The Regimental headquarters, the 1st Solent Rifles (the Royal Black Jackets), Solent Corps, Bartlett’s Billet. 00:12 Zulu.
'No plan survives first contact with the enemy. What makes the commander is the ability to make a new plan, rapidly.' Attributed to Colonel Macgregor 2972
Bartlett had just dozed off when he heard a knock at the door, making him question if he had even slept at all. But his real left arm was numb, which meant he must have been laying on it again, and for long enough, that he had to shake his arm vigorously to end the neuropathy. The pattern on his pillow had impressed into his face was the second clue he had been asleep, as he now looked like a waffle iron had attacked. There was a second knock on the door. He didn’t need to ask who it was. Only one person would knock at the door twice when he was sleeping. Admittedly, a couple of others would burst straight in, all of them senior officers; His friends were annoying, though the worst offender wasn’t there.
Macgregor had made a game of it, bursting in just as Bartlett was drifting off. Though, right then, he could have done with Alastair's company. He could feel his PTSD rising in his body, the anxiety of sleeping alone in the dark burning through him. It was nearly 6 years to the day since America, and he still couldn't enjoy sleep.
"What is it, Colm?" Bartlett called out through the door. Specialist Colm Lightmore didn’t respond, but came through the generic fire door, after he faffed with the door handle. Still in his Number 3s, and looking knackered, his eyes barely open, Lightmore had with him a stack of internal papers, some food, the dark blue paper of a Mk-12 encoder printout, and a cup of tea which was in Bartlett’s titanium camp mug. Lightmore put the pile on the desk as Bartlett sat up in bed. Bartlett flipped his desk lamp on and rubbed his eyes before he moved to the chair behind the desk. He inserted his radio’s earpiece again, the transceiver on the desk in its charging slot, before clicking it on.
"Well, sir, a couple of things. Ms Locke wants you to know that both battalions are ready for deployment and all rifles apart from Ms Locke and myself are asleep. 3rd batt sent a missive 10 minutes ago. It reads '3rd is under attack from large-scale force including barrage and tanks. Attacking with an unusual pattern. Holding with the cooperation of 7th batt, American Guard and Royal Cypriots. Only one casualty so far will hold the line until ordered to advance.'"
Bartlett's earpiece blared out at that moment in a series of static squeals, in sympathy, to Colm's more powerful unit. Colm pressed the reply button on his earpiece.
"Domitian-Detent-Alpha; this is Vespasian-Wren-Alpha, please repeat. Over." Bartlett looked quizzically at the young man, for that call sign was BSM Edward Rush. The schedule didn't have them contacting HQ to have a chat until 08:30, which wasn’t a good sign. Colm raised a finger to silence his CO as the reply came in. Bartlett span around on his chair, and put his feet up on his desk, sipping the ‘tea’ gingerly, though he was grateful for the liquid. He gave Lightmore a swift, but forceless, kick for silencing him. Without looking, the adj pre-empted the move by stepping just out of reach, so Bartlett’s foot grazed the air, making him slip off his chair.
"Vespasian-Wren-Alpha, under heavy assault, no longer odd pattern, Hunters keeping them at bay. However, at the mercy of their own hunters. On top of that, it is absolutely pissing down with rain, and it is freezing. Thought you might like to know. Domitian-Detent-Alpha out," said the little voice on the radio.
"Edward gets more annoying the older he gets," Bartlett groaned, picking himself up. "Right send a reply, ‘Good information, Kerry, keep holding them’ and please remind her we are leaving tomorrow. And get some rest." Lightmore nodded, and after being waved out, slipped back into the corridor. His tall frame did nothing to blot out the light spilling from the corridor until the door shut behind him. Bartlett himself stood up, opened his cupboard. He grabbed his sword and his stable belt, laying them on his chair before he got into bed again. He'd need them in the morning. The metal of his replacement arm was itching, an annoying event when it happened. What pain nerves he had left in his right-hand side, after having most of his ribs and entire right arm replaced in 2977, fired in a ghostly reminder of his lost limb. Despite the diabolically foul taste, he finished the tea Lightmore had brought with him, and then bedded down. Under his pillow were a set of dog tags that weren’t his, that he held tight in his good hand. Bartlett hoped that the screams of the dead wouldn’t disturb his sleep.
COLOUR SERGEANT HOLMES ALSO felt like his head had barely touched his rigid plastic cot when he heard his name being shouted through the radio. He groaned and picked up his rifle from beside the dugout door as he left. He had to yank the door open. The heavy metal door creaked as it swung towards him.
