Passing the town of Nailbridge they had eventually turned off the A4136 road and along a track into woodland until a padlocked gate had barred the way. It took Svetlana less than a minute to open the gate and once Constantine had driven the car through she used a lump of putty to disguise the damage the bolt croppers had caused.
The cars English ‘racing green’ colour scheme assisted their concealing it beneath trees.
“Was it just luck that you picked this car?” he asked and then looked at the despairing expression on her face.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know, prior preparation and planning prevents poor performance,” he answered for her.
Slipping into their newly acquired purchases they picked a clearing and found a place to observe that offered cover to escape unseen if need be.
Reading off the digits on their cheap hill walkers GPS, Svetlana relayed the location of the clearing to the commissioner on her cellular and they both settled down to wait.
After just twenty-five minutes the beat of a helicopter approaching caused them to both huddle lower into the cover of the undergrowth.
Arriving over the clearing a civilian Jet Ranger began to slowly circle as if looking for the best angle in which to make its landing approach. Clamped above one of its landing struts was a fairly innocuous football sized object.
Inside the helicopter the heat sensor clamped above the strut picked out the two heat sources concealed below the brush. The helicopter pivoted so that the side cargo door faced toward the hiding place and its side door slid open into the locked position. From inside the cargo bay two gunners wearing goggles slaved to the heat sensor combined the weight of fire from their two M60 machine guns to tear through foliage, branches, newly purchased camouflage clothing, flesh and bone. The ammunition being used was not made up of all standard ball rounds. Every third round was a flechette sabot, once clear of the muzzle the cone of the round fell apart and the twelve arrow-like flechettes continued their supersonic journey. The helicopter backed off as the gunners reloaded with fresh 500 round belts and the pilot attempted to use the aircraft’s downwash to clear a view of the two shattered figures amongst the detritus of splintered wood, leaves and torn earth.
Looking to his right in alarm the Jet Rangers pilot banked left so suddenly the two gunners were sent sliding toward the open doorway. Before they reached it 30mm cannon shells raked their machine from cargo bay to cockpit and it continued banking ever more steeply left.
From his position peering between the two pilots of the Royal Air Force Lynx helicopter, Scott’s eyes were on the section of damaged woodland rather than their accompanying Army Air Corps AH-64 Apache or its target. Scott was cursing over and over and punching the back of the bulkhead. His two escorting SFOs were gawping out the side door at the stricken Jet Ranger as its left bank became a stall and it dropped through the tree canopy sideways in a cloud of splintered timber and shattered rotor blades.
Corporal Barnes was had been pouring over the American data since the previous night, he had about got to the point where all the digits were about to flow together into an unrecognisable blur. Time for more coffee he decided. Holding up five fingers he received a nod from the flight sergeant and made his way to the kettle. It was during the act of pouring the water into a plastic cup that he got that feeling, the feeling which is associated with the subconscious, telling you that you had looked right at something of significance and not recognised it for what it was.
Returning to his workstation he sipped his powdered coffee and waited for it to kick in and give him a clue.
Colin Probert and Stevie Osgood emerged from the WO & Sgt’s Mess lugging their bergens and fighting order over to waiting 4-ton trucks. In the past two days they had been buggered about from Wales to London. Without chance to unpack they were now off again, this time to Southampton and a ferry to Holland. If you think the two soldiers were hacked off you should have been a fly on the wall of their respective married quarters when the news was broken to Mrs Probert and Mrs Osgood.
In the confusion that followed Russia’s act of war against the UK, both soldiers had been posted to No. 7 (Composite) Company, Coldstream Guards at Wellington Barracks. 7 Company was the only standing remnant of 2CG, placed in suspended animation it really only existed on paper, to be reformed with reservists if necessary. 2CG never had a 7 Company, its companies were 1, 2 (Support), 3, 4 and Headquarter Company.
Wellington Barracks is home to the five regiments of Foot Guards, Companies that carry out the day-to-day Public Duties. Mounting Guard at the Royal Palaces and HM Tower of London and providing a Guard of Honour where required.
There is not a single unit within the British Army, which is up to full strength. The same goes for the Royal Marines. Not a single Royal Navy or Royal Fleet Auxiliary ship goes to sea with its ideal peacetime compliment or even full magazines. Not a single RAF Station or its Squadron’s meet the NATO manning or equipment requirements. Politicians would rather scrimp on the Ministry Of Defence budgets than choose a cheaper venue for an unnecessary junket at taxpayers’ expense.
So Colin, Oz and 7 Company were Germany bound along with the reservists who had so far been processed through, not to stand by as battlefield casualty replacements, but to go some way to bringing the 1st Battalion Coldstream Guards up to full strength.
Having loaded their kit aboard they made their way over to the square where the Company was beginning to form up and fell in at the rear with the other newly arrived WOs and NCOs who, for the time being, constituted fifth wheels in the present orbat.
Before the RAF Lynx had touched the ground in the clearing Scott and his escorting firearms officers had leaped out. Both policemen landed, rolled and came up running with the ease of long practice. Scott did not some much land as splat. The Lynx lifted straight back up and began patrolling the area.
Neither officer directly approached the scene of violence; both took up firing positions and scanned the surroundings. The left knee of his relatively new Chino’s was smeared green and brown, a mixture of mud and grass stains, as Scott ran up favouring his left leg. Both bodies were so badly chewed up that neither was recognisable anymore as human. Breathing heavily Scott was circling the scene of carnage when his right foot snagged on something, his weakened left leg could not support his weight and he fell face first into the mess before him. With an exclamation of disgust he jerked away and wiped his right palm instinctively on his already grimed trouser leg to cleanse it of the blood and flesh it had landed in. Scott stopped in mid action and looked down; a piece of bloodied, clear cellophane was stuck to his trousers. With two fingers he gingerly peeled it off the material and turned it over, there was a portion of label attached to the plastic film.
“Sainsb?” he read aloud. He was motionless for moments as he looked hard at what lay before him and then at his foot to the object that had tripped him. Reaching into the mess for another plastic wrapped item his hand jerked back, it was warm to the touch. On his second attempt he caught it by the edge to draw it out; leaves and brush, stuffed into the now heavily punctured clothing snagged it. Prying it free he gave it a quick wipe and rendered the chemically self-heating meals instructions readable, in amongst the shredded clothes he thought he saw the remains of similar items. Scott got up, freed his foot from the green twine he’d stumbled over and saw it was attached at one end to the corner of a green backed heavy duty survival blanket lying to the side of the bloodied and torn camouflage clothing. He hobbled as he followed the twine the other way on its course deeper into the woodland. His escort moved position in order to provide cover if needed.