Knife Edge (2004) (32 page)

He said cautiously, “He’s a go-getter. Not a bad thing at this stage of affairs in the armed forces, I’d have thought.” It gave him time to recover. “Major Blackwood seems to get along with him.”

“Hmm. You’re an admirer of Ross Blackwood, I can see that.”

Hamlyn thought of the girl in Derry, weeping for her man. The same girl outside the police station, cursing the marines as if they had killed him.
Maybe we did.
He heard himself answer, “I trust him, sir. It was why I came to this unit.”

“Good. Good show.” Forester turned away. “Come over for a drink this evening.” He waved to somebody, his driver, perhaps. “I’d like that. So would Lois.”

Hamlyn was still standing on the makeshift jetty when the car drove away.

Leave it. Walk away right now. While you can.

He thought he heard Sergeant Harwood blowing his whistle. It was time to dismiss, until tomorrow, and that damned launch which never seemed to be any different. He should have a quick word with Harwood, check what still needed doing. But he did not move.

She would be there. Ready to tease him, excite him, in Forester’s very presence. He was not naive enough to think that she had not done it before, and she would do it again with some one else after they were moved apart.

Even the thought of that aroused him.

He looked down at the launch. It was deserted.

Tomorrow could wait.

Ross Blackwood nodded to the shadowy figure who had guided him to this place and indicated a chair by an empty table. He had lost count of the doors and stairways and, finally, a fast-moving lift, but remained conscious of urgency and privilege. No ‘what took you so long?’ this time. Even his identity had been only casually checked. As unreal as this place, a subterranean world beneath a busy street of double-decker buses and grid-locked, homebound traffic, people hurrying to Underground stations, and shops crammed with chocolate Easter eggs, rabbits and Disney-like, fluffy chickens.

He looked around the cellar, or vault; a ‘Tactical War Room’, some one had called it. The ceiling was curved to withstand blast from bomb or rocket, and perhaps was one of many, a relic from the war when London had known what it was like to live under bombardment.

Down here it was silent, timeless. Heavy traffic moving overhead, and yet not a vibration or a sound. Like being suspended in space. He felt warm air on his cheek. Or being buried . . .

He leaned forward slightly. There was another level immediately below, only partly lit, but he could see several huge map tables, covered with sheets, and more hanging charts beyond.

He saw his reflection in a glass screen. That was another curiosity. He seemed to be the only person here in uniform. Like an intruder.

And yet the other, more familiar building could not be more than ten minutes’ walk away.

He was surprised that he was not tired. Unlike the last time when he had been driven directly from Poole: the glaring headlines, the haste. He felt his mouth lift in a smile. Parsons and all his schemes . . . Well, they had done their part. And for what?

Some one coughed, and more lights came on, as if it were a prearranged signal.

It was Colonel Souter, hand outstretched, his shadow leaning ahead of his body against the stark background.

“Good to see you, Ross! Sorry about the cloak of secrecy!”

For an instant Ross thought he was referring to his own appearance. He could not recall the last time, if ever, he had seen Souter in anything but uniform. Now, in a smart dark grey suit, gleaming white shirt and Royal Marines tie, he might have been mistaken for some successful businessman, or perhaps one of those so confident politicians who appeared regularly on TV or in the press.

“Everything going well at Poole? That’s good.” As usual, he had not waited for a response. He gestured toward the map tables, one of which had been uncovered, although Ross had not seen anybody on the lower level. “Things are moving, Ross. Wanted to put you in the frame, so to speak. I feel I owe it to you. I got you mixed up with Clive Tobin’s various escapades, and, my God, you almost bought it. I blame myself for that.”

More lights spread across the nearest table, and an immense map of the Falkland Islands. A man’s head and
shoulders threw a small shadow across one corner: another of Souter’s invisible army.

Souter said, “It’s still on, although from the common sense you glean in certain quarters you’d think it was all in the bloody mind!”

