'THE LAST COLONIAL WAR.' - CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

INTO THE VALLEY

The plan Northwood Command settled on to move their army from Edinburgh to Fort George was no kind of Blitzkrieg. Well, of course, it wasn't. A classic Blitzkrieg style advance would have involved the use of dive bombing planes and the three American, French and Russian aircraft carriers out in the North Sea meant such an option was well and truly off the table.

Instead, the English Generals deemed their advance would be measured and careful. They decided on the most obvious route: the A9. The road was wide enough for their convoy of over 700 trucks and armoured vehicles to travel four abreast. And this time the column would move as one.

The speed of the advance was governed by the screening force who headed up the column. This unit was a mix of 300 infantrymen and engineers who moved forward in a line two hundred yards wide: one hundred yards to the east of the A9, one hundred yards to the west of the A9. They checked the ground for IED's with scanners and sniffer dogs. Their speed of progress governed the speed of the 10,000 men and 700 vehicles behind them.

Six non-military drones buzzed overhead sending a view of the surrounding area to the command vehicle at the centre of the convoy.

Steady and secure.

3 mph.

On the first day, they set out at five o'clock in the morning and stopped for the night at ten in the evening.

51 miles.

On the second day, they set out at five o'clock in the morning and stopped for the night at ten in the evening.

52 miles.

103 miles in total.

49 miles to Fort George. They would arrive the next evening and start to establish their positions.

The bombardment would commence at dawn the next day.

Steady and secure. Measured.

*

As the forces of Operation Cumberland settled in for their first night on the A9, Marc Romaine and the 813 Legionnaires of 2 REP drove for 30 miles and then marched the final ten miles to a heavily wooded ridge which gave a view down a shallow valley. Their weaponry and ammunition had been stashed over the course of two nights a week earlier. Under the cover of darkness, they dug themselves in. By the breaking of dawn, they had a created semi-circle of firing positions. They hid under camouflage nets and branches through the heat of the day and as soon as darkness fell they started to dig again.

By dawn their trenches and fire positions were complete. Marc Romaine had prepared his kill zone with meticulous care and now as the growing light unpacked a view of the valley ahead of them, he was more than content.

The task 2 REP had been given couldn't have been more up their street. They were to engage and hold for a minimum of forty five minutes. They were 813 and the advancing army was over 10,000.

It was perfect.

A voice from Paris in his ear piece.

“They are moving, sir.”

“ETA?”

“1500 hours, sir.”

“Bon.”

The remainder of the Scottish force had also moved through the night in their rag tag collection of vehicles. The Black Watch hid in woodland ten miles to the south of the valley. The Scots Guards were ten miles to the east and a mix of Argyles and Borderers were ten miles to the west.

Wendel and his team had dug themselves a hide in a nest of hawthorn bushes on the low hill which ran up the western side of the valley. Their position gave them a fine uninterrupted view from the point where the A9 entered the valley all the way to the ridgeline where 2REP were waiting.

Four miles.

Half way along the valley there was a small crossroads with a clutch of houses which had been quietly evacuated through the night. A country road wound down over the hills in the west, crossed the A9, and then climbed up over the hills on the east.

The valley bottom was blanketed with mist in the light of the dawn, but by seven thirty it was all brushed away. Yet again the skies above were wall to wall blue.

As he gazed down into the tranquillity below, Wendel felt an overwhelming sadness. Many of the men in the approaching column were his friends and comrades. In a few hours, this postcard pretty place would provide the last pictures their eyes would ever see. The last memories they would ever file away. It was such an inconsequential place. A river which wasn't much more than a stream. Small fields wrapped in drystone walls. Patches of woodland. Splashes of colour in the gardens of the white houses. Buzzards gliding the thermals. Flies and bees. Dotted sheep on slopes.

And a long ribbon of grey tarmac.

The A9.

Closed and empty of traffic. A ghost road in a ghost valley soon to be filled with thousands of ghosts.

This was the place where it all would be decided. One way or another.

Old school.

A thought came to him. The hamlet below him. What the hell was the place called? He checked his map.

Lochie Bridge.

So. Another name to add to the list.

Bannockburn, Dunbar. Flodden. Culloden.

And now Lochie Bridge.

Would it be the last battle of the last war? Maybe. But for hundreds of years men had promised the latest war would be the last war. It didn't tend to work out that way. The only war to end all wars would be the one decided with nuclear weapons.

For Christ's sake, Wendel. Enough already. He forced his mind away from the hours to come.

“Come on lads. Let's give the hardware one last going over.”

They passed the countdown hours stripping and cleaning their weapons and talking about anything except the 10,000 men and 700 vehicles which were rolling slowly toward them.

At 3 miles per hour.

*

Three minutes past three on a baking hot afternoon in the Highlands.

The line of screening troops came into view. Then the first of the vehicles started to take shape in the shimmering heat.

The forces of Operation Cumberland had arrived.

