Knife Edge (2004)

by Reeman, Douglas

  And after this?

  He thought of her hands in his, the ring flashing in the solitary light beside the bed.

  “What about Easter?” She had rolled over, her stomach muscles tightening as he touched her again. “A new start?”

  Easter. It would be perfect, no matter what the next appointment proved to be.

  Souter had said, “The young blood in our commando units needs somebody who’s seen and done it the hard way. It could be a step up the ladder, if I have any say in the matter.” The ‘ladder’ was always in the background.

  “Time to get moving again.” Parsons did not consult his watch; he seemed to have an inbuilt system of timekeeping. “We’ll do that exercise once more. Tell the section leaders I want it done from the signal to go. And no moaning and dragging of feet this time.”

  He did not point, but seemed to indicate with his chin. “That lieutenant, Hamlyn, isn’t it? Seems a cut above the others.” It was a question.

  Ross smiled. “He’s good, sir. Keen to stay with this company.”

  “Looks up to you. No bad thing, up to a point.”

  They both turned as the senior warrant officer, one of the ‘umpires’, shouted, “What? Call yourself a man? Look at me, lad. I’m a man! See the difference?”

  Ross thought of Pike, the Colonel’s right-hand man. It was good to know that a few of the old Royals were still in harness.

  Parsons remarked, “A word in some one’s direction, I think.”

  He changed tack just as swiftly. “I understand that you were closely involved with the Clive Tobin documentary? Quite good in parts, I thought.”

  It was another question.

  Ross watched the marines falling into squads and sections, their camouflaged combat gear soaked with mud. Like the pictures in the museum at Portsmouth. His mind seemed to hesitate. Or on the walls at Hawks Hill . . . The faces did not seem very different. Trafalgar, or ‘where no birds sing’; only the uniforms had changed.

  “Leadership is part of it. Trust carries all the weight.”

  Parsons gave him a thin smile.

  “Muskets to rockets. But you have a point. In the end it’s obeying the right orders, at the right time.”

  Ross saw Lieutenant Hamlyn saying something to his sergeant. He would never forget that moment by the river in Londonderry, when a civilian had been gunned down in cold blood. There were two sides to obeying orders, but rarely time to make a choice.

  He thought of Steve, the other Blackwood. They had met again during the assault exercises at Portland Bill, and Ross had also met the girl Steve was going to marry. All the legal complications caused by her husband’s desertion had been cleared up, and they were getting married as soon as possible: “full steam ahead”, as Steve had put it. Very different, and yet so right for each other. Ross did not know if she knew about his work with explosives.

  “Right! In position! Mr. Hamlyn, you are in command. All the other officers have been killed!”

  Ross saw a young marine grin and murmur something ripely sarcastic to his mate.

  Only the uniforms had changed.

  In early December the combined manoeuvres were finally called to a halt, and there was more speculation about Christmas leave than the verdict on their many exercises ashore and afloat. It was hard to know what Lieutenant-Colonel Roger Parsons thought of the results. Satisfied or bored, he gave very little away.

  Once he had remarked, after a particularly gruelling cliff-scaling effort, “They hate my guts. So it must be working!”

  They had been given some makeshift living quarters, once again on the fringe of Dartmoor, where they had been working with and alongside some crack S.A.S. troops, rivals who were always attempting to display their superiority. Nobody could accuse Parsons of sparing himself at the expense of others. Even at the end of a long, hard day Ross had seen him on the telephone to one section or another, demanding, pleading, sometimes threatening, to obtain what he required for his various schemes.

  On the last night before Parsons was due to leave for London, he asked Ross to join him in his temporary quarters, an old Nissen hut left over from the war, and boasting battered furniture and some cartoons drawn by past occupants, insulting, funny and, occasionally, strangely sad. Luggage was strewn across the floor, and Parsons’ greatcoat lay over a chair, a sheaf of scribbled notes beside it. Ross had wondered why he had not left earlier, or delayed his departure until he had had a good night’s sleep. His driver would have plenty to moan about: it would be a long haul to London, especially on some of the local roads.

