'THE LAST COLONIAL WAR' - CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY

I AM IN BLOOD STEPPED SO FAR

PARIS

Valerie Latour was dragged from agreeable sleep by the sound of her mobile phone.

“Yes”

“Good morning Madame President."

She could sense the amusement in the voice at the other end of the line. Henri Jardin, Director of the DGSE. Her forever insubordinate chief spook.

“Fuck off Henri. I'm not in the mood. What is it?”

A chuckle suggested her pre-dawn grump hadn't caused any offense. "I have just sent you an e-mail. You'll find it is worth getting out of bed for."

“Fine. I will call you when I have seen it. You're at the office?”

“I am.”

She threw on a gown and stomped into the kitchen to get the coffee machine going whilst at the same time lighting up the first cigarette of the day.

By the time she had watched the YouTube video from the Balerno cafe for the third time she was very much wide awake.

Cigarette number two. Speed dial.

“Henri, I need you to call me with whatever we have on these Holbrooke Securities people in no more than half an hour. Fifteen minutes would be better.”

Shower. Clothes. Coffee number two. Cigarette number three.

Jardin was back in seventeen minutes.

“Give me a minute Henri.” Pen. Notepad. “OK. Continue.”

“These are a few bare bones. I will have much more in a couple of hours. Good enough?”

“Fine.”

“OK. Holbrooke Securities. Privately owned. We are pretty sure the majority shareholder is Hayden De Koch. South African. White. Lots of blood on his hands from the Apartheid regime. He's in his mid-seventies now but he's still a real bastard. We have come across him a few times in Africa. He is a provider of mercenaries to the highest bidder. Tends to work for mining companies. I'm amazed he's not on the top ten most wanted list. There are all kinds of allegations of atrocities and torture. If Angus Campbell is right, the English have really scraped the bottom of the barrel."

“OK. That's enough for now. Be in my office in forty five minutes. And find Marc Romaine for me and get him to Paris.”

By the time Henri Jardin was shown in she was onto cigarette number five.

“Sit down Henri. There's coffee in the pot. Eat if you wish. Any news of Marc?”

“There is. You are lucky. He is attending a conference. I expect him anytime."

Five minutes later there was a knock on the door and General Marc Romaine snapped into the room. Valerie couldn't help but smile at the contrast between the two men. Jardin was all smooth urbanity whilst the General was a collection of rough edges. In the three years of her Presidency, she had learned to trust the opinions of both of them.

“OK. What can you tell me?”

Romaine shrugged. He had watched the video, nothing else.

Jardin took the floor. "I have talked with our people in our Edinburgh Embassy. It is too soon for much detail, but everything seems to back up what Angus Campbell said."

“Marc. The operation. Assuming it is all true. What do you think?”

Romaine lit up what for him was cigarette number two. “My first thoughts? It is impressive. A surprise strike. Not too complicated. Not too many moving parts. It seems like the English have used their special forces. I hate to say it, but I am quite impressed.”

“Will it work?”

“Maybe. Allowing Campbell to escape was a huge mistake. So long as he is free and broadcasting, it is hard for London to claim any kind of victory. From a military point of view, sure, the English have won. That's it. Politically? Maybe not?”

The three of them worked through a variety of potential scenarios for the next two hours as the news of the massacre of civilians slowly started to take shape. A secretary knocked and entered.

“Madame President, there is another video. Shall I play it?”

“Yes.”

When the short film wound to a close Romaine chuckled. "My boys will love that. Seven hundred of them and they're giving the finger to the whole of the English Army. Maybe we should make them all honorary Legionnaires."

Valerie barely heard him. She was already lost in thought. Again there had been mention of Holbrooke Securities. Could it really be true? She had despised the English Prime Minister from the time they first met. He made her skin crawl. But this? Would he really pay mercenaries to set his own capital on fire?

“OK. Back to basics. Henri. Why are they doing this? What is the main reason? Give me your best guess."

“My best guess? I think they are running out of cash. Like I said before, we have been hearing plenty of whispers. They have been scouring the world for anyone willing to buy their bonds for the last month. It looks like there were no takers. London is desperate for three things right now. Electricity, water, and money. Scotland has all three. The England First Party has fuelled a lot of anti-Scottish feeling. It all makes sense if you think about it. If Montford can join the currencies and take all the Qatari cash into the Bank of England....."

He finished the sentence with a shrug. They all got it. No more budget deficit. A surge in the value of the integrated currency. No more power and water shortages. Public rage fed. It was all horribly logical.

Valerie thought aloud. “Yes. You are quite right. And if Angus Campbell hadn't got away, things would have looked very different. Montford would have been able to keep control of the news cycle. There would have been no mass protests because by the time the people of Edinburgh woke up to what was happening the paratroopers would have already been in control. It was almost a perfect operation. I wonder who betrayed him?”

Henri picked up the thread. "I have been thinking along the same lines. The betrayal is strange. Think about it. If the traitor had alerted the Scots, they would have been ready and waiting. The SAS would have been hopelessly exposed and they would have failed completely. It seems clear they were not expected. The special forces were able to secure all of their targets with complete surprise. The traitor seems to have done one thing only – he got Angus Campbell out of Edinburgh and all the way to Fort George. It is very strange."

