Adrian Magson - Red Station

Spake climbed languidly to his feet and stepped over to a large interactive map on the back wall. It showed the entirety of Europe stretching right across to the border between Pakistan and Afghanistan, and Paulton felt his spirits sink. God, don’t let it be another briefing on some shitty rock-pile where they think they’ve found Osama Bin Laden playing backgammon and drinking coffee. It would be like all the other ‘sightings’: totally bloody useless and time-wasting.

But Spake soon put paid to that theory. He tapped the map with a tanned finger, on an area to the west of Afghanistan, near the Caspian Sea.

‘As Ms Rudmann just said, Georgian army units including battle tanks, APCs and troop transport have moved north into the separatist area of South Ossetia. They’re backed up by helicopters and fighters, but we have no news yet of how active any air units have been. As some of you may know, there have been tensions between the two for some time, with clashes at numerous points along the disputed border. So far, though, it hasn’t broken out into outright war, and it could be that some mediation by the US government has been a restraining factor.’ He glanced at the man in the dark suit, who nodded slightly. ‘However, that looks like changing as the Georgian government sees itself being challenged by this — and other — separatist areas. If Georgian forces go in hard, and ignore international appeals, then it doesn’t take much to realize what might happen.’ He moved his hand and tapped a dark area on the map representing a stretch of mountains. ‘The Caucasus Mountains; the dividing line between Georgia, South and North Ossetia… and Russia.’ He turned and faced the audience. ‘Our information is that heavy troop numbers have been building up, and that a surge of movement can be expected any day.’

‘Are you saying?’ A florid-faced man in a sharp grey suit posed the inevitable question, ‘that the Georgians might push right through to Russia? That’s madness.’

‘No. I’m saying the opposite,’ Spake replied shortly. ‘The people in Ossetia now have Russians citizenship. If Moscow chooses to exert its right to protect those people, there’s only one way to do it.’

There was a lengthy silence as the words sank in, punctuated by a pigeon flapping on a windowsill outside. If there was a collective thought among the listeners, it was one of alarm.

‘I don’t believe it,’ a voice muttered. But nobody hurried to agree.

‘What about the Americans? They’ve been supporting Georgia. What are they doing?’ The first speaker looked at the American as if he alone were responsible. The American ignored him.

‘That’s why we’re monitoring the situation.’ Spake tapped the map. ‘As of forty-eight hours ago, two teams — one from the US Delta Force and the other from our own Special Reconnaissance Regiment — were inserted to watch the possible approach routes from the north.’

‘Inserted? How?’

‘The usual way. Quietly.’

‘It’s leaving it a bit late, isn’t it?’ said another man. ‘By the time the teams spot anyone, they’ll already be over the border and heading south.’

‘You’re right. But dropping men to the north of the mountains, where they could spot any movement earlier, would be too hazardous. The Russians have already been increasing their monitoring operations in the area for some time.’

The voices died again as they digested these implications, and Paulton reflected that if it hadn’t been the Deputy Director Special Forces delivering the sobering facts, the place would have been in an uproar of doubt and sheer incredulity. As it was, their belief was total. He glanced at his watch and wondered how soon he would be able to get out of here. His involvement was going to be minimal from here on in.

The next question killed any such notion.

‘What if they do move south?’ Marcella Rudmann queried. ‘How far might they go?’

Spake studied her face for a moment, and she blushed again under the scrutiny.

He shook his head. ‘We don’t know. Nobody does… except possibly Mr Putin.’ It did not go unnoticed that he made no mention of President Medvedev.

‘But your best guess?’

He studied the map and reached out his hand. It hovered for a moment on the mountain region of South Ossetia… then stabbed down further south.

Much further.

‘Best guess? At least Gori… but possibly the capital, Tbilisi. And anywhere in between. God help anyone who shouldn’t be there.’

And George Paulton, watching where the finger finally came to rest, felt his guts turn to ice.

Sixty miles to the north of Tbilisi, in the foothills of the Caucasus, a late breeze was sliding off the mountains, bringing a cold snap from the peaks. It was a welcome relief from the unusually warm lull that had been hanging around the lower plains during the day, and the man on watch shivered slightly under his camouflage smock. Winter was making its first move, far to the north and east.

He moved with care, scanning the lake three hundred metres away. The lightweight thermal infrared monocular was good to go in any light, and the long range optics could pick up any heat source or movement.

At any other time and place, he reflected, such as his native Michigan, it would have been a joy to sit and drink in the utter stillness and beauty of nature. A few birds were swinging slowly over the water, occasionally dipping to gather insects or some drops of moisture, then soaring upwards like elegant kites, feeding off the remaining thermals. A bunch of crows called among a stretch of conifers over to the right, their haunting sounds echoing across the lake, and a fox poked its nose out of the bushes and made its way down to the water’s edge, where it drank in brief bursts, before slinking back into the shadows.

The watcher, whose name was Jordan Conway, glanced at his watch. The dulled case and face reflected nothing, both treated with light-absorbing film. For out here, even the smallest movement, the tiniest glimmer, could betray a man’s position in an instant. As if to test the theory, he stared beyond the trees to the right of the lake, where he knew Bronson and Capel were dug in, watching their flank. There was no sign that they were there. He hoped it stayed that way.

‘How’s it going?’ The whisper came from a few feet to his rear. The speaker was Doug Rausing, the leader and fourth member of the Delta team and a ten-year veteran of covert operations on behalf of the Pentagon and the White House. He came from Tennessee, although none of his colleagues held that against him. Surfacing from a brief sleep, he was inching forward to take over from Conway as soon as the light dropped.

‘No signs,’ said Conway. ‘Just the birds.’ He wished he could move and scratch the itch on his upper right arm, which was driving him crazy. He was sure he could feel the tiny electronic biscuit under his skin, although they’d told him he wouldn’t; that it was buried too deep. But they’d also said the alien object wouldn’t trouble him after the first couple of days. Darned fool scientists, what the hell did they know? Did they ever come out here in the field and test this stuff for themselves?

Behind him, Rausing was also fingering his upper arm and wondering how the others were coping.

Two hundred miles west of Conway’s position, three members of the British Special Reconnaissance Regiment were in their initial observation post, rotating to watch the northern approaches. Shrouded in a makeshift basha, they had eaten their rations and were waiting for the light to fall before moving forward to take up a better position on the lower slopes. This would place them at the neck of a narrow pass leading through the foothills. It was a two-mile hike, but would be easy meat, and a necessary move. Intelligence briefs had told them this was a likely line of approach by motorised forces. Such was the lie of the land, even a squirrel would find it difficult to move without being seen.