  “Just thought I’d put you in the picture.” Parsons jerked his chin at a canvas chair. “Not worked you too hard, have I?”

  Ross felt himself tense. Would the past never leave him? He had been asked to drop in on the P.M.O., “a routine check-up, old chap”. They often said that. And the scars always looked so much worse under the probing medical lights. Bringing back the same memory. Parsons had said nothing in so many words. His casual remark was enough.

  He said, “I hope it’s all been useful.”

  There was music coming from a cassette player in a corner by some camp beds, a pure, woman’s voice. Opera, somehow familiar.

  Parsons bent over and switched it off. He said mildly, “New tape. My wife sent it to me. I’m not sure . . .” He did not finish it.

  The merest glimpse of the man behind the authority, and the driving impatience.

  He said, “I’m glad you’re on stand by for the leave period. Never had time to have a good punt around Poole, but I suppose . . .” He looked at Ross directly. “You’re getting married, I hear. Maybe she could come and see you?”

  “Afraid not, sir. She’s still working for Clive Tobin. Not for much longer, though.”

  Parsons snapped his fingers. “Of course. That’s how I heard about it.” Again the steady appraisal. “Clive Tobin.” He half smiled. “Still sweating on getting his knighthood!” A slight shrug. “Well, why not, I suppose, when you see the list of runners. Does make you wonder sometimes.”

  Ross heard feet clumping along a boardwalk outside the hut, some one catching his boot on a loose plank. The whole place was falling apart. Cutting down.

  Parsons repeated, “Glad you’re on stand by. Need somebody who knows the problems, who’ll spot ’em immediately.” He swung round and clenched his fist. “Logistics – the clue to the obstacle, and the cure. How much, and how many can you move if and when it’s needed! There are far too many people still living in the past, who have learned absolutely nothing from it. Pearl Harbor, Korea, Vietnam – the same minds, the same bland solutions!”

  He stepped over a suitcase and dragged open a cupboard door.

  “Logistics. Top of the list. Mine, anyway!”

  He came back with a bottle of Scotch and two glasses.

  “Neat, I’m afraid. I don’t trust the tap water in this museum.”

  Ross said nothing. It was a rare moment, and oddly precious: to speak would have ruined it.

  They clinked glasses. But for one, semi-official occasion, he had never seen Parsons drink anything stronger than a single glass of wine.

  He said slowly, “Here’s to you and your Sharon. That’s right, isn’t it?” and sipped, his eyes thoughtful. As if he were testing it. Or himself.

  The Scotch was full and fierce. Souter would approve.

  “Thanks, sir. I’ll pass it on when I next speak to her.”

  Parsons had not heard him.

  “Some one told me you’ve chosen Easter for the wedding. Can’t remember who it was.”

  Ross said, “We thought it would be a good time. There are things to arrange, invitations . . . but you’ll know that better than we do.”

  Parsons put down the glass. It was empty.

  “Yes. It takes a lot of care. A lot of planning. So easy for people to get hurt, people you love . . .” He seemed to be meditating aloud. “I believe what we are doing is very important. Perhaps vital. For us, and for the future.”

/>   Ross stood up. There were voices outside. Perhaps the car had arrived.

  “You’ll find me ready enough.” Like a flashback to school, all that time ago. Romeo and Juliet. You shall find me apt enough to that, sir, an you will give me occasion . . . The drawn rapiers shining under the stage lighting.

  Parsons held out his hand, and said without a smile, “I’m banking on it, Ross.”

  It was the first time he had used his name.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The nightmare was surging to a terrible climax. Worse than before; or was it always the same? Vivid flashes of light, and the roar of drums, like the sea smashing into the foot of a cliff.

  Faces, distorted and never still, revolving, shouting, but the voices were quelled by the din. Like dying, unable to breathe.

  Ross fell on his side, his chest heaving. Now the impossible climax. Utter silence, as if his breath had in fact stopped.

