'THE LAST COLONIAL WAR' - CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

FEEDING THE BASE

Edward Montford felt a mixture of emotions as he watched the impact of his air strike unfold on the big screen on the Northwood Situation Room. There was plenty of exhilaration. There was also an undeniable pleasure in conjuring up a mental picture of a cowering Angus Campbell. However, he couldn't help but feel intensely annoyed by the fact he was watching exactly the same pictures as the rest of the world. Yet again Samantha bloody Keating had found a way to dominate the message.

Montford was a long in the tooth politician. He knew the images would hardly endear England to the rest of the world. Not that he was expecting to win any popularity contests. The rest of the world could collectively go screw themselves. The only people who mattered were the people of England. Which meant the only viable option on this table was to get them onside and keep them onside.

General Moore had made it perfectly clear their chances of actually killing the Scottish First Minister were vanishingly small. Fort George might have been built hundreds of years earlier, but its thick walls were still capable of withstanding any amount of missiles. Even so, a small part of Edward's mind had secretly hoped for a piece of good luck. Maybe a stray piece of falling masonry might just happen to smash Angus Campbell's skull in. Stranger things had happened.

But not today. Once the dust started to settle, the camera zoomed in on a rather dusty looking First Minister brushing away at his jacket.

Well, so be it.

These were no more than warning shots. The next day would see the real action. Moore had promised a minimum of fifteen strikes. Nearly 600 missiles. That would knock the smile off the smug bastard's face. And then all Angus Campbell would have to look forward to was the same again and again and again until he saw sense and threw in the towel.

Bastard.

“I need to get back to Downing St. Keep me posted if there is anything I need to know. I will be back in the morning.”

It was a blessed relief to get away from the dark room and all those judging eyes. Screw the lot of them. Outside the afternoon was still and baking hot. His motorcade glided through quiet streets. There was a small demonstration at the gates to Downing St. All the usual suspects. The peace and love brigade half-heartedly running through their well-worn play list of chants.

Pricks.

He gave the gathered photographers a cursory wave and tuned out of the usual ridiculous shouted questions. Once he was in his office he summoned his Chief Whip.

“Sit down Jerry. Help yourself to a coffee if you want.”

“Thanks, Prime Minister."

“How are the troops?”

“A bit jumpy. Nothing we can't handle. Most of them are shit scared.”

“Anyone looking to make a nuisance of themselves?"

“Nobody yet. Soundings from the country look pretty solid. Our supporters seem pretty well signed up to the whole idea. The killings haven't gone down so well. We're spinning out the line that the SAS had no choice. Impossible situation and all that. We've leaked reports of shots being fired from the crowd by Scottish soldiers in civilian clothes.”

“Will the media run with it?”

“Our lot will. They haven't much choice. They've been spouting off about the Scottish for months. They can hardly change their tune now.”

“Stepped so far.”

“Sorry?”

“Nothing. I'm going to address the nation tonight. Eight o'clock. Spread the word. Make sure you have plenty of reliable types waiting to give the right kind of comment.”

“No problem. I'll also make it known anyone who breaks ranks will be castrated with a blunt knife.”

“Yes. You do that. You need to keep the fuckers in line for the next four days. Maybe a week. Then the whole thing will be a done deal.”

“Leave it with me.”

The PM told his secretary “no calls under any circumstances” and loaded up with a handful of Oxys. Should he call in some help to help with his address to the people? No. Too many cooks. This would be all his own work. The time for sticking to political niceties was long past. From here on in they would all have to get used to unchartered territory.

After an hour he twitched with annoyance as the sheepish face of his secretary appeared at the door.

“I am so very sorry sir, but it is Sir Charles Lampitt. He says it's...."

“Just send him in.”

Lampitt slithered through the door and did the usual thing with his creases and cuffs once he sat down.

Montford wasn't in the mood.

“So?”

“Bad news I'm afraid.”

“Why am I not surprised? Go on.”

“We've picked up whispers. Washington. New Dehli. Mainly Paris. It appears France has called an emergency meeting of the UN Permanent Security Council at nine tomorrow morning."

