Assassins

by Ray Timms

  ‘Erm, no,’ Stickly said. ‘The name rings a bell. Isn’t it famous for something?’

  ‘Baldinnet is the nearest town to Balmoral Castle,’ Brenda said pulling away from a set of traffic lights. ‘The shops provide much of the produce used at the Castle, you’ll see the Royal coat of arms above some of the family run stores.’

  For Stickly, this was like a lightbulb moment. He recalled Mary Dewar’s words. “You are to seize, by force if necessary, a building, or some landmark prized by the English.”

  Over dinner and after a knocking off a bottle of wine, Stickly, a little tiddly now, looked about him before he leaned across the table and in a conspiratorial manner said.

  ‘Brenda, you must promise me that you’ll not breathe a word of what I am about to tell you.’

  Thinking that Thomas was about to complain that his wife doesn’t understand him, (hasn’t she heard that one a few times?) Brenda smiled and made a zipping motion across her lips. ‘Mums the word.’

  To her credit, like most chauffer’s, Brenda could be relied upon to keep quiet about the things she saw and heard, however, when her boss told her what he was planning, she wished he hadn’t confided in her.

  After they’d eaten, the Defence Minister told Brenda he wanted to check out Balmoral Castle. It would certainly make a suitable target. It was an iconic building and much prized by the English tourists. After a little discrete digging Stickly discovered that for the next few weeks the Castle would be closed to visitors… perfect, he thought.

  With Brenda’s help and making good use of her local contacts, Stickly learned that Baldinnet had a small, but active, Scottish Civil Defence unit… a bit like a Dad’s Army type of thing. Then things got really exciting when he learned in a lock-up in the town there were two World War II tanks that the British Army had left behind, presumably abandoned because they were so clapped out they would never have made it as far as the border. Stickly could hardly believe his luck!

  Stickly’s meeting with the ragbag, part-time soldiers took place in the local car repair workshop where they showed him the tanks, being kept under tarpaulins. After explaining that he was the new Scottish Defence Minister, he had them line up as if they were on a parade ground. Walking along the line he inspected their uniforms, a collection of army bits and bobs. Stopping at Jamie Appleby the Defence Minister said.

  ‘You look like a bright young man. What’s you name?’

  ‘Lance Corporal, Jamie Appleby, reporting for duty, sir.’

  ‘Well, Lance Corporal Appleby, how would you like to become a Colonel?’

  Appleby looked around at his mates who were trying not to laugh.

  ‘I would like that very much sir.’

  ‘You see, Appleby, I am looking for a man of courage to handle a secret mission,’ Stickly placed a hand on Appleby’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. ‘I need a man with leadership skills, someone courageous who would be prepared to lay his life on the line for Scotland. What do you say, Colonel Appleby?’

  ‘Sure, I’m up for that. What do I have to do… in this secret mission?’

  ‘Your mission is to seize Balmoral Castle.’

  ‘What!’ The whole platoon chorused, shocked.

  ‘Are you saying you want me to seize Balmoral Castle?’ Jamie said, shrinking back. ‘I’m not sure I can do that Mr Stickly, sir.’

  ‘Colonel Appleby, are you refusing to carry out a direct order?’

  ‘No sir.’ Appleby shouted and squared his shoulders.

  ‘Good. I am ordering you to use both of those tanks to block the roads. You will then demand that the occupants the Castle vacate it immediately and hand the keys over to you. You are then to secure the roads and the perimeter. You will make the Castle your command post. Is that clear, Colonel?’

  ‘Yes sir… only… John Brown, the Master of the house, he can be a cussed old fool and he might refuse to leave.’

  Stickly, glowered at the young man. ‘In that situation, Colonel, you are authorised by your national government to use proportional force to achieve your military objectives.’

  After the Minister had left and now feeling quite excited about his mission, Jamie Appleby was thinking, this’ll show old misery guts John Brown that I’m not the village idiot.

  A year ago the Houseman had sacked Jamie after finding the kitchen porter asleep in Her Majesty’s four-poster bed. What was bad, worse actually, mortally embarrassing actually, was that John Brown boxed his ears in front of the assembled staff. The experience still burned in Jamie’s gut. He was looking forward to seeing the big man walk out the castle with nowhere else to live.