  He pulled a pillow from his head. The telephone shattered the silence and he snatched it; his hand brushed something, and he heard a glass fall to the floor beside the bed. He saw his watch glowing in the dark. Four in the morning.

  It was all coming back to him: the party. The drive from Weymouth. Hedges looming out of the night, the car swerving, whoever it was at the wheel swearing, but, mercifully, slowing down.

  “Yes?” He cleared his throat and tried again. “Blackwood.” He propped himself on his elbow. He was half-dressed, but still wearing his tie.

  “Hamlyn, sir.” Very calm, and possibly relieved. “Sorry to disturb you at this hour.”

  The mist in his head was clearing. Hamlyn was the duty officer. He had spoken to him before the car had taken him to Weymouth. Too late for the actual ceremony at a registry office in the town hall, as Steve and his girl had wanted it.

  He said, “I’m listening.”

  “Signal, sir. Priority. A.C.H.Q.”

  Ross had both feet on the floor now, although he had not felt himself move; the floor was cold, and he could hear wind shaking a door somewhere. Like the roadside hedges in the car headlights, wild spectres. Something’s happened.

  Hamlyn said, “Operation Lazarus. Execute.”

  Ross reached for his watch. “Well done, Peter. Verified?”

  “Done, sir.” He was relieved.

  What a time to choose. Parsons’ name would be well and truly vilified at this hour. A full state of readiness for the whole company. Another bomb attack somewhere? A border dispute getting out of control? It was what they had been trained to expect. He swallowed, knowing that his immediate concern had been for Sharon, in Paris or not. He could hear marching feet, the clink of metal. If you can’t take a joke . . . He fumbled around before he found the right switch. He was still not used to Poole, nor would he be at this rate.

  The phone rang again. This time it was his second-incommand, Captain Forester, wide awake, clipped and formal.

  “All sections closed up, sir. One man missing. Marine Osborne. Duty boat alongside.” All in the same breath.

  Ross peered at his watch. Fifteen minutes.

  “Tell them that was well done.”

  Forester sounded as if he was grinning.

  “Osborne has just turned up, sir. I’ll deal with him.”

  How many other units were being alerted, he wondered. And for what? Like the little boy who cried “Wolf!” once too often; if some idiot on the staff kept getting ideas . . . It happened.

  The telephone once more: Forester. “It’s Lieutenant-Colonel Parsons, sir.” No grins this time.

  “Put him through.”

  Forester answered quietly, “He’s here, sir. In the guardroom.”

  Parsons came straight to the point, as if nothing about the situation was different.

  “I was on my way here to see you in any case. Thought it might be a good moment to find out what ‘Lazarus’ could do in a real emergency. Pity to waste it.” A pause. “Are you there?”

  “Where else would I be?” He was gripping the telephone so hard that he could feel the bones in his fingers aching. “Fifteen minutes, sir!”

  “I made it sixteen, but no matter. I’ve told them to stand down now.”

  Ross tried to contain his anger. Of all the stupid, irresponsible . . .

  Parsons said, “There’s a flap on. I want to put you in the picture.”

  Ross heard a sudden outburst of shouting, the sharper voices of authority, and then eventual silence. Parsons was less popular than ever.

  He said, “If it’s not urgent . . .”

  Parsons interrupted coldly, “Well, I think it is. I’m coming over. Some fresh coffee won’t come amiss. And don’t tell the galley it’s for me, right?” The phone slammed down.

  He was astonished when he saw him that Parsons managed to appear so fresh, despite the hour and his journey from London.

  He strode across the room and stood beside a window, the curtain slightly folded as if he were watching the sky. It was even colder outside, the papers had been hinting at snow, and yet Parsons was without his greatcoat, and there was rain on his shoulders as if he had been walking somewhere. Unable to keep still.

  He said, “I was at a meeting, two meetings, in fact. Took up most of the day. They told me it was hard to get a car and driver ‘at that time’. God, you’d think this was Dad’s Army, not the Corps!”

