Chapter 21
The morning dawned misty and cold. Despite the gloomy weather, splitting headache and a mouth that tasted like a gorilla's armpit, Warrant Officer (Class 1) Philip Pugh donned singlet and shorts and went for his morning run. Every day he had run five miles before breakfast. Normally, as chief Physical Training Instructor he would spend each day turning weedy recruits into perfect physically-fit soldiers, worthy of the Queen's uniform. Today, however, things would be different, for after 22 years in the British Army, aged 40, as a Non-Commissioned Officer was due to retire. The hangover was a result of the surprise leaving party the lads in the mess had thrown for him the night before.
Originally called up for National Service, he quickly realised that Army life suited him and he signed on as a sapper in the Royal Engineers. His physical prowess was soon recognised and he was persuaded to apply for the Physical Training Instructor course at Aldershot. Passing the course with the highest marks ever recorded, he never looked back. In due course, Pugh was selected for the Army Physical Training Corps and soon qualified as a Corps Instructor.
It soon became apparent that he was the finest Commissioned Officer the British Army never had. On several occasions he'd been recommended for commissioned rank and on each occasion, he'd politely but firmly refused, much to his wife's chagrin. Each time, he patiently explained that he was happy where he was and if he took the commission, he'd be posted away to some office somewhere, away from 'his' lads. She was disappointed but she loved him and knew that he lived for the Army.
Too late, he'd realised something was wrong; only at her bedside did he learn about the Cancer that had been eating away at her and that she had kept from him. Even with the best medical facilities the Army had to offer, it was only a matter of time. The childhood sweetheart he'd married had become a frail husk. He could only hold her hand as she faded away.
That had been five years before. No woman could replace Jenny, so Pugh had buried himself in his work.
Even as the British Empire Medal, the highest award given to a non-commissioned Officer, was pinned to his Dress Uniform, he thought of Jenny and how thrilled she would have been.
Overnight, the gentle flurries had become the first fall of the winter. Only an inch so far but that inch would become many over the next few weeks. The Muscovites had cleared the main roads before breakfast.
The guest quarters were comfortable. Straker awoke to find his shirt freshly laundered, his suit pressed and his shoes shone to military brilliance, thanks to the Military Attaché's batman.
Straker dressed and joined Sir Terence and Lady Garvey for breakfast. In keeping with the traditions of the British Diplomatic Service, the meal was a substantial cooked English breakfast, washed down with copious quantities of China or Assam tea. In deference to their guest, coffee was also served. From the taste of it, Straker guessed it was really used for lubricating the door hinges on the Ambassadorial Rolls Royce.
Morning run complete and headache gone, Pugh showered then returned to his room in the Sergeants' Mess. There, he changed into fresh fatigues before going for breakfast.
Ford awoke to the smell of freshly baked bread and the distant sound of the muezzin calling the faithful to prayer at the nearby mosque. The sun streamed through the window. Scratching his stubble, he realised that he hadn't shaved for several days. Rummaging through his bag, her found his shaving kit and went to look for a bathroom
Breakfast complete, Pugh began to check off the list of 'Clearance' activities that would culminate in him signing the Official Secrets Act and walking through the Barrack gates and back into civilian life as plain Mr Pugh.
After a traditional Turkish breakfast of fresh bread, black olives, fruit, yoghurt with honey and strong black coffee, prepared by Emcan's wife Elif; a raven-haired beauty with deep brown eyes, Ford and Emcan set out of the TRT building in central Ankara, There, because of a reciprocal arrangement with the British broadcaster, Ford would be able to prepare and dispatch his report to London.
The drive in the early hours, with little traffic, had been scary enough; now, in the rush-hour traffic, it was positively terrifying; like many Turkish men, Emcan fancied himself as the next Graham Hill. Ford kept his eyes shut for the whole of the trip. Tyres squealing and with a smell of burnt rubber, the car screeched to a halt. Cautiously, Ford opened his eyes and looked around. The car was situated in an underground car park. Emcan glanced at his watch; "Twenty minutes; hmm, a slow day. Lucky I wasn't in a hurry."