The sight that confronted him was scarcely believable. All along the firing step, men were firing at Argentinians coming up out of no-man's-land. These soldiers were barely five metres away from the lip of the trench, and nauseatingly bright glacial blue and sickly green laser lines were pulsing backwards and forwards between his men and the Argentines. The pulses were hitting the front trench wall sandbags, which caused sand to spray everywhere, forming a fine fog of glinting sand. Parts of the back wall of the trench were near obliterated, and all-around men were being shoved over by the force of the beams, hitting their armour. This caused them to glow like a blue or green glow-stick each time, bathing the otherwise pitch-black trench in oddly beautiful light as the armours leaked light. In a couple of places, the enemy soldiers were on the firing step and even in the trench itself, fighting hand to hand with his platoon. As he ran out of the dugout, he pulled one Argentinian off Private Martin, who was lying in the mud being throttled. A quick thrust of Holmes’s knife blade into the Argentine, caused him to scream and slump sideways off Martin. Holmes lifted him to his feet and pointed at his post, which was one of the machine gun dugouts along the underside of the front wall of the trench.
"Thank you, Colour Sergeant." The man said, as he ran towards the gunnery nests.
"Sergeant Percy, explain to me how the fuck we got into this situation?" He yelled into his mic, raising his rifle towards the top of the trench, as his proximity sensor flashed an insistent arrow that way. Spotting two Argentine soldiers aiming at one of his privates, he pulled his rifle tight into his body and time slowed down. The rain and the surrounding gunfire disappeared from his awareness as he lined the rifle’s holographic sight on the closest soldier and squeezed the trigger. Holmes wasn’t a fan of his KM-18, he thought through the trigger pull. It was a little rear heavy, despite being a conventional layout. The report was also much louder than the EM-9, even at only a 10th of the power output, missing as it did the vacuum barrel device. The piercing blue glow of the coloured laser was also a little too bright for night fighting, causing a blinding whiteout every time someone fired.
But, Holmes admitted grudgingly, it killed what he aimed at and with great ease. Time and the general cacophony of battle returned as the pair that he shot fell to the ground, half their bodies missing. He slung his rifle and jumped up onto one of the firing steps ladders, scrambling his way to the top. Forced to dodge under Corporal Hannaford’s withering fire whilst he ran along the step, he pushed, stabbed, and shot his way towards his radio operator, who was currently in a group of five men all firing out into no-man's-land. He could hear the shouts of ‘ammunition’ and ‘back in’ from his position, twenty metres away.
"I am a little busy right now, Colour." Sergeant Percy said, cooly despite the hectic mass of bodies.
Holmes looked down at his platoon sergeant, just as he head-butted a soldier and put a laser round through the man's skull to vaporise it.
"Fair enough. Just clear the place. You have the ground." Holmes replied. This two-second lack of concentration caused him to feel a searing sensation across his left shoulder blade, as a bright green laser shot cursed across it, passing through his armour, the light being redirected by the glass around his body turning him into a glow-stick. The force of impact, something that was always a surprise the first time you got shot with a high-energy laser rifle, caused him to be spun off his feet and fall onto the edge of the step. The wet step and his body armour slid together until he found he was dangling upside down in mid-air so that his head and torso were off the step.
When the laser hit his armour, he hadn't made a sound. However, when he stopped his slide off the step by wedging his hand into a drain hole, the act pulled on his burnt shoulder hard had caused him to yelp. He tried to pull himself back up onto the step, grateful for all the core strength exercises they made him do in training, screaming in pain the entire time. But as he did so, he saw the flash of silver that was a bayonet getting thrust into the space that would have been his neck two seconds earlier. Holmes swept his leg back and dragged his assailant’s legs from out under him, causing the Argentine to bounce off the step onto floor below. Landing with a loud squelch, Holmes jumped off the step and took a second or two to glance around for his rifle, but couldn’t see it. It must have ended up in the narrow strips of the mud between and under the duckboards after it fell from his hands, so he got back into the fight. Levelling his pistol, he shot two more Argentine soldiers with three pulse bursts each. Their ceramic armour cracked under the intense super-heating caused by the impact of the first laser burst, the second and third broke all the way through.
"7th, what the fuck are we doing? We are better than this. Get these pieces of crap out of our trench. Corporal Greenly, get 3rd section on the firing step and shoot any fucker coming in and get the machine guns up and running, Corporal Nagle, take 2nd and clear left, 1st clear right with Corporal Hannaford. Let’s get moving. Andrew, get the hell over here too." Holmes positively had to holler this time into his headset mike. This was because, as he was giving the orders, the level of noise and violence increased.
Platoon coherence was returning, and the coordination led to more effective rounds downrange. Behind him for the first time, he heard the ‘clack, clack, clack’ of the emplaced heavy railguns firing and the level of incoming no-man's-land fire decreased. Taking his chance to run over to his radio operator, who had also jumped down off the fire step, he tried to think of a safe place for Andrew to call in a bombardment. He pointed at one dugout, and the man nodded, and they moved towards it. As they ran, they were shooting at targets all over the place as the trench was still swarming with Argentine soldiers, but the Commonwealth soldiers were now definitely winning.