It took the screen line forty minutes to reach the crossroads where a stone bridge carried the B9153 over the small river. By now the whole of the convoy could be seen. Vehicles in rows of four separated by a space of 20 yards. Nearly 200 rows of four filling the air with a low growl of engines.

When the lead troops were 150 hundred yards from the wooded ridgeline at the northern end of the valley, Marc's voice spoke into Wendel's ear piece.

“Activate Le Frelon, please.”

When General Marc Romain had made his second low level trip across the North Sea he had brought along two large bags.

Packed securely inside were two of the French Army's better kept secrets. 'Le Frelon' in French translated into 'The Hornet' in English. It came in the form of the kind of steel case you could easily imagine a professional photographer carrying.

Omar was the designated operator. He laid the case on the ground outside the bush and withdrew back into cover. The firing mechanism didn't look so very different from a TV remote. He tapped a button and the lid of the case swung open. A shimmer of small objects leaped out from the case with a mechanical buzzing sound. Two thousand 'micro drones' took to the sky like a swarm of hornets and started to sniff out the English drones.

It didn't take them very long. In a matter of seconds, the quiet of the valley was disturbed by a sound like a firework display as the tiny explosive loads carried by the micro drones took down their targets.

*

“What the bloody hell is that?” From his place inside the Operation Cumberland command vehicle, the firework noise was little more than a vague popping sound in the ears of General Sidney Duncan.

“Sir. We've lost the drone cameras, sir?”

“Repeat that please.”

“There's nothing sir. The drones have gone dark....”

*

“Commence firing.” Marc Romaine's voice was completely flat.

The fire plan had been hammered home. Any Legionnaire who broke the fire plan knew they would face a world of pain for a very long time.

Unsurprisingly, nobody broke the fire plan.

Only thirty Legionnaires opened fire. They used short bursts to drop carefully chosen targets from the approaching screen line. In five seconds, forty advancing troops lay dead or wounded. The remainder of the force hit the ground and started to return fire.

The battle of Lochie Bridge was underway.

*

“This is Donnelly. We have contact. Repeat we have contact. Incoming fire from the woods on the ridge line to the north."

“Estimated strength?”

“Between 30 and 50. Accurate fire. We have multiple casualties."

“Hold your position. Wait out.”

Duncan took a moment of calm time to control a surge of adrenalin.

Done

“Number One Force, advance and secure the position please.”

'Number One Force' was at the head of the advancing column. It was made up of a mixture of the SAS, the Parachute Regiment, and the Royal Marines. It would be the job of 'One Force' to engage and destroy any enemy ambush.

Men jumped down from vehicles and surged forward to pre-determined positions. The Paras formed up on the left flank whilst the Royal Marines went right. The SAS filled the centre.

It took four minutes for 'One Force' to deploy.

They stayed low to the ground and hid behind what cover they could find. The firing from the tree line continued.

The Colonel in charge listened to their confirmations in his ear piece.

“Right flank ready.”

“Left flank ready.”

“Centre ready.”

“OK. Light them up and engage.”

Thirty rocket propelled grenades slammed into the treeline and the ranks of One Force moved forward.

*

Marc stood up from his trench amidst the sound and smoke of the incoming RPG rounds. Somewhere to his left a legionnaire was screaming.

Someone was shouting “Medic!!!!”

“Fire at will.”

The effect of the full fire power of 2 REP was devastating. The advancing troops of 'One Force' were cut down like harvested wheat. A mix of bullets and RPG rounds turned the air to white hot metal.

*

“Revised force estimate! There are hundreds of the bastards....”

Duncan put some snap into his voice.

“How many? Be accurate Donelly.”

“Christ.. fuck.. maybe 500? Maybe 1000? We have no way forward, sir. We're going to need artillery support...”

“Wait out.”

Time for another calm time pause. OK. Good enough.

“Colonel Jones.”

“Sir”

“Deploy ten guns, please. Your target is the wooded area on the ridge line at the northern end of the valley."

“Of course sir.”

“How long to deploy?”

“Ten minutes sir.”

“Do it please.”

“Roger that.”

“Donnelly.”

“Sir.”

“Continue to engage, please. Expect artillery support in ten minutes."

“Sir.”

*

“Fireplan two.”

Within seconds of Marc's order, the volume of 2 REP fire dropped by 80%. The new requirement was to preserve ammunition and keep the surviving elements of 'One Force' pinned down.

“Evacuate the wounded.”

All along the semi-circle of dug in Legionnaires, teams of stretcher bearers collected up the wounded and carried them over the ridge line to waiting medics.

“Check in please, snipers.”

Ten snipers who were hidden on the slopes of both sides of the valley checked in with their commander.

“Are they unloading their artillery?"

“They are, sir.”

“Engage them.”

*

In the centre of the English column, frantic teams of men were starting the process of unhooking ten guns from their tow vehicles.