  The last time that Jamie Appleby’s Centurion tanks saw any action was in 1944. Jamie, the self-appointed, battalion commander, split his men into two platoons as he called them. In his own tank that was blockading the North Road he had, Gunner, Fergal McLeish, who when he wasn’t playing at being a soldier, worked on the fish counter in Morrisons. The Radio operator was Donald (Ginger) Bantywise who was currently unemployed. The tank driver was eighty-two years old Callum Bannister. Callum ran the village car repair workshop. And it was his mechanical wizardry that got the decrepit old tanks working again… to a degree!

  The crew of the tank that Jamie had despatched to the other side of the Castle with orders to blockade the South Road, consisted of Fred Goodfellow – Radio Operator and the town’s butcher. The Gunner was the town’s postmaster, Walter Perch. Marje Parsonage, who was the dinner lady at the local primary school and a bell-ringer at St Andrews Presbyterian Church, was ably assisting Ben Carpenter, the tank driver. Marge was only in the tank because she had a thing about Ben who was discontented in his marriage to Gwen, who couldn’t care less, that he was seeing someone else.

  In terms of weaponry, Jamie’s men were in possession of two, 1913– bolt action Lee –Enfield rifles with no ammo. In his tank there were four flares that were now decomposed and petty unstable. He himself had a Webley Officers Revolver Mk II with a broken trigger.

  In the turret of the Command Tank, wearing an aviator’s flying hat with earflaps and a pair of fogged goggles strung round his neck, thinking he looked the part of a proper Tank Commander, Jamie was scouting the Castle that lay nestled in a valley beneath two wooded hillsides. Earlier he had discovered in a well beneath the drivers seat a single, rusty-looking 17-pounder shell. With great care he pulled it out and left it to one side. He had no intention of firing the thing. He wasn’t that stupid.

  With some difficulty he managed to partially focus his rusted binoculars on Fergal who was trudging back up the steep driveway. Jamie imagined John Brown must be terrified.

  ‘And you told John Brown what I would do if he didn’t leave?’ Jamie said to Fergal.

  ‘Jamie, I read out, word for word, your surrender terms. And I told him if he didn’t leave right away you would use proportional force to evict him and take over the Castle.’

  ‘And what did he say to that?’

  ‘He said I was to tell you, “if you don’t remove those thundering filthy tanks from my grounds I shall use proportional force on your backside. And had you forgotten the time I boxed your ears?’

  ‘He said that!’ Jamie said, embarrassed at the memory and feeling his cheeks heat up.

  ‘Well John Brown doesn’t scare me,’ Jamie fumed. ‘I have orders to take the castle and that’s exactly what I intend to do… Fergal, load that shell into the breech.’

  Fergal went bug-eyed. ‘Jamie, you’re not thinking of firing the bloody thing?’

  ‘I am going to fire a warning shot over the roof of the Castle. When John Brown sees a shell go whizzing over his head, he’ll come out quick enough. I can’t wait to see that old fool come running out of his precious Castle with his hands in the air.’

  Fergal was worried.

  ‘I… I really think Jamie, sorry, Colonel, that you should first check with General McFlaggen. Why don’t you get him on the tank radio?’

  *

  Now nursing grave doubts
about the idiot that he’d put in charge of seizing Balmoral Castle, Thomas Stickly was worried that if this all blew up in his face Mary Dewar was sure to publicly string him up. He was now thinking of having a high-ranking military figure take charge. That way if it all went pear-shaped he could offload the blame.

  He had a name in mind. Someone he once met at a military briefing session.

  General McFlaggen, Commander of the Ninth Highlanders, wasn’t happy when he received a message to say he was to go to the new Defence Minister’s office right away.

  Ignoring the sullen attitude of the man standing the other side of his desk, Stickly told the General about his plan to take over Balmoral Castle.

  ‘And you are being serious?’ McFlaggen said, appalled and at the same time hardly able to believe the man’s stupidity.

  Stung by this Stickly snapped. ‘I have my own orders General and now I am giving you yours. When the assault takes place you are to make yourself available to my commander via a field telephone and advise as necessary.’

  The General just able to conceal the hideous contempt he felt for the politician kept his voice low. ‘With respect Minister, the plan is crap and even if it wasn’t, I’m afraid I shall be out of the country.’

  ‘Really! I haven’t yet told you when it is going to happen.’

  The General with a shrug smiled. ‘With due respect sir, you can take this ridiculous plan of yours and shove it where the sun doesn’t shine.’

  ‘General, must I remind you I am the Minister for Defence,’ Stickily snapped. ‘I am giving you a direct order. If you refuse to do this I shall have you Court Marshalled.