As Holmes pushed Andrew into the dugout, he felt a burn of a laser pulse as it flashed past his face. Andrew had put a round into a soldier who ran up behind Holmes trying to stab him in the heart with his bayonet. "Fuck a duck sideways, good shot, Andrew. Now get on to the RA boys again. We need to give ourselves a breather. I’ll be outside."
With that, he dropped his empty pistol magazine into his dump pouch, slid a fresh one in, and slammed the door behind him. Andrew pressed the send button on his mike and started calling into his radio.
"Hunter, Hunter. This is Domitian-Wren-7-Alpha requesting Fire support on previous grid. Over."
Command Post, 1st coy, 1st battalion, 1st Solent Rifles. Port Stanley, 03:30 Zulu.
Command Post, 1st coy, 1st battalion, 1st Solent Rifles. Port Stanley, 03:30 Zulu.
MACGREGOR AWOKE WITH A START. A start caused by Ironsides jabbing him in his arm. It was Macgregor’s turn to take over the watch. He looked at his wrist. Apparently, it was 3:30 in the morning, but his eyes refused to believe that.
"It’s cold tonight, Alastair," Ironsides said, Macgregor merely grunting in reply. His breath was crystallising in the air, and his face tingled, as obvious clues about the temperature. Ironsides could be bloody obvious sometimes. "Even after all these years of fighting in cities, I forget there are no stars in them. It’s lonely. Do you not miss India?" Ironsides said, lamenting the seemingly pitch-black sky. He sat next to Macgregor, who nodded groggily, still trying to wake up from his bad and disturbed sleep. "Streets have been busy with enemy soldiers running around. They don’t know we are here, but they are getting angst-filled and trigger-happy with the realisation that we are closing in at the front line."
Macgregor flailed around on the floor in his sleeping bag, out of agreement. His brain was still not fully engaged yet. He reached out his hand and felt his rifle. He pulled it close and thumbed the safety lever, making sure it was on, as he finally sat up. Placing his hand on the side of his SUSAT, he pushed the override, glad when the scope illuminated first time. He looked through the scope at the ammunition counter, because although it was only paranoia, Macgregor found himself extremely concerned about the cold sapping their batteries. The scope counter blinked in the corner, showing that the battery had a full 1000 pulses. He relaxed a little. That was some good news. He’d hate to have no ammunition just when he needed it.
Of course, an EM-9 with its 4 gigavolt laser was mostly overkill for this operation, a KM-18 serving just fine. Designed to kill the extremely over-built Furies, the EM-9 bullpup could knock out small tanks. A fellow human stood no chance, but he had had this weapon since Fort Moore, and it would have to be pried out of his cold, dead hands. Sure, the upper rattled around on the lower like a squash ball on meth in a spaceship warehouse, and the emitter didn’t always enjoy lighting both the UV and coloured lasers together; but it had kept him alive for nigh on three decades. Lieutenant-Colonel Beverly Fletcher may be his longest, still alive, human friend, but this rifle was even older than that.
"Well, that was to be expected. Imagine having seven of the nine foot-guards regiments and the Blues and Royals fucking about to smash down your front door. You’d be running scared too." Macgregor replied, looking at Patrick for the first time since waking up. His face was neutral, and remarkably chill for Patrick Ironsides.
"I suppose. We need to work out extraction, though." Paddy said, shivering under his body armour. He took a knitted wool beanie out of one of his rigging pockets and put it on, so it covered his ears under his helmet.
"We can use Epsilon 4. Get six, eight, and ten out to the edge of the city first. Then, followed by four, two and then one, three, five, seven and nine past them, and so on, back to our lines. Rick, John, and Beverly ought to be in position with Harry and Lomo today at about three this afternoon. Kerry and 3rd should be making a mess of the eastern trench network with the American Guards and Royal Cypriot Regiment; the Royal Egyptians should keep the garrison busy by drawing them into the trenches to the west. We aren’t extracting until we kill those officers. They are everything." Macgregor said in a whisper.
"Yeah, about Pieterson, sir," Paddy looked shiftily around the building. "A quantum encoded missive just came through from her, saying that they have come under assault from enemy heavy infantry, tanks and barrage." Macgregor looked surprised but unworried. "She reports only one death. Seemingly, it was a massive hit-and-run attack."
"That would seem to fit the pattern. The enemy is looking for a breakthrough, as much as we are. It is interesting, but of no importance to the overall plan, as long as she holds and doesn’t waste any of my men. Did the missive state who was lost?" Macgregor, after finishing climbing out of his bag, started wondering which man had died. Long ago, he had learnt the hard way that if you lose men and not remember their faces, it makes you a cold, lonely bastard. So, in that vein, he tried to imprint every single soldier’s face and a fact about their past and their family into his mind.