“Put yourself into Montford’s shoes, Henri? What are you going to do next?"

France's top spy took a moment to consider. "They are not shoes I would much like to wear. The massacre has changed everything. The English have watched what Turkey, Israel, and China have got away with and thought, OK, why not us? But now there is a big difference. There was no bloodshed in any of the recent invasions. All those dead civilians will change everything. There will be huge global condemnation. Things might fall apart. Will his party stick with him? Will the Parliament allow him to continue? He is in a very dangerous position I think. He needs to finish things very quickly before events run away from him."

“And what does finishing things quickly look like?"

“He needs to take Angus Campbell out of the picture as soon as he can.”

“Marc? Can he do this?”

“Not easily. Fort George is 300 kilometers from Edinburgh. No way he will have any assets in the Fort. You need to take a look at this place Madame President. It really is a Fort. As far as I can see, he has only one option. Air strike. If what we are hearing about the takeover of the Leuchars air base is true, the Scots have no air force. England owns the skies. If he is desperate......"

Valerie sat and absorbed. Both her advisors knew to leave her be. It was how she rolled. After two minutes she snapped back to life and lit up cigarette number eleven.

“OK. My mind is made up. France is going to help. Marc, is there a way we can warn Campbell of an imminent attack from the air?”

“Sure. Why not? If you can get permission from the Norwegians, we could put one of our AWACS surveillance planes into their air space. We would see the English planes from two hundred miles out."

“How quickly can this happen?”

“You make the call and we can have a plane in position in under two hours.”

“Fine.” Five minutes proved to be plenty enough time for her to sweet talk the Norwegian leader. Marc had a plane in the air twenty minutes later.

“Good. Excellent. So here is what we will do next. I am going to schedule an emergency meeting of the UN Security Council tomorrow morning. France will propose a no fly zone covering the whole of Scotland and a demand for an immediate English withdrawal."

Henri Jardin gave a low whistle whilst General Marc Romaine grinned. Valerie continued.

“I do not expect the English to withdraw. I don't think Edward Montford can afford to withdraw. He will have to find a way to attack. And Marc, I need you to find a way for France to make sure he fails. I am not planning to return to the wars of Napoleon. I want you to come up with the kind of plan you have used in Africa. Do you understand?"

“Yes, Madame President. I understand completely. Low numbers, maximum impact. Give me 24 hours. I will need to get to Fort George. I presume you will be talking to Angus Campbell. Tell him to expect me."

“How will you get there?”

“A fast helicopter about ten feet above the waves. You will need to call your friend in Oslo again."

“I will.”

NORTHWOOD

Every eye was on him. Boring into him. Every eye in the room. 

The Prime Minister focused on sitting perfectly still. 

Expressionless. Zen

They had watched the Fort George video in grim silence. And he knew the soldiers in the room must have secretly admired the way the seven hundred men of the Black Watch had roared their defiance.

He could feel the hate. And he could understand the hate. These were proud professionals. These men and women had dedicated their working lives to the English Army. And they were proud of their service.

In a matter of minutes, everything had changed. After the massacre on the streets of Edinburgh, the English army would be forever sullied. The men firing into the packed crowds had not been raw conscripts. They had been the elite. 22 Regiment Special Air Sevice. The best. The most admired. The most respected.

But not anymore. From this day forth they would be known as murderers. The whole of the English Army had been tainted.

No wonder every pair of eyes in the room was filled with hate. 

Contempt.

Disgust.

And there was more. He could sense the question each and every one of them was asking themselves. Who was Holbrooke Securities? What was Holbrooke Securities? What had Edward Montford done?

He forced himself to sit for a further five minutes. And then he slowly rose to his feet.

“General Moore. I need a room. Calls to make.”

“Of course Prime Minister.” Spat out words. Like pieces of gristle. Rotting prawns.

He was given a room. As soon as the door closed he collapsed into a chair and rubbed at his temples. He wrenched out five Oxys with shaking fingers. He swallowed and closed his eyes and knew he would have to wait several minutes before calming opiates soothed his rising panic.

His rising terror.

For twenty minutes a line from Macbeth had been playing through his brain on a constantly repeating loop.

“I am in blood stepped so far, that should I wade no more returning were as tedious as go over.”

Stepped so far. My god, had he ever stepped so far. Death Squads in Hackney. Roasted corpses in Kings Cross. Murdered civilians on the streets of Edinburgh. If he stopped now he would be tried and convicted as a monster.

Because he was a monster. How had it happened? How could it have come to this?

He angrily brushed aside the beginnings of self-pity. He hated self-pity.

In blood stepped so far. It was a mere statement of fact. He was already well past the point of no return. There was only one way forward. Somehow he needed to find a way to win.

At any cost.

A victory could still win him the backing of the people. Millions and millions of them. And if victory meant they could have a shower whenever they liked and afford to pay the electric bill, then they would forgive him more or less anything. Victory would mean a chance. If he backed away now he was done for. He had seen the look in all the eyes. If he backed away they would want to see his head on a pole.

His lips cracked into a small smile as the Oxys started to kick in. He took out his phone and picked out a number. As he hit 'send' he gave himself a pat on the back for making sure he had a fall back plan lined up. At his last meeting with Charles Lampitt, he had seen the growing weakness in the MI5 man. Lampitt was soft. Pathetic.