Straker's breath formed thick white clouds in the icy air as he and Garvey waited for the Limousine to collect them. Mindful of the weather, Garvey had donned a heavy greatcoat and shapka. Despite the heavy coat he'd been loaned by one of the embassy staff, Straker found himself shivering.. The attaché case chained to his wrist forced Straker to wear the coat as a cape, draped over his shoulders. The chain and cuff were icy against the skin of his wrist
To Straker's surprise, in addition to the Ambassadorial Rolls-Royce, a troop of three shabby-looking, windowless, panel vans pulled up. Garvey slid open the large side door of one of the vans and gestured to Straker, who obediently climbed in. Garvey followed. A burly man in overalls, already in the van, reached past Garvey to slide and fasten the door. Despite the shabby appearance, the vans were outfitted with comfortable seating. Each seat was fitted with seat belts, a strange contrast to the racks of tools that lined the walls. As soon as the two men were safely seated and strapped in, the three vans headed for the gate to the compound. As each van left the compound, it took a different route. Soon each vehicle had picked up a tail of a black Zil saloon.
"KGB," Garvey explained. "They tail every vehicle so we have a bit of fun with them. The Rolls has a couple of dummies in the back. It'll drive around the outskirts of Moscow for a couple of hours before heading back to the Embassy. The other two vans have similar instructions"
"Why the games?" asked Straker, "If we're going to see…"
Garvey interrupted Straker: "It is British Government policy to try and hide everything we do from the KGB. The KGB tries to find out what we are doing. Both sides know it as the Great Game. If we changed our behaviour, we'd draw more attention to ourselves and if this meeting as important as I've been led to believe, the fewer people who know about it, the better. Even I don't know more than that I have to get you and a Soviet Academic to a certain location as fast but as discreetly as possible."
Through the rear windows of the van, Straker could make out the Zil as it tried to keep up as they weaved through the traffic of central Moscow.
"Stand by!" The driver called back from the cab.
Suddenly the van lurched as the driver wrenched down on the wheel, sending the van up a small side street. Seeing the van suddenly change direction, the driver of the Zil stamped on the accelerator. The van sped past an identical van, parked at the kerb. As Straker's van passed, the driver of the twin let in the clutch and the van accelerated away from the kerb. Two identical vans now sped down the street. The Zil turned into the side street. The driver sighed with relief; he could see the van turn left at a T-Junction. He smiled; These Western spies thought they were so clever but no one could escape the KGB. Eyes fixed on the speeding van ahead, he barely noticed a street sweeper, hunched over his broom, at the corner of a narrow alley.
The Zil was soon lost to sight as it roared up to the junction and skidded around the corner. The street sweeper looked both ways up and down the street before shuffling towards the alleyway. Satisfied that the tail had been shaken, he straightened up and signalled. The van revved and reversed at high speed into the street. The street sweeper tossed the broom into the open doorway, leaped aboard and slid the door shut. The van sped away in the direction it had come.
"Nicely done Jones." Garvey complemented him.
"Thank you sir."
"Colonel Straker," said Garvey by way of introduction "May I present Warrant Officer Jones, Military Staff."
"How do you do?"
"Did you like that, sir?" asked Jones, grinning and extending a hand. "We call it 'Find the Lady'"
Straker guessed that Jones, if that was his real name, was probably Special Forces. Supremely fit, exceptionally intelligent and clued up on the need for security; just the sort of person SHADO would need.
"Very clever." Admitted Straker, glad of the seatbelts without which he'd now be picking himself up off the floor.
By mid-morning, Pugh, now wearing his civilian suit, had completed the inventory check with the Accommodation Manager and handed back the keys to his room in the Mess, reported to the Medical Officer for one final check just to prove the full exit medical of a week before had not been a fluke and handed in the items that had to be returned to the Quartermaster. He looked at the clearance list; it was nearly complete. He decided to pay one last visit to the NAAFI for a cup of tea.