Macgregor crawled across to his bergan and pulled out of the depths various parts of his L-1812 rifle. The barrel and bolt assembly slotted together, along with the main chassis, that was in a separate bag. The weapon, a magnetic driver rail rifle, with its .338 steel jacketed depleted uranium bullet was better at punching through hard cover than his EM-9, making it perfect for this task.
"No Sir, it did not. It just said that a man had been killed. She probably doesn’t know." Paddy looked back up at the sky, getting comfy in his bivvy.
"Yeah, that is probably true. Paddy, go to sleep. I’ll wake you if needed." With that permission, Paddy nodded and slipped into a restful doze. Macgregor took his Keller scope out of his webbing and clicked it onto the rail system on the L-1812. Aiming the rifle towards the front of a very grand building, the town hall of Port Stanley, he pulled the butt into his shoulder, gripping the rear monopod, and looked through the sight. He imagined where his target should be. He saw lots of figures running around the town, Garrison troops going to their watch positions, their body heat showing up as a black glow on a green background. They were that bright he could see their insignia and rifles. He picked up the rifle off the rock and sat down in the same corner as he saw his young Adj. pull his stint as watch in. He could still feel the burning hatred for the Major-General born from his memory, as he requested a roll call from his platoons, the static sounding off in response, and settled in for the night.
8th Platoon, 1st coy, 1st batt, 1st Solent Rifles. ¾ mile west of Coy CP. 03:45 Zulu.
THE TWO MEN on watch for 8th platoon were getting concerned by how close a figure was getting to them. They watched as the person stumbled along the road, running alongside the building opposite. Five hundred metres, four hundred metres. The person was getting closer, and they were getting worried, but couldn’t tell if he was a local and therefore relatively friendly, or an enemy combatant. What they could tell was that he was completely hammered. He wandered sideways across the road in a zigzag pattern, before stopping to urinate halfway down, an action that ended up with the man’s trousers drenched in his piss.
Having had an easy trip from the moment the platoon’s feet had touched the ground, on the outskirts of the city, about six hours ago, 8th platoon found itself holed up in a four-storey abandoned warehouse, on the west side of the coy headquarters, with 6th and 10th platoon either side of it. It was perfectly situated to give them a clear, but not uninterrupted, view of their target building.
They were so well hidden in the remains of the top two floors of the building that even if the man walked straight through the bottom-most floor, he would never spot them. On the other hand, if he spotted them, he was likely to scream, an act that was likely to get them discovered. The private raised his rifle, training it on the man when the Corporal stopped him.
"Leave him, he is a local. He is singing in English, the poor drunken waster." The Corporal spoke quickly, but extremely quietly.
The Private nodded and took his finger off his trigger guard. They watched the man in amused horror as he staggered straight into the warehouse, singing an ancient song, about dancing with two-headed aliens on the planet of Arran. Around them, other soldiers woke up with a start. The sentinels waved them down, as they all picked up their rifles and pointed them in wild directions, their IR lasers popping off the steel frame. The private jumped down off his rafter and followed the man deeper into the mill, where he had lain down on the remains of a carpet and become comatose. He poked at the man’s leg with his rifle butt and then pushed him onto his back. The man was indeed a local on a quick rummage around his pockets.
Another soldier swung down and came over to help pick the drunk up, and took him outside, and wrapped him up the carpet. The platoon settled back into its stupor, its task only starting the next morning, holding down the far-left flank of the incursion. They were not looking forward to the call for the withdrawal, which would come in the next two days or so. High above the floor, Colour Sergeant Lewis crawled across the rafters to the Corporal on watch.
"What’s up, Colour?" The Corporal looked up at the young woman. "We’ve got it handled. Go back to sleep."
"I know you do, Corporal, I just wanted to say, great call. We don’t want to be killing civilians whilst we are here. Not sure how the boss would take it." She said, trying to not chew the inside of her mouth. It must be hell for her, being this young, thought the Corporal. "Well, wake me if anything else interesting happens. Just to remind you as well, Peter, it’s Rawlinson’s section turn for watch in an hour."
"Yes, Colour Sergeant. Now with all due respect, Cara, fuck off back to sleep and let me do my job." Peter winked at Lewis, who laughed and clambered back to her rafter.
Next to him, Private Jefferies looked at the Corporal and just smiled. "Corporal Eastwood, you are a jammy-fucking-sod. Any other person of said that to her she would have beaten them across the room."
"Shut it, Kevin." He gave him a dirty look. "How is it on the backside, Lance?" Eastwood keyed into his radio.
Five minutes later, the reply came back all clear. He knew it was going to be a long couple of days.