“To what end?”

“To call for the immediate imposition of a 'no fly' zone over all Scottish air space."

Edward Montford's face had no trace of colour to drain. But if there had been any colour, then it would most certainly have drained away.”

“Jesus. Will they get it through?”

“It rather looks as if they will. We have satellite photos showing the USS Nimitz leaving Norfolk an hour ago. It was supposed to be scheduled for a two month refit. The Charles De Gaulle changed course three hours ago and is now heading north through the Bay of Biscay. I think we are looking at a done deal."

“The fucking bastards. Oh, it's all fine and fucking dandy for Turkey and Israel and China to do as they please. I don't remember that jumped up French bitch getting all uppity about it. But when we take steps to re-establish our Union she has the fucking front to call for a 'no fly' zone. Why the hell are the others going along with it?"

“I think you know the answer to that as well as I do Prime Minister. They are doing it because it will make them popular. It will win them a few votes. Right now the whole of the world is queuing up to support the plucky Scots. We're the bad guys in this movie. We might as well get used to it.”

Montford slumped back into his chair. So much for his days of rolling air strikes. They were back to square one.

“OK. Fine. You know I'm speaking to the nation in an hour?”

“I do. I wish you all the best with it.”

“How very gracious of you Charles.”

He made a few changes and then decided it was time to stop agonising over every word. The speech would have to do. A nervous assistant said he really needed to get his make up on. He told her to fuck off. He told her fuck the makeup. The country could see him looking like shit.

Lights, camera, action.

Endless millions of people gasped at the near skeletal face on their screens. But Edward Montford still spoke with the accustomed authority of a feared Headmaster.

“Good evening. Politicians get plenty of criticism for never telling it straight. Is this fair? Probably. Tonight there is no other choice. I am going to tell it straight. There will be no pulled punches. You might well not like what I have to tell you. So be it. My fellow English men and women, tonight our country is as isolated as we were in the terrible summer of 1940. We are quite alone. Tomorrow morning the French Government will ask the other four permanent members of the UN Security Council to impose a 'no fly' zone over all Scottish air space. Our sources suggest the proposal will be accepted. Right now the USS Nimitz is heading for Scottish waters. Why, you might ask, was no such action taken against Israel, Turkey, and China when they took steps to look after their people? I am afraid I cannot give you an answer to your question. It seems like the French President has decided to apply a different set of rules to our country. The French President seems to have forgotten who liberated her country from the rule of the Nazis. Should we be so very surprised at this? I think not.

'I promised to give it to you straight, so here it is. For the last thirty years, we have been living on borrowed money. We have found ways to convince other countries to lend us what we need to run our hospitals and tarmac our roads and keep policemen patrolling our streets. Politicians like me don't like to call this particular spade a spade. We prefer to hide behind bland terms like 'budget deficit'. Well, I am sorry to have to inform you, the gravy train has left the station.

Take a pause. Sip some water. Fix eyes on the camera.

“Two weeks ago I had a rather uncomfortable meeting with the Chancellor of the Exchequer. He had spent weeks trying to find anyone willing to buy our Government bonds and he came up with a big fat zero. Nobody was willing to touch us. The world's money markets have decided England is a busted flush. I have asked the Chancellor to run me through the cuts we will need to make in order to avoid completely running out of cash. Here are some of the highlights. State pension – a 30% cut. All public sector pensions – a 30% cut. A visit to the GP - £50. A trip in an ambulance - £200. An operation in hospital – you pay the first £500. I could go on for much longer, but I am not going to. You get the picture. It would mean the end of England as we all know it.”

Pause. Sip.

“Well, I wasn't willing to order the end of England as we know it. So I called an emergency Cabinet meeting and put an alternative proposal on the table. I proposed the re-establishment of the Union of England, Wales, and Scotland. The new Union would have more than enough cash reserves to soothe the concerns of the bond markets. The new Union would easily be able to afford for every citizen to continue to see their GP without having to pay £50. The new Union would be able to continue to pay every pensioner on these islands enough to live on. The new Union would be fully self-sufficient in both electricity and water. I told the Cabinet the way we planned to re-establish the Union would be to launch a quick and surgical military operation: Operation Barn Owl. I asked for a vote and I received unanimous support. I will repeat this point. Unanimous support.

