UNIT UK 14: Ripples

by ComsatAngel

As life in London gets back to normal, UNIT deal with the results of Mike Yate's and General Finch's treachery, whilst Sarah gains official Accredited status and the PM's thanks.

UNIT UK 14: Ripples

The aftermath of Operation Chromium arrived with the finality of the morning after's hangover. As the Brig was wont to say, after the blood and thunder came the pen and paper. Having enjoyed ourselves running around with guns, looking dramatic and dangerous, we now needed to buckle down to making out reports. I'd already typed out a sheaf of reports for UNIT, and now had to type out more for the regulars, for the Home Office, for the Evacuation Board and for the police. Peter Shore, Cabinet Minister, had taken over responsibility for the Evacuation Board after Sir Charles Grover went "missing".

Charlie boy, the Doctor had explained to me, wasn't so much missing as misplaced, or more accurately, "mis-timed". He'd got his Golden Age, was my unspoken comment: no pollution, no machines, no human beings cluttering up the planet. Mind you, he'd have to share house with countless dinosaurs. And an evil little scrote called "Whittaker", who'd also been catapulted backwards in time.

In the here and now, yours truly was being diligent to the nth degree about the endless typing, despite the impact it had on my work as Battalion Transport Officer. And my BTO work was being discharged to the best of my ability. And I'd got my shoes shined.

Captain Beresford went over Aylesbury with a sergeant in attendance, making notes on fixtures and fittings, and officers not seen to be busy, not busy enough, or not busy in an efficient and practical manner.

Captain March went over the mansion grounds with dogs and metal detectors, and discovered a Victorian culvert that went under the perimeter fence at the rear, coming up via a drain in an unused outhouse. There were signs it had been used recently.

Major Crichton, out at Swafham Prior, got busy with extra patrols, installed CCTV cameras and wrote a 25,000 word thesis on "Alien Technology Applications".

Sergeant Benton took the whole Aylesbury garrison out, one platoon at a time, and put them through drill.

Why all the unusual diligence? Because promotion was in the air. Mike Yates had resigned his commission and left both UNIT and the army, leaving a gap in the command staff that needed filling. We were all trying painfully hard to impress the Brig and whoever the review panel might appoint from Geneva or elsewhere.

The send-off party for Yates had been low-key, in accordance with his wishes. He wasn't going on to bigger and better things, after all. Personally, his departure was a relief for me; over the past few months I'd been keeping out of his way, once he realised the responsibility for his Scorpion getting brewed-up could be laid at my doorstep.

Looking to score more brownie points in the present, I rang my contacts at the Royal Corps of Transport, who recommended that I call Fourth Armoured Brigade HQ.

I was shopping around for a Scimitar light tank. They don't come in cereal packets and you can't get them at the local car showroom. Worth acquiring, however, as they are fast, armoured and mount a 30mm Rarden cannon that'll make mincemeat of anything short of an MBT.

'Do we have any spare Scimitars?' asked the suspicious officer who took the call. 'Is this a joke?'

'No, it's not a joke. I'm looking to lease a Scimitar under the EPA, Peacetime Addendum.'

'Oh. You must be UNIT. No, we don't have any spare Scimitars. We're three under establishment ourselves.'

Worth a try.

'You don't know any other unit with a spare Scimitar? Or a Scorpion, at a pinch.'

Short silence whilst the officer pondered.

'Nope. Why not go for a Fox? Same turret as the Skim, but an armoured car body. Less frightening to gentle civvies.'

Aha, he might have a point.

'Do you have a spare Fox, then?'

'No!' he chuckled, ' But the Blues and Royals happen to be swapping over one of their recon squadrons to Scimitars from Foxes. The Foxes are going into mothballs.'

There were other staffing arrangements at Aylesbury. Two new officers, Lieutenants Eden and Spofforth, were on the strength. They would be shadowing other UNIT officers, much in the way Nick and I had, over nine months ago. You couldn't help but like Eden, a garrulous outgoing youngster who treated me with a touch of awe.

'But you're a veteran!' he explained.

I tried to take the shine off my armour by saying that I'd only been on two major do's – Operation Chromium, involving dinosaurs, and Operation Athlete, involving the Autons.

'Sergeant Benton's a veteran. In at the start and still alive. Talk to him if you want a perspective on UNIT.'

Spofforth was considerably less forthcoming, another reluctant recruit to UNIT at a guess, symptoms similar to mine. He didn't volunteer how or why he'd joined, which made Nick, not to mention all the other officers, curious.

In the mess after a busy day trying to curry favour, do two jobs simultaneously and keep an eye on other attempting over-achievers, I found non-technical shop talk dwelt on a minor mystery. The Brig had drafted a cool official thank-you letter to the South African embassy for their loan of Mister Swanepoel to UNIT during the State of Emergency, which was the formal procedure as approved by Geneva and Whitehall. He also rang to offer a much more grateful thank-you in person.

'They replied "who?" ' recounted the Brig. 'Claimed not to have any such person on the embassy staff. Odd, eh?'

'Perhaps he was a time-Eddy,' suggested Captain March. 'Like the Roman maniple we saw in Battersea.'

'Romans?' commented the Brig. 'I've heard Eden spotted a medieval knight, and the RAF said a couple of aeroplanes were aloft that seemed suspiciously similar to wartime Spitfires. Romans, eh?'

He took a sip of soup and carried on.

'Time eddy. I don't think so. He was around for weeks.'

'He persisted beyond the destruction of the Finch-Grover Dinosaur Axis, sir,' I added. Whatever you might think of the political system that backed Swanepoel, he had saved my life when a group of dinosaurs came hunting me. 'Must have been someone covert, sir. Odd that they didn't want to claim credit for good publicity.'

I rang Marie later that night, to confess about my fling with Doctor Ruth Kelly. This wasn't a chore I looked forward to, but it had to be done. Given that the whole of UNIT knew about it by now, it wouldn't take long to reach the ears of Marie.

'Yes, I know about it,' she calmly replied when I managed a stumbling explanation.

Oh great.

'I see. Did one of the staff here tell you?'

'No, Doctor Kelly rang me herself to tell me how you had helped her.'

Nearly dropping the phone, I felt grateful that Marie couldn't see me rendered speechless.

'How I helped her?' One way to put it.

'Yes. We had a long talk.'

Guilty silence. The two of them had a long chat together, did they?

'You er – had a long talk? About what?'

'Oh, about men. About you.'

'Well don't keep me in suspense! What did you decide?'

She told me.

