by Ray Timms
Closing the door behind him Terry Beaumont leaned against it and blew through his cheeks.
When he turned the corner he almost bumped into Charlotte Sweetwater who flashed him that look that always got him wondering.
The following day ScottiLeak was headline news.
Sir Roger summoned Terry Beaumont to his office.
‘My God Terry this is serious. We must have a COBRA meeting right away.
If we were to lose any of our trident submarines the Yanks would go ballistic.’
‘Indeed, Prime Minister.’ Terry said. ‘Which is why this new intelligence has such serious implications.’
It was obvious to Beaumont that Sir Roger had forgotten every word of their conversation on this matter only yesterday. He thought he’d better straighten him out. ‘Remember what we talked about yesterday? I said I was going to make up a fake email, made to look like an official Scottish Government one and then I send it to the media.’
‘You made it up you say?’ Sir Roger looked relieved. ‘Thank God. For a minute there I thought the Scots were about to run off with our military kit, take over our oilrigs. Dash it all Terry, why didn’t you say? What should I do now?’
‘First of all, the House will expect you to make an announcement. You must tell the House how shocked and dismayed you are by the actions of the Scottish administration. You then say that your government will take all necessary steps to protect UK interests.’
‘Right,’ said Sir Roger said a little bewildered. ‘I might have you write that down for me?’
‘You will tell the House, in light of this new and alarming information our armed forces have been put on Red alert.’
‘Red alert eh? The Scots wont be happy.’ Sir Roger said. The red veins in his nose appeared to pulse. ‘It’s their own silly fault thinking they can just pack up their kilts and leave the UK.’ Sir Roger poured himself another whiskey. Raising his glass to Beaumont he said. ‘Good work Beaumont.’
Sir Roger pressed a button on his intercom. Theresa Toffy, his secretary answered.
‘Yes Sir Roger.’
‘Theresa, I want you to set up a COBRA meeting ASAP.
‘Yes Sir Roger.’
Turning to his SA, Bottomley said. ‘You seem to be in possession of vital intelligence on this Scottish plot Beaumont I want you in on all the COBRA meetings. If the Scots were to overrun our oil rigs and pipelines we would be in trouble.’
‘Like me, Sir Roger, you will no doubt be able to recall the miners strike which put this country on a three-day working week. Do you remember the hordes of angry motorists queuing at the petrol stations – how thousands of old people, many of them traditional tory voters, shivered and died from the cold?’
Bottomley had heard enough. ‘Damn and blast their eyes Terry, now we have the bloody miners on strike. We must nip this uprising the bud.’
ScottiLeak caused pandemonium in the country. The UK government accused the Scots of sneaky behaviour. The Scottish Government accused Westminster of fabricating the email to deflect the media’s attention from Sir Roger Bottomley’s catastrophic handling of Brexit and the break up of the United Kingdom.
Present in Cabinet Office Briefing Room A, (COBRA) were: Sir Roger Bottomley, Terry Beaumont, the Heads of the armed forces, the Intelligence Services, the Home Secretary, the Chiefs of police, a handful of Cabinet Ministers, along with a range of top civil Servants. Terry needn’t have worried that the people present were about to challenge the origins of ScottiLeak because, risen to anger by it’s damning revelations all they wanted was for the PM to action.
‘Gentlemen, (there was only one women present), Sir Roger said, casting his eyes around the table. ‘You will all have seen the email leaked to us by a dissident Scot. You will by now have learned the Scottish Government has for months been planning to overrun our Scottish military bases, how they have been secretly planning to confiscate our oil assets. I have convened this meeting to agree on how we move forward. For myself I prefer a robust, unequivocal response, one that sends Mary Dewar’s administration a clear message that the UK government will take all necessary steps to protect its assets.’ Sir Roger lit up a cigar. Two seats to his left, Home Secretary Katie Murrell, began coughing and waving a hand in front of her face.
Slamming the flat of his hand down on the table, making everyone jump, General Sir Rufus-Warburton Smyth, the head of the army, spittle flying off his handlebar moustache roared with indignation, ‘Damn and blast their breeches Bottomley. We cannot stand by and let these people get away with this. With your permission I’ll sort this out. ‘
Listening to this Terry Beaumont, chewing on his pencil, slid down in his chair.