'As you now know, Operation Barn Owl was 99% successful. Unfortunately, it seems we had a traitor in our midst who successfully helped the Scottish First Minister to flee. Had this not happened, there would have been no YouTube broadcast and no street rioting. There would have been no need for the magnificent soldiers of the SAS to defend themselves. We regret what happened. Of course we do. But I will simply say this. You can't make an omelette without breaking eggs. And just because we regret the unfortunate casualties does not mean we are about to alter the course we have set. Operation Barn Owl will continue. Right now, Angus Campbell is making ridiculous claims about how he will govern Scotland from Fort George. Quite frankly, these claims are laughable. Tonight I am sending a very clear message to the Scottish First Minister on behalf of the people of England. Don't be a fool. Don't let your jumped up vanity be the cause of many of your people dying. The 'no fly' zone is an irrelevance. If the English Army has to drive up to Fort George to close you down, then that is exactly what we will do. You should know there is no dent in our resolve. You can either see sense, surrender and spare bloodshed or we will have to do this the hard way. Be in no doubt, there will only be one winner in this war, and the winner will not be Scotland.

'So. My fellow English men and women. That is how it sounds when a politician gives it to you straight. The coming weeks will not be easy. At times we will feel very much alone. But we have been here before. And we have prevailed before. In a year's time, the finances of our newly re-established Union will be back on a firm footing and all of this will be long forgotten. It is my intention to do the right thing for my people. It is why I was elected as your Prime Minister. If my party does not like the course of action the Cabinet has unanimously voted to follow, then the party can remove us. And if you the people do not like what your Government has done for you, then, of course, you can vote us out of office at the next election. What is about to happen will not be pretty and I regret it. Angus Campbell can end the ugliness right now. The ball is in his court. But whether he sees sense or not will make no difference in the end. Our Union will be re-established no matter what.

'Thank you and good evening.”

I watched the broadcast in Fort George's main dining room. I guess there must have been about a hundred or so of us. I had often found it hard to get my head around Wendel's warped sense of humour. Now it was becoming clear. One of the Black Watch lieutenants had driven all the way to Inverness and back to clear one of the supermarkets out of popcorn. If Edward Montford had intended to make the men of the Black Watch cower in terror, he failed completely. Most of what he had to say was met with mocking laughter. Once he was finished someone at the back started up with what I later found out to be a football terrace favourite from the 1980's.

“Come and have a go if you think you're hard enough...."

It took about ten seconds for the whole room to pick up the thread and sing along. And yes, I sang along with the best of them. It was distinctly unladylike behaviour for a nice middle class girl from Morningside.

I interrupted a singing First Minister with a tap on the shoulder.

“Are you going to respond?”

“I suppose I better had. Jesus Sam, this guy is a bigger prick than I took him for. Can't make an omelette without breaking eggs? I mean, honestly.”

I was already set up. Time for less of the football hooligan Sam and more of the smooth TV anchor Sam.

“This is Samantha Keating of the Guardian. I am here at Fort George where we have all been watching Edward Mont........”

My words were drowned by a loud and varied selection of derisive noises which slowly morphed into another variation of a terrace favourite.

“.... Montford is a wanker, Montford is a wanker, Na na na na...Na na na na....”

It took about ten seconds for Angus's calm down gestures to bear fruit.

“First Minister, would you like to comment on what you have just watched?”

“Yes, Sam. I think I better. Wow! Where to start. Edward! What on earth have you been taking? I guess this was your version of telling us there will be no more Mr Nice Guy. Which of course begs a pretty major question. Have you at any point in your over privileged life ever been a nice guy, Edward? I'm sorry, but I just can't see it myself. Anyway, I'm not going to go on and on. I will give your tough talk some thought, Edward. And tomorrow morning at ten o'clock you'll hear from me. Oh, and by the way.... shame about the 'no fly' zone wasn't it, Eddie? Life can be such a bitch at times...."

