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LadyAuramoon23rd December, 2013
A flat in Hereford
United Kingdom
17:30 Hours
Scott sat at the small desk in his flat, staring at the piece of paper in front of him. His scratchy, scrawly handwriting covered the lined notepaper. Lifting the cold bottle of Peroni to his lips again, he took a long drink from the bottle and stared aimlessly out of the window of his flat into the dark, wey December evening.
After they'd been ordered to stand down the mission, Scott had done one last thing that he could: He'd looked around, from where they were, at everything he could see, committing as much of it as possible to memory. Numbers of men and equipment, their camouflage, whatever insignia he could see, what they done and where they'd gone. As soon as he'd had a chance, he'd written all of it down for later reference. It could be useful in some way, he thought. And paying attention was one thing he had learned.
All the same, at the time it had felt like doing something. Now it was done, he felt listless and unsure.
After being called back, Lima hadn't been sent to a base or even given another mission. Instead, he'd been separated like the others, and flown back to the UK. From there he'd been shuttled back to Hereford and given brisk and matter-of-fact orders to the effect that he was currently 'suspended from duty', with no clear explanation as to why, and what would happen next. His anger and unease at the way the missions' end had come about, and about the wall of silence surrounding the whole operation and the fate of his team-mates had resulted in him speaking out of turn, and with less than the normal amount of decorum and understanding - in short, he'd swore, loudly and fluently at a superior office and got into a shouting match. Following that, he'd been 'coerced' into taking some temporary leave for the Christmas holidays.
No one had placed him under guard, but he had no doubts that he was being watched on the sly, somehow. No one had interfered with his going home to his small flat in town, and he'd not been restricted in making personal phone calls - but no-one in the chain of command had given him any replies or answers to anything resembling an official question beyond bureaucratic waffling. No doubt word of his 'episode' at the debriefing had gotten around, and the wheels of bureaucracy that ran the MoD and Parliament were creaking to a halt for Christmas anyway. In short, he'd bee frozen out of official channels, and distance from unofficial ones.
Christmas lights glowed on the streets outside the window, and revelling crowds drifted down the streets heading to post-work office-party celebrations and other seasonal merry-making. But to him, it didn't feel christmassy at all. He was too absorbed in thoughts of the fate of the team, being pulled off of their mission, and whatever had been up. Somewhere out there, was a job still waiting to be finished, and people with murderous intent taking advantage of it.
He tried to push it off of his mind. Politics got in the way of decisive action - it was the soldiers' lot in life. Especially for Special Forces... but this seemed wrong.
Listless and frustrated by his own thoughts and situation, he stood up from the desk, shoving the chair out with a squeak across the wooden floor, pacing into the kitchen and draining the last of his beer. He swung open the fridge only to slam it shut angrily when it was empty of any further booze. The door jarred violently enough that something crashed inside of it. The accident was the last straw in releasing his frustration, and with a wordless bellow the big Englishman smashed a heavy kick into the front of the appliance, rattling it and wobbling it on the floor, before punching the front of it hard enough to break skin on his knuckles.
Breathing hard, he stared through glazed eyes at the damage he'd done, and the red mark on the white panelling.
"Fucking nice one, wanker," he muttered to himself. "Beating up your kitchen. What's that accomplished?"
Feeling the ache in his hand, he shook his head, ashamed at himself, as he turned toward the sink intending to run his hand under the water. Before he got far, he heard the ringing of his mobile, on the desk in the lounge.
Frowning, he darted back into the room, and looked at the screen on the smartphone.
[Unknown Caller]
Shrugging and figuring it was a well-meaning colleague or family member, or yet another call regarding utility bills or some other idiot he could vent his rage on, he slid his thumb across the screen.
"A'right? Scott here".
"Scott? It's Victoria"
"Well, this is a pleasant surprise. Merry Christmas, I suppose. What's going on, love? I suppose it's too much to hope this is a social call. If you wanted my number, you could've asked..."
She gave a dry laugh, which made him give a slight smile of his own, and a flush to his cheeks.
"You wish, Scott. And Merry Christmas. Unfortunately, it's business. I take it you're free to talk?"
His expression darkened, and he leaned on the desk, looking out the window once more at the people outside and sleeting rain as he held the phone to his face. He knew that if the CIA operative had got hold of his number and called him, and if it was related to their line of work, it was hardly likely to be any kind of coincidence with the last missions' ending.
"This is about the last op, isn't it?" he said quietly. There was a silence on the other end, before she replied quietly.
"Can you meet me somewhere? This isn't a secure line."
"Where are you?" he asked in confusion, standing off of the table, and looking out the window. He half expected to see her out there, under an umbrella.
