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

looked between the heads in time to see the slim woman disappear back into her tent.

The protestor who had spoken to her walked back, shaking her head. “She doesn’t know what you’re talking about, and she doesn’t want to speak to you. It’s time for you to leave.”

“She would say that, wouldn’t she? Please let me search her tent. It’s important.”

“Search her tent?” a woman in the crowd snapped. “I hope you’re joking. If it’s important, go to the police. Now, please leave, before we call them.”

Rob took a step backwards, staring at the group. No-one budged.

He turned and walked back to the car.

Mary was up and sitting at the kitchen table when he got home.

“Where have you been?”

“Futile attempt to recover the box.”

“You went to the peace camp? Are you mad?”

“What choice did I have? I lost the secrets, I have to recover them.”

He walked through the kitchen and headed upstairs to change. Mary followed.

“But it’s so risky, Rob. What if they report you? You said yourself no-one can know the box was here, so no-one can link it to you. Unless you suddenly go around asking for it back.”

He sat down on the bed; Mary stood in the doorway.

“What I don’t understand is how she knew.”

“The peace girl?”

“I mean, how on earth did she even know to come looking for it? And how did she know to come here and not Millie’s?” He looked up at Mary. “She must be watching me.”

“I don’t understand any of this, Rob. Who is she? Why does she know anything about this? You don’t think…” Mary trailed off and sat next to Rob on the bed.

“Think what?”

“You don’t think she was working with Millie?”

“Impossible.”

“There’s no chance Millie was passing something to her? To the peace protestors? Was he angry at the gas bombing? Trying to make amends?”

Rob shook his head. “No, of course not.”

“Then what’s going on?”

“I don’t know.” He dropped his head and stared at his fingernails. Black dirt, probably from the five-bar gate to the field. “I’m missing something, Mary. Something important. God, I just want to talk to him.”

Mary stroked his hair. “Why don’t you speak to someone you trust? Someone like Red?”

“I can’t. It’s too late now. I have to protect you. If anyone finds out I had the box and then lost it, then… I don’t know. It’s the end of my career for a start. Maybe prison.”

The paddock at Golygfa Fynyddig farm showed signs of its temporary role as a helicopter landing area. For the third time that day, a yellow Wessex settled into a hover twenty feet above the surface, before firmly dropping onto the worn grass.

A winchman slid open the side door. Mark Kilton emerged.

The TFU boss ducked under the rotor blades as the helicopter engine wound down.

The farm sat deep in a valley. Kilton’s eyes searched the surrounding hillsides for signs of the crash, but there were only specks of yellow flowers and white dots of sheep.

An officer in the uniform of RAF West Porton security police was waiting at the farmhouse gate.

“Just so you know, sir. The farmer, Davies, is chuntering about compensation. Says he’s had to move his horses into a nearby livery, which is, and I quote ‘not cheap’.”

“Naturally. He’s hoping the Ministry of Supply will buy the farm. Where’s the crash site?”

“You can’t see it from here, sir. It’s about a two-mile journey by Land Rover. Your guests are waiting in the farmhouse.”

They continued through a small kitchen garden toward the ramshackle grey-tiled home.

The farmer appeared in the doorway. “You in charge?”

“Don’t worry, Mr Davies. You’ll be recompensed for your losses and inconvenience.”

“I should hope so.”

Kilton waited for a moment before Davies invited him in. Sitting at the table in the dimly lit kitchen was Ewan Stafford, one of his technicians, and a man with Group Captain stripes on his day uniform.

Stafford introduced them.

“Mark, this is Group Captain Gordon McClair from Bomber Command.”

“Sir,” Kilton said and extended his hand to the senior officer. “I assume you’ve been appointed to the Board of Inquiry?”

“I’m chairman. I’m expecting a pilot from Boscombe and an engineer from ETPS at Farnborough to join me from tomorrow. In the meantime, perhaps you’d like to tell me why I’m here?”

Kilton looked around and waited. It took a moment for the security officer to take the hint.

“Is it possible we may give the gentlemen some privacy?” he said to Davies.

The farmer did not look pleased at being asked to leave his own kitchen, but slowly withdrew and headed off toward the garden. The security man closed the door behind him.

Kilton turned back to the group. “The Vulcan was equipped with a highly secret system called Guiding Light. It’s classified as ‘Top Secret’. It’s a matter of national security that knowledge of its existence is confined to as few people as possible.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that already,” the group captain said.

“It’s also highly specialised. The panels require experience to install and remove correctly. Which is the subject of this meeting.”

“This is Stephen,” Stafford said, “he’s one of our technicians.”

The group captain nodded to the young man before turning back to Kilton. “You realise the bodies are still in the wreckage, Mark? Are you telling me that you want to pull out panels before recovering your fallen comrades?”

“Yes.”

“Right, well I also have to think about the integrity of the Board of Inquiry. The wreckage is now evidence. There must be a clear separation between TFU and the BOI. I’m content to allow Mr Stafford’s technician to help us identify what pertains to the system, provided the lead engineer at the site says it’s safe to do so. But we’ll keep all recoveries secure at Farnborough after that.”

“I want one of our security officers to guard it,” Kilton said.

“That won’t be necessary. We’ll organise the security. Don’t worry, Mark, we’re used to keeping things under lock and key at Farnborough.”

“Then you could examine it as a priority and return it to us for disposal.”

“Fine.”

“Right. Well,