And yes, of course, what happened next was living up to a stereotype as the whole room spontaneously burst into 'Flower of Scotland.' Of course it was. But it still brought a tear to my eye. And yes, I sang along.

Five hours later the chief navigation officer of the Charles De Gaulle reported to his captain. They had entered Scottish territorial waters. The captain thanked him for the information and ordered two of his fighter planes into the air. They flew a long circle for half an hour, just long enough to ensure they were seen by the English radar stations.

In effect, Valerie Latour's 'no fly' zone was up and running many hours before it was actually voted on.

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'THE LAST COLONIAL WAR' - CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

FRIENDS IN NEED

FORT GEORGE

Eleven o'clock in the morning in Fort George. Angus stood at the window and watched the activity outside which mainly seemed to involve heavily sweating soldiers and sand bags.

“Excuse me sir, you have a call.”

“Oh. Thanks. Who is it?”

“The President of France, sir.”

Well, well....

“Valerie. Bonjour. What a pleasant surprise.”

A forty a day chuckle. “You sound very upbeat for a man whose country has just been invaded.”

“Well, you know. Always best to stay on the bright side.”

“I have been watching your speeches, Angus. In fact, I am a little jealous. I didn't know you had it in you to be this kind of William Wallace. Not bad for a solar panel salesman."

“Nice of you to say so, Valerie. Anyway. Tell me about the view from Paris. I presume you have a few thoughts?"

He heard the sound of a clicking lighter. “Of course I have. I think the people of France have been rather inspired by your fine words. We always love it when anyone looks London straight in the eye and tells them to fuck off. My experts think this new version of Angus Campbell is quite deliberate. Are they right?”

“Maybe.”

“They think you are being deliberately provocative to win the hearts and minds of the people of the world.”

“Something like that.”

Another chuckle. "Well Angus here's the good news. Your Braveheart act has won over your friends in France. We have made our minds up to be on your side. We have decided to stand up and be counted. We are going to put on our white hat and do the right thing."

The First Minister of Scotland punched the air. "And of course all those tankers of water to Marseilles and Nice would have nothing to do with your much appreciated support."

“Good Lord, no. When does France ever act out of pure national interest? What a terrible thought, Angus. You disappoint me."

“I apologise for my unforgivable cynicism. What kind of help do you have in mind?"

“Well, I don't think it would be a good idea for France to start a full shooting war with England. We need to be more subtle. Tomorrow morning France is calling an emergency meeting of the permanent members of the United Nations Security Council. We will propose the whole of Scotland should be deemed a ‘no fly zone’."

“Why would anyone support it? There has been no English air activity at all.”

“Not yet. My people think they will attack you today.”

Angus grimaced. "My people think the same. Every man and his dog here are busy filling sand bags."

“Very good. And you must keep your head down. I would hate for anything to happen to my favourite world leader. I hate to tell you this, but you are the key to everything."

It was Angus's turn for a chuckle. "My, my. I'm flattered. Don't worry. When our English friends built this place they weren't messing about. The walls are about half a mile thick. What are the chances of your proposal going through?"

“It is all arranged. I have made the calls. The USA, Russia, and India will all vote to support the motion. China will abstain. Our aircraft carrier 'Charles De Gaulle' is already headed for Scottish waters. President Buchanan has ordered the 'Nimitz' out of Norfolk. The Russians are confident the 'Kuznetzov' will join us by the end of the week. Believe me, Angus, after today you will not have to worry about any more English planes."

“Valerie. I'm lost for words. Thank you.”

“No need. What is it you say? A friend in need is a friend indeed?”

“It is.”

“Next. By the early afternoon, we will have one of our AWACS planes close to you in Norwegian air space. We will be able to see the English planes as soon as they are within 300 kilometers of Fort George. We will warn you."

“Perfect.”