  After he slammed the door on his way out, McFlaggen muttered to himself, ‘Sod that! When this farce kicks off I’ll make sure I am out of the country.’

  Jamie had managed to put out of his mind, the time that John Brown had humiliated him. Now, having calmed down a bit he was thinking straight. Maybe Fergal had a point? Before I authorise lethal force it’s probably advisable to get the General’s approval.

  ‘Ginger,’ Jamie yelled down the hole. ‘Get me the General on the radio?’

  ‘I can try Jamie, but mostly all I seem to get is BBC Radio -Two.’

  Jamie dropped down inside the Challenger and watched Ginger wearing a pair of battered old headphones twiddle the dials. After a good deal of tutting Ginger offered the Colonel his headgear. ‘I think that’s him?’

  Placing the headphones on his head Appleby said into the microphone. ‘General, we have a prob…’ Snatching the headphones off his head, the Colonel threw them at the radio operator. ‘What the hell Ginger! I was listening to the bloody Archers.’

  ‘Sorry Colonel,’ Ginger said, ‘I can’t seem to find the right frequency.’

  After a wasted half hour trying to raise the General on the field telephone and with the engine of the tank sounding as if at any minute it was going to conk out, Jamie Appleby needed to make a decision. Addressing his gunner, he said.

  ‘Private McLeish, do you have the gun loaded and ready to fire?’

  ‘Well, no Jamie,’ Fergal said, scared. ‘We really shouldn’t chance firing it.’

  ‘It’s Colonel, to you, Private McLeish. You will do as I say or I will have you put on a charge. Get the shell in the hole.’

  Afraid the shell was going to explode in his face, Jamie carefully slid the 17-pounder into the breech and then somewhat relieved slammed the door. He then had to double-check which of the buttons on the console was the fire button. Fergal was thinking, surely Jamie wasn’t stupid enough to actually give him the order to fire?

  Appleby now peering down the barrel of the gun, was trying to work out a trajectory that should the shell actually fly out the barrel would see it sail harmlessly over the roof of the Castle. According to the bug-eaten manual that he’d found in the toolbox – the big gun – the one that was poking out the front of the tank, had a range of three miles. Worst-case scenario, the shell might make a direct hit on the tank on the other side of the Castle. He doubted anything that bad was going to happen. Taking a bearing on a flag that was flapping on a post attached to one of the chimneystacks he gave Fergal the order.

  ‘Forty degrees vertical­­–15 degrees east.’

  Fergal stared at the dials and handles. He hadn’t a clue what any of these did so he took a punt and fiddled with a couple of the knobs and dials. Peering through the letterbox slit in the armoured steel, he thought the barrel of the gun looked about right.

  ‘Armed and ready to fire.’ He called up to Jamie who was sitting on the rim of the hole with his legs dangling and getting in the way. Gunner McLeish, with his thumb hovering over the red fire button was holding his breath and thinking that even if he did press the fire button there was a good chance that nothing would actually happen. Worst-case scenario, and much more likely, was the shell would get jammed in the rusty barrel, explode and then kill them all.

  Jamie peering through the fuzzy aviator goggles with the cracked lens was thinking along similar lines. He too didn’t actually believe the gun would fire. And that suited him. He would then call up the Defence Minister and tell him the mission had failed and that he no longer wanted to be a Colonel.

  ‘See that flag on the chimney Fergal, we are going to shoot that down. That’ll flush em out.’ Jamie grinned. After this was over, he and the lads would share a beer in the White Hart and then laugh about how their mission had fizzled out.

  Fergal couldn’t see the flag that Jamie was going on about and did it matter anyway? The gun was never going to fire, and even if it did, they were all going to die in this stinking sardine can. With his thumb rested on the Fire button, and with his heart in his mouth he waited for the order.

  ‘Ready – aim…’

  Fergal had his eyes squeezed shut.

  ‘Fire.’ Jamie yelled.

  When Fergal punched the fire button the bang almost stopped his heart. The front of the tank reared up and the inside of the cockpit filled up with a cloud of eye-stinging smoke.

  Choking on the fumes, Fergal climbed up out of the cockpit and sucked in a lungful of diesel stinking air. His ears were ringing but above that he could hear someone moaning. He looked over the back of the tank and saw Jamie, rolling in the dirt and complaining that his back was hurting.

  When Colonel Appleby was able to get to his feet he limped round to the front of the tank fully expecting to see the gun barrel was split open like a banana skin.