Ross had studied all the available information which had been sent to him, or imparted by Parsons between various combat exercises. The Argentines had landed workers in South Georgia to sort out and value the scrap in and around the old whaling station. They had not requested permission, and despite the messages dispatched by the Falklands’ governor to Whitehall no action had been taken, and no official complaint lodged. In the House of Commons and in the Lords, the question of H.M.S.
Endurance
had been raised again, several times. To be sold or to be scrapped? One minister had suggested that as things stood,
Endurance
’s continuing presence in the South Atlantic might be a liability, or interpreted as a provocation.

Endurance
had landed her own small contingent of Royal Marines in South Georgia. That, too, had brought criticism from politicians on both sides of the House.

Souter said, “Do nothing, and that’s wrong. Show even a hint of displeasure and you’re branded a warmonger!”

He sat down heavily and stared at the map below him.

“We’ve had another meeting. Intelligence people – you name it. All you get is wait-and-see. What bloody strategy is that?” He grunted with obvious disapproval. “Parsons is in the thick of it too, but you know that. The army and the R.A.F. are all on Easter leave, or soon will be, and our lot aren’t much better.”

Ross watched the anger, the crushing, aging despair. Like somebody else. Recalling the guard of honour, Souter’s personal welcome back to England, to life. It was hard to see him as that same man.

Souter looked at him keenly. “You get on with Parsons?”

“We don’t always agree, sir. But then, I don’t always go along with your ideas, even though I might not dare to say as much.”

He saw the makings of a smile. Not much, but it was more like the Souter of old.

“Takes me back, Ross. Takes me back. Your father . . . it could be him sitting there.” The moment passed. “I still think I’m right. Weeks, months, who knows? I don’t trust these Argentines. A cover-up, a show of power elsewhere, and they think the world will ignore the very real troubles they’ve created in their own damned back yard!”

He reached out and opened a drawer.

“Private report. Thought you should have it. Might come in handy if the going gets rough. You and your team are still on stand by.” There was the faintest suggestion of a smile. “‘Lazarus’.”

Ross took it. It was written in Souter’s sloping, recognizable hand. He knew what was coming; perhaps he had guessed it from the start.

“I’m leaving, Ross. Going to Washington, then on to the U.S. Marine Corps. A bit of open co-operation . . . it makes sense. Good sense, the way things are heading.”

Ross watched him, hating it, thinking of the bare office. The U.S.M.C. paperweight would be gone, too.

Souter said, “Be ready, Ross. It’s coming soon. Sooner than most people believe.” He tapped his forehead. “Closed minds! As that old sod Harold Macmillan said, ‘They never had it so good!’” He stood up abruptly. “At a price, but they don’t remember that.”

They walked together, Souter leading, to a door Ross had not noticed before. Souter glanced back; the map was suddenly in darkness.

He said, “Parsons will be all right. Bit ahead of his time, maybe.” He gripped his elbow. “Just watch out for
yourself
.” The hand moved gently on his arm. “Sorry about delaying your wedding.”

More stairs, and another lift.

He felt a gust of cold air, and heard the increasing rumble of traffic.

Somehow he knew they would not meet again.

He would tell Sharon, share it with her. He looked down as if he expected to see her hand on his arm, the ring, a promise and a future. No matter what . . .

He turned to speak, or to reply. But he was alone.

Sergeant Dick Harwood paused outside the door marked ‘Guardroom’ and looked over at one of the cars nearby, recognizing its number, something he had taught himself to do when he had been driving around Ulster. Faces might change; numbers did not. It looked as if the stroppy half-colonel Parsons was back. No peace for the wicked, his father used to say.

There was a full-length mirror outside the guardroom. Above it was printed in large letters, GOING ASHORE? THEN
LOOK
THE PART!

He grinned at himself. Uniform right, nothing unbuttoned, green beret at the correct angle. His eyes lingered on the three stripes on his sleeve. Those, he was still not used to. Corporal to sergeant was perhaps the biggest step a marine could take. It made him feel different. He
was
different. He even felt taller.

It seemed so quiet, not like the usual bustle, the constant comings and goings of their local headquarters. He had heard that this had once been a holiday camp, then a sailing club. It was hard to believe.

