“I think so.”
Kilton leaned back on his chair. “Makes sense. He couldn’t explain himself to me.”
“He’s a couple of years from retirement. I suspect the docs will sign him off flying. Can we keep him on ground duties? Or give him his pension early?”
Kilton dropped his pen on the desk. “We haven’t got space for people who can’t do their jobs.”
“Then let him retire. He’s scared.”
Kilton appraised Millie for a moment. “I haven’t had a medical report yet.”
“You’ll get one soon.”
Kilton nodded. “We’ll see.”
“Thank you.”
As Millie left, Kilton resumed his work. “The trouble with you, Millie, is you’re too soft.”
THE CORRIDOR with the lockers was disappointingly busy.
Just when Millie thought it might be clear, more men appeared, walking back from the equipment counter with helmets, oxygen masks, and other flying paraphernalia in hand.
The clock ticked on.
For the second time in quick succession, he found himself up against a stressful deadline.
He cursed himself for not having a better plan. The locker was too exposed.
It was now 8.38AM. A large group of aircrew pushed open the door to the airfield and disappeared toward their aircraft.
He looked around the planning room at those who remained, either at the tea bar or hunched over charts, drawing lines.
For the moment at least no-one needed flying clothing. The corridor was clear.
He picked up an empty black holdall brought in from home and marched to his locker, dropping it at his feet as he unlocked the wooden door.
One more check to ensure the corridor was clear.
He quickly raised the bag to the open locker and scooped in the bulk of the reels.
He also withdrew his annotation of the fields.
The holdall was nearly full. He could have squeezed in his day jumper as well, to cover the contents. But he couldn’t risk leaving anything behind. This was his one chance to clear his locker of incriminating evidence.
Just as Millie reached in for the final items, someone appeared in his peripheral vision.
He grabbed his jumper and slammed the locker shut, leaving behind a couple of tapes and the Guiding Light schematics.
Dropping the holdall to the ground, he crouched, fumbling with the straps.
Polished shoes appeared next to the bag.
Slowly, reluctantly, he looked up.
Mark Kilton stared down at him.
Millie raised himself upright, clutching the bag to his stomach, as if this would somehow protect his secret.
“There’s something else. Follow me.”
Kilton turned on his heels and walked back to the planning room.
Millie was stunned and for a moment failed to move.
Kilton turned back. “Come on.”
He followed, unable to dispose of the holdall. Kilton loitered at his office door and beckoned him in.
Millie’s eyes were wide with fear. As he moved to the middle of the room, he slowly set the bag down at his feet.
Kilton sat back down behind his desk and peered over it to look at the holdall.
“You flying today?”
“Maybe,” Millie croaked, then cleared his throat.
“What does that mean?”
The phone rang; Kilton thumped on the frosted window behind him and shouted “Not now!”
He turned back. He looked agitated, even more than usual.
“Right,” Kilton began, apparently having forgotten Millie’s stupid answer to his question, “we need to improve our security and everything about this project. We’ve been amateurs, outwitted by hippies.
“We should have expected an attack, Millie. We’ve been wasting time, drawing things out and leaving the project exposed.”
The TFU boss picked up a pen and turned it over in his fingers.
“I want all Guiding Light material to live in the safe in the station commander’s office. Most of it’s been moved, but there’s a pile of reels in Cabinet Two. I assume they’re blank tapes?”
“Yes, boss.”
“Right. Well, there’s forty-eight of them. I want you to move them as well. And be careful not to mix them with the used reels.”
“That will make it time consuming, sir, if we have to trawl over to the HQ building just for blank reels before every flight.”
“So? Get into work ten minutes earlier. Even the blanks will be signed out. We can’t take any more chances, Millie. We’ve been lackadaisical.”
Millie glanced to his left. He could just see the admin clock. It was 8.50AM.
“And second…” Kilton continued to talk but Millie’s mind was elsewhere. If Kilton had them count the blanks out, and full reels in, how would he generate more height data for Belkin?
“…half the time.”
“I’m sorry, sir. What?”
Kilton looked impatient. “Just make sure the reels and anything else project-related are moved out by the end of the day. You don’t need to concern yourself with the timetable.”
“The timetable?”
Kilton shook his head in despair and stood up. “Get on with it, Millie, for god’s sake.”
Millie picked up the holdall and walked out, heading straight to his car.
THE AVRO ANSON was battered on the outside and worn on the inside.
Millie sat alone in what passed as the passenger compartment, although only three tatty leather seats remained. JR had invited him to sit in the cockpit, but he couldn’t risk a TFU crew member spotting him as they taxied past the buildings.
He looked around and wondered how many troops the old bird had conveyed around the world. It looked like a ghost plane now. The fact it was with the MU meant its prospects were not good.
JR quickly had them in the air and turning north, and in what seemed like no time at all they were descending into the circuit at Abingdon.
After landing, they taxied to the visiting aircraft apron.
JR shut the engines down and opened the door, lowering the steps for Millie.
“Is this what it’s like being an Air Marshal?” Millie joked as he stepped out.
JR followed him onto the Tarmac as two marshallers appeared and placed chocks in front of the wheels.
Millie surveyed the airfield. Typical 1930s hangars with ridged rooves, a red brick control tower and a busy pan of mainly transport aircraft.
A noise erupted to their right and Millie looked across to see a giant Blackburn Beverly burst into life. A cloud of black smoke drifted from each engine in turn as it was fired up.
“Come on,” JR said and led him away. He pointed to the base of the nearest hangar. “47 Squadron. They handle visitors for the airfield. We need to book in. So what are you going to tell them?”
“Hopefully, they’re expecting me. I’ve booked a car from MT.”
“Clever.”
As they arrived at the hangar, JR pushed open the door and strolled into the squadron.
After looking around, he turned to Millie.
“Why don’t you wait here? I’ll book us in and tell them you’ve arrived.”
Millie stayed back, close to the door.
He watched JR arrive at the ops desk and fall into conversation with a sergeant. JR made an entry in a hardback logbook and shared a joke with the sergeant before wandering back over.
“They’ve telephoned MT, Millie. Someone will pick you up from here shortly.” JR studied him. “You OK?”
“Yes. A little nervous I suppose.”
JR gave his arm a quick pat. “It’s all fine. No-one’s batting an eyelid. You’ll be one of dozens of officers ferried somewhere or other by Military Transport this month. Try to relax.”
“Thank you, JR.”
“Good. Well, I’ll find a comfy seat in the ante room of the mess. Don’t want to get in anyone’s way here. How long do you think you’ll be?”