The Final Flight

getting out are simply higher the more people know about it. How many aircraft are you considering it for?”
The general shrugged. “Two thousand to start with.”
Ewan Stafford appeared nonchalant, but Kilton knew him of old and knew damn well the short, tubby managing director was doing cartwheels inside.
“And what else?”
“Excuse me?” said Leivers, tilting his head to one side.
Buttler spoke with patient clarity. “The order for Guiding Light would be substantial, and I’m sure our colleague here from DF Blackton is doing his best not to burst into song. But we’d like to know that our most secret military breakthroughs can be shared both ways.”
The general shrugged again. “Well, that’s a little beyond my powers, Minister.”
“But not beyond the powers of POTUS, I assume?”
“Well, no—”
“And you have POTUS’s attention on this?”
The general thought for a moment. “Yes, sir. I do. And I dare say there will be some good deals for both of us in the pipeline. But this is something to discuss when we’re ready to talk turkey. So far, we haven’t seen this thing working.”
Kilton felt the eyes swing back to him.
Stafford spoke up. “Perhaps Mark could give us all an update on the trial work his team have been carrying out for a while now. A very long while.”
“As you’re aware, Mr Stafford, the Royal Air Force Test Flying Unit will be the sole and final arbiter of Guiding Light’s operational effectiveness. We have a detailed trial timetable and it is being executed even as we speak. The two working Guiding Light systems have been fitted to a Vulcan and a Canberra. The Vulcan is airborne at this moment with a TFU crew.” He glanced at his RAF issue pilot’s watch. “We’ve flown one hundred and ninety-four hours as of this morning.”
“And no problems?” said Leivers.
“No. We’re still a few weeks from sign-off. We did agree three hundred hours of intensive airborne time. You want to fit this to two thousand jets and we want to equip more or less our entire Bomber Command fleet. I think it’s in all our interests that it’s working as advertised.”
“Fine,” said Stafford. “But I need not remind the room that the longer we wait, the more chance there is of a leak.”
Kilton ignored him and turned to General Leivers. “You’re sitting in the United Kingdom’s most secure RAF station. As long as the project remains under wraps here, there is no scenario where it’s rendered ineffective. The Soviets will have no clue what it is or how to defend against it. And when it’s operational, and it will become operational soon, NATO jets will for the first time be able to operate deep into Russian territory without giving off any radar energy whatsoever. At low-level we will be invisible.”
Leivers clapped his hands together and beamed. “That’s what we’re doing this for. Kilton, you deliver this system and it’s not just Mr Stafford’s accountant you’re gonna make happy. We are gonna be friends for a long time.”
“Excellent, Mark,” said Buttler. “Very good work from TFU. This won’t be forgotten.”
General Leivers’ hand appeared at Kilton’s shoulder. The man from Baton Rouge leaned in close and whispered loud enough for all to hear. “I’ve dedicated my life to defeating communism, boy. It’s a nasty, lethal plague and you, my friend, have its final demise in your hands. Don’t let me down.”
Kilton nodded. “General Leivers, you have my word.”
The meeting broke up. Kilton reminded the room that they allowed no papers relating to Guiding Light to leave West Porton. The men obliged by pooling their briefing notes into a single pile for him to deliver to TFU’s secure cabinets.
Leivers looked suitably impressed with the emphasis on security. “You really do run a secret operation here, don’t you, Kilton?”
The air vice marshal cut in before Kilton could answer. “You’d be forgiven for thinking there’s no station here at all. At Group we call West Porton RAF Hidden.”
“Then I’d suggest we’re doing our job properly,” said Kilton.
Leivers disappeared out of the room.
Mannington turned to Kilton. “What’s that American expression you used once, Mark? Need to know. I suppose you think your superiors don’t need to know anything.”
Kilton continued to shuffle the papers into a brown folder.
“We do need to know something, Mark,” Mannington continued. “There is still a chain of command. Just keep that in mind, please.”
He walked out of the room; Ewan Stafford followed close behind, offering a tip of his hat before he placed it on his head.
The minister paused for a moment, allowing the others to move out of earshot.
“That was impressive, Mark.”
“I thought the same of you, sir. Quite the card player.”
The minister smiled and clicked his briefcase shut.
“You realise this project cannot fail. After the mess of TSR-2, we need this victory. Having to cancel a high profile fighter-bomber project was embarrassing to say the least. Guiding Light needs to be a success. As I said, it won’t go unrewarded. The PM’s always on the lookout for reliable men in the upper echelons of the military. You deliver Guiding Light, we authorise Blackton’s sale to the Americans. That’s an extremely welcome injection of cash just when we need it. A winning scenario for all of us.”
Kilton looked out of the window where Mannington was helping Leivers into his staff car. Buttler followed his gaze.
“And we’ll make sure the Americans know who it was who delivered this project. But Mark, if we have another debacle, particularly a leak from TFU, then it’s going to be very hard to justify the existence of this unit you’ve created. You’re already ruffling feathers with the RAF brass as it is.”
“There will be no leak from here, but I don’t like information going up the line to Group.” He nodded toward the receding staff car outside. “I start to lose control of who knows what, and that’s when it can get leaky.”
“I understand. So, how can I help?”
Kilton looked at him. “Allow me to report direct to you, direct to the Air Ministry and