When one man dropped to the tarmac nobody noticed.

When three more men fell they were absolutely noticed and the off load teams dived for whatever cover they could find.

“We have incoming sniper fire, sir. Both sides of the valley. I have four men down here.”

“Can you get the guns off?”

“Negative, sir.”

Calm time. Calm time. Calm time.......

“Sir, I have Northwood for you.”

“Thank you Wallace..... this is Duncan....”

“Report please General Duncan.”

“Ambush sir. A dug in force at on the ridge line at the north of the valley. We estimate between 500 and 1000. Automatic weapons and RPG. Very accurate. We have multiple casualties. We are trying to off load artillery, but we have sniper fire...”

“Wait out please Duncan...... “

Calm time. Calm time. Calm time.....

“..... Duncan?”

“Sir.”

“The satellite shows multiple vehicles approaching your position. South, West and East."

“What kind of vehicles?”

“Cars, vans, people carriers....”

“How many....”

“Our best estimate is three groups of over a hundred. They're coming north up the A9 and from both east and west on the B9153....”

*

Wendel absorbed the reports from the approaching forces.

“East Force, ETA ten minutes.”

“West Force. ETA eight minutes.”

“South Force. ETA six minutes.”

Close enough.

“On you Omar. Take the command vehicle.”

The second classified piece of French Army kit Marc Romaine had carried over the North Sea was 'Le Couverture Furtif'. The stealth blanket. It was an unremarkable looking piece of grey material not as large as a blanket but much larger than a handkerchief. It was more than large enough to wrap an improvised explosive device. And once wrapped, the IED inside became entirely invisible to any electronic detector or well-trained sniffer dog. Marc had brought ten stealth blankets and over the previous two nights, Omar had used them all as he had buried a line of devices along the verge of the A9.

Now he nodded to Wendel and activated device number five. The growling sound of the explosion rolled up the valley side a couple of seconds after the sight of the command vehicle and many of the vehicles around it being reduced to scrap yard metal.

*

…. come in please Operation Cumberland..... Operation Cumberland..... General Duncan...... Sorry sir, they are not responding.....”

But General Moore already knew General Duncan would never respond to anything ever again. The satellite pictures showed a huge explosion in the centre of the convoy.

“Holy mother of Christ......”

*

“South Force at jump off.”

“OK. On our lead.... Omar.....”

Devices one and two threw a murderous hail of shrapnel through the southern third of the convoy. Disorientated men poured down from burning vehicles to be confronted by the sight of over a hundred cars and vans and people carriers heading toward them at high speed.

A few English soldiers managed to get off a few shots, but the vast majority were in a state of utter shock. Those who fired were soon dropped by the snipers on the slopes above them.

The men of the Black Watch leaped from their vehicles and 

advanced on the burning wreckage behind a storm of gunfire.

“West Force at Jump Off.....”

“East Force at Jump off.....”

“Omar......”

The remaining seven hidden bombs broke the spine of the column. Over three thousand men poured bullets into the mayhem.

After three murderous minutes, the battle of Lochie Bridge was over. Operation Cumberland ended in catastrophe. The English Army lost 3245 of its men killed and a further 4798 injured. Every vehicle was destroyed. The only senior officer left alive was a Colonel of the Coldstream Guards who surrendered to Colonel 'JJ' Jackson of the Black Watch.

The Scottish Army lost fourteen men dead and eighty six wounded. 2 REP suffered 22 fatalities and 79 injuries, though these were never acknowledged. Marc Romaine took his men away as soon as the guns fell silent and over the next four days, they retraced their route back to Roscoff. Over the following months a few of the 'One Force' survivors swore blind they had heard shouts in French coming from the tree line on the northern ridge. Nobody took a blind bit of notice. Their claims were written off as some kind of post combat delusion.

The French Government never acknowledged the presence of the Legionnaires of 2 REP at the battle of Lochie Bridge.

The victorious Scottish soldiers were in no mood for celebration. The so called battle had been nothing more than a well-executed turkey shoot. There was no glory to be found in the screams of hundreds of wounded men. Victory meant giving emergency first aid and sealing corpses into body bags. The sights and smells and sounds of the valley would haunt the dreams of hundreds of the winners for many years to come.

Wendel and his team were in no mood for celebration either. A freak bullet had hit Nazir in the right eye and killed him instantly.

They carried his body to their hidden vehicles and returned to Glasgow. Their role in the battle was never officially acknowledged either.

*

A terrible silence fell on the Northwood Situation Room. All they had were satellite pictures. Within minutes of losing all communications with Operation Cumberland, the full extent of the rout was clear for all to see.

“Prime Minister.”

“Yes.”

“I'm afraid I have bad news. The column has been destroyed.”

“Destroyed?”

“Yes sir. Destroyed. We walked straight onto a sucker punch. You will have my resignation within the hour."

“A sucker punch?”

Edward Montford ended the call and stared into space.