Next morning brought a call from Captain Beresford, our very own "Jems Mayson R'sseeved" pronunciation specialist.

'Lieutenant Walmsley, please report to the Guard Room, soonest,' stated the speaker on my telephone.

Deep sigh from Lt. Walmsley. The Lt. got out of bed, dressed, shaved, checked-over in mirror and ventured down to the Guard Room. An entirely too-cheerful Captain Beresford stood there already, wearing the Guardian, the Times and the Telegraph. Keeping up on current affairs, apparently.

'Whoah Mohammed! Lieutenant Walmsley,' he gleefully chorused. 'How's your dress uniform?'

'Spick and span, sir,' I replied. It was. Freshly laundered, starched and free from canteen medals.

'How entirely splendid. It'll look wonderful at the presentation.'

Not being in on the secret, I manifested an air of Complete Stupidity.

'The presentation, Lieutenant. At the West German Embassy? In half an hour?'

He was entirely too happy, that chap. Must know something I didn't.

When I got to the Embassy, a small cluster of press had arrived there already. A television crew were pointing their camera at the door, where I was met and escorted inside.

The Ambassador was a large, well-groomed man who spoke perfect English, coming forward to shake my hand from a group of men in suits.

'Welcome, Lieutenant Walmsley. If you will come into the Miessen Room?'

This turned out to be an airy room with chairs arranged around the wall, a podium at the far end covered with microphones and the West German flag on the wall.

The group of people stood behind the Ambassador and he stood behind the podium. The press were ushered in, and surprise surprise, so were the two German telly people from HR3 I'd helped rescue from being eaten by a dinosaur.

Yes, it sounds ridiculous, in print. In practice it was exceedingly unpleasant – the Dillyfoosaur had killed one of the film crew already. This time round the soundman was immaculately clad in a fitted suit, and whilst the lady had plenty of make-up on, it was a lot more subtle this time.

The Ambassador made a short speech in German and then English, giving a potted account of how I'd shot dead the dangerous animal – "dinosaur" not being mentioned – hence saving the life of these two German citizens. I took charge of a scroll and medal, presented to me on a cushion; the soundman and reporter then made a short speech of gratefulness in German, translated, I shook their hands for the press to photograph, and the presentation was over.

Of course, having made an effort to get there, the press wanted a few questions. Project Broom had issued guidelines – stick to operational details, avoid any mention of the word "dinosaur", understate and be modest.

Modesty, comes naturally. I felt genuinely bewildered by all this fuss being made. Perhaps it showed. One of the men in suits, who had come to collect the HR3 people from London back during the State of Emergency, noticed this and took me aside.

'The frau you rescued is the wife of the man who heads HR3. He was very grateful and asked for official recognition.'

Then it was back to Aylesbury, more enlightened and possessor of a scroll and medal.

Sergeant Benton popped into my office later in the afternoon.

'Just to say thanks for the Jack Daniels, sir.'

'Not at all. Marie's been going on at me about drinking too much. I see you've got people out painting – trying to impress?'

He winked.

'Partly, sir. The Brigadier doesn't want Geneva to think we run a sloppy ship here. Keeps the men busy and out of mischief. They're a bit peed-off that Captain March found that tunnel into the grounds.'

'Good grief! You mean they were using that to get back inside after hours?'I shook my head.

'Never underestimate the ability of the British squaddy to find drink and women, sir,' said a grinning Sergeant as he left.

An adjutant from the Blues and Royals rang back – yes, they were putting their Fox armoured cars into long-term storage, fourteen of them, in pretty good condition.

Shortly before tea, who showed up but Miss Smith, the Doctor's new assistant. After a polite knock, she came in and delivered a charming smile.

'Lieutenant Walmsley, we met briefly at the temporary HQ.'

'Yes,' I replied, slowly and with considerable suspicion. She was a journalist, after all.

'Well, I'm compiling information about how UNIT operates.'

'For an article?' Project Broom would sit on that particular article, ho ho.

'Oh no, for a book!'

'A book. I see. Do remember what I mentioned about our last journalist visitor.'

My tone and posture were not encouraging, but young Sarah had a secret weapon. She ferreted about in her shoulder bag and produced –

'Official UNIT accreditation, and this letter.'

Strewth, as Benton would say. The laminated accreditation slip actually mentioned her Occupation - "Journalist".

'How did you get one of these! I've never heard of the press getting anywhere near accreditation.'

She got a look of mischief on her face.

'The government were so grateful to the Doctor for solving the crisis that they were amenable to a little, ah, persuasion. Originally they wanted to give him a big cheque.'

That got a snort of amusement from me. The Doctor and money simply did not go together.

'I know!' laughed Sarah. 'This was cheaper and more appreciated.'

Her second secret weapon was written on headed paper from Number 10.

"Please render all assistance possible to the bearer of this letter, Miss Sarah Jane Smith", signed by Harold Wilson, the Prime Minister. I whistled, putting the letter down with exaggerated care and tapping it.

'That, Miss Smith, that is a pretty powerful piece of paper. You look after it.'

A shrug from Sarah.

'It'll be useless after the next election, I bet. I can put it on the wall in a frame. Now, are you prepared to be co-operative?'

Damn it, she was persistent and personable! I threw up my hands.

'Go on, go on. Ask away. Make sure you get the notes approved by a senior officer.'

She sat down and produced a biro and notepad.

'You are the Battalion Transport Officer, according to the sign on your door. What do you do?'

'Hmm. Well, I have a team of fitters responsible to me, who work on the vehicles we have here at Aylesbury. They make sure the vehicles are in full working order, fully fuelled up, plenty of ammunition, able to get about. UNIT would look a bit sick if we had to catch the bus to get to an incident.'

'And what vehicles do you have?'

'Good question – basic complement is a dozen Landrovers, sixteen Bedfords, Landrover wireless truck, an FV432, a Scorpion, an air-portable Bedford – um, what else? Oh, the Brigadier's official staff car, big saloon job, and a smaller one for more covert use.'

'Sorry, what's the "FV432"?'

'Oh, right. Sorry, if I come out with any jargon or slang just ask. The FV432 is an armoured personnel carrier, a big armoured box on tracks. The Brig rather unkindly refers to it as "the sardine tin".'

'And the Scorpion is a light tank.'

'Correct. I've also been trying to get hold of some Fox armoured cars. Not as alarming to the public as a tank, but they can stop anything short of an MBT. Sorry – "Main Battle Tank", a big tank like the Chieftan or an M60.'

'You said "get hold of". I thought your equipment was given to you?'