“One more thing. General Marc Romaine is on his way to you. He will be leaving Norway in a helicopter at about three o'clock. Please don't shoot him down. He is my very favourite general. And don't let him frighten you. I could say his bark is worse than his bite, but that would be a lie.”

“What will he need?”

“Just share ideas with him. Like I said, France is not about to declare war with England. But we are willing to help so long as our role can be..... discreet. Yes. Discreet.”

“We'll be waiting for him.”

“So, I think that is all for now. We will stay in touch. I have only one condition.”

“Ah. The catch.”

“No. I don't think so. When you re-enter the Parliament in Edinburgh once the English have been driven out, I would like to be by your side. I think it will look very nice for the cameras, don't you?”

“Maybe even a vote winner?”

“Oh what a wicked thought, Angus.”

EDINBURGH

The great exodus from Scotland's capital started in earnest two hours after the SAS opened fire. By noon every road heading west and out of the city was close to gridlock. The English paratroopers could do nothing other than stand and watch as a vast snail's pace traffic jam started to empty out Edinburgh. The social media was awash with offers from the people of Glasgow. And Paisley and Greenock and Dumbarton. Hundreds of thousands of spare rooms were made available to those fleeing the capital. Reception centres were set up in sports halls. Volunteers flocked to help out in open air kitchens.

By the middle of the afternoon, the centres of every town and city in Scotland were filled with flag waving crowds.

By the early evening, Edinburgh was close to being a ghost town. The English general in charge of the city ordered a curfew and by midnight the streets were empty of all life.

When the mass flight had started, Edward Montford had demanded it should be stopped in its tracks. His Generals had asked him just how they were expected to achieve such a thing? They had a force of less than 4000 on the ground. An estimated 400,000 people were on the move. Did the Prime Minister expect the Paras to start shooting them?

Montford backed down.

OXFORDSHIRE

When Roland Dixon became the new editor of the Guardian in October 2028, he had received a substantial pay rise. His wife Elaine had insisted their improved family circumstances should be put to good use. It was time to move out of London. It was time to take their nine year old son to a better place to grow up. A safer place. A place where there were dairy cows and the sound of cooing pigeons. A place far away from crime wave sweeping through London.

The new mortgage more or less killed them, but it was worth it. What was the price of safety after all?

Their new home was a small cottage which lived at the end of a short track. It had a quarter of an acre of land and a copse of trees. It was well hidden from an outside world which was slowly getting darker by the day.

It was a sanctuary.

Or so they thought. Rural isolation proved to be no kind of protection from the Holbrooke Securities men who arrived in the heat of a baking hot afternoon. Before either of them really knew what was happening, Elaine and Thomas Dixon found themselves tied and gagged on the floor of a van.

An hour and a half later they were filmed cowering in a basement and the film was sent to the mobile phone of Roland Dixon, the editor of the Guardian.

The phone rang as he was trying to take in what his eyes were telling him. An electronically mangled voice in his ear.

“We have your wife and child Mr Dixon. If you go to press with the Holbrooke Securities story, they will both die. They will not die well.”

Dixon played the horrifying 32 second video six times. Then he forced himself to calm down.

Then he started working out how he was going to use the invasion of Scotland as a valid reason for putting the death squad story into cold storage.

And Edward Montford's most pressing nightmare was duly kicked into the long grass.

NORTHWOOD

“The planes have taken off, Prime Minister.”

“How long?”

General Moore checked his simple steel watch. “Just under an hour.”

“How many?”

“Six in the first wave. Ten in the second wave which will take off in ten minutes. Like I said. It will be tomorrow before we can launch a more meaningful attack.”

“Fine. Keep me posted.”

FORT GEORGE

Jackson put the phone down.

“They're on their way. The French reckon forty five minutes. We best get into the shelter.”

“Fine. You all set, Sam?”

“I hope so. We'll find out soon enough.”

For the last hour, Wendel and I had been wiring up three webcams which we hoped would provide dramatic footage of the now imminent air strike.

The shelter was the main armoury which was encased by ten foot thick walls. Jackson was adamant the defenses were strong enough to withstand anything short of a nuclear strike. Thankfully the Trident missile programme had been wound up when the newly independent Scotland served an eviction notice on Faslane.

