He looked the picture of authority; a steady rock in the uncertain world of the test pilot.
Red should have known from his time at Edwards that appearances can be deceptive.
Jock MacLeish was hunched over a chart; one of only two pilots in working clothes. They were drawing a line, not on an air chart but on an Ordnance Survey map; the sort of detailed map a walker might use. Red peered at the initial point MacLeish had selected: a crossroads on the A345 three miles south of Amesbury. He nodded his approval and patted Jock on the back, confident he would do Millie proud.
Red felt the men next to him stiffen as Kilton looked over.
“It’s odd now, isn’t it?” MacLeish said quietly to the others. “Looking at him now?”
Red didn’t reply, but he followed Kilton’s progress out of the door.
For good measure, he moved into the entrance area to TFU and watched as the boss got into the back of a black staff car complete with flag.
The car pulled away and turned right, not left toward the main gate.
Puzzled, Red checked his watch. Still two hours until the funeral.
ROB ROLLED himself off the camp bed and struggled to his feet.
The walls glistened with moisture; the room clearly wasn’t designed to hold a sleeping man. The unventilated, moist air clung to his skin.
A plate of breakfast sat on the table; he had barely moved when the corporal brought it in.
He’d heard nothing following his interrogation.
By the early hours, alone in the silence, any lingering hope vanished.
They’d given him a set of exercise clothes to wear as pyjamas.
They even had his watch; he had no idea what time it was.
They were going to bury Millie without him.
The cell door pushed open; Rob stood up.
“Corporal, please let me go to—” He cut his question short when the corporal stepped aside and ushered in Mary.
He ran forward, like a toddler to his mother. The guard looked startled.
“It’s all right,” said Mary. “I’m here to take you to the church,” she whispered into his ear.
The corporal ushered them both out of the temporary cell.
“There are showers in the gymnasium if you want to use them,” he said. “But you haven’t got long.”
The guard picked up a pile of clothes from a trestle table next to the entrance to the building.
Next to the clothes was a document with a fountain pen on top.
The corporal handed him his dress uniform, and his spirits rose at the thought of Mary retrieving his clothes, back in their home.
There was so much he wanted to say to her. But she backed away, apparently unwilling to have a conversation.
“I’ll wait for you.”
The corporal ushered him out of the building and marched alongside as they walked the short distance to the station gym.
“Is it strictly necessary to guard me to the showers, Corporal?”
“Just my orders, sir. You no longer have a pass to West Porton. You’re a visitor and must be escorted.”
He undressed in the changing room and stood under one of the silver heads in the empty communal showers. He closed his eyes, letting the water flood over him.
He screwed the tap shut. The water became a dribble and then a series of drips. He leaned with one hand on the cold tiled wall. The shower had felt like an oasis, a haven.
He wrenched himself away and stepped out to see Mark Kilton standing in the centre of the room.
Medals gleaming, RAF hat tucked under his arm.
Rob was naked, with water pooling around his feet. Kilton stood between him and his towel and clothes.
“You have a choice, May. Put your signature to the completed project today and I will not prosecute you. We will record nothing that occurred yesterday or in the previous week on your file. You will be transferred to Transport Command and posted to Hong Kong, with Mary. It’s a staff job, but you will retain your General Duties branch status and be available for a flying position in the future. I shall see that you receive a favourable evaluation from your time here.
“You’ll be sipping G&Ts on the veranda in the Far East with all this behind you. And you’ll be free to attend Millie’s funeral, under escort of course.”
“Or?”
“You’ll face a court martial. Your views on the project will be inadmissible under the Official Secrets Act. You will have no defence to a series of detailed charges that include insubordination, unauthorised and unsafe operation of both Royal Air Force and Ministry of Aviation aircraft, and breach of the Official Secrets Act. We are also considering a charge of treason. Either way, the sentence for your inevitable conviction will be around twenty-five years in prison. Oh, and by the way, Guiding Light will be in full service regardless of your choice, of course.”
“Then why do you need my signature?”
“I don’t.”
Rob stood in silence. The only power he had over Kilton was to make him wait for an answer.
He walked past the boss to his towel and wrapped it around his waist.
“8.75.”
“What?” said Kilton, irritated.
“8.75. That was the conclusion Millie reached after the analysis. 8.75 aircrew every year.”
Kilton’s expression didn’t change.
“I’m interested. What was your figure? After all, you had a lot more data to go on than we did.”
“May, either sign the document and attend Millie’s funeral, or refuse, and you’ll be back in your cell while we arrange the charges. The choice is yours.”
Rob stared at Kilton, impassive.
Kilton turned on his heels. “I’m not playing your games. The papers are at the police station. The corporal will escort you.”
A POLISHED BOOT rose into the air and came down with a crunch on the gravelled church path. Sergeant Nigel Woodward’s steps moved in unison with those of his fellow pallbearers.
Like many of the TFU NCO’s, he had volunteered immediately to carry Squadron Leader Milford’s coffin. With shining buttons and medals in place, he did his duty with as much precision as he could muster.
Ahead, the vicar waited, white surplice flowing in the gentle breeze.
They reached the door and paused.
Following some unseen communication, the organist began to play ‘Abide With Me’.
They marched into the church with slow, measured steps.
Every pew was full. Uniformed men, and women with large hats stood, facing forward as the pallbearers turned into the aisle and continued to the side of the pulpit.
Two wooden stands, ready for them.
After reaching the front, they began their choreographed routine to lower the coffin from their shoulders to its temporary resting place.
Woodward glanced at the others and, with a barely perceived nod, they turned in unison to face back down the aisle.
The pallbearers marched to the back of the church and joined the mourners who had arrived too late for a seat.
An elderly gentleman appeared and pressed an order of service into the vicar’s hands.
THEY HAD NOT ALLOWED Rob time alone with Mary. She sat alongside him in the back of a plain RAF car, accompanied by a police sergeant in the passenger seat.
The slow draw of his signature on the papers had felt like the final betrayal.
Everything that followed was demeaning.
Stripped of his security papers, Rob was officially not welcome at RAF West Porton. The only exception was that he could attend the wake in the officers’ mess as a guest. But they would escort him on and off the station.
They arrived late at the church, but a space had been saved in the second pew, directly behind Georgina and Charlie.
As they walked down the aisle, Rob gazed at the ground, unable to make eye contact with anyone else.