I laughed heartily at that.

'Not a bit of it! Miss Smith - '

'Please, Sarah.'

'Sarah. Our transport is leased from the Regular Army, technically the Ministry of Defence, who never fail to try and palm-off transport that is completely kn- ah, not up to scratch, worn out. The Scorpion I mentioned needed the engine completely overhauling, the clutch replacing and the tracks tightened up. That took a week, when we could have used it in London.'

She scribbled a bit, then looked up.

'Leased. I didn't know that.'

'The MoD is not generous with bigger items of kit. Hell, they're not generous with any kit. We lost our only two inch mortar at Auderley House and they not only billed us for it, they won't give us a replacement. Thank heavens for Nick Munroe and his ability to scrounge. I have to locate stuff that's going spare and apply to lease it, which can be for one, two or three years. If, at the end of that time, the vehicle isn't in the same condition it arrived in, we have to pay a forfeiture under the leasing terms. That's why Windmill 123 – sorry, our Bell helicopter and the Wessex, that's why we have them and not the nice new Puma or Gazelle models.'

'Oh – they don't tell you about tanks and trucks you might want?'

I made an irritated noise.

'Do they what! No, the MoD certainly doesn't. However, I have a carefully crafted web of contacts across the army who can be informative.'

'Okay!' she said. 'That's your job. What about you?'

'Me? Why me?'

'Human interest, lieutenant. A long dry chapter on trucks and guns needs a bit of background on the gallant men in khaki.'

'Flatterer! Very well. I am one of the few permanent UNIT members on roll here at Aylesbury. Sorry, "on roll" is simply being on the staff. After being inducted I put a good enough case to Geneva to be taken on permanently. The current burst of activity you are seeing is unusual, because one of the good things about UNIT is the lack of involvement in formal occasions. We don't have to send a detail to guard Article X or person Y whilst wearing dress uniforms.'

'Okay, now, why did you join UNIT?'

Brief explanation of my reluctant involvement. She seemed impressed at that, scribbling furiously.

'I've also been told that your nicknames are "Big John" and "Batterman". Care to explain?'

I probably flushed crimson at those two; who had she been speaking to!

'Ah. Er – well, the first is because I am large and the, uh, second because I hit things.' Only vaguely true.

'And how many operations have you been on?'

'Only two. Operation Chromium – the late unpleasantness with dinosaurs – and Operation Athlete, that affair with the Autons at Leek Wootton. And – not an operation at all – I went to Russia with the Doctor.'

Sarah's scribbling stopped at that last point, and she slowly looked up at me.

'When?' she asked, simply.

'Nineteen sixty nine.'

She nodded, not making any notes at this statement.

'A few weeks ago I would have said you were ready for the funny farm, lieutenant. But I've been to the Middle Ages with the Doctor. The twelfth century.'

'You be careful!' I warned, with genuine sincerity. 'I went to Russia able to say six words of Russian with a Wigan accent, and came back speaking fluent north-provincial idiomatic.'

Sarah opened her mouth to speak and caught herself.

'Oh – I wonder if I can get by in latin?' she said, speaking quietly to herself. 'Anyway – you've been on UNIT operations, and are experienced in the ways of the organisation. A veteran.'

This bold over-simplification sent alarm bells ringing.

'Whoa, hey, not at all! If you want veterans, go talk to the Brigadier or Sergeant Benton. They've both been in since the beginning, unlike me. Sergeant Whittaker or Corporal Timms or Corporal Dene, all in for far longer than me.'

' "Modest understatement by decorated officer - ",' mouthed Sarah, writing busily. 'More interesting than other ranks - '

'Miss Smith,' I interjected coldly. 'My men would not appreciate being diminished or dismissed like that, and if you carry on like that this interview will end instantly.'

That set her back on her heels a bit, making a surprised face and causing an unpleasant silence to fall.

'Sorry – what did I say?' she asked, sounding genuinely hurt. 'I didn't mean to - '

'Okay, okay, I bit back rather hard.' Several more seconds of silence fell. 'Sarah, one thing dinned into officer cadets at every opportunity is that your men are your first concern. You look after them. You manage them, you lead them, you motivate or shout at them but you absolutely one hundred per cent do not ever, ever, EVER regard them as mere cannon fodder.'

Deep breath, Walmsley. Get a grip, focus.

'For instance, most recently. In Operation Chromium, Private Ashworth saved the life of a kidnap victim by checking if nearby cars had been used recently. Private Roker found the kidnap victim. Privates Roker and Pierce captured two looters who'd kidnapped the girl. That's UNIT privates and NCO's, not me. My platoon sergeant, Sergeant Horrigan, was Corporal Horrigan when he joined, but he was obviously good enough to get promoted rapidly. '

Sarah had regained some poise now and nodded.

'I remember reading the reports about that kidnap.'

'Plus, Sergeant Benton decked General Finch at a critical moment. Don't forget the NCO's in UNIT, Sarah. If UNIT can be compared to a car, then the officers are the driver but the engine is composed of NCO's. A good NCO can overcome an idiot commanding officer, but a bad NCO will undermine the best CO.'

She looked at me with a calculating eye. Sharp customer, that lass.

'You're not trying to shift the spotlight, are you? The West Germans did give you an award, after all.'

'Political expediency. Oh – how the hell could I forget this one! Our CO in the Queen's Lancs used to have this quote on a plaque. Let me sort out my memory – here goes – "Gentlemen – you will not eat, drink or sleep until you ensure your men have done so. If you do this, they will follow you to the ends of the earth. If you do not, I will break you in front of your regiment." And he meant it. General Leslie Moreshead. Ozzie. Meant what he said, did Moreshead.'

The general had been involved in the Western Desert campaigns of 1941 and 1942, an obscure area of history that I didn't expect Miss Smith to get at all. She did, indeed, laugh quietly.

'Sorry, sorry! I just can't picture a tough-as-nails general called "Leslie". Most especially an Australian.'

'His nickname, Sarah, was "Ming the Merciless". When Australian troops describe an OC as "tough as nails" it means they can shoot laser beams from their eyes and kill at half a mile with sarcasm alone. My point, a bit laboured, is that the UNIT squaddies deserve as much appreciation as officers.'

She made an exculpatory gesture with both hands.

'Okay. I apologise for treading on toes. Now that we've covered your job and you, what about your comrades-in-arms – any opinions?'

'This isn't attributable, is it?' I asked, sensibly cautious. Miss Smith smiled broadly.

