'Stand-To' (Armageddon's Song)

by Andy Farman

  Regimental Sergeant Major Barry Stone left his office and paused outside. ‘Baz the Raz’ was one of the names he was known by amongst the Guardsmen but they would never have dared to have called him that to his face. The second name became obvious whenever the RSM was out and about, armed with his Pace-Stick.

  RSM Stone worried the burnished brass curb chain that held the Bearskin in place, not as a chinstrap would, but resting between chin and bottom lip at the middle. Once he was satisfied that it was sitting correctly he then opened his pace-stick and set off, marching purposefully toward the square. Not merely a symbol of office, the pace-stick is a measuring tool, a wooden and brass tipped pair of compasses that required not inconsiderable dexterity by the user. An audible tick tick tick tick gave advanced warning that ‘The Bomb’ was about, as he rotated the pace stick at the heavy infantry quick marching pace of 180 paces to the minute.

  The handle and hilt of the sword on his left hip protruded from an aperture in the greatcoat, and only the silver tip of the scabbard extending beyond the bottom of the greatcoat could be seen of the rest of it. Pausing beside the square he closed the pace stick, noting the presence of five soldiers at its edge, the Picquet Sergeant and Picquet Corporal plus the Corporal and Guardsmen In Readiness.

  At six foot six inches tall and barrel chested, Barry Stone was an imposing figure, the archetypal sergeant major from head to toe. As he stepped onto the square his bearing became even more martial, if such a thing were possible. Transferring the pace-stick to below his left armpit he stepped off, marching to a position in front of the detachments. As he passed the band he nodded to the Drum Major, an old friend from the Depot days at Pirbright.

  "We’ll have some Prussian Glory on the way out the gate today Drummy.”

  RSM Stone slammed to a halt in front of the parade and delivered his usual few words of cheerful and friendly encouragement before starting the business of replacing the Old Guard with the New. His voice carried beyond the square to the watching public in the street; there was nothing fatherly in its tone.

  “Right…listen in people.” The men were stood easy, which meant no talking anyway.

  “I want hard work from all of you…no fidgeting, no faffing about…and above all no idleness!” He looked along the ranks as he spoke; his stare reinforcing in the Guardsmen the knowledge of all that incurring the ire of the RSM entailed.

  His voice raised several octaves and the last words were delivered in rapid fire.

  “Work hard, the Markers…and set the tone of the parade!” After a last look along the ranks he glanced over his shoulder, making sure that the Captain of the Queens Guard, Major Manson, and the young 2nd lieutenant who would be the Ensign were waiting nearby.

  He peeled back the top of a white glove to check his watch for the time and then straightened up.

  “Right…stand at ease, stand easy everywhere…here we go, brace up on my next word of command.”

  Taking a half pace forward with his left foot, bending his right knee and driving his right boot in next to the left with a solid crash into the surface of the parade square.

  “Markers!”

  The barked command made the watching members of the public in the street jump involuntarily. A Lance Sergeant from each detachment came to attention and marched quickly forward at two hundred paces to the minute. After fifteen paces they halted, and the RSM ‘spoke’ again, drawing out the first part of the command, and snapping out the second in a voice that carried across the park and the noise of the traffic.

  “Get onnnnn…PARADE!”

  Barry Stones ear was a finely tuned instrument, as a piano tuner can spot discord in that instrument that layman cannot, so too could RSM Stone on the drill square. Robertson was a fraction slow coming to attention, and the regimental sergeant majors head snapped toward the Buckingham Palace detachment. The next three words out of his mouth flowing into one.

  “ASYOUWERE!”

  The men regained their former positions under his harsh glare. The pace stick had found its way into his right hand, and like an extension of his arm it was pointing unerringly at the centre of the detachment. “Buck yer ideas up, whoever you are…or I’ll JAIL yer!”

  He fixed them with a look before replacing the pace-stick beneath the left arm once more.