"HUNTER, HUNTER, this is Domitian-Wren-7-Alpha requesting fire support on previous grid. Over." PFC Andrew said into his microphone, receiving nothing but static in reply. Repeating his support request four more times, he tried all the different official frequencies, but there was still nothing but the squeal of interference that he could barely hear over the hissing of laser rounds. He ripped his radio’s earpiece out in frustration, regretting it instantly as the sheer volume and cacophony of the noise in the trench made his ears and head hurt. Putting it back in rapidly, He looked up and jabbed his boss in the leg with his rifle butt, to get Holmes’s attention, over the sound of the Colour Sergeant barking fire control orders through his personal radio. "Colour Sergeant, I still can’t raise them. Too much interference from the enemy guns. I am going to try HQ," he said through his micro-radio link, despite being two feet in front of him.
Holmes looked down and nodded at his radio operator, who was sat on the edge of the fire-step. He gave no-man’s-land one last glance through his scope, having finished his platoon orders. He could see no one out there. One DMR shot an Argentinian, who was over a kilometre away, taking their head clean off.
After the hell of the last four hours, this was a good indicator that they had weathered this attack. The sudden break in fire coming from their front was a pleasant surprise. He decided that he would stand the platoon down. However, this time, unlike the first time, he would not lose vigilance. 2nd section would be placed on duty for the night, with the machine guns manned and rotate them around every six hours. He himself was going to sit in the command dugout with a hot cup of tea with Sergeant Percy and count their blessings that nobody else died, though the burn on his shoulder was itching badly. His armour had done its job, reflecting the laser pulse around his body, but they had shot him at such close range that the pulse super-heated his UBACS through the ceramic. He was a tad concerned that removing the armour would take skin with it. He should see the medic, but with other people nursing stab wounds or multiple burns, he grinned and bore the pain.
"Andrew, forget it, tell the Sergeant and Corporals to meet me in the dugout in oh-say, five minutes and call this into Company if you can raise them, tell them we apologise for not calling it in sooner, as we were very busy."
"Yes, Colour Sergeant, I wouldn’t be hopeful, though. Still a large amount of shelling." Andrew replied, as Holmes climbed off the fire step, walking over the dead bodies of Argentinians, and ducked into a gun nest, the noise of war moving slowly away from them, as the trench basked in the light of the burning tanks, strewn across no-man's-land.
The Regimental headquarters, the 1st Solent Rifles (the Royal Black Jackets), the parade ground. 06:30 Zulu.
IT WAS EARLY when Bartlett marched across to his place at the front of the parade square, where his 2iC, Major Thomas Johnson, saluted him with his sword. Bartlett returned it smartly, his own sword scabbard gleaming by his side, as his sword rose swiftly up to his nose and down again.
"Both 1st and 2nd are on parade, Lieutenant-Colonel," Johnson said, before he saluted again. At a nod of the Colonel’s head, he marched off to the edge of the parade ground, sword in hand. Richard took a deep breath. His voice had to carry, and the parade ground was pretty large, with no amplification. Out of habit, he removed his peak cap and placed it on the ground beside himself.
"At ease, ladies and gentlemen," Bartlett hollered, his voice came out clear and strong. He paused as over 1400 soldiers relaxed. They were a funny sight, as they were all in various states of dress, some in combat uniform or number 5s, most were in barracks or number 3 dress, and a couple of 1st battalion platoons were in number 2’s. Major Johnson and BSM Locke were both wearing number 2s, and Bartlett himself was wearing his number 3s. Mostly out of the principle of the thing. What would his old RSM think? Certainly nothing good, but this was a unit still finding it coherency. “As you all should know by now, our commander, Colonel Macgregor, took his company behind enemy lines yesterday." Bartlett started, "It is our job to go rescue them. We, along with the rest of the Solent Corps, and the Household Division, are going on station in a couple of hours, so I’ll make this brief, as we have little time and because I love speeches." A general snigger arose from the supernumerary officers, in their positions behind the massed ranks, as well as from several command officers. He paused again, this time for dramatic effect, but made the mistake of staring out into the eyes of the rank and file. They looked so young and so clear-minded. Not yet darkened by the battlefield nor marred by its horror, it caused him to nearly lose his nerve. Suddenly, his throat felt dry and raw. He wasn’t Macgregor at the best of times, always quick with a turn of phrase or long-ass speech. But when the people he was talking to were as young as Elizabeth, the Bosses’ daughter, it was that much harder. Alice looked at him and nodded subtly, smiling wryly, which caused him a momentary flutter. "At this point, our esteemed colonel would take time to remind us that the General Staff are looking directly at us, that we are the ‘noobs’ in this game, untried and untested. He would also likely say fuck 'em." This caused a smattering of awkward giggling in the ranks. "Youth and inexperience are not a marker of inability. I get you are all nervous, but believe me, you’d need not be. You will make the Commonwealth proud. Now, having said that, as always, I cannot promise you we will all come back alive, but I promise you that nobody will be left MIA." The troops stiffened as they sensed the end of his speech. He did tone well. "I have one last small question for you, stolen from Colonel Macgregor’s infinite quote book. Do you want to live forever? Like princes of the universe? Or do you want to be remembered and be truly immortal?" He had always liked that bit of Macgregor’s speeches, mostly because they both liked the film Highlander. "You have a little less than 3 hours to get ready for shipping out. I, like England and Lord Nelson, expect every man to do his duty." His voice finally failed. After a moment he bent down and retrieved his peak, brushing the parade ground dirt off it before placing it on his head peak first, pushing it down at the back. He called forward Johnson, to dismiss the parade and marched off. As he walked into the main building, Thomas’s voice rang out over the ground calling on Alice to dismiss them. Well, that was the job of the officer, to fob off basic duties to the closest NCO.
