Christopher Evans - Omega

Sixteen years ago. Sir Gruffydd wasn’t C-in-C in those days, but as Vice-Chief of the General Staff his would still have been an important voice on the JGC. He would have known about such a decision, been party to it.

“You’re saying my father was deliberately sacrificed.”

“It had to look convincingly like an attack from outside.”

“No,” Owain retorted. “My uncle would never have agreed to it. He wouldn’t let his only surviving brother die.”

“Wouldn’t he?” Legister’s tone was laced with scepticism. “Perhaps he preferred to become the guardian of two impressionable boys rather than allow them to grow up under the tutelage of a father he considered a potential danger to the cause.”

“My father spent most of his time overseas. My uncle was already our guardian in all but name.”

“But he was a prolific letter-writer, busily expounding his humanitarian views to the two of you at every opportunity, is that not true? Views that your uncle would have considered dangerously at variance with sound military doctrine.”

“He loved my father, too.”

“That may well be so. But what of his duty to the greater cause? Do you think he would ever have retained his eminence without being able to take whatever action was necessary to preserve it?”

“This is his family. All he had.”

Legister gave him a pitying look. “You would find, if you were able to examine the records, that in the months preceding the attack there was an unusually high level of transfers and repostings to and from Army Group Middle East. A disproportionate number of the new arrivals were personnel whose files are stamped F. For Fraglich. Of questionable sympathies. It’s used to signify moral or ideological rather than military qualms.”

Marisa’s head was up, but she was looking at her husband, not me. It appeared that she was hearing all this for the first time.

“Your father had carried that classification for more than a decade. He was conveniently in place. Had your uncle wanted to get him out, he certainly had the authority to do so. He was meant to be there, major. He was intended to die.”< >< p>

A split-screen shot on the television showed a Muslim cleric leading prayers with a group of senior Alliance officers, and a Free Orthodox ceremony in a church with a black-bearded archbishop. It dissolved into the deck of a warship, where Pope Clement was bestowing benedictions in his brisk fashion on the assembled ranks of the crew. On the continent the Ecumenical Church had more of a Catholic flavour.

“A studio backdrop,” Legister observed wryly. “They’ve rather overdone the seagulls, don’t you think?”

“And me?” Owain said angrily. “What classification do I have?”

Legister didn’t even hesitate. “Verdächtig” he said.

It meant “Under Suspicion”. I was scarcely surprised.

The cabin door opened again, and this time a quartet of Sir Gruffydd’s personal guard entered. The pick of the commando squadrons. We were escorted along the corridor to the front of the aircraft.

A large cabin directly behind the flight deck was crowded with personnel from MPs to braided officers in grey khaki, navy and slate blue. It had an atmosphere that I could only think of as festive. People stood talking in small groups, holding glasses of wine as if at a party. Almost half of them were women, including a high proportion of non-combatants who wore military style jackets and leggings as though to blend in.

Owain’s uncle was perched on a collapsible stool next to one of the truss arches, talking to Henry Knowlton, who was wearing his old air marshal’s uniform. Stradling, Giselle and Rhys surrounded him, all with drinks in their hands. Rhys looked especially animated as he conducted a one-way conversation with Giselle.

“It would appear,” Legister said beside me, “that we’ve been invited to the première.”

Above the door to the flight deck were mounted three screens, showing similar scenes to those we had seen earlier. No one was paying them particular attention. One of Sir Gruffydd’s guards detached Owain from Legister and Marisa and ushered us through the crowd. I glanced back, certain that Owain would have no further opportunity to speak to Marisa. Another of the guards was speaking to her. She looked frightened.

“Owain!” my uncle said heartily on our approach, rising from his stool. He reached out to grasp Owain’s epaulette and draw him properly into his circle.

“All clear, is it now, my boy?”

This last was spoken in Welsh. Had he anticipated what Legister was going to say? Had he been eavesdropping?

I let Owain nod and said, “The fog has lifte.”

Doubtless he’d guessed the likely outcome of putting Legister into the same room but hadn’t bothered to listen in. Too busy with more important matters. Didn’t view it as troublesome now that Owain was restored to his senses.

“Have to face up to the grim realities,” Sir Gruffydd said, this time in English. “Only way for it, eh? No matter how painful.”

So he had known. Had perhaps deliberately arranged it. As another test of Owain’s mettle.

Owain stifled an urge to salute. “Sir.”

“Here,” Sir Gruffydd said, lifting a wineglass from the tray of a passing waitress and thrusting it at us. “Take a drink. And for God’s sake don’t tell me you’ve sworn off alcohol again. Down your gullet. You’ve earned it.”

It was the same stewardess who’d come to the cabin earlier. She barely paused in her stride. Knowlton stared after her approvingly.

“The gang’s all here!” Rhys said with a brittle schoolboy enthusiasm. He raised his glass. “Happy centenary, uncle!”

“You cheeky devil!” the field marshal replied jovially, giving him a pantomime swipe that he easily dodged.

Rhys didn’t know the true story about their father’s death. Or he had been told and didn’t care. Everyone else was grinning, though Giselle had turned a shoulder away.

“The real balloon’11 be going up soon enough,” the field marshal said, subsiding back on to his stool. “Fortunate to have everyone on hand.”

He plainly meant his family. The three of us. Possibly Giselle as well, even though she was no blood relation.

It occurred to Owain that they might prove to be the last of his line. Rhys was only ever likely to become a father by making a donation to a Future Youth clinic, while Owain saw no prospect of having a family life again. His uncle might have his victory, but his bloodline would become extinct.

Across the room Legister and Marisa had been seated against the corridor wall near the door, still under discreet guard. No one was speaking to them, though the minister must have known most people in the room. Legister still looked quite contained, almost serene, given that his own hopes had also been thwarted: but he never showed great emotion. Marisa’s face was hidden behind the crooked arm of a rear-admiral, one of the navy representatives on the JGC. Other Council members would doubtless be aboard different aircraft to spread the risk, more or less immune to retaliatory missile attacks. And elsewhere across the skies of Europe, perhaps scores of aircraft would be keeping continental leaders aloft.

What would happen, I began to wonder, if the Americans had a miracle weapon ir own? A giant laser or ray that could make all the craft drop from the sky under the rapid sweep of its beam? Sending the entire upper echelon of the Alliance command crashing to earth? What then? It was a measure of the surreal atmosphere that I was able to contemplate such abstractions without finding them in any way fanciful.

I became aware that the conversations in the cabin had grown gradually more muted. There was a tinkling sound of metal on glass.