So Edward Montford had taken care of his own contingency planning.

The call was picked up on the fourth ring.

“Ya.”

“Execute as we discussed.”

“The money?”

“Within the hour.”

“OK. It's done.”

Stepped so far.......

He buzzed in his cabinet colleagues and General Moore. By the time they joined him the opiates were like a suit of armour.

“Sit down please.” Good. The old snap was still in the voice.

“Obviously things have not gone as planned. So be it. No point crying about it. Now we need to regain control. Every time Campbell makes one of his broadcasts our country is humiliated. I will not accept it. General Moore, I want an air strike on Fort George as soon as you can achieve it. And you will keep hitting Fort George until there is nothing left. Am I understood?"

“Yes Prime Minister.”

“How long?" 

The general checked his watch. "There are a lot of logistics. This wasn't a part of any of our plans. Maybe we can manage two strikes today? By tomorrow we should be a position to launch rolling strikes. Fort George is a difficult target. I will take some time to fully neutralise the position."

“Make sure we hit him today. We need to show the world we mean business. Campbell will lose his swagger once we light him up. By this time tomorrow, the world needs to know there will only be one winner in this war. OK. Arrange it. I need some time with my colleagues. Thank you, General Moore."

GLASGOW

Davie Fisher's day had been no different from just about every man, woman and child in Scotland. He had been pulled from a light sleep a little after five by a call from his sister and ever since he had been glued to his computer. Of course, he hadn't believed any of it at first. Nobody had. It had to be some kind of super elaborate hoax. Only when the First Minister addressed the nation from a kitsch cafe did Davie start to be convinced.

And then the troopers from his old Regiment opened fire on swirling crowds of protesters. A small part of him was torn up with instinctive sympathy for the poor bastards who had been put in a position where they had no choice but to open fire. A much larger part of him was filled with rage at the man who had signed the order to put them there.

He made calls to his old bosses at Al Jazeera and asked them if they wanted a freelance man on the ground. They did. Of course, they did.

He was getting his stuff together when he heard the heavy knock at the front door. A parcel? Some neighbour asking after a lost cat? He wasn't expecting anyone. As soon as he opened up he realised he really should have been expecting someone.

Omar and Faisal and Tariq and Nazir and Moses. The famous five. The boys from the Calais Jungle. Only they were no longer boys. Now they were fully grown men and all looking fit from working on building the new hydroelectric plants in the mountains.

It was the boots they were all wearing which started to give the game away. The temperature was already touching eighty. It was a day for sandals or light running shoes. So why were the guys all wearing heavy mountain boots? Davie had an inkling.

“Well, this is a surprise. Come on. In you come."

Omar spotted the half-filled bag. The camera equipment carefully arranged on the kitchen table.

“Are you going somewhere, Davie?"

“Edinburgh. Al Jazeera has hired me on as a man on the ground. Coffee lads?"

“No thanks. And I don't think you should go to Edinburgh.”

“Oh really. You better enlighten me. Where should I be going, Omar?"

“We have been watching the news. The invasion. What the English have done.”

“And?”

“We have talked. We are Scottish now. Scotland is our country. So we must fight. We think you should fight with us.”

Davie blew out his cheeks and sat on a stool. “Bloody hell lads. I'm fifty four years old. Can't you just leave me to be a reporter?”

Omar grinned. He had noticed the flare of excitement in the eyes of his old friend. “No. Not an option. You need to take us to Fort George. Tell them who we are. What we can do. How we can fight. They will listen to you.”

Davie smiled. “Maybe. I know JJ a bit from back in the day. We bumped into each other a time or two in Iraq.”

“JJ?”

“He's the Colonel in command of the Black Watch. I guess he will be looking for all the help he can get. Do you have anything in mind?”

“The English will need to drive their army all the way to this Fort George. They will need to drive through many mountains. I know how to make this a drive of death. Like before. I still remember the lessons I learned with my uncle Akram."

And Davie could remember the lessons he had learned about David Stirling and the bunch of adventurers he had talked into becoming the first version of the SAS. Just a few crazy guys in Land Rovers and they had managed to wreak absolute havoc to Rommel's supply lines. And he thought of all the corpses on the streets of Edinburgh.

Not such a hard decision then.

“Fair enough. I'm in. Just don't expect me to keep up. Grab yourselves a brew. I'll be ready to roll in ten minutes.”

And now all five of them were smiling. But they weren't the kind of smiles they might have switched on when watching their kids play football. These were very different smiles. And Davie Fisher was suddenly very glad indeed he wasn't an English soldier.

The boy soldiers were about to be men soldiers.

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'THE LAST COLONIAL WAR' - CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

PSYOPS

North London.

Zulu plus fifty.

Northwood Command continued to have the feel of a firm of chartered accountants. The Prime Minister had used a trip to the Gents to load up with four more Oxys. He had rediscovered some of his inner calm. So Campbell had slipped the net. So what? What could he actually do? Nothing. Maybe he would have week or two as some kind of twenty first century version of Bonnie Prince Charlie. If he did, then so be it.

A flicker of movement caught his eye. A young female officer with a sense of urgency. News for the General in charge. A frown. A turning down of the mouth.

Quick march to the seat of the PM.