To be honest, I was pretty much a quivering bag of nerves. The main reason for this was the blindingly obvious reason. I was basically a nice middle class girl from Morningside who had experienced one or two scary moments in my life.

I most certainly hadn't been at the sharp end of an air strike complete with very loud noise and lots of high explosives. It didn't matter how many times the grown-ups in the room assured me the walls were more than thick enough to withstand anything Edward Montford could throw at us. I was scared stiff.

Getting everything in order for my first live online broadcast was something of a welcome distraction. I am OK at social media, but I couldn't have managed to get things set up and ready without the help of one of the Black Watch communications guys who proved himself to be a dab hand.

When the French AWACS told us the strike was three minutes out, I went live. By now my number of Twitter followers had grown to over a million as rubber-neckers from all four corners of the world looked to me for the next instalment of the unfolding drama. My Twitter page guided visitors to my Facebook page where I broadcasted live to the watching world

“This is Sam Keating of the Guardian. I am speaking from one of the shelters at Fort George. We are expecting an air strike any minute now. The mini-screens will show footage of the attack from three webcams we have set up. Everyone here is hoping the ancient walls of the Fort will be thick enough to keep us safe. I guess we will find out over the next few minutes....."

Two of the cameras went dark care of the first missiles. The third survived and beamed out pictures of the havoc wreaked by twenty four incoming missiles. Inside the armoury the noise was appalling and clouds of dust were shaken loose from the ceiling. We were all coated in grey and reduced to racking bouts of coughing.

But we lived.

The second strike did for my third camera. This time there was barely any dust left to fall on us. The sound of forty more missiles assaulted our senses and then the vast noise died away.

Our French eyes informed us there were no more approaching planes and we emerged from the shelter blinking and smeared with dust. Falling masonry had caused three broken bones and one soldier lost the sight in one eye care of a sliver of flying stone.

Ten more men of the Black Watch suffered cuts and bruises.

Three of the outer walls were breached.

But nobody died. We had ridden out the storm.

It was the only air action of Edward Montford's war.

From here on in it would be won and lost on the ground.

FORT GEORGE

Davie Fisher drew his people carrier to a halt thirty yards short of the main gate as the last light of the day was thickening into night. Ahead of him, six sets of eyes and six aimed guns had him lined up.

“Best if you lads stay put.”

He stepped out with his hands well clear of his body.

“OK if I approach?”

“Make it slow. Hands high.”

He made it slow. When he was five yards from their nest of sandbags they told him to stop.

“Do me a favour lads and get me JJ on the blower.”

“Aye right. In your fucking dreams pal.”

Davie grinned. “Come on guys. I'm not the English army and let's face it, there's not exactly a lot happening. He'll be well pissed off if he hears you've fucked me off. Just tell him it's Davie Fisher from Basra.”

“Wait out.”

He stood and sweated for five minutes until the wooden gates swung open.

“Go straight ahead. He'll be waiting.”

Colonel Jackson was indeed waiting with his arms crossed and a wry smile.

“Well bugger me. This is a blast from the past. You here as a journo, Davie?”

“Nah. I'm done with all that. Let me introduce you to some pals of mine.” He waved the passengers from the people carrier. A rather bemused looking JJ Jackson shook hands with them one by one, duly noting their firm grip and callouses.

“OK, JJ. You're a busy lad, so I'll be brief. By my reckoning, Edward Montford is going to be driving his army all the way up here to kick your arse. It is going to make sense to give the bastard a bloody nose. Slow him down a bit. Fuck up his supply lines. I'm talking real old school here. You know. David Stirling, Land Rovers, biting the Afrika Korps in the arse. See where I'm coming from?"

“Maybe. On you go.”

“So right here you have the best blokes in Scotland to make it happen and we're volunteering our services.”

“You're pretty cocky. You best explain.” Colonel Jackson was already more than a little interested. There was something about the five guys who had climbed out of the people carrier. Something in their eyes. Something in the way they carried themselves.