  Ross sat on the arm of a chair, consciously relaxing himself. Preparing. He was angry. He could accept that. But there was something different this time. Parsons seemed to exist in a world quite apart from the life around him. Reasonable one moment, impatient and intolerant the next.

  He had turned away from the window, his hair shining in the overhead light.

  “Whatever the politicians say in Parliament, or in the press, our chiefs of staff just seem to lap it up. Don’t want any trouble . . . nothing must upset the daily routine.” His eyes flashed. “Or Christmas leave, can you believe that?”

  An orderly tapped on the door and padded between them with a tray of coffee.

  “Thanks, Cooper.” Ross waited for the door to close. “If you tell me what’s happened, sir . . .”

  Parsons stalked to the table and poured two cups of black coffee without answering.

  Then he said, “You always seem to know their names, and remember them. I’ve never had the knack, I’m afraid. Not that it . . .”

  “I think it does matter, sir.”

  Parsons smiled, for the first time. “All that they can call their own – isn’t that what Nelson said once?”

  He sipped the coffee. “Not bad. Not bad at all. They must like you.”

  Ross watched in silence. The coffee was scalding, and yet Parsons had not appeared to notice.

  “There’s been a big debate going on in the House of Lords. More defence cuts. What it would mean. How much it will save. The morning papers will have it in large print. The latest one to come under fire is H.M.S. Endurance, our ice patrol ship.” He broke off. “You know her?”

  “The Red Plum, they used to call her. Her garish paint used to make her stand out against the ice. I did a few days aboard her, way back – we were testing some new lifesaving gear for use in Arctic conditions.” He waited; it was not what Parsons had been expecting. “I heard they wanted to scrap her, or sell her. Has it been decided?”

  Parsons said, “The Defence Secretary, no less, wants to get rid of the old lady. After all she’s done, is doing, to support our interests in the South Atlantic and Antarctic waters. She also acts as survey ship when working with the British Antarctic Survey team. But you know this, of course.” He was pouring himself another cup of coffee. His hand was quite steady. And yet . . .

  “A few days ago an Argentinian supply ship put into Leith Harbour, the old whaling station in South Georgia. A so-called trade mission to sort out the scrap prospects there.”

  “I remember the old ‘catchers’. The trade was pretty run down even then. I suppose the Falklands can do with the business these days, even scrap metal?”
r />   Parsons said, “The visiting ship was a naval auxiliary. Visitors are supposed to request permission from the Governor’s representative in South Georgia. This one did not. In fact, they landed a working party to have a look at the junk lying around. The ship departed, without asking for any kind of permit, and left the working party behind on the island. An official protest was lodged with the Argentine government in Buenos Aires, but was not followed up by our people in Whitehall. The next move was the plan to get rid of Endurance. Bit of a coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”

  Ross remembered the bitter cold, the stark landscapes of arctic blue, and ice. A long, long way from Dorset. And now, in a few words, it was right here.

  He heard a vehicle stopping out in the darkness, the sound of milk bottles, and some one whistling.

  Parsons said, “Argentina has been on the boil for years. Political unrest, reprisals, all those things nobody wants to hear or know in Whitehall. They’ve had their eye on the Falklands for ages, never stopped since the last confrontation. Now, perhaps, somebody thinks we’re too busy making cuts to notice, even to care.”

  “What’s the general view?”

  “There isn’t one.” Parsons stood up and walked to the centre of the room. “Colonel Souter agrees with me. But only in theory.” He regarded Ross coolly. “He’s more concerned with his immediate prospects. I suppose we all get like that eventually.” He clapped his hands together. “But not yet, not me!”

  Experience, instinct; how to define it? Like turning a corner, something completely different. Not some hole-in-the-wall experience. The booby trap, the sniper, the hidden bomb with just minutes to clear the building.

  Ross knew very little about the Argentine armed forces, except that many of their ships were originally British, including their one and only aircraft carrier. If things were half as bad as Parsons believed, one would be enough. Especially with the ‘Red Plum’ in a breaker’s yard.

  He said, “So Operation Lazarus is a warm-up?”