After an uneventful trip through the suburbs of Moscow, the van rolled into the airport but rather than stopping at the terminal building where Straker had arrived the previous night, continued on to a far corner of the airfield where a Beriev Be-30 short-haul airliner, resplendent in white and blue Aeroflot markings was waiting. Garvey and Straker climbed the boarding stairs, to find they were not the first to arrive. The stranger smiled as he recognised his fellow passenger. "Ah, Colonel Straker. I am so glad to see you again." The voice was heavily accented but understandable.
Straker only vaguely remembered the quiet little man who had remained silent throughout their previous meeting at the UN.
Garvey stepped forward; "It would appear that you know each other."
"We met briefly at the United Nations, some time ago." Explained the stranger. He extended a hand: "Pavel Fyodorovich Komarov, Soviet Academy of Science. I was most impressed by your presentation to the Special Committee."
"Thank you." Replied Straker, shaking the hand.
The co-pilot, a burly Russian in an ill-fitting flight suit, came into the main cabin from the cockpit and, through hand signals, indicated that the passengers should take their seats and strap themselves in.
Satisfied that his passengers had carried out his instructions, the co-pilot went back to his seat in the cockpit. Moments later, the engines whined into life.
The aircraft taxied out to the main runway, waited for permission from the control tower, then accelerated down the runway before lifting into the iron-grey sky. Soon it had turned southwest towards the Crimea.
Once again, Hargreaves found himself in the office of the Chief Constable. In marked contrast to his earlier demeanour, Iveson was in a much more genial mood; at last he had some good news to give the press regarding the serial killer, whose identity had finally been established as one Arthur Thompson, a convicted child molester who, on his release from gaol, had apparently disappeared for a number of years. If would appear that he, or rather his corpse had now resurfaced.
"Good work, Hargreaves."
"Thank you, sir. "
Hargreaves stood. "If you'll excuse me, sir, I still have a lot to do."
"Oh?"
"Finding out how Thompson died and who killed him"
"Very good. Can't have vigilantes taking the law into their own hands."
The newsroom at TRT was easily as busy as the one that Ford had left behind in London; the language might be different but the bustle and sense of urgency remained the same. The air was thick with the smoke from Turkish cigarettes. The ceiling-mounted fans, nicotine brown, served only to spread the fug evenly around the room. Ford soon found himself sitting an antiquated typewriter. Although the Turks had given up Arabic script for Roman letters, the different keyboard layout took some getting used to. Ford was forced to resort to the 'look and pick' school of typing.
Disregarded, the cup of coffee that Emcan had placed on the desk soon grew cold.
Despite the turbulence of the flight, Straker soon drifted off to sleep. An old, familiar dream started to form once more:
The private hospital was small but comfortable. This time of the year, visitors were few, making it an ideal venue for clandestine meetings. In one of the suites, such a meeting was just about to begin.
There was a brief knock on the door.
The room's occupant, a large powerful man in his fifties, looked up from the papers laid neatly on the desk in front of him. "Come in" he ordered. Although still confined to a wheelchair, General James Henderson was still able to make plans and hold meetings.
The door opened and a tall, tow-haired man entered. Henderson recognized his visitor "Ah, Colonel," the room's occupant smiled "Good to see you. "
"Well, how are they treating you sir?" Replied Straker, closing the door behind him.
"Fine, fine". He waved Straker into a chair. "Sit down"
As Straker sat, he noticed that Henderson was wearing dark sunglasses. These, with the wheelchair in which he sat, were a legacy of the car crash.
The two men had been scheduled to meet the British Prime Minister. They had been met by a Cabinet Minister at RAF Northolt and, escorted by police outriders, had set off for the PM's country retreat, Chequers.