A sucker punch. The trees of Birnam Wood had climbed all the way to the top of Dunsinane hill.

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FOR THE VERY FIRST TIME IN MY 56 YEARS OF LIFE I KNOW WHAT IT IS TO HAVE THAT 'PROUD OF MY COUNTRY' FEELING

All of my life I have always felt kind of bemused when watching people talking about how much love they have for their country. I get what they are saying of course. What I have never understood is how and why people feel that way. It has always been completely alien to me. It's a bit bit like trying to get my head around why on earth anyone in their right mind could possibly want to support Man United.

Time and again I have been left feeling apart and bemused at the sight of Brits draping themselves in Union flags to celebrate a Royal wedding or the sinking of an Argentinian battleship. 

I have always felt ill at ease at the idea of being British. In my younger days I backpacked my way round Africa and India and the locked down lands on the other side of the Iron Curtain. Whenever I was asked the 'where are you from' question I would answer with a lie. My preferred options were either Scotland or Australia. Either of these assumed nationalities were pretty well guaranteed to lead to a convivial night in some two bit bar in yet another two bit town.

I soon learned it was a bad idea to own up to my Englishness: my Britishness. To do so meant suspicion and dark looks. So I lied.

I have often wondered why I never came close to feeling any pride in Britain. I can't say it came from my mum and dad. They were hardly flag wavers, but they never had the kind of problems with Britain I had. In hindsight, there were a number of factors which conspired to make me a person who was the very opposite of proud of the country of my birth.

Being a Liverpool fan at a time when the rest of England either laughed at us or hated us. Chasing around the towns of the north in my old VW Beetle watching the Clash. Sitting with the West Indians in the long hot summer of 76 as Viv Richards marmalised the England bowlers under a baking sun. 'Rock against Racism'. 'Free Mandela'. Driving the seething streets of Belfast with a Brit soldier on every corner. Driving to eastern Turkey and back and seeing posters of Bobby Sands on every wall.

And travelling through country after country where the British had stolen everything which wasn't bolted down. Nigeria, Kenya, Uganda, India, Nepal....

Ireland...

Scotland....

And watching as the towns of the north were dismantled and destroyed by the hurricane of Thatcherism. Watching the North become a police state during the Miners Strike.

At an early age I could see clearly enough where the wealth of Britain had come from. Violence and conquest. Slaves and opium. And well covered up genocide. 

And then all of sudden I became father to two sons who carry Africa in their blood. Two sons whose ancestors were once upon a time dragged from their villages and marched to the coast in chains and shipped across the Altantic to the killing fields of the Barbados sugar plantations. Sold in the market. Thrown into an utter hell. 

The life expectancy of a slave sold in the Bridgetown market in the 17th Century was less than the life expectancy of a Jew stepping off the train at Auschwitz Birkenau in 1942. Yeah. Seriously.

Proud? I don't think so.

I have thought a bit about this over the last few weeks whilst watching the astonishingly supurb BBC 4 documentary about the Vietnam War. If you haven't seen it, you really should check it out though it is a hard, hard watch. 

The programme gives time to many of the vets who volunteered to go and fight in South East Asia out of a profound patriotism. We tend to forget just how strong the dream of America was back in the early Sixties. Those were the days when the United States was still the shining city on the hill not just to its own citizens, but also to millions around the world. Of course much of this reputation was hardly deserved. Holywood had done a hell of a job of re-writing history in a way guaranteed to keep the city shining. The near genocide the new Americans committed as they stole the country from the original Americans was turned into epic movies of goody cowboys and baddy Injuns. 

Yet despite being an a place of so much dog eat dog violence and racism, America still managed to be a beacon. For a hundred years Europe had been gripped by a murderous madness which resulted in tens of millions of dead people. In the midst of pograms and secret police raids and the savagery of Czars and Nazis and Bolsheviks, millions clung to the dream of escaping to America. The sanctuary. The Land of the Free. Countless millions yearned for the first sight of the Statue of Liberty and the towers of Manhattan Island.

Plenty of Scots crossed the ocean having been driven from their homes during the Clearances.

And then the dream died as the evening news started to show children whose flesh had been burned from the bone by napalm.

After Vietnam, there would be no more shining city on the hill. Only a bully in the playground. A miserable fifty year slide into the disgrace of Trump.

No wonder the young idealists who signed on the dotted line were so broken and bitter. They put their lives on the line to be on the side of the angels and instead found themselves a part of crimes against humanity.

In the midst of the Tet Offensive in January 1968 the Viet Cong got a firm grip on a town in the Mekong Delta. The only way the Americans were able to dislodge them was with wave after wave of airstrikes coupled with a massive artillery bombardment. When interviewed after the town had been cleared of the communist threat, the American officer in charge came out with a pretty epic statement.

"Unfortunately in order to save the town we had to destroy the town."