“We have just found something. On YouTube. We're getting it up on screen now.”

Edward nodded. Crossed his legs. Waited.

And then the bloody reporter from the Guardian was addressing the camera. Operation Barn Owl was thrown out into the ether for all the world to see.

Damn.

When Angus Campbell took her place Montford's blood turned to ice. It was like the bloody man was staring straight at him all the way through cyber space. Which was ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. He felt the heat spreading up his neck and into his brain. Everyone in the room was glancing from screen to Prime Minister and from Prime Minister to screen.

And there it was. Like the festering corpse of a poisoned rat. Thrown down on the table for all the world to gawp at. To recoil at. 

Holbrooke Securities. 

And every political instinct in Edward Montford's body silently screamed at the screen. You can't throw out an allegation like that! It breaks every rule in the book. There is a way we go about things. But as soon as the thought entered his mind it was kicked in the teeth by blaring reality.

There was no normal. He had ordered an unprovoked attack on Scotland to balance the books. Normal had gone out of the window at Zulu plus one.

Christ.

Already he started to re-write his address to the nation which was scheduled for noon. Could he still cite the fire as a valid reason for launching Barn Owl? Maybe. He needed some space to get his thoughts in order.

The video ran its course and an almost embarrassed silence settled through the room. All eyes were on him. Was there judgment in all those staring faces? Were these men and women buying into what Angus Campbell was selling? He needed to say something. Anything. He needed to let them know who was in charge here.

“When was this posted?”

“Eight minutes ago.”

“Have we any idea where he was?”

“No, sir. First impressions? It looked like some sort of cafe area. Could be anywhere. Maybe there is enough to I.D. the location but by the time we do he will be long gone."

“Fine. A mere sideshow. I assume there is nothing here to affect the operation?”

“From a military point of view, no. Nothing whatsoever. Politically? Not my thing sir.”

Was there something in the man's eyes? Was he judging? The holier than thou piece of shit.

“Fine. I need to get onto this. I am returning to Downing St. Keep me posted.....”

A cleared throat. He hadn't even noticed Charles Lampitt.

“Not a good idea Prime Minister.”

“What do you mean, not a good idea?”

“I think you need to stay here for at least the next three or four hours.”

“I see. Please explain why.”

“Campbell's video is already going viral. In the next few hours, it will become one of the most watched posts in the history of YouTube. The Guardian also has the piece up. In less than half an hour just about every man, woman, and child in Edinburgh will be awake and watching. Then they will want to see if it is really true. Human beings are inquisitive. In an hour's time, there will be thousands on the streets and they will not be long in fanning each other's outrage. How many? Impossible to say. I would expect hundreds of thousands. For the next four hours, all we have on the ground in the city is a force of eight hundred. 3 Para are not due to land until six o'clock. The earliest we can expect them to start to reinforce the SAS teams is seven and that will be a hell of a stretch."

“What are you telling me, Charles?"

“I expect you are going to make a tough call sometime in the next ninety minutes. The only way the SAS will be able to hold back the crowds will be to open fire. They have no riot control equipment. No rubber bullets. No CS Gas. All they have is live ammunition. My view? I think you are going to have to make the call sooner rather than later. If the crowds become too empowered, there will be nothing else the soldiers on the ground will be able to do. They are only carrying a limited amount of ammunition.”

For a long minute, Montford was sure he was about to throw up. It took all his will power to force the rising bile back down from whence it came. He managed to hang on to his self-control.

“I understand. I will stay.”

Lampitt was proved right within minutes. The people of Scotland's capital filled up the streets in their thousands. Soon the SAS teams were facing down ranks of angry, swearing faces. The first stones and bottles flew at 5.25. The pressure of those at the back of the crowd straining for a view forced the front ranks ever closer to the ashen faced troopers.

By 5.45 am it was clear the lines couldn't possibly hold. By now YouTube was filling up with jumpy images of the growing chaos.

The General broke the silence in the room.

“Sir. I think it is time.”

Montford nodded. “Tell your men to take whatever action they deem to be required.”

“Sir.”

The first shots ripped through flesh at three minutes past six. Zulu plus 143. Absolute mayhem reigned for the next twenty minutes as troopers fired into seven separate crowds. Ninety three were killed by gunshot wounds. Seventy two were crushed in the ensuing stampede. Hundreds were injured. Over the next week, the death toll rose to over 200.

By the time a motorcade of vehicles carried the men of 3 Para into the centre of the city, the streets were all but deserted. Operation Barn Owl was supposed to have achieved its goals without a shot being fired in anger.

Things hadn't worked out that way.

The internet all but exploded with hundreds of home movies of the massacre. By mid-morning outrage was pouring down on London from all corners of the world.

Bernie successfully landed his helicopter at Fort George just as the crowds were starting to fill the streets. Jackson was waiting for them with folded arms and a face creased with concern.

“Welcome to Fort George sir.”

Hands were shaken, introductions made.

“I think you best come with me, sir. Things are not looking good in Edinburgh."

Wendel hung back with his pilot as the Colonel lead Sam and Angus away.

“So what's it to be mate? You have a once in a lifetime chance of being a country's one man air force. Fancy it?"

“Piss off. I've had enough batshit craziness for one morning thank you very much.”

“Where are you headed?”