It was whilst they were on a lonely stretch of road that the Aliens had pounced; energy beams from a UFO knocked the outriders off their machines. The blast from a near miss smashed the screen of the Rolls-Royce, a razor-sharp shard of glass through the neck killed the chauffeur outright. The bodyguard, riding in the front, had grabbed the steering wheel in a desperate attempt to bring the vehicle to a halt. It was too late; the limousine had smashed through a stone wall before rolling down the side of a hill and exploding in a massive fireball. Straker and Henderson had been thrown clear, Straker receiving minor contusions and sprains. Henderson had landed heavily and sustained serious bruising to his spinal cord.
The bodyguard and Cabinet Minister had not been as lucky; both had been cremated in the fire.
Straker had finally caught a glimpse of the UFO as it climbed away. During the following weeks, Straker found himself repeatedly asking the question: was it a coincidence or had the Aliens been waiting for him?
Perhaps, one day, he'd have some answers
Despite the apparent severity of his superior's injuries, Straker knew it would not be long before General Henderson would be on his feet again.
Henderson began with an apology: "Look I'm sorry to foul you up like this. "
"It's all right sir"
"How'd your wife take it?"
"Oh, she's fine. "
Straker had been summoned away from the airport just as he and his new wife Mary had been about to board their honeymoon flight to Athens.
"Yes, that's what you need in this job; an understanding wife." The pressure of Service life had been too much for Sarah, Henderson's wife. She had walked out five years before, citing 'unreasonable behaviour' as grounds for the divorce. Mercifully, there had been no children to upset and it appeared that Sarah had remarried and was now living happily in Boston.
"Let's get on with it shall we? Apparently I'm stuck in this chair for another couple of months. Now things are happening, Ed - A lot of it's going to fall on your shoulders. The special committee of the United Nations meets the day after tomorrow. We get the go/no-go decision then. "
"And you want me to be there. "
"Who else?"
Straker stirred for a moment, then settled back to sleep. The dream continued:
Straker placed the attaché case on the table. Under the gaze of the two CIA men, he slid the brass plate bearing his name to one side. The words 'DESTRUCT NEGATIVE' were revealed. Had Straker opened the case with the name plaque in position, incendiary charges, concealed within the lining of the case, would have utterly destroyed the contents as had happened in the Rolls crash when the impact had forced the lid open.
Straker opened the case, revealing a slim buff folder.
Expertly, the CIA officer ran his hands over the folder, searching for concealed listening devices. At last he was satisfied. "Thank you, Colonel. "
Straker picked up the folder, turned and walked through the open doorway into a small antechamber. The door slid shut behind him.
Although windowless, the chamber was well lit; a warm red light suffused the walls and ceiling. A gentle electronic hum filled the air.
Straker waited patiently. He knew that he was being electronically screened.
"Will you turn round please, Colonel?" The CIA man's voice was slightly distorted by the intercom system. Obediently, Straker turned so that the hidden scanners could check every inch. Finally, the glow of the walls changed from red to green and a small bell chimed softly. The door ahead of him opened and Straker stepped through.
The claustrophobia he sometimes suffered was nothing compared with what he felt now.
He was sitting at the end of a long table. The polished surface gleamed under the overhead lights. Opposite him, at the far end of the table, sat the British Delegate, Sir John May, who was chairing the meeting. The other six delegates, drawn from the five permanent members of the United Nations Security Council and the Federal Republic of Germany, sat along the two long sides of the table.
May had decided that the briefing should take the form of a question-and-answer session.
Duvall, the French representative, was the first to speak: "Colonel, as representative of our respective governments, we are being asked to approve the largest financial appropriation ever envisaged for an international project. Two questions; is the project, the whole project absolutely necessary? And if it is, are we getting value for money?"
"I believe the setting up of SHADO is not only necessary but absolutely vital," replied Straker. "Every day we just sit about and talk about it, the potential danger increases. As to your second question, I believe this breakdown of expenditure might be helpful. "
As he spoke, Straker opened his attaché case and selected a folder. From it, he extracted a bundle of computer printouts, which he passed down the table.