“Fair enough. Omar, Faisal, and Tariq fought for the Taliban for nigh on four years. You'll have heard of the guy they fought with. Omar's uncle. Faisal and Tariq's dad. Akram Kebir. Ring any bells?"

“Fuck me.”

“I thought it might. Nazir fought for the Free Syrian Army in Idlib. Moses was with the Lord’s Resistance Army for years. Once upon a time, they were child soldiers. Now they are men. And now they are Scots and they are ready to step up. On the drive up I worked out we have twenty five years of combat experience between us. And it isn't just any combat experience. These lads are born and bred guerrillas. They know all about planting IEDs and setting ambushes. You will remember well enough what a nightmare Akram Kebir was. Well, Omar here was the tech guy in the group. Believe me JJ, we're going to be a serious fucking nightmare once we get stuck into them."

Jackson considered for less than thirty seconds. Then he realised this was a gift horse he had no intention of looking in the mouth. He grinned and walloped Davie on the back.

“Good to have you on board. Come on. We're actually kicking things around right now.”

Cool stone corridors took them to the room where Wendel, Alf, and Marc Romaine were gazing down at a map of Scotland in a cloud of smoke. The Colonel announced his guests and asked Davie to make his pitch again. All the while the Frenchman watched him with a question in his hard eyes.

“I know you. I do not remember where from.”

Davie gave a sheepish smile. "I remember you as well General. Chad. 2023. I was the reporter you were so pissed off with. You tied me up and locked me up in a corrugated iron shed for two days before flying me out."

Romaine smiled. “Of course. You were a pain in the arse. I don't like reporters.”

“I figured as much. Luckily I'm not here as a reporter. Today I'm a soldier.”

“You are old.”

“You're not exactly a spring chicken yourself.”

Romaine's ferocious scowl remained in place for a few seconds before being replaced by a grin.

“C'est Bon. Touché. I like the look of your friends. They look like my kind of bastards."

Cold drinks were passed around. Wendel completed a round of handshaking.

“Well boss, a few minutes ago the Scottish Army lacked any Special Forces. Not any more, right? Looks like we now have a force of eight. Two bricks, right? More than enough to light a few fires.”

For the next six hours, they threw ideas at each other across the table. And slowly but surely a plan evolved.

As dawn broke they met with Angus who had also been up all night.

JJ made the introductions like a proud father and the First Minister couldn't help but inwardly shudder as he shook the hard hands and met the even harder eyes.

“What do you need me to do?”

“Well, I think you probably need to sign off. These guys are going to wreak some very serious havoc. We need to know you are OK with it."

“Too right I am. Montford took the gloves off the minute his army opened fire on Scottish Civilians. So long as you stay within the Geneva Convention, you have my blessing to do what you like."

“Good. I will have admin draw up some papers for you to sign. Now. I need you to make a call.”

The call was to the owner of a garage in Inverness who held the franchise for Toyota. Angus told him some of his people would be visiting to collect two Land Cruisers and he should send the bill to the Scottish Government c/o Fort George.

The garage owner was waiting for them in the growing light of the dawn. And like Angus before him, he shuddered at the sight of the eight men. As they loaded their gear and drove away, the Toyota guy recalled a line from Apocalypse Now. The captain of the boat bemoaning his fate.

“My orders say I'm not supposed to know where I'm taking this boat, so I don't. But one look at you and I know it's going to be hot, wherever it is.”

Amen to that.

He watched them leave the car park and head west.

Three hours later the two vehicle convoy was waved through security and into the vast caves of Coulport. Once upon a time, Coulport had been London's very own Hall of the Mountain King. The vast caverns had provided a home for the UK's stock of Trident missiles. Now it was where the Scottish Army kept its stocks of arms and explosives.

When the two vehicles left an hour and a half later they were well and truly loaded up. In Glasgow, they made one final stop at an electrical wholesaler where Omar did all the buying and the others pushed the trolley and carried the bags.

By mid-afternoon they were back on the road and headed south.

Locked and loaded. 

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