  ‘Wha…’ He gasped staring at the smoke coming out the gun barrel. ‘Where’d that shell go?’

  ‘Jamie look.’ Fergal shouted.

  Painfully Colonel Appleby turned on his heels to see where his gunner was pointing. ‘Holy shit! Did we do that?’

  ‘No, Jamie, you did that.’ Fergal complained. ‘It was you who made me shoot a hole in the Castle roof and I am not going to be around when John Brown sees what you just did.’

  The Queen’s standard that only a couple of minutes ago was flapping in the breeze above the Castle roof, was now hanging limply at half-mast. Through a hole in the roof a spiral of black smoke rose up into a cloudless sky.

  While the others high-five’d each other, Jamie and Fergal looked at each other. This was not good.

  Below stairs in the Castle kitchens, John Brown was eating his lunch, when he looked up at what sounded like a bomb going off. Before he could get up off his chair the windows in the house shook. Something had slammed into the building. His first thoughts were for safety of the Queen and the Duke who were taking a nap in their third floor bedroom. He sprinted up the stairs and came around the landing. He was almost felled by the chunk of ceiling that had been brought down by the flood of water up in the roof space.

  Bypassing protocol, Brown burst into the Royal Bedroom and looked up at a hole in the ornate plaster celling through which a waterfall was falling on the top of the Queens four-poster bed.

  ‘What the bloody Hell… Brown.’ The Duke cried, slipping his legs out the bed and grabbing h
old of his trousers. ‘Do something man before the wife drowns.’

  ‘Right away, Your Highness,’ Brown said not sure of the protocol in this situation.

  ‘Has the tank in the roof burst?’ The Duke enquired looking down at his trousers that he’d put on back to front.

  ‘No your Highness,’ Brown said, trying to remain calm. ‘I believe someone fired a tank shell through the roof.’

  ‘Oh,’ remarked the Queen, spitting out plaster dust. ‘Well, can’t be helped.’ Her Majesty said stoically. ‘We saw a lot of that sort of thing during the war, didn’t we Pip?’

  The Duke looked round at his wife who was sitting up in bed with her hair plastered to her head and her face chalky white. ‘You ok darkling? You look a little pasty.’

  ‘Don’t fuss Pip.’ The Queen said.’

  The satin canopy over the bed was now bowing under the constant deluge of water. The Duke was hopping on one foot still trying to pull on his trousers and John Brown, looking at the uprights of the four-poster bed saw they were now bowing inwards. He mentioned. ‘I think it advisable that your Majesty get out of the bed before the canopy comes down on you.’

  Her Majesty looks up. ‘Oh, I see. Thank you Brown, now would you mind?’ The Queen pointed at the door. ‘My robe is hanging on the back of the door. Would you fetch it please? I shouldn’t worry about my slippers. I can see that they are sodden.’

  Considering the unusual situation, Her Majesty, always an icon of propriety, sitting up in her bed and covered in plaster dust with water dripping on her head was looking remarkably composed.

  *

  In the House of Commons, the British Prime Minister was facing another motion of no confidence. God, I could really do with some help here. Then as if his prayers had been answered one of his aides handed him a slip of paper. Reading this his hand began to shake.

  ‘Mister Speaker!’ Sir Roger yelled above the jeering and the laughter.

  It took the Speaker of the House a few minutes to silence the heckling MP’s’

  ‘The Prime Minister has the floor.’

  ‘Thank you Mister Speaker,’ Sir Roger said waving the piece of paper the aide had passed him. In a voice cracked with emotion, he announced.

  ‘I have just received news of an attack on our Queen. An hour ago, while Her Majesty and the Duke were at Balmoral Castle, a squadron of Scottish tanks laid siege to Balmoral Castle and when the Queen and the Duke refused to surrender the Castle to these traitors they shelled the building.’ Sir Roger waited for the gasps and mutterings to cease. ‘Fortunately, the Queen and her husband were not harmed. Members of the House,’ Sir Roger intoned. ‘I believe this cowardly attempt to assassinate our Queen was the work of this usurper, this, vile man that the Scots, in defiance of international law, claim to be their King. Members of the House, rest assured this cowardly attack on her Majesty while she was taking an afternoon nap, shall not go unpunished. All other parliamentary business is suspended. I shall straightaway, meet with COBRA. I can assure the house, I shall, use every means at my disposal to bring the Scots to heel.’