The rain clouds swept in from the sea and the city on the hill lost its ability to shine.

Which all brings me to my own moment of surprising patriotism - the thing I never expected to feel. A moment when I could absolutely understand where the young Americans who signed up to fight for the dream of their country were coming from.

On Monday night a hard hitting Panorama shone a pretty unforgiving light on the growing racism which is sweeping through England.

They did the statistics. The spike in hate crime which followed the |Brexit vote. And in a small aside they dropped a throwaway stat which yanked at my attention.

'In the wake of the Brexit vote, incidents of hate crime in Scotland and Northern Ireland fell'.

Fell. 

Bloody brilliant. 

And a small glow of patriotic pride found its way into my chest.

They told the story of Martha and her kids. A nice Polish family on the increasingly mean streets of Dudley. She is a teacher who came to find a better life for her family only to be threatened and called a 'fucking Polish cunt' in the playground a few weeks after the vote.

Things were worse for her two sons. Much worse. As Kamil (18) and Matteus (14) were walking home from school with their English girlfriends, they were attacked by 20 frothing at the mouth racists. 

"Fucking Polish cunts ... fuck off back to your own fucking country..."

They were chased and caught and beaten. Matteus was forced to the ground. He had a rock smashed into his face which splintered his teeth.

Not surprisingly Martha has had enough. It is time to go. Time to escape all the hate. Time to get away from streets where her son had a rock smashed into his face.

And then she said it. After 28 minutes of the programme she said it.

"We will move, maybe to Scotland, maybe back to Poland, but definitely from here."

And there it was.

"Maybe to Scotland"

Because we are the new shining city on the hill. We are the place where the oppressed of the world are starting to dream of finding a sanctuary. We are becoming what America used to be. 

And there it was. An emotion I had never felt before. A glow of pride in my country. And for the very first time in my life, the idea of flying a flag on my lawn didn't seem so ridiculous after all. Not that I will actually do it! But all of a sudden the idea isn't completely absurd.

I feel lucky to be a part of a country which is striving to be progressive and enlightened. A country which aspires to the decency of Scandanavia rather than the brutality of Trump's America.

A country where people like Martha dream of running to.

What's there not to be proud of?  
  

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'THE LAST COLONIAL WAR' - CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

NORTH

Edward Montford was alone. His Chancellor had slunk from the room a few minutes after they received news of the A1 attack. The man had looked completely broken. Edward couldn't really blame him. Being the person in charge on the night when England was tipped into bancrupcy by the money markets of the world wasn't an easy cross to bear.

As a slow dawn lit up his office window, Montford analysed his own emotions. There was certainly no panic. No fear either. Was this the resignation of a condemned man? Maybe. Angus Campbell had hit the nail on the head about the whole Holbrooke Securities nightmare. It would indeed be quite impossible to keep a near half billion pound secret. Not when Samantha Keating had told everyone exactly where to look.

Would there be any point fighting the inevitable? Not much. A lost cause was a lost cause when all was said and done. How bad could prison really be? It wasn't like his life was a barrel of laughs at the moment. From time to time, he had day dreamed about chucking the whole thing in and buggering off to see out his days in Antigua. It was a nice enough thought in theory, but in practice it would be torture. He wasn't a man to sit on a beach and think poetic thoughts whilst watching the setting sun. It would drive him slowly mad. At least there would be some novelty value in serving out a sentence. The chance of a few more battles to fight and win.

But this was all in the future. The present would have to come first. He pulled a piece of paper from his desk drawer and started to make a few notes. It was an old habit. A way to arrange his thoughts.

Was he about to quit and claim some kind of mental breakdown?

Fuck that.

Was he going to try and find a way to hop the country and run away?

Fuck that even harder. Not that it was any kind of possibility.

So. Things were actually clear enough. He was going to stand and fight it out. Fine. He really wouldn't want it any other way.

So who were the enemies he would need to take the fight to? There certainly was no shortage. The Scots, the French, the UN Permanent Security Council. Qatar. The money markets. Her Majesty's Opposition. An unknown number of his own backbenchers. The Judiciary.

Which of these fights did he stand a chance of winning?

The Scots, Qatar, Her Majesty's Opposition, his backbenchers. All the other enemies were too strong to take on.

So. More clarity.

Four enemies to bring down before the inevitable curtain came down on him. Could it be done? Did he have it in him to wage war on four fronts and emerge triumphant? Maybe. It was worth a go. After all, what other choices did he have?

And in a way, the impossible position he found himself facing wasn't so very different from the position of England. Over the course of a few short weeks his country had become an international pariah. There were no allies and all too many enemies. His was leading a nation of fifty five million cornered rats.

He enjoyed the picture. There was still power to be wielded. He smiled to himself as the attack on the convoy suddenly didn't seem such a catastrophe after all. In a way, it changed almost nothing. His military forces were still overwhelmingly stronger than Angus Campbell's sorry excuse for an army. For fuck's sake, the bloody fool had even had the front to boast about his force almost reaching 2000.

