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

Belkin studied him for a moment before calling to Mrs Lazenby.

“Do come in.”

The old woman appeared with two brown paper bags. She fussed about with plates on the kitchen top before placing a generous pile of cakes and sweets between Belkin and Millie.

“The chocolate eclairs from Danbury’s are nothing short of sensational.” Belkin pushed a plate toward Millie.

Mrs Lazenby left the room and closed the door.

The professor gave Millie a wink. “I suspect clandestine operations will take it out of both of us. Best to stock up on energy, Mr Milford.” He pushed a long eclair into his mouth.

Early afternoon had become siesta time at the peace camp.

Susie rather liked it.

But something stirred her from her sleep.

The earth trembled. She raised her head to see her fellow campers walking toward the airfield fence. The sound grew louder.

They were used to the noise of aircraft, both propeller and jet engines, but this was different. A more familiar, prosaic sound.

Lorries.

She stood up.

In a cloud of dust on the southern taxiway, a stream of large, double-axle vehicles trundled toward them. Tarpaulin covered their loads.

“This can’t be good,” she said to herself.

She joined the others as they stood in a row up against the wire fence that separated them from the military world beyond.

The first lorries came to a stop, a few yards in front of them.

She counted at least twenty vehicles, with more coming.

Teams of camouflage-clad soldiers emerged and got busy pulling the covers back, revealing stacks of metal posts, and large rolls of what looked like knotted silver wire.

A man with a clipboard climbed out of the lead vehicle. He counted the lorries as they arrived.

David and a woman called Megan arrived by her side.

“Here to evict us?” David said.

“They’re on the wrong side of the fence for that,” replied Susie.

She stared at the silver wire, wound like hay bales. Narrowing her eyes, she could just make out the jagged surface of the material.

“Razor wire.”

The first men marked out the ground a few yards inside the existing fence, and a team appeared with a pneumatic drill. They pushed a generator into place.

“If you want proof we’re in the right place, here it is,” said Megan. “This is all for us. They’re frightened.”

“Maybe we’ve missed our chance?” said David.

“No. We haven’t.” Megan wandered off.

Susie thought about the exchange for a moment.

“So, Megan’s in charge?” She looked at David.

He smiled. “Of course she is.”

The military men worked with military precision. The existing fence looked weedy and pathetic compared to the new menace.

Some protestors shouted at the men in uniform. They got no response, not even a glance.

“This is a well-planned operation,” said Susie.

“We’re organised as well. Don’t worry about that. It takes a lot to defeat Megan.”

A clanging rang out behind them and they turned to see Megan standing outside the wigwam banging a wooden spoon on a saucepan.

They joined the others converging on the central meeting tent.

As they assembled inside, Susie noted the hierarchical structure, with Megan and David at the front, preparing to address the throng. Someone she didn’t recognise stood near the entrance. Tall, with a full blond beard.

It was hot and people set about pulling up the tent sides to let some air in.

Megan began her address.

“Our information was right. There’s something secret at this base. Something nasty they are hiding from the world and they’re going to great lengths to keep it that way. It’s time for us to act.”

The group murmured its approval. Susie exchanged looks with those around her. Some looked scared, others eager.

She turned back to the front; the bearded man was gone.

David spoke up, looking at his notes. “For a while we thought that an old Maintenance Unit, number 207, was a cover for something else. But now we know that most of the aircraft we see belong to a different squadron. A squadron that has no name and does not officially exist. We may be the first people outside the RAF to notice it.”

“That will be our target,” Megan said. “You won’t all be involved. I will keep the details secret to protect the raiding group. But everyone can play their part. The preparation begins today.”

The watchers applauded, and some pushed out into the cooler air.

Susie loitered back in the tent, edging her way through to David and Megan.

“I want to volunteer,” she said as she got to the front.

“So does everyone,” David replied.

Megan looked across at her. “Who are you? I don’t know you.”

“This is Susie,” said David. “She’s alright.”

“I’m small. I can fit through small windows.”

Megan appraised her again and nodded before going back to the keen volunteers in front of her.

Susie put her hand on David’s arm. “This is the only reason I’m here. I think I’ve made that clear.”

“I know.”

Millie fumbled with the buttons on his suit shirt. He looked at himself in the mirror and practised holding in his stomach. It was the best way to avoid Georgina proposing a new fitness regime.

Georgina called from downstairs. “Come on!”

He was grateful it was a cocktail party, for which civilian suits were the dress order; it would have taken him even longer to squeeze into his mess kit.

He brushed the shoulders of his jacket and paused in front of the mirror. Since leaving Oxford, he’d been asking himself if he was doing the right thing. Wondering if there was another way, an official way, that would circumvent Mark Kilton, ensure the safety of future aircrew and not land him in prison.

The reflection staring back at him had no answers.

“Millie!”

He headed downstairs.

Georgina stood in front of the door, car keys in hand.

“Well?” she said.

“Well, what?”

“Millie! My frock.”

He looked at her dress. It was black velvet with transparent sleeves. New. She must have bought it in Salisbury.

“It’s lovely, dear.”

At the Mays’, Millie got out so he could greet them properly. Mary emerged first; she looked beautiful in her red dress, but Millie thought better of mentioning it.

Mary galloped up and kissed Millie on the