"Near enough," she replied. "Just give me a place, and a couple of hours to get there."
"All right," he said after a moments' deliberation. "There's a pub on a road between Hereford and Lebury. The Crown and Anchor. Meet me there, in a couple of hours."
"See you then".
The line went dead, and Scott blinked in surprise, running one hand through his short hair as he mused over the conversation. He'd just agreed to meet a CIA operative in a secret meeting... it was close to treasonous, if not being outright so, and the kind of thing that could get him slammed in prison for a lifetime of sentences. But his gut screamed to him that doing something was better than sitting here and going stir-crazy, or drinking his feelings about it into oblivion. He needed to know what had happened to the others, and to the deadly weapons they'd been chasing. And instinct told him that Victoria had something on the situation.
Glancing down at his hand, he squeezed the aching digits into a fist. Decision made.
Two hours later, Scott pulled his tatty car into the car park of the Crown and Anchor. Shutting off the engine, he looked around the car park. Nothing unusual or out of place whatsoever. Grumbling to himself, he stepped out of the car and locked the door, before heading inside.
The warm air and the quiet burble of the patrons inside hit him in the face, and as he looked around, he easily caught sight of Victoria sitting quietly in one corner. She smiled briefly in greeting, and he nodded to her. Ordering a pint from the bar, he slid into the seat opposite her, and leaned over the table as he took a sip. She had a glass of wine set in front of her, and looked different from the appearance he was familiar with of a tough, battle-ready woman. Instead, she had makeup on and elegant yet practical clothing. The effect was arresting, though he focused in on her words instead.
"Scott, glad you could make it. Though, it's a shame it's not more pleasant"
"Yeah, this isn't exactly what I'd hoped for Christmas drinks with the team. Nice to see you an' all, but what's all the cloak and dagger about?"
She fixed him with a sharp, serious eye, and he returned the look as they talked shop.
"Eagle is in trouble," she said quietly. "And something big is coming, something serious. Much more than you've been dealing with lately, and where people, just like these people-" she gestured around the pub, the crowds ignoring the man and woman in conversation in the corner in favour of their own good times "-and lots more of them in Denmark. It's real, Scott. And we're talking Tom Clancy, Modern Warfare type-shit here. Except this is happening, and it's real."
Scott chased a drip of condensation up the side of his glass as she took a breather, looking into the bubbling amber liquid as he replied.
"So, why aren't your lot or the Danes doing something about it? They've got their own people. Good ones too, I've worked with them."
"There's been so many false alarms, especially at this time of year that convincing anyone it's anything else will be impossible. Not to mention, they're already out there and working on it. But we need something quiet, quick, and effective, Scott. Langley doesn't want a link to the op either - if it goes loud, it'll look bad. It's too late to organize anything massive as well - you and your friends from work are the best option right now. It won't be pretty, but I'm sure I can get you off the hook... mostly, anyway. We've got dirt on people and strings to pull that can keep you out of prison, and probably in the Army without completely destroying your career. Eagle is already onboard-"
"What about Ivan?" he said flatly, his eyes stormy. He was still pissed off at Zhenya, and the implied link the Russian had with events. His caginess and lack of willing to disclose information in his eyes, had left him bereft of trust and reliability.
"I'll have him on board," she replied openly. "He's not directly responsible for what happened on your last... job. He's just an employee, remember. Not part of the management".
He sighed and took another sip of the beer, before leaning back in his seat and looking around the room. The people here had no idea what was happening. Neither would those anywhere else, especially in Denmark in a crowded city somewhere on Christmas. Like all of these people, they'd be enjoying celebrations, spending time with their families and loved ones.
Stopping things like this was why he'd wanted to be part of the SAS in the first place. He'd seen the infamous videos of the Embassy Siege, and read and heard many more stories of bravery and courage. It was almost childish, but it had given him dedication and a drive to do something - something like this. Knowing it, could he let it be any other way? Not to mention - he'd learned more than anything in his time in both the regular army and in the SAS, that you don't leave a mate hanging high and dry. And Jan needed him.
He turned back to Victoria and gave a sharp nod.
"All right. Tell me what I need to do".
0000 Hours
24th December, 2013
Somewhere outside Bremen
Scott was almost alone in the all-night restaurant. He'd been whisked here, straight from the Crown and Anchor, via a rash of quickly-arranged flights through a handful of tickets and information Victoria had produced from a seemingly-magical handbag. Still clad in the same jeans, T-shirt sweater jacket and Converse he'd worn that day, he'd boarded a flight had departed from Cardiff Airport which had deposited him in Bremen, the rain and darkness still on his heels. Victoria had promised him that his flat and car (piece of crap it was) would be taken care of while he was away, even as she'd sat next to him in the back of a stereotypically black sedan driven by an equally stereotyped black-clad man down the motorway into Wales.