Ridiculous.

Was England weakened from a military point of view by the savaging of the pound? No. Well, not in the short term. They had plenty of ammunition. They had more than enough to see off Angus Campbell's sorry excuse of an army, fort or no fort.

Could the disaster on the A1 be spun? Of course it could. Any event could be spun. If he could spin things in the right way, he could fan the flames of anger. Anger in the ranks of his army. Anger on the streets. And there was vast power to be found in anger.

The smile cracked a little wider.

Opposition? Backbenchers? They were the easiest of the enemies arrayed against him. They were too timid and scared to offer any real threat. They would bleat of course. Bleat like the sheep they were. But in their hearts they would thank their lucky stars it was not their job to step up and lead.

In the end they would be pitifully delighted for every buck to stop at the feet of the Prime Minister. All any of them would really care about was how they could later say none of it had been their fault.

He swallowed five pills and started to make calls.

He decided to meet with General Moore over a secure video link. He could do without suffering the judging eyes of Northwood.

“Good morning Prime Minister.”

“And good morning to you too, General. I think we best start with an update on the attack.”

Moore ran through an up to date casualty and damage list.

“How badly does this affect our planning?”

“Before I answer, I think I should ask a question of you Prime Minister.”

Montford bridled, but kept his cool. “Then ask.”

“Before we can establish a military plan, we need to know the political plan. We both know how the population reacts to casualties in the modern era. This isn't 1916 when 20,000 deaths on a single day of the Somme were absorbed by the population. Last night we took the most casualties in a single day since the end of the Second World War. How are you going to react politically to this? Will you get cold feet and back off? Seek some kind of negotiated settlement? Or will you continue to pursue outright victory?”

“Now, I understand your question, General Moore. And you are right to ask it. It deserves a frank answer. We embarked on this war because our country was on the brink of social, economic and political collapse. Over the last 24 hours our situation has become many, many times worse. We are basically bankrupt and we have no allies we can rely on. Negotiation is pointless. My mind is very clear. We have only one viable option, which is to continue until we achieve victory, regardless of cost. It is our one and only chance to secure any kind of acceptable future. The Scots may have managed to take move their cash reserves beyond our reach, but they cannot remove their other resources. The water. The power. Once we re-absorb Scotland into the Union, our prospects will be hugely improved. Obviously we will face many difficult years, but our chances of making a recovery will be many times better. The Cabinet meets at eight o'clock and I am addressing the House at noon. My message to both will be same as the message I am giving to you. We must continue until we win. There is no other choice.”

“Do you expect support?”

“I do.”

“Good. Thank you for your candour, Prime Minister. And in the light of your answer I think I have some better news for you.”

“Bloody hell, it seems a long time since anyone said that to me. Go on.”

“We think the Scots have inadvertently shown us more of their hand than they should have done. Let's have a look at the big picture for a moment. Both sides face enormous challenges. You have just listed the problems we face. However we must remember the problems Angus Campbell faces are many times greater. His capital city and all the tools of government are under our control. This fantasy of governing from Fort George will soon start to wear thin. It will not take long for everything to start to break down, and once this happens the majority of the Scottish people will start to crave stability. Food on the shelves. A job to go to. The basics of life. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

“It won't take very long for the whole Fort George thing to start to look like a bit of a joke. If we had more time ourselves, then I would recommend we should simply sit in Edinburgh and wait for things to settle down. However I fully understand we don't have the luxury of time either.”

“We certainly don't. We need to secure victory as quickly as we can before everything starts to fall apart down here.”

“Quite. So in an odd way both sides need the very same thing. A quick victory. And of course here is where the Scots really are on the back foot. Operation Barn Owl took away 80% of their military capacity. Their chances of any kind of decisive victory are vanishingly small. In fact, I think we have just learned their assessment is exactly the same as ours.”

“Which is?”

“The military handbook suggests there is only one way a vastly inferior force can prevail against a much larger force, assuming the experience and professionalism of both sides is similar.”

Now the pennies were dropping. “Hide behind high walls and win a siege?”

“Yes Prime Minister. Exactly that.”

“So tell me. Why do you think they inadvertently showed us their hand last night?”

“It was the target they selected. Our forces were moving in five convoys. If they had wanted to achieve maximum casualties, they would have hit one of the infantry convoys. They chose not to. If they had wanted to make it almost impossible for us to successfully attack Fort George, they would have destroyed our artillery. They didn't. Instead they destroyed our battle tanks. We believe this choice was made after very careful consideration. Without the tanks, the fight will be much closer. We will still be clear favourites, but they will have a much greater chance. In a nutshell, we believe they chose to inflict exactly the right amount of damage. Enough to make their chances a great deal better. Not enough to cause us to give up on taking Fort George and settling for an occupation of two thirds of the country.”

