by Duncan James
***
Like most other people involved in ‘Honolulu’, Major Bill Clayton was in the office early the next morning, but not early enough to beat Captain Brian Foley or his Chief Clerk, Sergeant Catherine Wilson.
“Morning, chaps,” said Clayton, always cheery when he’d had kippers for breakfast. “Not having breakfast this morning, Brian?” he enquired. “The kippers are particularly good.”
“I’ll get a bacon roll later,” replied Foley. “Suddenly, there seemed to be a lot to do this morning, what with you going off to London again later.”
“Well, you should have stayed later last night, shouldn’t he Sergeant”, joked Clayton. “In the end, I couldn’t get on the scheduled flight, but the RAF has a Hercules going back to Brize Norton before lunch, and they’ve been persuaded to go via Northolt and drop me off. Isn’t that good of them?”
“Only if they land first!” replied Foley.
“Very funny! But I’ll certainly be going down the ramp at the back,” said Clayton. “They’re stopping at the end of the runway, and going straight off again once I’ve left them. I’m being met by a staff car. With any luck, it will take me straight to Downing Street. Much better than Heathrow, especially as I shall have the dossiers with me. They will be ready, won’t they?”
Sergeant Wilson was at the photocopier as he asked. “Nearly there, sir.” she replied.
“By the way,” said Clayton, “Our clever GOC has arranged for an SAS chap to be detached to us to act as our liaison officer.”
“He’s already here,” replied Foley. “In your office, re-arranging the furniture.”
“What!” exclaimed Clayton.
“Said it was all hush-hush, and he had to work closely with you, or something, so we’ve squeezed an extra desk in there for him.” explained Foley. “Needed somewhere to put his radio, he said.”
“Got lovely blue eyes,” mumbled Sergeant Wilson.
“Jesus!” Clayton stomped off to what used to be his office.
A tall, slim man in a dark blue wooly-pully, turned to greet him.
“Sorry about your office,” he said, holding out his hand. “Nick Marsden, at your service.”
He had dark wavy hair, and a good sun tan - blue eyes, too, noted Clayton, shaking hands.
“I was expecting a Lieutenant from the SAS,” said Clayton.
“Sorry again,” said Marsden, “but you’ve got a Lieutenant Commander from the Special Boat Squadron. Same thing, really. I was on detachment to Hereford, and they sent me from there to act as your fixer.”
“The General was nearly right then, I suppose. You certainly didn’t waste much time getting here,” Clayton complimented him. “How did you manage that?”
“They let me bring my own chopper,” explained Marsden. “Thought it could come in handy while this little show is on, and the lovely RAF gave me a quiet corner of Aldergrove to park it when I arrived late last night.”
“How did you get here from Aldergrove, then?”
“Bit tricky at two o’clock this morning, but I eventually found a taxi,” replied the SBS officer.
“You were very lucky indeed,” said Clayton. “Not just to find one, but to get here alive.”
“Oh, it didn’t have a driver,” explained Marsden. “Once I’d got the door open, I hot-wired it and drove myself. Unfortunately, the thing caught fire and burnt out shortly after I left it at the bottom of the hill. That’s quite a climb, you know, with this bloody radio on your back, I don’t mind telling you.”
Captain Foley was hovering outside the door. Clayton turned to him. “Let me know what the police are saying about that taxi, will you. I want to know if there are any witnesses.”
“There aren’t.” said Marsden. “I hung around for a bit to see, and not soul stirred. It was torched, not blown up, so it was all very quiet.”
Clayton looked hard at Marsden. He was a professional, all right. No doubt about that. Suddenly, all this began to look as if it could be quite good fun, in a sick sort of way.
“What’s with the wireless, then,” he said nodding towards the extra desk crammed into the corner. “We’ve got quite a good Communications Centre here, you know.”
“I’m sure you have,” replied Commander Marsden. “No offence, or anything, but I can chat direct to all my chums on this without bothering anyone else. Totally secure, too.”
Clayton hit the buzzer on his desk. Sergeant Wilson answered.
“Be a good chap,” said Clayton, “and get some coffee organised. Those kippers have given me a thirst. Then ask Captain Foley to double up on his order for bacon rolls - Commander Marsden looks as if he could murder one.” Marsden nodded appreciatively. “And then”, concluded Clayton, “get on to the Officer’s Mess, give them my compliments, and get a decent room organised smartly for the Commander. He hasn’t slept for a couple of days.”
“Now,” he turned to Marsden, “tell me what you know, and why you think you’re here.”
“I gather,” replied Nick Marsden, “that there are certain parts of the landscape over here which are surplus to future requirements, and that they either need to be moved on, or to be removed. I’m told you have the details. My job is to arrange the removal for you. The SAS Commander over here has been told that any tasking from me takes priority over anything else he thinks is important, and he is also getting a few reinforcements in the next day or so. Your General again, I shouldn’t wonder. The plot seems to be to use very small, self-contained units, each unknown to the other, and for them to move on once their mission is achieved.”
“Is your area of operations restricted to Northern Ireland?” asked Clayton.
“Not at all - anywhere you like, world-wide.”
“That could be very useful,” said Clayton. “But what about the States?” he asked, remembering McFosters planned visit there.
“Even there,” replied Marsden, “although it depends what it is you want doing. I spent some time working with MI6, so I know my way around the American Special Forces, but there could be times when it would be best to go in at the top, and work down, if you see what I mean.”
“You mean a direct request from the PM to the President, for example.”
“Exactly so. Things could move faster that way.”
“What about this, for instance?” asked Clayton. Over coffee, they discussed the McFosters visit, and soon agreed what to do.
“I’m in Downing Street this afternoon, so I’ll set that ball rolling if I can. I suggest you get your head down for a few hours while I’m away, and we can meet again over a beer in the Mess this evening.”
“Sounds good,” replied Marsden. “I need to twiddle knobs on my crystal set for a bit first, though.”
“I’ll tell my people to get whatever you want - if you can’t find it for yourself, of course,” said Clayton, looking around at his once tidy office.