He felt one of his staff walk up behind him and hold on to his arm before clearing their throat. It was Colonel Macgregor, and she was looking anxious. Bartlett stopped and stared into her large blue eyes. She opened her mouth to say something, but the words failed to form. Bartlett held her hand in his, pulling her tight for a one-armed bear hug.
"Alex, I will get him home. Have we ever failed you? On one hundred planets, over ten years, have I once failed to bring him home?" He pulled her tight once more, as she cried into Bartlett’s shoulder. "Anyway, you need to be packing as well; you are coming to the trenches as we can’t have our medical team fifty miles away." He said, patting her back awkwardly, as this was a new reaction.
"Of course, Rick, we are already sorted. It’ll take five minutes to pack a truck. Really, I just wanted to say nice speech. Ali would be proud of you." She said as she stopped crying. She wasn’t sure what had got into herself. This was far from the first time Alastair had left to go on campaign. Every day for two decades he had fought, but she had never reacted like this. Wiping her eyes, she continued. "Sorry, I am just worried about him. He is getting too old and worn out for his mad ideas. I think I assumed that when he got the Corps commander post, he would slow down a wee bit. But you know he is a stubborn bastard sometimes, and he isn’t listening to me about his general health, which admittedly is pretty good, but, you know, he isn’t 25, anymore. Hell, none of us are." As she regained her composure, Specialist Lightmore had walked up, snapped a salute, and then stood to attention a little way away. "Present company excepted, of course." She giggled, nodding at the young adjutant. Bartlett turned around and laughed as well when he spotted his Adj. Lightmore looked confused in response to all this giggling. Alexandra stepped away from Bartlett, turned around, and walked away. When she reached a corner, Bartlett watched her stop and look back at him.
"Richard Bartlett, bring him home, intact this time, please. I cannae be stitching him back together. New Regiment, New Traditions." She continued with her walk, the other medics flocking to her like a queen bee, as they prepped for game time.
Twenty minutes later, S-2's Offices.
The two senior company commanders, Captains Johar and Evans, as well as Majors Johnson and Maclaren, were standing around the table opposite Bartlett and Michaels; with Flight Lieutenant Gallagher kicking her feet as she sat on one of the worktops. The group was lit up by the light spilling from the holographic map of the sector, as they listened to the up-to-date plan for the relief of Macgregor's company and the capture of Port Stanley. Michaels had a hatred of proper lighting, and it was his briefing.
"So, guys, recap time on the plan. We are going to this," Bartlett said, pointed at a red dot on the map, "Forward Operating Base. Base 63, as it is the closest to the region of Port Stanley that 1st Company is in." He moved the map to Macgregor's red dot in the holographic picture of the bombed-out building he was in. "From there, we are going to send reconnaissance patrols into no-man's-land. These will come from 1st Battalion. This section of the line," Bartlett moved the map to show the local front-line trenches, "is being held by 2, 4, and 7th Scots Guards, and we will be giving close support, calling in fire missions and relaying intelligence to them. 1st Batt will do Recce in force to find out what is happening behind the lines and keep the pressure up." He scrolled back to the trench system. "Then, the line will hold its breath, until we receive the message from the Colonel that his mission is a success." at this point he passed over to Michaels.
"If the Colonel's gamble works, we should see confusion in their ranks due to the decapitation of their general staff. At this point, we strike with everything we own: the Corps, backed up by the Household Cavalry, the seven Scots Guards, 1 battalion from the American, Coldstream, Grenadiers, and Welsh Guards." The pair looked up at the five other officers, who nodded their assent. "The idea is to not break first and push through to at least 150 miles downrange and remove their artillery batteries from the picture. Beverly's mechanised infantry will complete most of this push in LCVs, with Brigadier Esposito holding the left flank." Michaels finished, his fingers still dramatically showing the battleground.