Montford absorbed in silence for a moment. “So you don't think they will attack us again? As we make our way north?”

“Not as hard as they hit us last night. They will want us to put the bulk of our troops exactly where they want us to put them. Far to the north. Many miles from safe territory. They are doing everything they can to make us fight on the ground of their choosing.”

“But you still think we will win?”

“We do. It will be brutal and of course there will no longer be the same kind of certainty. But, yes. We remain confident of victory.”

“How long?”

“We can have Fort George under heavy artillery fire in ten days’ time, Prime Minister.”

“And what if they manage to hit us hard again on the journey north?”

“Then we will have to re-consider our options.”

“Yes. I see. Cross the bridge when we come to it. I am impressed by the clarity of your thought General Moore. And I agree with it. Let me take the morning to get things nailed down politically. In the meantime, continue the advance to Edinburgh. You can assume we will be sticking with our original plan.”

“Thank you Prime Minister.”

“Just one more thing General. Have you named the operation yet?”

“No sir. Not yet.”

“Then maybe you might allow me to make a suggestion. I think it would be rather appropriate if it was to be 'Operation Cumberland'”

This brought a rare chuckle from the straight laced General.

“Ah, the good old Duke of Cumberland, the great victor at Culloden. I believe he goes by the name of 'Butcher Cumberland' up in Scotland. Well, why not? I am sure your proposal will be received with enthusiasm Prime Minister.”

And for the first time the General felt a grudging admiration for his boss.

The Cabinet proved to be easy meat. If they were cornered rats, Edward Montford was a Pitbull Terrier threatening to snap their spines.

Throughout the morning, the Government broke protocols which had been in place since the American Army beat back the Tet Offensive in 1968. Graphic footage of the aftermath of the A1 attack was released to the media. For a while the TV channels didn't show the worst of the pictures. Men horribly burned. Men missing arms and legs and eyes. Corpses ripped up and mangled. Frantic medics fighting to save young lives. But once it became clear everything was up for the world to see on the internet, the broadcasters shed their squeamishness.

It was the unedited horror of war.

A well versed selection of Ministers took to the studios with grave, determined faces. They spoke of a vicious, cowardly attack. They spoke of terrorist tactics. They talked of inhuman brutality.

They fanned the flames.

By late morning the army of the EFP was back on the streets and baying for Scottish blood.

By the time the Prime Minister got to his feet to address Parliament, the mood of the nation was unmistakeably warlike.

He stood in silence for a very long minute. Stock still apart from a slowly moving head. He scoured the benches opposite with ferocious eyes. And then he half turned and did the same to the benches behind him. A breath held tension filled the chamber.

At last he spoke in a quiet voice which easily reached every corner of the chamber.

“Today is a dark day for our country. It is the darkest day we have had to face in seventy years. Each and every one of us will be measured by the way we face this almost overwhelming challenge. Well. I suggest we have big shoes to fill. When our armies were lifted from the beaches of Dunkirk, this House faced a similarly overwhelming challenge. When the Luftwaffe threatened to win control of the skies above us, this House faced an overwhelming challenge. Then, as now, we had no friends to come to our rescue. We were on our own. And now we are on our own once again. Some of you might feel unable to bear what happened last night. Some of you might want to retreat from the field of battle and seek peace at any cost. Some of you might be ready to yield to the terrible fear in your hearts......”

Another raking, sweeping stare.

“Maybe. I hope not. Last night England suffered three attacks. Hundreds of our young soldiers were killed and horribly injured on the A1. Our currency was attacked with Qatari money. And I, your Prime Minister, was also attacked. So what shall we do? Shall we curl up in a ball and hide? Is that what we did when Hitler drove our army into the sea? Is that what we did when the planes of the Luftwaffe outnumbered our planes by four to one?......”

Long pause. Even longer this time. Agonisingly long.

“I think you all know the answer. We stood tall in the summer of 1940 and we will stand tall again now. England doesn't take kindly to being pushed around. We never have and we never will. What happened last night will not deflect this Government from the course we have chosen. We will fight this war and we will win this war. And our victory will be overwhelming. If anyone wants to oppose this, well now is your chance to do so. If anyone wishes a vote of no confidence in this Government, then I suggest you better get on with it. Your chance is right here, right now. If you have the guts to stand up, then stand up. And if a vote of no confidence goes against this Government, then of course it will be for others to give the order for our magnificent soldiers to retreat with their tails between their legs. So it is now or never. This is our Dunkirk moment. Are we going to be true to a thousand years of our history or are we going to run away after the first taste of battle? The choice is yours. I suggest you make it.”

The benches behind him exploded into cheers. The benches in front cheered as well, just not so loudly. Nobody was about to demand any kind of vote of no confidence. And nobody was about to ask any questions about Holbrooke Securities either.

Instead they all basked in their Churchill moment. Edward Montford was sorely tempted to smile. But he didn't. He stared ahead, hoping his eyes would reach all the way north to Angus Campbell.