  Out in the street a middle aged American couple apparently assumed this was a Vegas style piece of pantomime for their benefit and laughed delightedly. There was only one thing in the world Barry Stone detested more than an idle soldier, and that was civilian’s. He wasn’t discriminatory; he didn’t care what colour, creed or nationality they were, he regarded them all with equal contempt as lower forms of simian life.

  As he opened his mouth to give the command once more, the tourists hooted and cheered, tossing a handful of change over the railings which caused the RSMs teeth to snap closed without issuing the command. He stepped off quickly toward the railings that separated the military world from the civilian, pointing his pace stick accusingly.

  “You, you people there!” Mr American tourist looked around, to identify the object of the RSMs attention and then grinned in realisation and pointed to himself, Mr and Mrs Middle America where about to be the audience participation feature.

  “Yes you…” The RSM affirmed. “…the dopey looking pair!” He stopped a foot from the railings and leant forward at the waist. “Do you see any program sellers about?... do I look like I’m carrying an Equity Card?”

  Mrs American registered the unfriendly tone and glanced uncertainly at her husband, both their smiles were wavering.

  Spittle flew as the RSM asked his final question.

  “And do I look like a shagging pole dancer?” Both tourists hurriedly shook their heads.

  “You people are annoying me and interfering with my guard mount…I’ve got two free cells and two candidates to fill 'em…now get yer scaly arses out of my sight before I stick you where you’ll get stripy suntans as souvenirs to take home to Stupidville!”

  Most, if not all the Guardsmen of the detachments heard the RSM, and though rigidly stood to attention their shoulders were shaking, and curb chains were being bitten in an effort not to give voice to the laughter that was threatening. On the far side of the square Major Manson was straining to hear what was being said, and frowned when the couple hurried away. If the RSM had said anything that was of an embarrassment to the major, he’d have him bust down to buckshee Guardsman by fair means or foul.

  Regimental Sergeant Major Stone marched back to his former spot, halted and turned about.

  “Get onnnnn…PARADE!”

  The parade continued without further incident, the detachments moved into open order and the Corporals dressed the ranks before falling back in, and the RSM turned smartly about, saluting Major Manson and declaring the Guard ready for inspection.

  Major Manson stopped four men before reaching the centre rank of the Buckingham Palace detachment, declaring a watermark on a toecap constituted ‘dirty boots’, a recent finger mark on a curb chain was ‘filthy’, and two sets of brass belt buckles were ‘disgusting’. The ‘Picquet Sergeant’ dutifully recorded all the details with a

  “Yes sir, Guardsman Warren dirty brasses, sir!” and so forth. Eventually he came to Guardsman Robertson, he of the sallow complexion and bloodshot eyes. Robertson’s kit was in good order, thanks to his Oppo that is, but he just looked like death warmed up.

  Robertson had been taking deep breaths before the major arrived in front of him, and in order not to breathe 100 proof breath on the man he now held it. Major Manson looked him up and down before taking in his almost grey complexion and eyes that looked like twin piss-holes in the snow.

  “Are you ill man?”

  “No sir.” Robertson whispered, barely audibly.

  The major leant forward.

  “What…what, speak up man!”

  Robertson replied more firmly this time.

  “No sir, I’m fine sir.”

  The majors nos
e twitched and then his eyes widened in realisation. “RSM, this man is drunk!”

  Barry Stone already knew about the young man’s condition as he had asked the two full sergeants of the detachments at breakfast in the Sgt's Mess if there were any problems he should know about. Despite his ferocious reputation, Barry Stone wasn’t a total martinet, which was the public persona that went with his job. He had himself as a young Guardsman been in a similar condition as Robertson on a couple of occasions. If he replaced him then he would have to charge him, better to let him take his chances and learn from the experience. Mounting guard and standing on sentry was a miserable way to sober up. He now pulled Robertson’s weapon from him, passing it to the Picquet Sergeant before pulling off Robertson’s Bearskin, and handing that across too.

  “Man in Readiness!” he shouted out, summoning that soldier from the edge of the square.

  “Picquet Corporal, get this specimen off my square!” he barked.

  As Robertson was doubled off the square toward the Guardroom he passed the Man in Readiness who was marching forward to occupy the empty file.