'I'm pleasantly surprised by your perception, Lieutenant. I think that's the first time anyone not a politician has ever asked me about "attribution". Whatever you say will be in the unidentified second person.'

Oh my.

'Well. Well indeed! You have the Brig – Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart. A living legend. He could be a full General in about five minutes, if he rang Whitehall, but he likes being at the sharp end too much. If you want to lose your teeth in the canteen, start slagging-off the Brig.

'Then you have Indestructible Sergeant Benton. Born to be hung, as people have mentioned. Been through a hundred skirmishes and still here. He also acts as the Brig's bodyguard, which means the opposition need tanks or better, or they'll be Discharged Dead.

'Quarter Master Sergeant Campbell. Dour Scottish clerk, controls all stores at Aylesbury. He's in a perpetual battle of wits with the Doctor about what can and can't be used for scientific research.

'Captain Beresford. Probably the best-spoken officer you will ever meet. Intelligence Corps background, and steer clear of him, he's not over-fond of journalists.

'Captain March. I don't know where he came from, but he can totally transform himself given thirty minutes and an inspiration. I once threatened him with a tyre lever when he came into the garages in disguise.'

'Lieutenant John Walmsley. Talented, gifted, handsome – oh, alright. Large, with a very bad temper when provoked. Deceptively intelligent.

'Lieutenant Nick Munroe. Fond of -'

'Oh, I've met Nick,' Sarah dropped into the conversation. 'He told me about you and Doctor Kelly.'

Had he. Had he indeed. Mister Munroe need look to his body armour and medical insurance, then.

'You need to be careful around him. One of his hobbies is romancing single young females. Like yourself.'

Sarah laughed the laugh of incredulity – What Her?

'Yes you. Doubtless he's told all sorts of tales about me.'

Sarah abruptly became serious, which worried me.

'He has. Reading between the lines, I think he looks up to you.'

That would be a first. Nick regarding anyone or anything as more than a business opportunity would be unique.

'Well, I look upon him as the idiot younger brother I never had. All joking aside, Sarah, he saved my life. At Leek Wootton, if he'd showed up about three minutes later, I'd be dead and the rest of the section with me. That's nine lives saved, which I bet he didn't mention. No? Ah, there you have it. Typical British officer's understatement.'

Sarah carried on with her note-taking, scribbling and asking questions. She had wheedled information out of Nick that I knew already – sprig of landed Scottish gentry, father a big cheese in the Black Watch, independently wealthy.

'But he never fails to take advantage of a situation to make money. Out to prove himself to his dad, I think. Oh! Speak of the devil!'

Nick had come into the office, clutching my Nitro Express.

'Courier delivered it about two minutes ago. Ah, Sarah. Remember what I said about Doctor Kelly.'

I got the rifle off him. Holland and Holland had kindly offered to refurbish it for me, free of charge, so the barrels were now blue-steeled and the grimy old stock replaced with a spotless walnut one.

'Fortunately for you there's no ammo in this room. Matey.'

'What do you need such a big – oh! Oh, I see.'

'Correct. That, Sarah, is the lieutenant's anti-dinosaur gun.'

A wag at the gunsmiths had engraved the barrel "Property of UNIT For use against dinosaurs"

'What are you chewing the fat with this dull and listless fellow, young lady?'

'Lieutenant Walmsley was filling in the background of UNIT for me. Tell you what, John, there's more to this background than I realised. Can I meet again at a later date? Splendid!'

'What I actually came to inform you about, BTO – hardly an interesting job, is it, Sarah? – is that we require a secure vehicle for prisoner transit within forty eight hours.'

'Which prisoners? Don't tell me – Finchy. Forty eight hours, eh? That's a bit soon.'

Mister Finch, stripped of his rank by the court martial, currently sat in Wandsworth, awaiting transit to Parkhurst on the Isle of Wight and his long long sentence.

'D'you think I could get an interview with him?' asked Sarah to the general office at large, casually waving her letter and permit under Nick's nose, which twitched.

'Leave it to me, Miss Smith.'

Nick squired her out on his arm, chased on his way by an evil look from me. That engraving might very well have come from the fertile mind of a chap like him.

Mention of ex-General Finch brought a few more questions to mind. He'd been the Army traitor working for Operation Golden Age, responsible for various diversions, discredits and sabotages during the State of Emergency. Field Marshal Carver, top dog in the British army, described Finch at a news conference as "an utter, abject disgrace to the uniform he wore, the country he lived in and the race he belonged to." Finchy, as his guards took delight in calling him, seemed less than worried about his fifty year sentence, even though it would be in solitary confinement. Given that he'd been part of a plot to eradicate the whole human race, it was deemed unwise to put him in amongst the general prison population. Leaks and hints about the conspirators were gradually coming out, vetted by Project Broom.

What had Finchy wanted out of Operation Golden Age?

I put the question in the mess that evening, not thinking it was shop, which is frowned upon unless the senior officers mention it first. The chilly Major Crichton was present, which had dampened the atmosphere. Chiselled features, three degrees in mechanical engineering, cybernetics and mathematics, but not a cosy chatty fellow. Normally he hides at Swafham Prior, analysing alien scrap; the sniff of promotion in the air must have tempted him forth. Suprisingly, he spoke up first.

'Been wondering that myself, Lieutenant Walmsley. Possibility number one is that he intended to expose the scheme himself, having eliminated Sir Charles and Whittaker and the chief understudy – Butler, wasn't it? – as they could identify him. Kudos all round, promotion, shot at political life. Second theory, he intended to take over the "colonists" as dictator, once again after eliminating the original leaders. Wouldn't be difficult with most of them in deep-freeze. Third theory, he simply wanted to be in on the winning side alive and whole; something in his background in the here-and-now gone wrong, maybe, financial scandal perhaps. Unhappy in love!' and with that last comment the chilly major gave a shark-like smile.

I got a major stroke of inspiration, right there at the mess table. It was wiser to keep it under my hat, for the moment. Captain Beresford noticed my change in expression and tactfully changed the subject.

'How'd the presentation go, John?'

'Very efficiently, sir. The Germans are hot stuff on organisation. Bit puzzled why they got me.'

'Me too,' interjected Nick, sipping his consomme coolly.

'Distraction, probably. Captain Keane and Project Broom have been meddling with the media non-stop since the State of Emergency ended.'

'They'll have their work cut out!' scoffed Nick.

The Brig spoke, so we all shut up to listen.

'Not really. Some other media attraction will come along and the public's memory is rather short for things not immediately in their focus. Who remembers the Big Freeze or the Web Fungus? Even the Autons are old hat nowadays.'