Each delegate took a copy then proceeded to scrutinise the contents. The German delegate looked up.
"Fleet of submarines? Base on the Moon? Satellites?"
"If I might point out sir, we are confronted with alien spacecraft, possibly from another solar system. "
"Maybe the General and Colonel Straker have been reading too much science fiction. " Duvall said dismissively
Straker had expected that response, eventually.
"The Earth is faced with a power threat from an extra-terrestrial source. We've moved into an age in which science fiction has become fact. We need to defend ourselves. "
"And how long will it take to set up this defence organisation?" asked Duvall.
"We estimate seven to ten years. "
"Ten years?" Duvall was incredulous. "But you say, Colonel, the danger is imminent. "
"Yes sir, that's true. But the type of organisation we need can't be set up overnight. All I say is that any delay only increases the danger. "
May looked up from his copy. "The estimate for security is astronomical."
"It's a vital aspect." replied Straker
"Everything seems vital. " Duvall was sarcastic. Straker ignored the bait.
"How is SHADO to be organised, um, regarding personnel?" asked the German delegate
"On strictly military lines. We hope to recruit the best people available. "
"Internationally?"
"Yes. "
"And who will command this international band of heroes?" There was almost a sneer in Duvall's voice.
The American delegate spoke for the first time: "My Government has stipulated the Commander-in-Chief must be an American. "
"Oh yes, yes. We know. " Replied Duvall.
"As the nation being asked to dig a little deeper into its pocket…" snapped the American.
"Naturally, Naturally…"Duvall raised his hands in mock supplication which served only to infuriate him still further.
"Gentlemen, Gentlemen. " May rebuked the two men, "We asked Colonel Straker here to answer our questions. I suggest we let him do so. "
Straker had already given the question of who was to command the new organisation a lot of thought on the flight from Britain: "Well, there's no question in my mind gentlemen. There's only one man for the job; General Henderson. He's the obvious choice. "
The other delegates seemed impressed with Straker's answer
"Any further questions?" May looked at each of the delegates in turn. Satisfied there were none, he thanked Straker.
Straker collected the printouts as they were passed back up the table to him and replaced them in the folder, deliberately not replacing it in the attaché case. The papers were too sensitive to ever leave the room. As he closed and locked the case, he looked at the Frenchman:
"Monsieur Duvall, I understand you have three daughters. "
Duvall was surprised by Straker's question. "Yes?" he replied.
"I pray that you never find yourself looking down at one of their mutilated bodies. I hope that the next UFO incident is not in your hometown. " He was gratified to see that he'd hit a nerve.
Straker picked up his case and the folder. "Thank you for your time. "
With that he turned and left the room, pausing only to toss the folder into the slot marked "VAPORISER - CLASSIFIED WASTE ONLY". A slight whirr indicated that the folder and its contents had been totally destroyed.
May waited until the door had slid closed behind Straker:
"Well gentlemen?"
The aircraft lurched as it hit an air pocket. Straker stirred for a moment before drifting off once more.
Again, he dreamed of the past:
On touching down at London Airport, Straker had come directly to the hotel.
Henderson was in jubilant mood: "It has been approved unanimously. " he beamed. His wheelchair almost sang as he spun it round the room "Ha Ha! You've done a great job Ed. ".
The decision had been made and relayed to Henderson whilst Straker had been flying back to London.
"Well I thought I'd screwed it up sir. " Replied Straker with a wry smile. "I was only in there about ten minutes. "
"Well, all you've got to do now is work sixteen hours a day for the next ten years. "
"Sure. "
"Oh, er, there is another thing I had to tell you. They appointed the Commander-in-Chief. "
"Who?"
"You. "
"Me?" Straker was incredulous.
"Again it was unanimous. It seems the French delegate, Duvall, was particularly insistent. "
"But sir, Why…?"