He'd snatched a little more than an hours' sleep on the four-hour flight, but had been restless with the thoughts of the impending operation, and the information passed over by Victoria regarding it. More of Victoria's magic papers had given him a rental car. He'd exchanged some cash for euros, and then driven out of town and parked up in a non-descript roadside cafe, waiting for the next word. His growling stomach and the miserable weather had driven him into the cafe's interior, and now he read over a german-language newspaper and chased crumbs around a plate as he sipped strong, sugary tea.
The SAS soldier had expected his mind to be racing with insecurities and a whirl of possibilities and fantasies of 'what-if' - but the reality was he felt cool, blank, and neutral. He knew his career could be on the line. But what was that compared to the lives of those in Copenhagen and beyond? Victoria had produced a full briefing document for him, and caught up to speed, he had felt an almost cleansing, burning anger creep over him at the events planned by their enemies. This was something that needed to be stopped, and was the exact situation Lima had originally been bought together for. Only now, they were operating out 'in the wild', and outside of the fence. It was dangerous, and probably illegal in many ways. He had no doubt they'd have little or no support, and there was a slim chance that Jan may not even escape capture long enough to contact him - a lucky sighting, or any kind of bad luck could stop things from coming together.
But if it did, then he'd made up his mind: There wasn't anyone else to take care of it.
He'd written an e-mail to his parents on the plane over, explaining that once again he wasn't going to make it home for christmas and that he was sorry. He'd struggled in how to try and tell them, without telling them, that something more was afoot, and that things were serious. But in the end, he'd ended up awkwardly telling them how much he loved them, and that he missed them. He didn't know what else to say.
He'd debated sending one to Carla, his ex... but then decided against it - they'd split up because she didn't understand his life with the Regiment, and anything he'd try to say now she still wouldn't understand. There wasn't really anyone else to contact - not in the time he had. So that would do.
He laid the newspaper down, finding it hard to concentrate on the foreign words, and the cut-and-dried news stories about life and culture in a country he wasn't familiar with. Over his head, a television played a late-night variety show of some kind, the flickering images almost an abstraction to the situation he was living in. He flicked his eyes away to the windows instead. Outside the glass, rain sluiced down the window in waves, the harsh lights of the car park casting weird reflections off of the water and illuminating the small patch of land against the blackness outside and distant lights. It was far from the picture-postcard holiday season, but it certainly reflected the stormy, shadowy world he was submerged in.
His thoughts jumped out of his head, and he jerked in surprise at the feel of his phone ringing in his pocket. Sliding it out and into his hand, he looked at the screen.
[Unknown Number]
"It'd better not be British sodding Gas this time" he muttered, before sliding his thumb across the screen.
"Mate, it's Eagle. Songbird's pinged up that the RV is as aformentioned. Got our kit here. Looks good, if you're close by, we can get this show on the road."A wash of relief and fear swum over him as he heard Jan's voice on the phone. Holding it a little closer to his face, he gave a slight smile. He wasn't sure if he'd call Jan a friend; he barely knew anything about his Lima C.O.'s life outside of their operations together. But he'd never steered him wrong, and he trusted the GROM operator implicitly. He liked him, as much as a man as a professional, and that was good enough. "Hello, mate" he replied with a quiet tone. "Good to hear from you, an' I mean it too. I shouldn't be too far off to meet you, good to hear Songbird came through with our Christmas presents too. I'll settle up here and come to you. Should be there in a little while to get the party started. See you soon". He hung up and sat still for a moment to compose himself, before standing up and heading to the counter. He paid the bill and emerged back out into the rain, leaning forward against the wind and the driving water. Reaching the car, he slid in and hit the engine. It was time to go. 0200 Hours Bad Neumond (Rasthof) Lower Saxony, Germany The car park of the rest stop was barely different to the one he'd left behind two hours ago. Another island of light in a landscape of dark, studded with glowing signs of civilization. Almost abandoned beyond a few overnighting trucks and a small cars, he pulled the sedan into a free space, and glanced around as he shut down the engine. Almost immediately he saw the black Landie parked off to one side, the interior lights turned off. To most people it would look like a normal land-rover, but to someone who'd worked with them for a large proportion of their adult life, it was clearly a British Army specification Land Rover. Stepping out once more into the driving rain, he crossed the waterlogged tarmac, his trainers splashing through puddles before he rapped on the drivers' side window. "Hello mate," he said loudly enough to carry through the glass, but not too much so. "Sorry it took me a while. Merry Christmas and all that bollocks. Did Santa bring me anything good?"