'After all, there aren't actually any dinosaur remnants to study,' added Major Crichton. Wow, two utterances in an evening, he was going to get a sprained tongue at this rate. 'I rather think that the American withdrawal from South-East Asia will get more media attention from now on, alongside the Portuguese withdrawal from colonial empire in Africa.'

He was entirely correct, actually, and that single sentence had profound implications for UNIT, even if we couldn't see them at the time.

'Have they defrosted all the Brave New Worlders yet?' asked Lieutenant Eden, braving a comment for the first time.

'I think the last batch got woken up this morning. Yes, they have taken it slowly. Helps the poor buggers to adjust. They've still had a couple of suicides and a breakdown all the same.'

Once the port had gone round and I'd politely excused myself, Captain Beresford caught up with me.

'Okay, John, spit it out. I saw the Bright Idea circuit go on in your head.'

'Sir, you bet! How do we find out what Finchy was up to, what he was planning? We plant a double-agent on him.'

'Not in solitary confinement, we don't.'

'Before he gets there, whilst he's still in Wandsworth. I know, no normal prisoner could be trusted not to do old Finchy in, but we use Warrant Officer Talfryn Davies. He's the one mentioned as an awful warning to staff at the assessments, stuck in Long Lartin. We put it to Finchy that WO Davies is up for a sentence for leaking to the press, which is true, but make it apply to Operation Chromium.'

Beresford sucked his lip thoughtfully.

'Finch has no connection with UNIT, wouldn't know WO Davies' real criminal history. Davies, being ex-UNIT, would be pretty blasé about threats to the planet. Not likely to kill the ex-general on the spot. You may have an idea there. Ah! But only two days to carry it out.'

'Hmm. Well, have the Governor at Parkhurst cry off – get Proj Broom to push the media a bit, say a riot's broken out over the news Pinchy Finchy is going there. That'd mean a long delay whilst a new prison gets found.'

Neither of us knew then that MI5, the Royal Military Police's CID wing and Special Branch were all poking about in the ex-general's past, looking for clues.

Captain Beresford took my idea to the Brig, and scrupulously maintained it was my idea instead of claiming it as his own, which was decent of him. The Brig was intrigued and asked me to his office.

'A lot of bother just to tidy up loose ends, John. Why go to all that trouble?'

For the second time, inspiration struck.

'Well, sir, nobody really knows why Finchy joined the conspiracy. Even Major Crichton couldn't come up with a decent explanation. What if the ex-general intended to betray his new colonial friends? Not much of a stretch for him, he'd already betrayed everyone else. In for a penny, in for a pound.'

The Brig cocked a sceptical eye at Beresford.

'At the worst, we do a deal with Davies that gets him out of jail sooner. At best – we may find out some crucial information. If UNIT got that before anyone else our stock would stand pretty high, sir.'

'Done. Leave it to me!' asserted the Brig, with vigour.

The next day the Brig and I travelled to Long Lartin, where we interviewed dumpy, grumpy Warrant Officer Davies. He was offered transfer to a civilian prison, remission of sentence, parole application and re-establishment of pension – if he agreed to function as our man on the inside at Wandsworth. Just to be on the safe side, Captain March would be there too, as a guard, or an inmate, or a worker. Davies took the offer gladly.

By coincidence, there was disquiet utterly unconnected with Proj Broom at Parkhurst when they learned Pinchy Finchy was heading there, and that was just the staff. Serious prisoner unrest could be guaranteed if the transfer went ahead, so - it didn't. Instead Finchy was told he needed to stay at Wandsworth for an indeterminate time, with the additional humiliation of a "right bloody rogue" sharing the cell. Davies was warned not to get pally too quickly; we could play the long game here. In an emergency, he had a mascot – a small yellow plastic duck – to be stuck in the cell window.

When we got back to Aylesbury, a Mini had parked outside the perimeter fence, the driver patiently sitting and waiting. Naturally this didn't go down well with the Brig, who sent his large, grim-looking subaltern to chase the nosey civvie away.

The driver's window got wound down before I reached the car and a pretty young girl stuck her head out.

'Lieutenant Walmsley! How are you!'

I stopped dead before continuing. Who was she?

'I'm sorry, miss, do I know you?'

She crossed her arms at the wrists.

'I was a bit of a mess the last time we met.'

Instantly I knew her.

'Nurse Warton! Good God, I didn't recognise you! Er – how are you?'

The last time we met she'd been battered black and blue, naked, covered in blood and tied at wrists and ankles.

'Fine, thanks. Here to meet Don. Don Ashworth? One of your men.'

Private Ashworth promptly appeared at the gate, waving his pass at the sentries and dashing to the Mini, wearing civvy clothes.

'You treat her like a gentleman!' I called to him, barely able to resist grinning.

'Yessirgentlemansir – just like you,' he called over his shoulder, the Geordie rascal.

'Romantic end to a rather nasty beginning, sir,' I told the Brig on getting back into his car, giving the details.

The Brig didn't comment, merely nodding and looking out of the window. Probably wondering if Private Ashworth could be trusted not to divulge UNIT secrets.

That evening, at the mess meal, Lethbridge-Stewart held forth briefly on the romance between Student Nurse Warton and Private Ashworth.

'Be aware of relationships, gentlemen. Be aware. Mighty oak trees from acorns can grow. I myself remember a headmistress – anyway, be aware of your unit's attachments, so to speak and pardon the puns. And I congratulate John on rescuing a thoroughly charming young lady.'

Various amused glances were directed at me.

'Oh, John likes them older and wiser, sir,' commented Nick, bordering on misbehaviour. He was correct, actually – Marie is nearly thirty and Ruth is thirty six and both are loaded with degrees.

'I don't think an officer's private life is a proper matter for the mess, Lieutenant,' commented the Brig in a verrrry cold tone. Nick visibly regretted making an easy quip. Ah, what the hell, I reasoned, he was a stout friend and ally.

'I don't mind, sir. My life is an open book, my morals are sound and my strength is as the strength of ten because my heart is pure.'

Lethbridge-Stewart bit into his steak chasseur as if to stifle a smile. Hang on – headmistress? I remembered ringing him and getting "Doris" answering the phone on one occasion. Doris is a very headmisstress-y name.

'So you're still courting Elaine Valdupont?' asked an interested Captain Beresford.

'That ought to be "Marie", sir. "Elaine" is her official work name, which she cordially detests. Yes sir, I am.'