"2nd batt will mount up with Fletcher, and 1st batt with Lomo. After the initial breakthrough, we will be rushing for several key crossroads. This will allow Esposito to bring the Hercules up to Port Stanley. G-3 is giving us a lot of leeway in how we execute the plan, removing these assault battalions from div. command." added Bartlett. "Leader of this will be Brigadier Esposito until we have relieved the Colonel. Anyone have anything else to talk about, or are we done?" He asked, looking at the gaggle of S-2 officers that had grown in the corner. Major Smith had joined the group and was whispering in Maclaren's ear, who nodded. The pair looked sharply up when Bartlett finished. Slipping off the worktop, Maclaren held a hand up in a fashion denoting one second. He flipped a switch on the holograph table. A picture of one of Maclaren's many contacts, the HMS Victoria Regina's intelligence officer, Commander Houston, floated in place of the map, static crackling.
"The action occurring in the eastern trench network is causing some havoc within the RAF and Naval joint reconnaissance office. JRIO is double-checking intelligence photographs to trace the origin of the forces, according to divisional staff. However," he said, reading out his notes, his voice as strong and aristocratic as his face was. He stopped when Johnson made a strange, strangled noise, hidden by the glare of the map. "Yes, Thomas?" Maclaren huffed, looking at Johnson across his nose. Martin Maclaren and Thomas Johnson didn’t get along very well. Johnson doubted Maclaren’s capabilities, his newness to the role rubbing the experienced man the wrong way, just as Maclaren found Johnson’s demeanour condescending, exacerbating his imposter syndrome bred from his known lack of staff experience.
"Nothing, nothing," Johnson muttered, shifting under the looks from the intelligence officer. Maclaren just kept staring at him, holding eye contact, making Johnson squirm in his chair. "Fine," Johnson sighed. Maclaren could be obnoxiously stubborn sometimes, and it was just easier to give in. "It’s just slightly mad that y’all lost an entire army." He said, shrugging his shoulders with an air of I’ve never lost an army before. That wouldn’t have happened under my watch.
"Hey man, that’s Brigadier Deepali Reddy’s fault, not mine," Maclaren said, sounding just as exasperated as Johnson.
"This isn’t Whitehall, Thomas, with the CDS as your drinking chum. Out here, we have to play nice," Major Smith said, pointedly to his battalion 2i/C.
"As I’ve said, we as an R-2 department have been struggling to get any intelligence reports from D-2, or even G-2. They don’t seem to like us very much. To get as much information as I have, I burnt through Macgregor’s previous intelligence system, as well as my own contacts." Maclaren added, looking impatient to carry on.
"Reddy is an idiot. I’ve worked with her before. Apologies. Didn’t realise she was the G-2," Johnson said, his face was in his hands. Maclaren felt a little bad for his tone and held his hand up in apology, too.
"Unfortunately, it isn’t as simple as the Brigadier is an idiot. If that was the case, we could do our own analysis on the intelligence packets we are receiving from D-2, and of course, you’d be involved, Thomas. But we simply aren’t receiving them. Case-in-point is this missing build-up data. Divisional Intelligence says that Brigadier Reddy told them that JRIO had ignored the eastern trench network when they were doing their analysis of the region, so no data existed. However, and the point I was going to get to when you interrupted, was that Houston asked his contact at the JRIO about the build-up. His contact clarified that the intelligence was in fact given to G-2 with the analysis complete. A fact I have just confirmed with the R-2 of my former unit, who sent me a copy of the intelligence packet. Nimrod flights last week took pictures that show an army moving out from Port Stanley going to the eastern flank. G-2 knew this, which is why D-3 sent 3rd Battalion to the east in response. What this means for us, according to the last set of intelligence that JRIO sent to G-2, and Bcc’d me into the packet, the Port Stanley sector of the trench is under-manned compared to 3 weeks ago." The holographic display showed the names of the Pan-American units at div. level as they were, 11 hours ago, there being an interesting lack of units in front of them.
"Thank you, Maclaren. This is good news. Hopefully, this might mean we can hit a six on this. Ok guys, get out of here and carry on preparing. Move out is happening at 11. You can sleep on the road." Bartlett said, Maclaren nodding in thanks. The company officers filtered out first. John Michaels was next, squeezing Maclaren’s shoulder, as he just looked drained. Surprisingly, Johnson offered to buy Maclaren breakfast. Not one to carry a grudge, Maclaren took him up on it, and they left together. Soon enough, Bartlett found himself alone, the room illuminated only by the hologram and a crack in the door that hadn’t shut yet. He leaned over the map, switching it off, the light dying with a whine of fans slowing down.