*

By five o'clock that afternoon the Royal Engineers finally cleared the A1 sufficiently for the fourth and fifth convoys to resume their journey north. The first two convoys had made it to Edinburgh early in the morning.

*

At the same time as hundreds of trucks coughed into life, the ferry 'Mont St Michel' slid away from its moorings in Roscoff. The waters of the English Channel were millpond flat and vividly blue. The green hills of Brittany were bathed in the golden light of the late afternoon. On the upper decks passengers sought out a cooling breeze and took in the view. Far below in the lower vehicle decks, thirty six trucks belonging to Fisher Transport (Glasgow) Ltd were parked up with their handbrakes on. Their drivers were mainly to be found up in the cafeteria where they carefully avoided any talk of their strange cargo.

This was the strangest job any of them had ever been involved in. Management had told them they had been hand-picked for their trustworthiness and reliability. They had been told their customer required absolute commercial confidentiality. Fair enough, it happened. However none of them could work out why thirty six loads of cardboard boxes could be such a big secret. Not that any of them cared much. The bonus they were being paid was healthy enough to seal lips and put a lid on any undue curiosity.

They had been told not to make the trip through Ireland as a long convoy. Instead they had taken care to stay well clear of their fellow trucks. The warehouse in Brest had seemed thoroughly nondescript. Only when they pulled inside did the reason for all the secrecy become suddenly clear.

Their return cargo was unlike any cargo they had hauled before. The cargo comprised 813 French Foreign Legionnaires of 2 REP and 803 Scots Guardsmen. Old man Fisher stood in one of the loading bays and asked his drivers to step up for their country. For Scotland. If any man was uncomfortable with what he was being asked to do, then he was more than welcome to stand down, take a flight to Dublin and a hire car back to Scotland.

It was an option not a single driver chose to take. Instead they watched as each of the trucks became the temporary home for forty five soldiers. Had any trucker been tempted to think of breaking the secret, one look at the Legionnaires would have been more than enough to make them change his mind.

It was a journey none of the passengers would ever forget. A long overnight sea crossing to Cork. A full day's drive to Larne and another ferry, this time to Stranraer. A last leg up the Ayrshire coast to the Fisher Transport depot where they jumped down from what had become a very smelly environment indeed.

The journey of the thirty six Fisher Transport trucks hadn't caught anyone's attention. At a time when so many crazy things were happening, nobody was much in the mood to get over excited by a mildly unusual break in the routine of one of Scotland's larger haulage companies.

Over the course of the next two days the Legionnaires and Guardsmen left the depot in a mixture of cars, vans and people carriers. They took a variety of routes up the west coast, once again attracting no undue attention. They covered the final miles to their destination under the cover of darkness using night vision glasses.

By the time the English Army rolled out of Edinburgh, the Legionnaires and Scots Guards had joined up with 1564 soldiers who had slipped out of Fort George, also in the back of delivery trucks.

Their rendezvous point was one of the many new towns which were under construction in the Highlands. Forteith was scheduled for completion in 2032 and would provide homes and work for a projected population of 15,000. About half of the new houses had got to the point where they had walls and a roof. They provided plenty of cover for a force of over three thousand to hide their presence from the satellites above. Vehicles were carefully camouflaged and all the weaponry, food and other equipment they required had already been delivered.

The half built town of Forteith was forty miles west of a shallow valley where the A9 followed the path of a small river before climbing up over a gentle ridge.

*

Ten hours after Edward Montford sat down to the cheers of the Chamber of the House of Commons, Sally the escort was waiting in the usual Mayfair Hotel without really expecting her Thursday night regular to show up.

Her pessimism proved to be misplaced. Her Major General arrived a little after eleven and he was like a hyper active child. As he gulped his way through a tumbler of gin and tonic he regaled Agent Lapin with the thrilling story of his day. Those bloody Scots were trying to be too clever for their own good. But it hadn't worked. They thought they had the wool over the eyes of everyone at Northwood. Ha! Not a bloody chance. No bloody way. We know their game.

“I'm so sorry, Terry. I don't think I understand.”

“Of course not. Sorry. Just a bit hyped up. Here's the thing. If they had taken out our artillery, then we wouldn't have been able to go to Fort George because we couldn't take them out without artillery. By taking out our tanks they have merely weakened us. They want us to come, you see! Want to choose the bloody ground. Damned fools think they have a chance of winning. Ha! We'll bloody see about that, I'll tell you. Anyway. I'm for another snifter. Why don't you get your kit off, old thing.... “

Eight hours later Henri Jardin rolled his eyes. These English. Old thing! Typical.

“Bonjour, Marc. It's Henri.”

“Agent Lapin, yes?”

“Indeed. The old fool spilled everything.”

“Have they taken the bait?”

“Oh yes. Like a hungry trout.”

“Excellent. Thanks Henri.”

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