'What about Ruth Kelly - er, Doctor Kelly?' asked Nick, changing the name when the Brig's chilly eye fell upon him.

I tapped the side of my nose. Let them all guess!

In fact I met with Ruth a week later, since she had pestered me to arrange a meeting between her and the Doctor ever since discovering about him. Not discovered his entire details, just a blue-pencilled version that we in UNIT were allowed to pass on.

Doctor Ruth Kelly is employed by the Natural History Museum as a palaeontologist, a dinosaur expert. Naturally she'd been in her element during the recent State of Emergency. Tracking down her laboratory and then office wasn't easy in a building the size of the Museum.

When I finally found the cluttered lab, which was full of posters displaying dinosaurs, fossils, skeletons, plants, time-lines and –

'Bloody hell!'

'Excuse me hello?' said a lilting male voice away in a corner. The muttered curses died away as I realised there was another person in the room. The other person stood up from their microscope and looked me over whilst I looked them over: male, at least my height, blond hair and beard, built like a rugby player.

'You are whom?' asked the stranger, with an intonation that seemed Scandinavian.

'Lieutenant Walmsley. Here to see Doctor Kelly.'

The big Swede - ? - nodded and pursed his mouth, at the same time someone pinched me on the bum.

'Ow – Ruth! How did I guess.'

She gave me a slightly-more-than-friendly hug, at which the Swede frowned. Her now obligatory dress of second-hand military fatigues was years ahead of the times.

'Hello, big boy! How are you and what brings you here?'

'Hello yourself. These are what brings me here.'

I presented the UNIT Visitor Passes to her.

'These passes do not have a date on them, so you can use them at any time. Treat them with care! No, I mean it. You could sell these to a major newspaper for tens of thousands, no kidding.'

Ruth took the passes and checked them over.

'Wow, authentic and everything. D'you want a cuppa?'

No British soldier ever ever ever refuses a cup of tea. Any squaddie who says "no thanks" to the offer of a cuppa is in fact an evil alien invader.

Ruth unkindly sent her Scandinavian hulk off to make the tea, after which she gave me a sedate kiss and sat us both down on chairs, whilst shuffling papers aside.

'Those passes will get you and an assistant into UNIT Aylesbury, especially if I'm there. What you absolutely must do is ring before arriving, to check that the Doctor is in. Okay?'

She twinkled mischievously at me without saying anything. A few women are like that, spitting sparks whilst sitting still, and Ruth was one.

'Who's the Swedish meatball?'

She made a curious gesture, a slicing motion made with the forefingers of one hand over the fingers of the other hand.

'Don't be nasty to Nils! He's Norwegian, not Swedish.'

'Big chap,' I added, remembering the comment of Ruth's old assistant about the kind of men she liked. 'Looks like a rugby union prop.'

'Here for experience with the Cretaceous. One of hundreds, actually. The rest of the world can't get enough of us, jealous bastards!'

A moment of common silence fell and Ruth looked up at me.

'How are you doing amongst the alien-smashers?' she asked quietly. 'Conquered you inner demons yet?'

'I'm coping pretty well. And while it may sound trite and contrived, meeting you and the Fantastically Incredible Invasion has helped me to deal with the old temper.' No joking.

'You flatter me,' she said, flushing slightly. 'Where's Nils with that brew?'

I daringly put one finger under her chin and pulled her face up to look directly at me.

'No word of a lie, Doctor Ruth Kelly. Thanks to the lessons learned, I can cope with what would have been a killing rage.'

She moved my finger down with both hands.

'John, don't –'

'Hey! I'm not trying anything on, Ruth, honestly. No flirting, no fancy moves. Look at this face, this face is the face of a man not trying anything on. Marie told me that you'd rung her, and that you'd had a long talk.'

No comment from Ruth there. The big friendly smile on my face may have helped convince.

'She told me that I'd helped a woman through a troubled time, but not to do it again, or at least not without asking her.'

Ruth coughed, either with embarassment or stress.

'John – I meant what I said last time, that we couldn't be an item, not again.'

'Hm? Oh! I didn't mean about us, Ruth, I was talking in the abstract.'

Fortunately Nils arrived with a tray of china and a teapot, stifling discussion.

'The museum has instituted a scholarship, you know,' mentioned Ruth in passing, adding sugar cubes to her tea. 'In Henry's name.'

The Henry Kelly scholarship turned out to be a prize for the most original graduate thesis on palaeontology. One way of remembering the mad old fart, I suppose.

I pointed at the blown-up photo of me in dress uniform on the wall that had been such a surprise on entry.

'That one there's not a dinosaur. Where'd you get it!'

She winked at me, vim fully restored.

'From the West German embassy. The presentation? You got photographed lots there.'

'Yes. One wonders, idly, how the West German embassy knew to send you a photo.'

This time I got the nose-tapping finger in reply. Infuriating!

The Doctor's winsome assistant, SJS, caught me that afternoon in the canteen, along with Lieutenant Eden and Captain Beresford. We were in battle-dress, having been conducting a TEWT around Aylesbury, and I was fagged-out from driving to and from London in the morning after a dawn start.

'There you are!' exclaimed Sarah on catching sight of us. 'I thought officers always ate in the mess? I've been hanging around there.'

Captain Beresford had his mouth full of egg banjo, and Lieutenant Eden seemed rendered speechless by an assertive young woman, so yours truly spoke up.

'We're encouraged to do so, Miss Smith. In practice we sometimes have no choice but to rough it in the canteen. Can Lieutenant Eden get you anything?'

'Please, call me Sarah. You make me sound like my aunt when you say "Miss Smith". A cup of tea would be nice.'

'In a cup not a mug,' I cautioned, sending eager young Eden off.

She sat down and positively beamed goodwill at us.

'I'm glad you're here without Lieutenant Munroe, John.'

'Eh? Why so? You'd break his heart, saying that.'

'You and he just insult each other endlessly.'

'They do have an impressive ability to banter amusing hostilities without end,' commented Beresford.

'Yes! Do you know what some of the soldiers call them?'

Three pairs of ears were all agog.

'Little and Large,' laughed Sarah.

I frowned. Little and Large are two dismally unfunny comedians.

'Oh! Little and Large – those two funny Northern chaps. Hilarious!' chortled Eden, returning with a cup of tea.

'So hilarious they could only be improved by a dose of sudden death,' I grumbled. Little and Large, indeed!

'What brings you to see us, Sarah?' asked Captain Beresford, a man not notably fond of journalists.

Sarah explained about her book.