“I've got enough fuel in the tank to get to Norway. I reckon I'll hang out there for a week or two.”

“Fair enough. Thanks, mate."

They embraced quickly. The New Zealander had a brief urge to be completely stupid and stay. Better sense soon prevailed.

“Best of luck Wendel.”

By the time Wendel joined the others in the operations room all eyes were glued to Twitter which was filled with images of angry crowds. The Colonel was on the phone with a Major from the Argyles who was reporting in from the streets around Redford Barracks.

Angus and Sam were clearly enthralled by the unfolding drama, but the soldiers in the room were gripped by a collective sense of dread. Just after six o'clock, all the colour drained from JJ Jackson's florid face.

“They've opened fire.”

For the next few minutes, nobody said a word as the extent of the carnage became apparent. Angus collapsed into a chair and seemed almost catatonic. Tears streamed down Sam's cheeks. Wendel felt like a part of him had died. He pictured the scene through the eyes of his comrades. The increasing panic as groups of four were confronted by crowds of thousands. Getting closer. And closer.

There could only be one outcome. And the Regiment, his Regiment, would be tarnished for ever. Edinburgh would take its place alongside a long list of places of infamy.

Peterloo, Amritsar, Sharpeville, My Lai, Bloody Sunday.

Trained armed men slaughtering unarmed civilians. The unthinkable. The unimaginable. The lower depths.

When it was clear the shooting had all but ended, he got himself back together. “Angus. We need a word.”

The First Minister was glazed over. Barely functional. Wendel knew he needed to be snapped out.

“Come on. On your feet. Can we use your office please, Colonel?”

“Of course. It's just down the corridor.”

“Thanks.”

He yanked Angus to his feet and more or less frog marched him out of the room. “Come on Sam. Move it.”

Once they had closed the door he spotted a bottle of Black Label. He poured out three generous measures. "Come on. Get it down."

The two civilians were still in a daze. The burning scotch started to bring them back.

Wendel stayed in control.

“OK. No time to mope about. You need to stay on the front foot Angus”

“The front foot! Are you trying to tell me what just happened is the front foot?”

“No. What just happened is called fucking war. And in war, bad shit happens. And bad shit will keep on happening. Get used to it. If you want to stop the bad shit, then get Montford on the phone and tell him you'll surrender. Is that what you want to do?"

This brought on a flare of anger, just like Wendel knew it would.

“No fucking way.”

“Good. You're going to have to feed the anger. Harness it. Let it be your best mate. Right now everything is down to you. You have no time for any self-doubt and agonising. You can do that later. Right now you need to lead.”

Angus drained the rest of his glass and squared up.

“OK. So what comes next?”

Wendel told him and he didn't like it.

"Look, Wendel, I appreciate all your help here, but this is not the way. I am the First Minister of Scotland not some bloody Ned from Easterhouse. You seem to want me to behave like some kind of yob."

Wendel chuckled. "That's better. Look, you're the expert on the politics shit. Fair enough. I'm just a grunt, but I can easily enough give you the military side of things. As of now you've got an army of 800 infantrymen. No planes. No helicopters. No tanks. No artillery. So if this thing plays out as a straight up and down fight, you're going to get your arse kicked. So the way I see it, there is only one show in town. You're going to have to find some friends to come and help you out. Allies, right?"

“OK. Go on.”

“Montford has just done you a huge favour. As of this morning, he is the most hated man in the world. Does that mean other countries will go further than issuing harsh words? No, it doesn't. Not yet. It takes a lot for any country to do anything which isn't pure self-interest. Is it in the national interest of any potential ally to actually put their people into harm's way for Scotland?"

“Not really.”

“So. Here is where you need to box clever. Because countries don't only go to war for the national interest do they? More often than not, politicians take their country to war out of pure self-interest. The Falklands? Did Britain really need to spend all that blood and treasure for a poxy sheep farm? Did we buggery. We sailed south because the Iron Lady was tanking in the polls. Why do you think Montford has just invaded you? Is he doing his patriotic duty or is he trying to avoid being locked up for the Holbrooke Securities thing? I know what I think."

“So what are you saying?”

“Politicians like to please the voting public. They want to make them feel good about themselves. Proud. In the mood to wave a flag. So we need to make people all over the world want to be on our side. Everyone loves the plucky underdog. They've all watched Braveheart and Outlander. They like the idea of the plucky Scots battling the odds in front of a postcard backdrop.”

“I think I'm getting there. We need to make it a vote winner for any leader who takes our side?”

“Give that boy a bloody merit badge. So you'll do it?”

“I'll do it.”

“Good. Let's get the show on the road. You all good Sam?”

“All good.”

It took Jackson just under an hour to get his men out onto the parade ground in properly good order. In all, he was able to muster just over 700. The remainder of the Regiment were arriving back at the base in dribs and drabs. Fort George looked a picture under a vivid blue sky. The sea was calm and the lightest of breezes just about managed to flutter the flags.

Once Sam was happy with her set up she gave the Colonel the thumbs up.

A ferocious looking Regimental Sergeant Major split the morning air with a screamed command and seven hundred boots slammed down onto the tarmac.

“This is Sam Keating reporting from Fort George. This morning I accompanied the First Minister as he managed to escape from Edinburgh and come here to Fort George, the home of the Black Watch. First Minister, you have a message I believe...."