  “I’ll see you when yer get out of nick, ya bastard!” the married man muttered just loud enough for Robertson to catch.

  The guard mount carried on, the New Guard joined the Old in front of Buckingham Palace, the band and drums played their days selection of music as the sentries were replaced outside of the boxes at ‘Jimmy’s’ and ‘Buck House’. Virtually unchanged in format since Victorian times the guards were changed at Horse Guards, Windsor Castle, Edinburgh Castle and the Tower of London at the same time as the two London palaces.

  To the majority of the onlookers it was a quaint old ceremony staged daily for the tourist industry, they neither knew, nor probably cared, that these were front line troops carrying out ceremonial duties, and that they really did have a ‘day job’.

  Bermondsey, London: Same time.

  London is a mixture of the old and new buildings that have developed over the centuries. At one end of the scale Pre Roman remains of a city gate built by King Lud lie under late 1800’s buildings at Ludgate. Crossing the river the river in Greenwich the other end of the scale is the former Millennium Dome, now called the ‘O2’.

  Herman Goring's landscaping of the city in the forties gave birth to the 1960’s era inner city estates that replaced the prefabricated dwellings the victims of the Luftwaffe had resided in for twenty odd years. That was in the ‘You’ve never had it so good’ age of swinging London. Those estates are now the centres of drug related crime in the inner city. Running through one such estate is a red brick elevated railway line. The spaces between its hundreds of arches have been rented out by the rail line to many diverse businesses. Most were honest whilst some could best be described as sailing close to the wind, and a few were outright criminal concerns.

  One such arch was in the business of ringing stolen cars, altering their identity for resale. Beneath the sultry gaze and lovely curves of a calendars Miss March up on the wall, a silver BMW Roadster was currently being altered to become a red BMW Roadster, its new identity being taken from an identical car that had met its demise in a collision with a lamppost in Frankfurt. The three mechanics were far too busy and the ghetto blasters volume turned up far too loud for them to have noticed a light aircraft flying above, taking ‘aerial photos of London for an estate agents’ a half hour before. Neither did they notice the approach of four men and a woman in police uniform.

  An hour later the LFB, London Fire Brigade, received a call to a railway arch lock-up. Their entry was hindered, briefly by a brand new padlock. Inside they found three bodies, too badly burnt to be identified, and a buckled and burnt out BMW Roadster. The police were called, as a matter of course at the same initial call to the scene. It did not take the brains of an archbishop to work out that this was no accident.

  Near Surrey Quays, SE London: 1130hrs, same day

  A police Mercedes carrier pulled quietly into a cul-de-sac beside a derelict 1960’s tower block keeping close to the building line in order not to advertise to their fugitive in a flat far above, the police livery, blue lights and distinct ‘Air Code’ upon its roof, the unique identifier for helicopters.

  On the opposite side of the carrier, at the bottom of an embankment, a London Underground line ran above ground. Alan Harrison left the driver, Dave Carter in the vehicle, he would be prepared to drive around to cut off Jubi if he was at the address and managed to run.

  Constables Sarah Hughes and John Wainwright went around to the rear of the flats, in case Jubi climbed down from the seventh floor, balcony by balcony.

  Sergeant Harrison, Colin MacKay and Phil McEllroy took the stairs. The previous residents had only been moved out over the last six months and many of the flats were still habitable. Whilst still out of earshot the officers turned their radios down, drew and extended their Asps. Jubi was fond of knives and their body armour only provided limited protection. The flat in question faced out across the tube line and the 1920’s built housing beyond, to the large modern Surrey Quays shopping centre. Approaching quietly along the balcony to the flat Alan saw the guardrail was missing, no doubt stolen for its scrap metal value and he indicated caution to the young officers with him.

  The door was ajar, nothing unusual there as most of these flats had been trashed by kids and scavengers. Using his Asp to push open the door he signalled MacKay to wait at the door. He went to the stairs whilst McEllroy checked the downstairs of the flat. Peering cautiously into the living room, McEllroy started as he saw a figure at the window peering down. The figure at the window was looking down at the figures of two policemen outside; despite Dave Carters best efforts he been on lookout for such an eventuality and seen the carrier arrive. He had warned Alexandra Berria and his colleagues. Berria had called up to Carmichael in confirmation.