'A book,' repeated Captain Beresford faintly. 'I see. A book.'

'Oh yes, no worry about print deadlines or word totals or sub-editors hacking up your article in a book. Of course it wouldn't be published until the UN permits, but with my inside advantage I could have it at galley stage within days. Isn't that good.'

'Have you interviewed anyone else?' asked Captain Beresford, taking closer interest.

'Quite a few people. Sergeant Benton was a real mine of information. So was Major Crichton.'

'Sarn't Benton? And the Major?' I asked, not sure if I'd heard correctly.

'Oh yes. The sergeant's a real pussycat! And the Major was quite charming. Said he had to make up for General Finch being so ungentlemanly. What? What! Did I say something wrong?'

She'd caught the captain and I exchanging glances, and even Eden, not long with us, looked startled.

'Sergeant Benton is most certainly not a pussycat, Mis – Sarah. Everyone here treats him with a certain degree of wary respect,' explained the Captain. I nodded in vehement agreement. Benton presented a big smiling countenance to the outside world, whilst being mister nasty in real life to enemies of the Crown and alien invaders.

'And Major Crichton is not known for being chatty or gentlemanly, if I may be so bold, eh sir? Sharp as a knife and barring the Doctor probably the smartest person on the grounds, but – well, you must have used your feminine wiles especially well.'

A dangerous gleam came to her eye. Whoops John lad, get yourself out of that hole you're digging –

'Didn't you want to get more background to UNIT, carry on where we left off?' I added, hoping to change the subject.

'Go on. I want to ask you what the biggest problem is facing UNIT.'

'Morale,' we all three replied simultaneously, not rehearsed, honest.

'You've got together to try it on!' accused Sarah. 'This is the third lot of officers I've asked and they all said the same thing.'

'That's because it's true,' said Captain Beresford. 'The regulars have several hundred years of history and tradition behind them. We don't. How can we stiffen the backbone of soldiers without a regimental history?'

'Yes! Remember when I said UNIT's perks included not having to man parades and memorials? The down side to that is that we don't have a couple of centuries-worth of tradition to draw on. If you want your men to go out and face alien monsters from planet Zarkwon or Rootan, you need a bit of stiffening.'

SJS looked a bit sceptical at that.

'I was on an exercise in Germany, you know,' added Eden, sounding painfully sincere. 'And another lieutenant – not from an Army family you know - '

cue stage hisses from the captain any myself –

' – after crossing the Rhine, he went to bed. The CO asked him about his men the next morning. He said "I'm fine – the men?". And that was the end of his career.'

Sarah looked at us with only slightly disguised concern.

'Is morale really that important? I thought you'd say – oh – money or equipment or guns or the like.'

Captain Beresford and I shared a pitying look.

'Do you want to reply?' he asked.

'With high morale your unit can do anything. With cr – er, poor morale even the best equipment and training won't get you anywhere. We have to motivate our men to go out and risk death facing foes we can't even acknowledge exist. That's a problem.'

'Have you heard the quote from General Moreshead? Oh you have,' asked Eden.

'And typists,' added the Captain. 'Another problem.'

This time Sarah got a look of worriment on her face.

'You mean your typists are – enemies?'

'Lord no! No, I meant we can't get any.'

He explained further. Experienced typists were a rarity at Aylesbury, given that we were primarily a military reaction force. There were lots of typists at Kensington Office, scads of them, but security and time meant that files or reports couldn't be mailed or couriered over there for typing, barring a few critical ones. Nor would the staff there necessarily be able to interpret and decipher Aylesbury handwriting.

Sarah got a knowing look on her face.

'I can see the opportunity of some reciprocal benefits here, Captain Beresford.'

The Captain gave a non-commital "oh?" in reply. Sarah grinned and flexed her fingers.

' "Qwertyuiop",' she said, inevitably leading to us frowning at her. 'Do you know what it is?'

'Pseudonym of author?' guessed Eden.

'Extinct flying reptile?' grinned Beresford.

'One of the Doctor's alien foes?' I added, joining in the fun at Sarah's expense. 'No, can't be, his enemies always sound like patent medicines.'

'The top sequence of letters on a typewriter,' she explained. 'Fifty words a minute, that's me. I can do some of your typing.'

Shrewd young lady. If she typed, she got to see and read all the important documents.

'Not all of them, and not all of the time – I'm a girl with a living to make, you know, so I can't always be here.'

Captain Beresford narrowed his eyes in appreciation at her offer and smarts.

'Done. Providing, Miss Smith, that you DO NOT under any circumstances divulge what you type to any third party.'

'Done!' she smiled.

'We might be able to get you a stipend for working here at Aylesbury, Sarah. That is, with the proviso that the Civil Service wheels grind incredibly slowly when it comes to paying people.'

Sarah told me, months later, that the Civil Service had actually agreed to pay her within a week of our meeting in the canteen. I suspected that the Doctor heard of her plight and got involved. Whilst he may profess to detest authority, he can certainly exploit it, not least by way of his club connections. For one, I was extremely grateful for Sarah's typing skills, since my jumbo-sausage sized fingers meant countless typos in reports.

The second part of Sarah's "reciprocal benefits" that benefitted her, was her mere presence at Aylesbury. She could stop and ask the staff questions. And she did, within days of the canteen meeting.

'Hello?' she called, knocking on my office door and coming in. 'Oh, John – don't look so suspicious and cross this close to home-time!'

'Suspicious and cross is my normal look. How come you always track me down to ask questions?'

'You're a fixed target. I know where you work. Now, I have a few questions about slang words.' She produced her spiral-bound notebook and a pen.

The sitting duck rolled his eyes, capped his biro and rang the canteen to send up tea and sandwiches.

'Let's see – "smudge", "gimpy", "toot", "Bertie", "full screw", "ticking", "bandook". Those will do for the moment.'

'That's all?' I asked hopefully.

'Not at all! I need more human interest details. John – don't look so cross! I'll type out your fuel consumption reports for you,' she ended, in a flirty, wheedling tone. I hated trying to type those out, having to use the Tab key.

'Okay. A smudge is the nickname for a sub-machine gun – hence SMG, hence smudge. A gimpy is the same sort of slang for the General Purpose Machine Gun, GPMG, gimpy. A toot is a Tactical Exercise Without Troops, a Bertie is either a Browning pistol or heavy machine gun, a full screw is a corporal, ticking means complaining and a "bundook" is a gun.'

Drum roll, cymbal crash.

'And what is a Tactical Exercise Without Troops?'

