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

a pillar with two junior pilots.

Something told him his only salvation was through the boss. The man in charge, whose orders he followed.

The two men with Kilton made their excuses as he approached.

“May,” Kilton said in greeting, before sipping his pint.

“What happens now?” Rob asked.

“There’ll be a Board of Inquiry, but because of the nature of the project we’ll have some control over it, purely to protect the secrecy.” He appraised Rob for a moment. “Why? Are you worried?”

“So, Millie was right. There was a problem with the laser. And we didn’t listen to him.”

Kilton put down his glass down and leant closer. “They will comb the wreckage for clues. You’re free to describe what happened, but you will not second-guess the outcome of the inquiry. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

Kilton smiled, a look that didn’t suit his face. “You’re part of my team, Rob, don’t forget it. Come in tomorrow and write everything down before the memory fades, and leave the rest to me.” Kilton looked over Rob’s head toward the bar. “You do not discuss this with anyone. If you do, I won’t be able to protect you and you’ll land yourself in deep water, quickly.”

Rob felt confused, as if he was missing something, but Kilton walked off, leaving him standing alone by the pillar.

For the first time in weeks, he wanted to talk to Millie properly. To talk to him about Guiding Light.

Red Brunson appeared with fresh drinks.

“There you are!”

Rob took another long drink of soothing beer.

He felt dizzy again, but finally the beer was taking the edge away, dulling his heightened senses.

Jock MacLeish joined them and told a story of the time Millie rode in his sidecar with an open-faced helmet on backwards. They all laughed at the vision.

“He was adept at many things,” Jock said. “But borderline incompetent at the menial tasks. Like putting on a crash helmet.”

Toward the end of the evening, Rob was very drunk, pushed into a corner of the room with Jock and Red keeping watch over him.

He wanted to go home. To climb into bed next to Mary. And to cry without being seen.

19

Saturday 25th June

An elderly woman pushed an upright shopping trolley as she headed toward the newsagents. A tradesman drove by in a Morris Minor van. Two men passed each other walking their dogs.

Susie noted that both men had military haircuts.

Amesbury was busier than she expected for an early Saturday morning. Not ideal.

She glanced at the two military men again. Both slim. Neither matched the description of Squadron Leader Christopher Milford.

The church clock bells tolled 7.45AM. Susie kept close to the stone wall that ran around the elevated graveyard and dipped into the path that ran to the porch. Lifting the heavy metal latch, she slipped inside the Norman building, taking a pew immediately to her left.

She lowered herself into a praying position and monitored the entrance.

It was cool in the church. After a few minutes, her knees hurt, and she shifted back onto the wooden bench.

Another glance at her watch. 7.55AM.

Milford might arrive early.

She imagined a nervous man unaccustomed to stepping outside strict military protocols.

A copy of The Book of Common Prayer sat on a wooden ledge on the back of the pew in front. She browsed it, keeping the doorway in her peripheral vision.

Most of her field training anticipated the briefest of exchanges with other agents, or distanced observation of a mark. This was different; she’d been authorised to speak to an outsider.

An informant.

The CND sting had given her a taste for field work.

As the seconds ticked toward the appointed time, she went through her pre-contact checklist a final time.

Had the contact been followed? Would they be overheard? How reliable is he?

The bells tolled for 8AM.

The church stayed silent.

She frowned. She didn’t expect him to be late.

The standard operating procedure was to abandon a meeting the moment the mark failed to show, but she gave Milford some allowance. After all, he wasn’t an intelligence professional.

A bird flapped high up in the rafters.

After a few minutes, the door latch made a sharp metallic scrape which echoed around the empty church.

She startled as a man in a dog collar and long black cassock swept in.

He walked straight to the centre of the church and headed up the aisle, without glancing. She had chosen her position well.

Once his flowing frock disappeared into a room by the organ, she slipped out.

8.12AM.

Susie cursed her luck at the failed meeting, already anticipating the grief from Roger.

She crossed the road outside the church. More Amesbury folk were up and going about their Saturday morning. She walked over to the newsagent, picking up a copy of The Daily Telegraph from a rack outside before entering.

A man with a labrador was chatting to the ancient shop owner. She stood in line, occasionally glancing toward the church, just in case she saw a balding, slightly plump man who looked as if he was running late for a meeting.

“Not good. Not good.”

The man in front shook his head, gossiping with the owner.

He tapped the newspaper on the counter. “Happened in Wales, apparently, but they were all from around here.”

Susie ignored them. She might go home and snuggle down in an actual bed tonight. The thought made her feel warm.

“See you later, Peter.”

She set her paper down on the counter and pulled the change out of her pocket. As she did so, she noticed the picture on the bottom half of the front page: a grainy shot of twisted metal and the smoky remains of an RAF jet. The headline sat beneath the photograph.

RAF BOMBER CRASHES – THREE DEAD.

“Thruppence please, love.”

She held out the money as her eyes continued to scan the article. Below a brief paragraph describing the barest details were three pictures, each one an RAF officer in his peaked cap, looking proudly into the middle distance.

She read the names of the dead.

“Oh, shit”.

“I beg your pardon?” The shopkeeper looked shocked.

“I’m sorry.”

“Well, it’s thruppence, love.”

She stared at the man.

“Thruppence. That’s tuppence.” He pointed at Susie’s open hand.