‘Would this involve, General,’ the PM asked ‘you sending hordes of your men with bayonets fixed, charging over the border shooting and looting?’
Terry Beaumont raised his hand. If I may make a suggestion Prime Minister?’
The PM nodded.
‘The problem, as I see it, is how do go about rescuing our assets? We could, as the General has suggested, simply invade Scotland. My worry about that is it would upset our American friends. Might I suggest an alternative?’
‘Go head.’ Sir Roger said with a wave of his hand.
‘My idea is this,’ Terry said, feeling uncomfortable at the way he was being scrutinised. ‘The Scots are have announced there is to be a Scottish Independence Day celebration. There will be street parties and the pubs can stay open twenty-four hours. Under the cover of darkness and while the Scots are busy celebrating,’ Terry pretended to be tipping back a glass, ‘we mobilise our troops and have them withdraw all our military assets.’
‘What about the Scottish regiments, ‘Sir Peregrine Parsonage, Army Chief Of Staff said seeing a flaw in this plan. ‘They are hardly likely to stand idly by while we nick their weapons.’
‘I was just coming to that very point,’ Terry lied, having to make this up as he went along. I rather fancy that they too will be celebrating and hopefully, they’ll not take too much notice. And if they were to become suspicious and asked us what we were playing at, moving so much equipment through the night, we simply say we are carrying out night manoeuvres. Not, as I understand it, an infrequent occurrence.’
With no dissenters, COBRA voted to go along with Beaumont’s plan. The Home Secretary wasn’t quite convinced. Shaking her head she said.
‘I cant believe the Scottish Army would be so distracted as not to notice a mass exodus of our military equipment?’
‘I would expect them to notice,’ Terry said. ‘But I am banking on them being so merry they don’t actually care.’
Sir Roger liked it. ‘Good plan Beaumont.’ Addressing his military Chiefs of Staff, Sir Roger said. ‘Crack on with it.’
Back at their respective HQ’s, First Sea Lord, Admiral Sir, Stanley Mortimer ordered an immediate withdrawal of his ships from Scottish bases. He also sent a small flotilla of warships out into the North Sea to beef up the security around the oilrigs. General Sir Rufus-Warburton Smyth, Army Chief of Staff, sent orders that his army was to be ready to move out at midnight. His armies were to then form a defensive line the length of Hadrian’s Wall. Air Chief Marshal Sir Andrew Shelley would have his warplanes in the air by daybreak and have them fly really low over the towns and cities, ‘a few sonic bangs rattling their windows ought to shake em up.’
Terry Beaumont was feeling quite pleased with himself. The PM and all these powerful people liking his idea wouldn’t hurt his job prospects at all, not at all.
Later that morning, addressing a packed House of Commons Sir Roger waving a printout of ScottiLeak, announced. ‘Not since the Second World War has our country faced such a threat to its security.’
For now at least, newspaper headlines weren’t calling for his resignation.
After leaving the House of Commons Sir Roger went back to Number 10 and met with Terry Beaumont in the PM’s study.
Terry Beaumont was patting himself on the back. His fake
email was a masterstroke of political spin. It had worked. It had got the PM off the hook, which meant the work on Amanda’s new kitchen could now go ahead. It was all looking good.
‘Good work Beaumont,’ Sir Roger said raising his glass. ‘I may have to make you a CBE in the New Years Honours list.’
When he leaned back in his chair and hoisted his feet up on his desk there was a satisfied smirk on Sir Roger’s face.
‘I have been thinking dear boy.’
Terry wished he wouldn’t. ‘Have you PM?’
‘Yes, tell me. How much of that wall is still standing?’
Terry was thinking, what wall?
‘Which wall are we talking about PM?’
‘The one the Romans built, the one that keeps them out.’
‘Keeps who out?’
‘Don’t be thick Beaumont. The Scots.’
‘Have you ever visited Scotland Sir Roger?’
‘No, and I have no wish to. I heard the entire country is only just out of the ice age.’
