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

valley, Rob saw the white and orange of Speedy’s parachute. A tractor was parked nearby and two men stood to one side. They had stretched the silk over the scene and weighted it down with stones.

Rob stared at the lifeless bulge.

He thought back to Speedy’s ejection. They were rolling, still inverted. His eagerness to abandon the aircraft had killed him.

He looked around for the black smoke.

“Can you take me to the aircraft, please?”

The farmer looked surprised. “Don’t you want to go to the doctor?”

“Please, I need to see.”

They reached a T-junction. The farmer turned right and they headed toward the black smoke.

The road wound around the hill. The crash scene was somewhere over the next slope.

From a distance, it looked like the Vulcan hit the ground flat, as the distinctive triangle shape still recognisable.

But as they got closer, he could see the aircraft was ripped down its centre, fire consuming what was left of the wings, the white paint giving way to the unruly metal framework.

Scattered fragments sat further up the hill, including what looked like a fan assembly from an engine.

“This is as close as we can get,” the farmer said, pushing the Land Rover’s front two wheels onto the base of the steep slope.

Rob opened the door and climbed out, followed by the dog. The farmer called to her and she stopped and sat by the vehicle.

As Rob walked, he winced at the back pain, but pushed on, picking his way over loose rock, tufts of grass and occasional yellow flowers.

Soon, he felt the heat of the fire on his face.

As he approached, he began a methodical scan of the twisted remains.

The nose section was recognisable. He gave the debris a wide berth, walking around the right hand side. Behind the nose, the missing canopy revealed the inside of the cockpit and behind that, a tear in the frame of the fuselage gave him glimpses of the rear crew bay.

He moved further around, his eyes tracking along the blackened, distorted outline. Jagged metal protruded at untidy angles. The painstakingly constructed modern bomber, torn into thousands of barely recognisable pieces in an instant.

He continued to search, moving slowly, ensuring he could see into every area of the downed jet.

He needed to know. He had to be sure.

Finally, his eyes settled on a shape.

Two legs. Twisted, charred.

He moved further around.

Just visible in the dark recesses: a helmet. Wisps of smoke partially obscured the blackened face within.

He wobbled, his legs in danger of giving way.

He crouched, steadying, then forced himself back up.

The farmer had made his way a few yards up the hill.

“Come on, now,” he shouted. “This is no good for you.”

Rob moved further around the far side of the wreck, continuing to search with his eyes.

Beyond the central rise of collapsed metal, he saw an outstretched, lifeless arm.

He followed it back and stared at the torso.

A moment later, he emerged from the smoke.

“We can go now.”

The planning room at TFU was filling up. Even with the full flying programme, the chaps usually found a way to be done a little earlier and head off to Happy Hour on a Friday.

When the call came in from the tower, a couple of pilots near the hatch overheard the sergeant take down the details of the overdue aircraft.

They exchanged looks, but nothing was said.

The missing crew could have diverted with a technical problem.

They could have extended the trial in the air.

They could be carrying out a touch and go at Boscombe.

But sometimes, they could just sense it: none of the above would be the case.

In the thirty minutes that followed, the mood grew sombre, although still no-one speculated out loud.

They delegated Red to let the boss know.

“No need to panic, Brunson,” said Kilton, carrying on with his paperwork.

But as Brunson backed out of the office, there was a rise in volume in the planning room.

Jock MacLeish arrived, looking pale.

“Rob May has just called in from a farmhouse in Wales. They crashed.”

“Did everyone get out?” Kilton asked.

MacLeish shook his head. “Just Rob.”

“Just Rob?” Red said.

MacLeish nodded.

Kilton dropped his head. “Names?”

“Speedy, Steve Bright and…” MacLeish hesitated and looked directly at Kilton.

“And Millie.”

The men waited in silence, watching their boss.

Eventually Kilton’s head came back up. Slowly, he got to his feet. MacLeish moved out of his way as he walked into the middle of the planning room.

“No phone calls out. Someone order me a car.”

Somewhere in the hedgerow, a blackbird sounded its alarm call. Such an urgent sound on a peaceful day.

A cat?

Probably.

Georgina closed her eyes and let the sun warm her face.

“Thank you, darling.” Mary finished her drink.

“Think nothing of it, Mar. We all go through this. God knows I hardly saw Millie during the bloody war. Mind you I was digging for victory in Norfolk and he was at Tangmere most of the time.”

Mary laughed. “I’d loved to have seen you in your land girl dungarees.”

“Ha! I can’t remember if I ever wore them, but it was certainly muddy.” She sighed at the memories of those strange days. “Bloody hard work, but good fun in the evenings. Back then, every day felt like it could be your last. Maybe that’s why we enjoyed ourselves so much at night.” She stood up and gathered the two glasses. “Perhaps that’s a tale for another time. One more?”

“One more.”

Georgina smiled and headed into the house.

In the kitchen she noticed an insect of some sort had found its way onto the lemon in her glass. She tipped it into the bin, put the glass in the bowl and took Millie’s whisky tumbler from the draining board.

“That’ll do.”

As she headed to the fridge, a movement caught her eye.

A car turning slowly into Trenchard Close.

A black staff car.

She froze.

A staff car in the middle of the day, in a married quarter patch, brought only one type of message.

Her hand tightened around the tumbler.

The vehicle passed Sarah Brunson’s house, then Louise Richardson’s, in a macabre game of widow roulette.

It drew to a halt, precisely and unmistakably