Angus once again stepped into the frame. He had showered, shaved and fitted surprisingly well into a borrowed suit.

“Yes Sam, I certainly do. I have a message for Edward Montford. A very clear message. So how is London this morning? I wonder how it feels to be the most hated man on the planet? Not so good I bet? I think you must be feeling just a little twitchy. The charges just keep on stacking up, don't they Edward? All those death squads you sent into Hackney. Getting your Holbrooke Securities buddies to set your capital city on fire. And now this. This obscenity. This moment of absolute shame. How many do you think you have murdered this morning, Edward? Cut down. Slaughtered in cold blood. Men, women, and children. A hundred? Five hundred? A thousand? Do you actually care? It seems England has it's very own Milosevic? How does it feel to have ordered up your very own Srebrenica? Getting off on the power are you Edward? Well, enjoy it while it lasts, you scumbag, because there is a prison cell out there ready and waiting. Tick, tock Edward. Tick, tock.

'Anyway. Let me introduce you to these guys. These are the men of the Black Watch. And this is their home. Fort George. Have you ever visited, Edward? It really is rather impressive. In fact, some historians consider it to be the finest artillery fort in the whole of Europe. And you know what is really ironic? You lot built it! You built it to send the likes of me a clear message. You wanted to constantly remind the Scots who was in charge. And so here we are again. Just like old times, isn't it Edward? The English invade Scotland and within hours you are up to your armpits in innocent blood.

'Let me get back to these guys. Let me tell you a thing or two about these guys Edward. They are brave. They don't go sneaking about in the night. They don't gun down innocent women and children. They are better than that. Better than you. And they are waiting. We all are. We're right here Edward and we don't plan on leaving. Let me tell you something Edward. Let me give you a quick geography lesson. A few miles away there's a place you might just have heard of. It's called Culloden Moor, Edward. Yeah? Know the place do you? Maybe been there as a kid to see where all those jumped up Jocks got taught a lesson? Well, let me tell you something. If you have the guts for a re-match, you'll find us easily enough. You just drive up the A9 and follow the signs when you get to Inverness. We'll be waiting.

'I think you best get a move on though, Edward. The vultures are gathering. Things don't end well for men like you. Maybe you'll get lucky and spend the rest of your life in a cell in The Hague. Or maybe your demise will be rather more dramatic. Like Saddam Hussein. Or Gaddafi. Of Mussolini. Whatever. I for one won't be about to shed a tear. As far as I am concerned, you deserve everything that is coming to you. You will never, ever be forgiven for what you have done in Edinburgh this morning. Never. We Scots have very long memories. So goodbye Edward. I hope you rot in hell."

The whole thing had been played live and loud to the assembled ranks of soldiers who roared out their approval. Fair enough they were only seven hundred. But at that moment, they looked like a whole lot more than that. 

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'THE LAST COLONIAL WAR' - CHAPTERS TWENTY SEVEN AND TWENTY EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

NO PLAN SURVIVES THE FIRST CONTACT WITH THE ENEMY

Three hundred miles to the south, Edward Montford was in the command centre in Northwood Military HQ. The room was mainly filled with senior officers. He was with the Home Secretary and the Defence Secretary.

Six Oxys had taken his heart rate down to the kind of numbers usually reserved for an Olympic marathon runner. All around him bodies moved with tense efficiency. Everyone was speaking in hushed tones for no particular reason. It wasn't like anyone was listening. The calm had been disturbed by the strange report from Charlotte Square. Something had certainly happened. Two policemen were laid out of the ground and the front door was wide open. 

 

After a brief conversation, the officers in command had decided they had no other option than to continue as planned. Edward tried to make any kind of sense of the news, but drew nothing but blanks. Had it been some sort of kidnap? A coincidence to end all coincidences? No way. Not in a million years.

Was there any point in agonising about it? None whatsoever. The opiates gave him the clarity he needed. There were only two options on the table. He could either call the whole thing off or he could keep silent. Black and white. No grey area.

No way was he calling anything off. He sat quiet and kept his thoughts to himself.

When the much anticipated Zulu finally arrived, it proved to be something of a damp squib. At Zulu plus two the first report came in. A secured road junction. By the time Zulu plus five arrived the reports were coming in thick and fast. The last of the three barracks was secured at Zulu plus twenty one. The airport came in at Zulu plus twenty five. The Leuchars air base was the last target to be secured at Zulu plus thirty.

By this time Edward Montford was barely paying attention anymore. All the pleasure he had looked forward to feeling as a clockwork operation played out in front of him had started to evaporate at Zulu plus four when Team 7 checked in.

“Team 7 target secure. Repeat, target secure. Tango One unavailable. Repeat, Tango One unavailable.”

“Roger that Team 7. Maintain target security and wait out.”

Fuck.

It had been him. What in the name of fucking Christ was going on....

Montford had always prided himself on his instincts and right now they were setting off klaxons in his brain. Something was off. Badly off, But he couldn't begin to work out what it was.

He found out at Zulu plus 27.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

ON THE RUN

As soon as they cleared the last of the city, Alf floored the accelerator and only dipped below eighty for the sharper corners. As the moonlit world hurtled by, Sam brought Scotland's First Minister up to speed with what was happening to his country.