He looked at the main gate and the marine on picket
duty. The only difference there was that he was wearing a sidearm on his belt.
For the emergency.
He pushed open the door. If the sentry had time to draw his pistol, it wouldn’t help much if there was a vehicle filled with explosives and a time fuse on the doormat.

A corporal looked up from the table.

“You’re wanted over at the officers’ mess, Sarge. Just got the call.”

“Never been much of a hand at mind-readin’, Todd. Do I have to guess?”

He was still learning, feeling his way, and getting there.

Todd was a good enough corporal, but he took chances if he could.
It takes one to know one.

Todd answered smartly enough, “’Tenant-Colonel Parsons. The major’s not back yet.” It sounded like a warning. Todd might make sergeant himself one day.

Harwood left the guardroom and headed for the officers’ mess building on the far side of the square, where parades, when required, were mustered. He glanced at the mirror critically once more as he passed. Parsons seemed to be on top line where his work was concerned, but he was not above handing out a bottle if he thought some one needed it. He had heard him having a go at one marine for letting his hair grow too long. The sort of blast you might expect from a green subaltern on his first posting.

He smiled to himself. Hair just right. Not over the collar, and not too short like some brand-new rookie, or one of the hard cases just out of the glasshouse.

There was nobody around. Not even a defaulter doing some extra work. Everybody was already away on Easter leave, at home with their families, or on holiday abroad. No wonder the marines of the Special Operations units were fed up about it.

He thought of the launches he had been helping to
convert for active service. A couple of Bofors guns, and a few strips of plastic armour: a bit like Derry and Belfast.
Too little, too late.
Two boats had already been moved to Devonport; a third would follow shortly. After that, probably back to Stonehouse Barracks . . . But he never got bored. There was never time. This was the only life he knew or wanted. And he had almost got engaged. He breathed out loudly.
Almost.
It could keep for a little longer.

One of the messmen saw him coming.

“End room, Sarge. The Boss-Man wants to see you!”

“Any one else?”

“Cap’n Forester. Looks as if ’e needs some back-up.”

Harwood said nothing. But he always listened; there was not much that the messmen missed. Casual conversations at table, anger, humour, depression, nothing got past the men who were merely part of the background. He waited while the messman went ahead to tell the ‘Boss-Man’ he was here.

This was the first time he had served under Forester. Always very calm, never gave off much. But an officer who missed very little.

He glanced at a letter rack by the porter’s lobby, and saw a letter slightly apart from the rest, for Lieutenant Hamlyn, his immediate superior. A good man to have around if you were in a jam, or you were really up against it. Those in his unit seemed to like him, and Harwood had noticed from the beginning that nobody took liberties with him. Or, if they did, they soon learned to watch out for themselves.

He considered the other side of Hamlyn. He took risks, and he was taking a big one now, if he was hoping for promotion. There were not too many secrets in ‘the family’, and he had heard that Hamlyn was all set to get his third pip.

So why would he hazard everything by playing around
with Forester’s wife? Maybe it wasn’t obvious to most people, or not yet, anyway. But a sergeant was in the middle, neither one thing nor the other, and the sergeant often saw what others missed. Until . . .

“This way, Sarge.”

Lieutenant-Colonel Parsons was standing by a mock fireplace, facing the door. He was hardly ever seen sitting down. And even those who hated his guts had to admit he could keep up with the toughest marine on any of the exercises they had endured since he had first appeared amongst them.

This was a wooden building like all the others, very similar to the sergeants’ mess eighty yards away. A picture of the Queen at one end of the room; some group photographs at the other.

Forester said, “That third launch will be moved tomorrow, Sergeant. Have you got the working parties lined up?”

Harwood said, “Yes, sir.” It sounded like
of course
.

He thought Forester looked worried. That was unusual.

Parsons said abruptly, “There have been a few changes. The first two boats are to be put aboard the fleet transport
Manxman
, and it will save time if the same working parties are used.”

Harwood waited, expecting Forester to intervene. He felt the tension, and trod warily.