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

under one of the silver heads in the empty communal showers. He closed his eyes, letting the water flood over him.

He screwed the tap shut. The water became a dribble and then a series of drips. He leaned with one hand on the cold tiled wall. The shower had felt like an oasis, a haven.

He wrenched himself away and stepped out to see Mark Kilton standing in the centre of the room.

Medals gleaming, RAF hat tucked under his arm.

Rob was naked, with water pooling around his feet. Kilton stood between him and his towel and clothes.

“You have a choice, May. Put your signature to the completed project today and I will not prosecute you. We will record nothing that occurred yesterday or in the previous week on your file. You will be transferred to Transport Command and posted to Hong Kong, with Mary. It’s a staff job, but you will retain your General Duties branch status and be available for a flying position in the future. I shall see that you receive a favourable evaluation from your time here.

“You’ll be sipping G&Ts on the veranda in the Far East with all this behind you. And you’ll be free to attend Millie’s funeral, under escort of course.”

“Or?”

“You’ll face a court martial. Your views on the project will be inadmissible under the Official Secrets Act. You will have no defence to a series of detailed charges that include insubordination, unauthorised and unsafe operation of both Royal Air Force and Ministry of Aviation aircraft, and breach of the Official Secrets Act. We are also considering a charge of treason. Either way, the sentence for your inevitable conviction will be around twenty-five years in prison. Oh, and by the way, Guiding Light will be in full service regardless of your choice, of course.”

“Then why do you need my signature?”

“I don’t.”

Rob stood in silence. The only power he had over Kilton was to make him wait for an answer.

He walked past the boss to his towel and wrapped it around his waist.

“8.75.”

“What?” said Kilton, irritated.

“8.75. That was the conclusion Millie reached after the analysis. 8.75 aircrew every year.”

Kilton’s expression didn’t change.

“I’m interested. What was your figure? After all, you had a lot more data to go on than we did.”

“May, either sign the document and attend Millie’s funeral, or refuse, and you’ll be back in your cell while we arrange the charges. The choice is yours.”

Rob stared at Kilton, impassive.

Kilton turned on his heels. “I’m not playing your games. The papers are at the police station. The corporal will escort you.”

A polished boot rose into the air and came down with a crunch on the gravelled church path. Sergeant Nigel Woodward’s steps moved in unison with those of his fellow pallbearers.

Like many of the TFU NCO’s, he had volunteered immediately to carry Squadron Leader Milford’s coffin. With shining buttons and medals in place, he did his duty with as much precision as he could muster.

Ahead, the vicar waited, white surplice flowing in the gentle breeze.

They reached the door and paused.

Following some unseen communication, the organist began to play ‘Abide With Me’.

They marched into the church with slow, measured steps.

Every pew was full. Uniformed men, and women with large hats stood, facing forward as the pallbearers turned into the aisle and continued to the side of the pulpit.

Two wooden stands, ready for them.

After reaching the front, they began their choreographed routine to lower the coffin from their shoulders to its temporary resting place.

Woodward glanced at the others and, with a barely perceived nod, they turned in unison to face back down the aisle.

The pallbearers marched to the back of the church and joined the mourners who had arrived too late for a seat.

An elderly gentleman appeared and pressed an order of service into the vicar’s hands.

They had not allowed Rob time alone with Mary. She sat alongside him in the back of a plain RAF car, accompanied by a police sergeant in the passenger seat.

The slow draw of his signature on the papers had felt like the final betrayal.

Everything that followed was demeaning.

Stripped of his security papers, Rob was officially not welcome at RAF West Porton. The only exception was that he could attend the wake in the officers’ mess as a guest. But they would escort him on and off the station.

They arrived late at the church, but a space had been saved in the second pew, directly behind Georgina and Charlie.

As they walked down the aisle, Rob gazed at the ground, unable to make eye contact with anyone else.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he hissed at Mary. “What will they think of me?”

The only face he caught as he shuffled into the pew was Kilton’s. Two rows back, eyes staring straight ahead.

The victor picking over the bones of the vanquished.

He took his seat. Mary bowed her head and appeared to be praying.

He thought of Millie. An image came into his mind: Millie with Belkin, poring over statistics.

All that work he had completed alone.

How different would it have been if they’d collaborated?

He imagined the two of them meeting with Susie, explaining what they had found and planning the gathering of further evidence.

That is not what happened.

There had been no meeting with Susie.

There was no usable evidence.

There would be no cavalry charge from MI5. He was certain of that now.

She would be back in London; on to her next task.

He studied the order of service.

It included his name. Had Kilton tried to influence that?

But there it was: the first reading. A short section of the Bible given to him by Jean what seemed like a year ago; but it was just a matter of days.

He turned the page.

Wing Commander Mark Kilton DFC would give the eulogy.

He felt sick.

“I can’t do this,” he whispered to Mary.

She shushed him, with a strange urgency in her eyes. “Act normally.”

It must have been a show for Georgina. Mary still hadn’t forgiven him; she still believed he was having an affair, but she wanted to put on a