At first, Angus refused to believe a word of it. Sam had expected nothing less.

“Come on Angus. Think about it. Think about what happened at midnight on Monday. The biggest fire London has seen in nearly 400 years. Now have a think about what Montford had to say the next day. Who did he have fitted up to play the part of the big, bad bogeyman? Come on Angus, get with the programme. The fire was the set up. No doubt he paid Holbrooke Securites to make it happen. Tomorrow morning the smug bastard will be telling the world all about how he had no choice.”

“But he can't just invade. This is 2030 for Christ's sake. You don't just go and take a bloody country.....”

He never came close to finishing the sentence. How could he? Because speaking half the sentence was more than enough for him to see how completely wrong it was. This could happen precisely because it was 2030. Five years of heat and drought had changed everything. Montford was empowered by Turkey and Israel and China. So, of course he could invade Scotland.

“Christ. I know. But still. I mean this is just crazy. We've just driven all the way out of the city and we've not seen a bloody soul. How can you tell me the English Army is right now taking control of our capital.”

Wendel tuned out of listening to the chatter and chipped in.

“It's not old school. This isn't Hitler marching the Sixth Army into Paris. It's twelve hundred guys taking hold of all the key targets.”

He gave Angus a five minute version of Barn Owl.

“But there will have to be more than twelve hundred?”

“There will be. Already in the air. In the next couple of hours, there will be plane after plane landing at the airport. By nine o'clock the Paras will be heading into town to take over from the special forces. By noon the city will be locked down by a force of three thousand. They think it will be a done deal."

“But you don't.”

“Too fucking right I don't. OK. We're almost at Balerno. Do you believe us yet?"

“Not really.”

“Fair enough. Sam, get the radio on.”

Sam already had the SBC's favourite through the night programme tuned in. She switched on. Nothing. Silence. Dead air. She tried four more stations only to find the same ominous void. She tuned into BBC Radio Two to demonstrate the radio was working south of the border. It was. An old late night Sinatra song briefly filled the car before she snapped the radio off.

“By now all the main TV and radio stations will be locked down. From here on in Montford intends to have total control of all mainstream information.”

“It's like a bloody Coup.”

“Precisely. Army Command has pulled Barn Owl straight out of a CIA playbook from the 70's.”

Alf pulled up in front of a small cafe which was very much closed for the night. There wasn't much call for 24 hour coffee on the A70 between Edinburgh and Balerno.

“Come on sir. Let's be having you. Are we past the gun thing?”

“Yes, of course. Why are we stopping here?”

“Good WiFi.”

Alf dealt with the front door lock in less than twenty seconds. The cafe area was done out farmhouse kitchen style. Wendel and Alf took up a watching brief by the front door whilst Sam set up a video camera on a tripod. Once she was happy with it she positioned a lighting unit.

She clicked the record button and hurried to her mark.

“This is Sam Keating reporting from the South of Scotland. Twenty two minutes ago the Westminster Government launched what they are calling Operation Barn Owl. Barn Owl is basically an invasion of Scotland. 1200 men from the SAS and SBS have taken over all key installations in Edinburgh. Army barracks, TV and Radio stations. Police stations. The Scottish Parliament. As I speak it is fair to assume every target is now under the control of the English Army. Edinburgh International Airport and the Leuchars Air Base will also have been secured. The most important goal of Operation Barn Owl was to kidnap Scotland's First Minister and to take him into custody. Well, Barn Owl has failed. First Minister Angus Campbell is here with me right now. First Minister, do you have a message for the people of Scotland?"

Angus stepped into the light with a furious expression. "Yes Sam, I certainly do. I am still getting up to speed with the objectives of this so called Operation Barn Owl. It seems to me Edward Montford is somewhat deluded. He seems to think control of our capital and our military installations is enough for him to seriously believe he can rule us. Well, I suggest he takes a moment 'tae think again', to coin a phrase. Scotland is a mighty big country and we Scots don't take well to being invaded. So if you think it's all over Mr Montford, well, best of luck with that one.

'My message to the Scottish people? That is simple enough. Over the course of the next few days, you are going hear a whole lot of English shite coming out of the TV and the radio. That's ALL it will be. Pure shite. I expect we're all about to be treated to some fairy tale about it being our fault he didn't have enough water to put his fire out. No doubt we will say he had no choice but to invade us because he couldn't stand by and see his people go thirsty. I suggest his convenient fire might warrant a closer look. I wonder if his best pals from Holbrooke Securities might have had something to do with it? We'll see. I wouldn't put anything past the Right Honourable Edward Montford.

'Well. I am still your First Minister and as far as I'm concerned this war will only be over when I say it's over, not when that public school prick from London says it's over. I apologise for the intemperate language, but you will probably gather I am seriously pissed off. I have no doubt you will all feel exactly the same. That will have to do for now. We need to move. Watch this space.”

Sam nodded. Wendel gave a one man round of applause. “Bloody hell sir. I well liked the bit about 'English shite'. You'll do for me.”

Sam concentrated furiously as she hooked the camera to her laptop and transferred the footage. She checked the quality and nodded quiet approval. Next, she connected to the internet and uploaded to YouTube. She had already fully prepared a page to have everything ready for the film. Once it was transferred, she checked it was working and gave herself another nod. One final task. She had her editor's personal mobile all ready to roll. A groggy voice picked up on the fifth ring.

