Stealth

31

Brigadier Fife-Simpson arrived back at his London flat, checked his mail, and found a request from the First Sea Lord that he appear at the Admiralty the following day for a reassignment interview.

At the appointed hour, dressed in his uniform, he reported to Admiral Sir Tim Barnes as instructed. He was greeted warmly by his old friend and given coffee, then Sir Tim got to the point.

“Roger,” Sir Tim said, “I’ve been looking through our vacancy lists for a new assignment for you.”

“I’m raring to go, Tim,” the brigadier replied, being so bold as to address him familiarly, since they were alone.

“I’ve found you something — a command, actually, that while it may seem a bit farther south than what you’re accustomed to, might be just the sort of assignment that could lead to greater things in the future. After all, a hardship post can look very good on one’s record when, in the future, one comes before an Admiralty board. I expect you’re aware that, now that you are of flag rank, promotions and reassignments require board approval.”

Hardship? Fife-Simpson thought, a bit alarmed. “Farther south, did you say?” he asked.

“The Falklands, actually. That’s as far south as one can go. You’d be in command of the detachment there.”

The brigadier frowned a little. “How large a detachment?” he asked.

“Twelve officers and seventy of the lower ranks. All men, I’m afraid. The First Lord thought it best, for his own reasons, not to send women down there.”

“And what does the detachment do there, sir?” He thought it best not to be familiar again.

“They guard the Falklands,” Sir Tim replied.

“From what, sir?”

“Why, from reinvasion of the Argentinians, of course. You’ll remember how hard it was dislodging them after they took the islands back from us the last time. We don’t want that happening again, do we?”

“And the Admiralty believes it could prevent a reinvasion with eighty-two men?”

“Oh, we’re much better armed and more responsive these days than back then,” Sir Tim replied. “We could reinforce your contingent in days, not weeks.”

“And how long is the posting, sir? It’s temporary, I assume.”

“No, it’s a normal two-year rotation, possibly three, should difficulties arise.” Sir Tim looked at him, frowning. “Is something wrong, Brigadier?”

“Not quite what I hoped for, sir,” Fife-Simpson replied.

“Well, in these days of peacetime, our numbers have shrunk, and so have the number of postings available. I might be able to find you something in West Africa, but the climate there is, shall we say, inhospitable, and the risk of tropical infections formidable.”

“Thank you, sir, I don’t think so. May I ask: Do I have another alternative?”

“Well, there’s always retirement, I suppose.” He looked at the file before him. “You’ve another year before being eligible for a full pension, though. Perhaps I could fudge that a bit, if you wish me to.”

“May I have a few days to consider my options, sir?”

“Of course, Roger. Ring me as soon as you can and let me know your wishes in the matter. In the meantime, I’ll see what might be done about the pension.” He stood, signaling that the meeting was at an end. “I might be able to do something without board approval.” As he spoke he tilted the file in his hand, and an index card fell out onto the coffee table. Sir Tim picked it up and looked at it. “Oh, yes, I was given this to hand to you by the First Lord. It appears to be a website. Something to do with the Falklands, I imagine.” He handed it to the brigadier, who tucked it into a pocket, then saluted and left the room.

It had begun to rain. It took the yeoman at the front door a few minutes to find him a cab. By then it was coming down so hard that he got quite wet while getting into the taxi, which did not help to lift the depression that had befallen him on hearing of his new posting. The Falklands, for God’s sake! It was the other end of the earth! Bleak and with no women. And two years of it, perhaps three!

Back at his flat, he shucked off the tunic and hung it in his closet to dry. As he did, he came across the card Sir Tim had given him. He flopped down in his chair. Retirement? What would he do in retirement? He had no civilian connections whatever, and no training that would qualify him for a job in the city or in the courts. He’d sold the family’s country property after his father’s death, and he still had that money, so he could live. He imagined his existence, and that depressed him further.

It became clear to him as he sat there that he was going to have to bring some pressure to bear on old Tim; it had worked before, it could work again. Maybe some administrative post at the Admiralty; that would be bearable. He picked up his laptop and turned it on.

As the screen came up it was occupied by a message, demanding a user name and a password. He was expecting nothing like that, so he attempted to exit and go to his e-mail, but it would not budge. He restarted the computer to clear it, but got the same message.

He looked at the card Tim had given him and tried typing in the entry code and password it contained. Instantly a photograph appeared: it was a medium shot of himself, naked and in bed with a man, whose face was obscured. He scrolled down and found half a dozen other photos, from different angles and himself in different poses. He shrank away from the computer, as if it were a poisonous reptile.

Mercifully, the video ended, but there was another on-screen message: Consider your options.

Fife-Simpson fell back into his chair. What he had seen on screen had shocked him to the core. It was no longer a criminal act, but for an officer of flag rank, it would be a career-ender; whoever had sent the video was clearly threatening that it could get out.

Retirement was beginning to look better to him. Certainly, better than the Falkland Islands.