  “Politseiski ma peredinyie zdaniya.” She had slipped out of the flat and hidden on the next floor below for the officers to pass on the stairs, before taking steps to neutralise the carriers’ driver.

  Phil relaxed when he recognised the uniform worn by the stranger even if he did not know the man in it. The other officer wore a Glock handgun in a holster and had some other type of weapon held down the side of the leg furthest from Phil. He had to be an SFO, Specialist Firearms Officer, with SCO19. It did not seem strange to Phil that they had not heard of an ‘armed op’ on the ground, nor seen their vehicle as he was new to the game. The officer at the window looked over his shoulder at Phil’s greeting and smiled in a friendly manner at the young officer.

  “Hi” he replied, a Belfast accent in evidence. Mounting the stairs quietly Alan had reached a spot where he could look along the level of the floor of the landing. He jumped when he saw the figures of an Inspector and a PC stood blocking his view into a bedroom through its open doorway. Both men were looking directly at him and both smiling reassuringly. Back at the carrier Dave Carter’s attention was on the ‘main set’, the main radio for the ‘Met’. There was a chase going on and he was listening with professional interest to the commentary. He did not immediately see the rather attractive uniformed female police sergeant approach in his nearside wing mirror. The passenger door was opened and he looked across at the blue eyed blondes smiling face framed in it.

  On the stairs Alan let out a breath and climbed the rest of the steps; then he suddenly noticed that these firearms officers wore exactly the same body armour as he did, not the much superior ballistic armour in its distinctive, bulkier rig.

  In the police control room at Lambeth the Metcall staff were busy with a major incident.

  Fire Investigation at the Laboratories in another part of the complex was being arranged and the Area Major Investigation Pool, AMIP, was being summoned to the scene of a fire at a railway arch lock-up, along with a host of other agencies.

  Police Personal Radios have a ‘Panic Alarm’ function, when activated the officer has a few seconds of hands free time to shout his or her location if they can. If that
is not possible their radios unique number flashes on a screen anyway on the operators panels, the operators look up who the radio is issued to and where that officer was last known to be. The makers of the radio had offered a locator beacon function to the Met, it would have made things so much quicker but the Met did not pay the extra for that facility. An audible ‘beep’ sounds on everyone’s radio and continues until the radio of the officer in distress is reset.

  A loud beep and Sergeant Harrison’s radio number flashing on the screens of the operators caused a flurry of keypunching on consoles. The sound issuing over the radio was that of his body bouncing down wooden steps. A ‘Last Assigned’ query of the system gave his possible location.

  The senior controller, CCCIR, punched into the Southwark radio nets and listened in. It could have been a case of a false alarm but until information arrived to confirm an accidental activation it was treated as urgent.

  Alan had managed to depress his panic button just as two MP5 automatic carbines with large sound suppressers came to bear. At the door, Colin MacKay was greeted by the sight and sound of his sergeant crashing down the stairs in a jumble of limbs leaving smears of blood on the wall where his body brushed against it. From upstairs there was a an unusual sound, he had not heard the sound of working parts moving back and forwards rapidly inside automatic weapons before.

  The metallic tinkle of spent cases bouncing off walls and hitting floorboards, rounds missing Sergeant Harrison striking plaster covered walls meant his death was not a truly silent affair.

  PC McEllroy turned at the sound of Sergeant Harrison tumbling down the stairs. He was in mid stride for the door when he was hit in the back by a short burst of Teflon coated 9mm rounds that tore through the body armour supplied by the lowest bidder. The burst of fire would have been longer had a stoppage not occurred in Sean McVinnie’s weapon.

  Sarah Hughes and John Wainwright heard their radios announce whose panic alarm had sounded and were sprinting around the building for the stairs at the front. When the carrier came into sight John shouted toward it, he could see Dave Carter leaning forward, apparently unaware of the emergency.