"Why not choose me? Come on, let's not kid ourselves, Colonel. What sort of shape am I in? What sort of shape would I be in in ten years' time?"
"Nonsense General. " Replied Straker. "Oh, in a couple of months, you'll be out of that thing, up and about, as fit as ever. "
"You can always refuse. " Henderson reminded him. "But if you do, it's got to be now. There'll be no turning back later. "
Straker considered this before replying: "Then the answer's no."
" The answer's yes. It's got to be. - You know that better than anyone."
Henderson was right; there really wasn't anyone else.
For Straker, there could be no question of backing out. But did he really have what it would take? Could he make those sacrifices?
The rest of the day passed in a blur of administration, with visits to the pay office and the Chief Clerk's Office to take care of the last few details – including the issue of a railway warrant to take him home for the final time. This would be exchanged for an ordinary second-class ticket at the railway station.
Finally there remained one final visit, one that was not part of the normal routine.
The brass plaque on the door read 'Col. R. B. Coleman'. Pugh knocked on the door.
"Come In"
Pugh entered the office. Large windows looked out over the parade ground. In the distance, Pugh could see the RSM putting a platoon of recruits through their paces.
Pugh's attention returned to the room. To one side were some easy chairs with a low coffee table between them Seated at a highly-polished wooden desk was a large man with a fine cavalry moustache. He looked up and smiled.
"Ah, Mr Pugh." He waved Pugh to the easy chairs. "Please, sit down. Tea?"
"Please, sir."
Coleman pressed a button on the intercom at the side of his desk. A disembodied voice came from the unit: "Yes, Colonel?"
"Ah, Lily, can we have some tea for Mr Pugh?"
"Yes Colonel"
Coleman released the button and turned to his visitor
"Well, Mr Pugh, I suppose this is it"
"Yessir"
There was a knock on the door and a middle-aged woman entered bearing a tray laden with teapot, milk jug, sugar bowl , fine china cups and a large plate of biscuits.
"Just on the table please, Lily."
"Yes, Colonel. I managed to find a few chocolate biscuits".
The door had barely closed behind her before both men guffawed.
"That woman is so obvious." Chuckled Pugh.
"I know," Admitted Coleman, as he poured the tea.. "She thinks I hadn't noticed that she goes out specially to buy them. She's harmless enough, really.
The Beriev thumped down with a heavy jolt, kicking up clouds of snow and shaking its sleeping passengers awake. Straker peered through the window. The weather had been overcast in Moscow. Here, it was snowing heavily. The aircraft taxied to a halt. An icy blast of wind filled the cabin as the door was opened. A limousine pulled up at the foot of the stairs. The driver, clad in military uniform, got out then held open the rear passenger door. Komarov led the way. From the lack of a terminal building or any apparent amenities, Straker guessed that they had arrived at a military airfield. Indeed, as the limousine sped towards the gates, Straker could make out Anti-Aircraft gun and missile emplacements around the periphery of the field, manned by grim-faced soldiers. Despite the car being fitted with a heater, Straker still shivered with the cold.
"How far?" he asked Komarov.
Komarov relayed the question to the Russian driver, who replied after a moment's consideration.
Komarov translated the response: "One hour."
"Thanks" replied Straker, huddling deeper into his coat.
"So what are you going to do now?" Coleman asked.
"I've got a job lined up, training stuntmen for the film industry." Replied Pugh.
"Sounds interesting. Tell me more"
"I had an interview up in London a couple of months ago. There's a new studio complex opening in the next few months. All mod cons – they want to show Hollywood a thing or two, so they're setting up a specialist stunt school and they want me to be Chief Instructor."
"What do you know about stuntmen?"
"First and foremost, sir, stuntmen have to be top-class athletes. In fact, I reckon they could give the lads at Hereford a run for their money." Pugh was referring to the Special Air Service regiment, widely considered to be the 'best of the best', selecting only the very best volunteers from other regiments and honing their skills to the absolute peak of perfection.
"Ah, I see."