‘I see,’ said Terry. ‘The wall to which you refer, was built almost two thousand years ago by the Roman emperor Hadrian. Most of it is now missing.’
‘Missing!’ Sir Roger sounded alarmed. ‘Stolen was it… by the Scots?’
Actually it was the English that pulled it down. The locals pinched the stones to build houses in the north of England.’
‘In that case I should put it back up again.’
‘Rebuild it?’
‘Every last brick.’
‘It was stone actually,’ Terry said. He had a thought. ‘I suppose a capital project like that, rebuilding the entire wall, would provide useful employment for the bricklayers in the hard-pressed north of England.’
‘Are they hard-pressed, up there?’
‘They claim to be Sir Roger.’
‘Well, don’t just sit around here twiddling your thingamajigs. Get on with it Terry. Get some people on it.’
Terry was thinking that his brother-in-law has a building company. No doubt he’d be glad to take on the work. Then he’d get a decent backhander ‘I do know of someone who could do a good job of rebuilding the wall. He built my neighbours conservatory. I could have a word with him and get you a good a deal. I might be able to swing it so that there is a case of whiskey in it for you?’
‘A case of whiskey you say,’ Sir Roger’s watery eyes lit up. ‘That suits me.’ Bottomley yawned. ‘Beaumont be a good chap. On your way out ask Charlotte Sweetwater to pop in. I want her to take something down?’
There was a wry grin on Terry’s face when he left the PM’s office. All in all, it had been quite a day, fraught, but productive.
‘You are a such a handsome man.’ Charlotte Sweetwater cooed standing behind the PM massaging his shoulders and breathing in his aftershave.
‘Don’t let Edith hear you say that.’ Bottomley said opening his eyes and looking at the door. ‘Is it locked?’
‘Yes, Sir Roger, I made sure of that. Now what would you like me to take down?’
Sir Roger needn’t have worried that his wife might have burst in because Dame Edith had gone to their apartment in Knightsbridge. The penthouse suite, according to his expenses claims, was supposed to be rented. The House of Commons Standards Committee when they were asked to look into this irregularity dismissed it as a clerical oversight. While Ms Sweetwater was about to take something down, Sir Roger’s wife was having another of her regular workouts with Marcel DuPont. Marcel’s fees for these frequent services would be reimbursed via the PM’s wife’s own expenses claims.
The breeze messing with his thinning hair, his eyes hollow from lack of sleep and the taste of malt whiskey on his tongue, Sir Roger Bottomley, about to face the world media, stepped outside Number 10. Standing behind the lectern the PM looked grim. He read out the short statement that Beaumont had prepared for him: ‘Following the Scottish government’s illegal declaration of independence and the shocking revelations exposed in the intercepted email that shows the Scots are planning to overrun our military bases and seize our oil assets, last night under the cover of darkness our forces taking with them every piece of our military hardware they could lay their hands on withdrew to South of the border and formed a defensive line just South of the border. The government of the United Kingdom stands resolute in upholding the rule of law. I maintain that both the Scottish Independence Referendum and the subsequent announcement made by First Minister Mary Dewar of a Unilateral Declaration Of Independence are illegal. The Scottish government does not have the moral or the legal right to declare itself independent. For the sake of peace between our two nations I urge the Scottish Government to reverse this foolish, and entirely unworkable declaration.
That evening, to report and comment on the unfolding crisis, TV stations across the UK suspended normal viewing.
On Scottish Independence Day, at the stroke of midnight the British forces made their move. Throughout the night a steady stream of army vehicles headed south. In Scotland nobody particularly cared. Even the carousing troops in the Scottish Regiments who were quite accustomed to seeing night manoeuvres, paid no heed to the stuff being taken from their barracks. Rivers of trucks and low-loaders blocked the roads for hours and by dawn there wasn’t a scrap of military hardware left north of the border. The soldiers of the Scottish regiments, bleary eyed and hung over, woke to find their hardware, their rifles and even their ammo was gone.
Chapter Five
Edinburgh.
It was the doorbell clanging in her alcohol-stupefied head that woke Mary Dewar. The room swam when she rolled over to look at the clock on her bedside cabinet. Mary groaned. Who the hell was waking her at six in the morning for chrissake?
