finished their tea quietly.

Just after 5PM Belkin saw them to the door. “I’m sorry I could not provide you with the firm evidence you require. But I think you must ask yourself this. If this is, as your superior must think, a price worth paying to win the Cold War or whatever, why has he felt the need to cover it up? Is that not something you can use to change the minds of those who need persuading? Surely there is enough you have uncovered to at least raise a question mark over the project?”

“Maybe,” Rob said, without conviction.

 As they stepped out, Susie turned back to the professor.

“How did you know the number and code name, to contact us?”

“I’ve been at Oxford since 1945. I have my fair share of geniuses passing through my study. It’s always been in the interests of certain organisations to remain in touch.”

Susie smiled. “The Oxford recruiter. You’re a legend at Leconfield House.”

“I doubt that.”

Mary thought herself a confident driver, but encouraging the Laverstocks’ Armstrong Siddeley Sapphire to stay in one place in the road was a challenge. The old car leant around corners and seemed to sway even on the straight.

On the passenger seat was an address near Southampton. Mary was glad of Janet’s officious nature, and she had done well in prising Georgina’s whereabouts out of the vicar.

The sun was still high in the afternoon sky as she reached the outskirts of the city. She turned toward the village of Totton.

It took her a frustrating ten minutes before she found the small close containing the Milfords’ rented bungalow. The old car overheated, and Mary left the vehicle to cool as she approached Charlie and Georgina’s temporary home.

She tapped on the door and waited, looking around at Millie’s car and the small, unkempt front garden.

There was movement inside; she heard a familiar