'Sarah, you are without doubt the investigative equivalent of the Hydra! A TEWT is where a group of officers go over the ground and consider what problems or possibilities might happen at the tactical level, in attack or defence. I've been on a TEWT at Waterloo and another at Marston Moor. The one we carried out last month was to determine how to defend Aylesbury HQ from varying forms of attack. The Brig insisted, so as to have a scheme to put to the visiting bigwigs from Geneva.'

Tea and sandwiches arrived, and Sarah altered her angle of attack.

'So, Big John - whoops, don't choke! – you used to be in the Queen's Lancashire Regiment, and you come from Wigan. You were on the regimental rugby team and you boxed, your dad is a police Sergeant with the force in Wigan and your mum is a midwife at the hospital.'

'My dad played for the police rubgy team when he was younger, too, at County level. A prop, like me. I'm not a very good boxer. I just tended to hit people until they fell over.'

'You take after your dad in terms of size?'

I couldn't help laughing at that. My mum is a petite Dubliner, the total opposite of my dad.

'My mum, Sarah, would make about half of you. A very sharp wit, mind. Hopefully I get that part of me from her.'

Scribble scribble.

'I take it you played league, not union?'

Pretended outrage demanded a hammy response.

'Miss Smith! There is only rugby league! Some pathetic southern jessies play a sport called rugby union, which is fit only for sick children and feeble pensioners. The men who play league are real men!'

Sarah sighed.

'You sound like a football fan. Don't Wigan have a football team, too?'

'Do they?' I replied, all assumed nonchalance. 'Perhaps they do. Game for long-haired nancy-boys who scream and collapse when they get their ankles tapped.'

That much was true. Our captain once played on with a broken arm, knowing it was broken, and played on for forty minutes. Footballers!

Having mined-out this seam of human interest, Sarah moved on, seeming to sense that I could talk about rugby all day.

'Now, I'm being serious here, John. You can ask me to stop if you want, I don't want to annoy or upset you.'

Ah. This would be about the dead looter, wouldn't it? Grit teeth, smile bravely –

'Ulster.'

Oh. Not about dead looter.

'You did a tour over there, I understand. What was it like? I need this sort of information as background to the background, as it were. Verisimilitude. That means –'

'I know what it means, Sarah. I have actually read some of those collections of pulp leaves in bound form known to many as "books". Yes, wave that biro in embarassment! Ulster. Hmm. I found it to be spectacularly unpleasant. Not in the sense of being ugly to look at, though some parts of the city are, more in the sheer depth of hatred there. The Catholics and Protestants – actually that's not entirely correct – the Nationalists and Loyalists hate each other with a passion. You or I couldn't tell them apart, yet they are willing to kill each other on a whim.'

'Any tales of derring-do?'

'From me? Hardly! Sergeant Roke ran the platoon whilst I tried to look stern and commanding. And invulnerable. Being my size in modern combat is a disadvantage.'

The scribbling stopped, so I pulled up the hair on my left temple.

'See that white scar? That was a steel ball-bearing, fired from a bait-catapult. Some little sh- ah, some little monster got me square in the head with that. I was convinced I'd been shot. Every sniper, petrol-bomber or stone-thrower picked on me because I stand out from the crowd due to my size.'

Sarah was visibly trying not to laugh at my aggrieved recounting.

'Now - ' she began before I interrupted.

'No! Enough! Cease and desist! Eat a sandwich and drink your delicious UNIT canteen tea.' I pointed in hopefully-commanding style at her cuppa. 'The BTO is going to suggest we decamp to other parts more conducive to a conversation.'

It was, after all, five o'clock and time to go off duty.

In my official UNIT landrover issue No. 7345, parked up and overlooking the downs, I felt rather better able to render information and assistance to Sarah. We were bouyed up by the cocoa in the thermos I'd brought.

'I was a bit – apprehensive – yes, apprehensive, that's the word, John. A single girl in a car with a young man. Cause for concern.'

'Make that a very large young man. Oh, don't worry! My current partner is a charming French lady who is liberal, and understanding, but only up to a point. I have already blotted my copybook with her, and don't intend to again. My word as an officer and gentleman, you have nothing to fear from me.'

She smiled in a fetchingly wry fashion.

'That, John, is what Lieutenant Munroe said. He lied.'

Ah. Yet another reason to lambast the behind of Lieutenant Munroe with a spiny cactus birch.

'Nick is a serial philanderer. I am entirely too cowardly to behave like that.'

Sarah looked at me sideways.

' "Cowardly". That's not what Corporal Timms said.'

Ah, now the dead looter.

'According to him, you were prepared to take on four dinosaurs armed only with a piece of glass, in defence of Doctor Kelly.'

Blush, Walmsley, blush.

'And that you killed a Dilophosaurus, and arrested two looters.'

Actually, in a fit of anger I'd smacked one of the looters in the face with a spade, but Corporal Timms seemed to have conveniently glossed over that.

'The Dillyfoosaur, that's true. It was the others in the patrol who caught the looters. Oh, and Private Ashworth discovered a kidnap victim.'

'That's right! The nurse. I read that the police found the bodies of her flatmates.'

I hadn't heard that. Poor girls; volunteers looking after patients at Barts, until the looters found them. Sarah said a bad word.

'Well, a certain rough justice was delivered to them, Sarah. Two were killed by the army, the two we arrested didn't last a day in the Det Camp and I shot the last one dead.'

She eyed me with a mixture of angry satisfaction, surprise and confirmation.

'Then that underlines the consensus about you.'

Oh, do tell!

'What consensus is that?'

'That you're not a man to get on the wrong side of.'

'A cold-blooded killer, eh? Really, I'm not.'

'Not quite. You need to get prodded a bit first. Now, another question – what's a "Karl Gustav"? Don't groan!'

'It's a portable recoiless rifle. What's one of those? Like a bazooka. Our air-portable Bedford has a bigger version mounted on the rear.'

She went through a list of slang expressions, some of which were not replicable in print, before moving on to the aftermath of Op Chromium.

'Do you think I could get an interview with General Finch?'

'Whooh, no! Not for a while. Give it a few weeks before we finish biting his leg, then see Captain Beresford or the Brig.'

'Aha. So you're investigating him? What about Butler?'

'Butler's fair game. He's lucky only to be doing twelve years.'

Butler had played the intelligent-but-unworldly naif in court well enough to get away with a dozen years. Crafty sod.

'If you do interview Butler, UNIT would appreciate seeing your notes. Just out of interest.'

'So we both get to see what the Butler saw. Don't groan!'