Getting ready to leave to prep himself, he could hear his CSMs and BSM bawling orders to the battalions as they moved pieces of equipment about. Lightmore slipped into the room just before the door closed behind the officers. He looked surprisingly awake. He had had over the last week barely enough sleep to power a lightbulb, let alone do a proper job. Once again, he was holding a mug of tea and a sheet of paper out to Bartlett.
"Presents for you, sir." he handed the Lieutenant-Colonel both items, which he took a deep swig from the mug. He instantly regretted it. Colm Lightmore was many things. Good at making tea was not one of them. In the 6 months that he had been his radio operator/ersatz adjutant, he had never made a good cup of tea. One afternoon on the troopship, HMS Epinephrine, Anderson, Bartlett, and Macgregor tried to teach Lightmore how to make a good cup of tea. No matter what they showed him, Lightmore just couldn’t do it. They had tried for three ridiculous hours.
"You make this, Mr Lightmore?" he asked, whilst grimacing at the latest piss-poor attempt of at tea. "Well then. This had better be good news!" He said, in a joking threat, whilst pointing at the missive.
"It’s a reply from the Lieutenant-General; it says basically ‘good hunting’." Lightmore shrugged. The six months of being in this role had taught him not to think too deeply about messages from HQ.
"What message did you say to him?" Bartlett asked, picking up the paper and reading it as Lightmore replied.
"Solent Corps on way to central trenches to start phase 2, Operation Charles."
"Ok, so why did he reply, ‘Good luck, hope target acquisition goes well, contact again when able'."
"Maybe he thinks the message is from the Colonel?" Bartlett nodded in agreement and then shook his head at the sheer stupidity of the General Staff, no wonder Macgregor and General Lawerson didn’t get along, though quite what had triggered it he wasn’t sure, it hadn’t happened during previous service, that much he knew.
"Well, no time for overthinking. I’ve got to get sorted," he said, standing up with his cup of disturbingly terrible tea, and followed by Lightmore, entered the throng of movement in the corridor.
Command Post, 1st coy, 1st battalion, 1st Solent Rifles. Port Stanley, 06:30 Zulu.
ALL THREE MEN at the command post were awake and making breakfast in their tiny hideout. Well, Jack was, but the Colonel was patiently lying down in a firing position, watching the target building intently. His left-hand index finger was gently resting against the trigger guard of the L-1812, his right hand tapping out the solo line for ‘High on the Hill’ on the rear monopod as he relaxed still further into his rifle and the ground. RSM Ironsides was eating his porridge up, leaning against a wall, his rifle on his lap, his body armour set to black, his helmet covered in concrete dust, making him look like a bit of a garden gnome.
"You know Anderson, how do you make the Rat Packs taste good?" Ironsides asked, his mouth full.
"Well, blame BSM Rush. He taught us how to pack and cook them. I just appropriated some more sugar and salt to add to them." He said, still cooking porridge over the hexamine, in the guarded alcove. He nudged his colonel, holding his breakfast to him.
After he rolled over, Macgregor sat up and took the bowl. He turned on the wireless connection between his scope and his combat glasses. Suddenly, the scope generated a zoomed-in image of the town hall steps which filled the right lens. The Combat Intelligence System, a small rifle portable version of the CIC, attached to the forward rails of his EM-9, processed the images in real-time, using an AI to interpolate the faces of officers that were going backwards and forwards and match them to the Army’s intelligence database. He was searching for the targets of this escapade, so far turning up blank.
"Hmm, this is good, Jack. Funny, I don’t remember Edward ever being that..." He stopped talking mid mouthful, his brain stalled, trying to process what he just saw. "Ouch, Holy Fuck." Macgregor spat some of his breakfast out as it burnt his mouth. His CIS had just flashed a name, and a picture, of a gigantic problem into his glasses.
"What?" Asked Anderson, assuming there was something wrong with the food. Macgregor ignored him and turned to look at Ironsides, who was busy looking at his breakfast, as he chewed on the porridge.
"Paddy, I think," Macgregor paused, his mouth refusing to say the name, "I think that I just saw Lovett." he finally got out, in a measured and very controlled manner. Ironsides looked like he gave himself whiplash, the speed he turned his head to look directly at Macgregor.
"What the fuck? Where, sir?" Ironsides couldn’t believe his ears. What was that filth doing here? His eyes flashed with a barely contained rage.
"The little fucker just walked into the town hall with an Argentine Major." Macgregor finished. The anger in Ironsides’s eyes reflected his own. Anderson looked back and forth between them, unsure what was going on, but the steel that had set into both men’s faces was not a good sign. He set his food down and quickly messaged the Squadron Leader to get her arse into the building.
"Well, that’s a turn-up.." Patrick groaned, the fire in his belly dying away slightly. Life had just got hideously complicated, and he was going to have to watch Macgregor like a hawk.