Dressed in her carpet slippers and dressing gown, her hair a mess, Mary opened the front door and groaned.
‘Oh it’s you,’ Mary croaked. ‘Why are you waking me at this god-awful time of day?’
Sandra McCauley the First Minister’s PA edged past her boss into the hallway and closed the door behind her. ‘I have been on the phone for hours trying to call you and you don’t answer. Are you ok?’
‘Oh, I didn’t know it was you. I threw the phone across the room.’ Mary couldn’t remember if she had a man up in her bedroom or not? No, she didn’t think so.
Mary Shuffled through to the kitchen. She filled the kettle, switched it on and found two mugs. Waggling a tea bag in the air she asked Sandra. ‘Tea… coffee?’
‘You look a mess.’
‘Thank you Sandra,’ Mary said being sarcastic. ‘I feel a mess ok? Now, tell me what has happened?’
‘Last night while we were all out getting pissed, the English withdrew all their armed forces. Their troops and their heavy armour are now lined up along our border in a very threatening manner.’
Mary plonked her bottom down on a stool at the breakfast bar and dropped her head in her hands. The noise of the kettle boiling sounded like a jet plane in her ears. ‘Get that Sandra,’ Mary said pointing at the kettle. ‘I’m afraid if I was to move my head might fall off.’
Fifteen minutes later, Sandra was keeping right behind her boss, her hands ready to catch her should she fall on the stairs. At the top Sandra could breath again. They turned left on the landing and went into Mary’s b bedroom.
With no sign of a man in her bedroom, leaving Sandra to pick up her clothes, Mary peeked inside the en-suite bathroom. Finding no man in there, Mary relaxed down a little. She was so drunk last night it was quite conceivable that she had brought a man home and had forgotten about him.
‘I couldn’t care less that the English have pulled out,’ Mary said looking at her face in the bathroom mirror and thinking she looked a good deal older that her forty-nine years. She poked her tongue out. ‘Urgh.’ Snatching up her electric toothbrush she proceeded to scrub it raw. ‘Good riddance to them.’ Mary said over her shoulder to her PA who was hanging her clothes in her wardrobe. Her headache was so bad she wondered if it was a brain tumour.
&nbs
p; ‘Someone must have spiked my drink last night.’ Mary said to Sandra who was now leaning on the doorjamb with her legs crossed and her arms folded. ‘Don’t look at me that way. I was celebrating.’ Mary complained. ‘I’m sure you must get drunk now and again.’
‘I did get drunk… just the once, and then I decided I didn’t like feeling ill, so I never did it again.’
Hearing this Mary shook her head. She shouldn’t have done that! ‘Help me get dressed will you? If I am to be expected to deal with a constitutional crisis I need to be wearing some clothes. ‘And you say the English removed every bit of kit?’
‘Down to the last bullet I heard.’
‘Tanks?’
‘All but a few broken down ones that blocked the roads for hours.’
‘Our ships… aircraft?’
‘Strictly speaking, ‘ Sandra said, ‘we don’t actually own any of it. Anyway its all gone over the border.’
‘Not our nuclear submarines?’ Mary Dewar said slipping her feet into her leopard pattern high-heeled shoes. The English had caught them napping. She had better get over to Holyrood and set up an emergency sitting of parliament.
‘The last report I had, the submarines were last seen off Blackpool.’
‘How’d I look? No don’t say it. I know. I look like I spent the night in a dustbin. Get that idiot Sir Roger Bottomley on the phone. I want to know what that imbecile is playing at.’
Looking at her reflection in the triple mirror on her dressing table Mary applied some lipstick.
Sir Roger Bottomley wasn’t taking her calls. His secretary told her. ‘Sorry Mizz Dewar, I’m afraid the PM is unavailable right now. Would you care to leave him a message?’
‘Yes tell him…’ Mary could only think of expletives. ‘Tell him… just tell him to call me.’
Ten, that morning ahead of an emergency sitting of the Scottish Parliament, Mary met with her Cabinet. Solicitor General Samuel Cruickshank got straight to the point.