“Bloody hell Sam, what the......”

“No time Bill. Just listen OK. I've e-mailed you a YouTube link. Basically, it is the biggest story on planet earth and the Guardian is going to be in front of it. I have also e-mailed you the raw footage for the website. The film explains everything. You won't be wanting to go back to sleep anytime soon. Bye for now."

She killed the call and a minute later they were on the road again. Wendel made a call.

“LZ in five. You good?.... Roger that.”

“We're all good?” Asked Alf.

“Yeah. Good as gold.”

Three miles later they pulled into the car park of a small rugby club. Angus was about to ask what on earth they could possibly do in a rugby club at four o'clock in the morning. He didn't bother. The growing sound of an approaching helicopter told him all he needed to know. He had to admit it, this was a hell of a slick abduction.

The helicopter dropped down more or less right on the centre line of the pitch. The pilot was Bennie Gilmour, a Kiwi chancer who had lifted Wendel in and out of a number of tight corners over the years. Civvy Street meant a one man band which went under the name of 'Fly with Bennie'. Business hadn't exactly boomed and he was more than happy to agree to accept the whole of Sam and Wendel's savings as a fee for his night's work.

His passengers drove the car into the middle of the field and climbed aboard.

The pilot greeted them with a gap tooth grin. "Morning all. Welcome on board. We hope you'll enjoy your experience with 'Fly with Bennie..."

“Fuck off Bennie and get this crate airborne will you?”

“No worries mate.”

They strapped themselves in as the helicopter lurched up into the slowly lightening sky. Wendel helped Angus to get his helmet working and then spoke through the radio.

“Where are we going?”

“North. Fort George. The Black Watch. The brainboxes who planned Barn Owl didn't think there was a need to take Fort George. They assume once they have a complete hold of the rest of the Scottish Army and Airforce, the Black Watch will have no choice but to surrender. I expect they would have wanted you to make the call."

“Bastards.”

“Indeed. So here's what I need you to do. I'm going to get you through to the night officer and you're going to have to convince him to wake up Colonel Jackson. Do you know him?"

“Not particularly well. We've talked a few times.”

“Good enough. Tell Jackson what has gone down and make sure he goes onto full alert. Make sure he's ready for us to land …. how long do you reckon Bennie?”

“Nice night. No weather. Say 50 minutes mate.”

“Fifty minutes. You ready?”

“Go for it.”

At first, the squaddie on the desk wasn't having any of it. Angus had to adopt as fierce a tone as he could muster.

“Look sunshine, if you listen hard enough I'm sure you'll recognise my voice. And I'm sure you can hear the sound of the helicopter I am in. How many nutters make hoax calls at four o clock in the morning from a bloody helicopter? Not many, right? So stop buggering about and get Colonel Jackson on the line. Tell him this. When we sat next to each other at a dinner last November he told me some stupid joke about a frog and a rabbit. OK?"

The joke about the frog and the rabbit sealed the deal. A minute later the gruff tones of Colonel James Jackson AKA 'JJ' were in the headphones.

“First Minister?”

“Yes. Is the frog and the rabbit joke proof enough for you?”

“Yes, sir. More than enough. How can I help?"

“It might be a good idea to sit down. Bullet points, OK?”

“Fine.”

“Less than an hour ago the English Army invaded Scotland. Special Forces have taken control of all key installations. They also have the media and the Parliament. They were supposed to have me but as you can hear I got away. They assumed once they had me and the rest of the Cabinet locked down, they could easily enough force me to order the Black Watch to stand down. Well if you'll pardon my French, fuck that. Ten minutes ago I posted a message to the people of Scotland on YouTube. In a nutshell, my message was 'No Surrender'. We have to assume they might guess where I am headed, though I very much doubt they will expect me to have a helicopter. They might well change their plans. You need to prepare for a possible air strike. OK. I think that's enough. We will be with you in about 45 minutes. Please be ready for us. Check out YouTube. Try to make contact with any of our bases in Edinburgh. It won't take you so very long to realise I've not gone round the bend. All clear JJ?"

“Yes. All clear. Good work sir.”

“Thanks, JJ. See you soon."

By now the sky was a starting to glow red. Ahead of them the mountains of the north were majestic in the light of the dawn. Angus drank in the view. It was genuinely awe inspiring. So Edward Montford thought he could take Scotland in a few hours did he?

Aye right.

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I HAVE WRITTEN THIS STORY TO RAISE FUNDS FOR THE FOODBANK I MANAGE IN DUMFRIES, SOUTH WEST SCOTLAND. OVER THE COMING WINTER OVER 3000 PEOPLE WILL COME THROUGH OUR DOORS AND RIGHT NOW WE DO NOT HAVE ENOUGH CASH TO HELP THEM ALL OUT. MAYBE YOU MIGHT BE WILLING TO HELP US OUT BY BUNGING A COUPLE OF QUID ONTO OUR JUSTGIVING PAGE? I HOPE SO. JUST FOLLOW THE LINK BELOW. I HOPE YOU ENJOY THE REST OF THE BOOK AND IF DO, PLEASE SHARE IT. MARK.

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