W2F-004 The General-0.txt
Chapter One

1.45 a.m. 4 June 1993

LISBURN

Charlotte Aitken snapped the worn leather cover over the luminous face of her watch, quickening her pace as she stepped out in the dark, irritated by the rain lashing across the narrow stone path through the heavy, dripping old pines. 'Damn this bloody country,' she muttered. 'Weather like this in June for God's sake!'

A dim blue lamp came on over the black glass door of the block as Charlotte removed her beret, spoke into the entryphone and turned her face to the camera. Inside, behind the lamp, an unseen Royal Pioneer Corps security guard flicked a switch, checking her voice against a tape marked with her name, her face against a computer-generated image of her salient features superimposed on the screen. He had no choices or judgements to make: the computer in an armoured safe did it for him. A green light on his panel indicated a good match to voice and face. The Pioneer moved to the next stage of the block's entry procedures.

'Your hand, please.'

Charlotte watched a thin aluminium panel slide back to expose a convex glass shape set into the wall. She placed her left hand over it, lightly gripping the warm, smooth surface. The guard checked the computer; palm and fingerprints OK. He flicked two switches, on to deactivate the CS riot gas spray directly opposite Charlotte's face, the other to activate an infra-red scanning camera and a set of movement sensors on the door side of the block. All clear. Finally he pressed the door switch. Half a ton of steel slid back into its slot in the wall behind the black glass, allowing Charlotte into the block, a windowless concrete cube with walls eight feet thick, coyly faced with pretty red brick and false windows in a surprisingly effective attempt to make it look like a standard army office building. Down in the bowels of the block, in the Intelligence Centre operations room Corporal Harry Green dropped a pink file marked SECRET over the spread legs of the 'Girl of the Month' and leapt to his feet as his brigadier stalked into the room, taking in everything in a long sweeping glance. Shit, does that sodding woman never sleep?

'Good morning Brigadier, what can I do for you Ma'am?' 'Anything from Bravo?' Green thought the brigadier looked worried, but it was hard to tell what went on behind that beautiful, ruthless face. 'Nothing ma'am. He's due to call in about now.'

'I know that. Anything from the SAS or the Bessbrook operations room?' Charlotte Aitken turned slightly, her weight on one foot, bringing the full force of her personality to bear on the young corporal. Green swallowed hard. 'Nothing much, ma'am. The Heregans are busy setting up a couple of observation posts to keep an eye on some unauthorised crossing points in Tyrone and the grunts are following their usual pattern in the area of concern, nothing anywhere close to our man. Why don't you take a bleeper and get some sleep, ma'am? I 'll call you if anything happens.'

The cold blue eyes warmed, seeming to lighten in colour, and the tall slim figure eased visibly as she glanced at the clock. A soft smile cracked the frost. 'Don't let the infantry hear you calling them grunts. And Heregans?'
Green smiled in return. 'SAS. Hereford hooligans, ma'am.
Again the smile, a little more strained as she checked the clock again. 'Very well, once he's called in I 'll take a bleeper. Wake me for his six o'clock call. What's in that file you 're reading, anything new?'

Green blanched. 'No, ma'am.'

'Then why are you reading it? Let me see.' She stepped over to the desk and lifted the file, dropping it instantly as she caught sight of the centrefold below it. She turned the magazine to a better angle, to get a better look. Green quailed. Brigadier Aitken was not an officer to be on the wrong side of: better men than he had found themselves booted out on their arses, their careers in tatters, without so much as a goodbye when they had failed to live up to her standards.

The eyes were dark and chilling again, the cut glass voice lashing into him. 'I was not aware of your studies in gynaecology, Corporal. Get rid of this rubbish and concentrate on your duties.'

'Yes, ma'am. I 'm sorry.'

'Don't be sorry. Be professional. Anyone can make a mistake. You have had yours. I will not tolerate such dereliction of duty again. Am I understood?'

Green quivered with relief. 'Yes, Brigadier. It won't happen again.' He moved to turn back to his desk but her eyes held him pinned. Her voice softened as her mind seemed to change gear. 'Corporal, there is a very brave man out there in the dark depending on you. You know that. If he needs you he will need you to act very quickly and he will need you to get it right first time. Be ready for him.'
Green felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment, furious with himself, furious at having to see the intensity in her eyes. He picked up the magazine and dropped it into the big, heavy duty shredder beside the desk.
Both soldiers jumped as the voice burst out of the speakers set in the wall. It was exactly two o'clock. 'Zero, this is Bravo. No change, over.'

Corporal Green grabbed the telephone-type handset, depressing the SEND button with his thumb. 'Zero. No change. Ou...' Brigadier Aitken grabbed the handset. 'Bravo, this is Zero Nine. I am here if you need me, over.'

Green was shocked by the whiteness of her knuckles on the handset, the worry in her voice, the bend in her body as she seemed to pour the essence of herself into the ether, shocked at the break in procedure and her personal intervention. More than anything he was shocked by her tone. It was the tone he heard in his wife's voice when his job took him into danger, when she was frightened for him.

Again the voice from the wall, softer, less abrupt. 'Bravo. I know. It's enough. Out.'

Charlotte Aitken dropped the handset and covered her face with her hands, her body in its combat suit and boots rigid.

Suddenly, Corporal Green understood. He grabbed his message pad and wrote quickly, then held the pad out to her. He coughed to get her attention. 'My report, ma'am.' His brigadier took the pad and read the latest in the list of radio reports between her headquarters and the man in the field. It was no different from the others, a five-second exchange recording No Change.

Charlotte Aitken relaxed a little, looking carefully at Green. 'This is not a true...' Green turned away. 'Beg pardon for interrupting you, Brigadier. That's all I heard. Take the bleeper. Get some sleep. Leave Bravo with me. I 'll not let him down.'

Chapter Two

20 March 1953

ALDERSHOT, HAMPSHIRE

'Matron?' 'Speaking.'
'Captain Helleston, Duty Midwife. We have a problem brewing here ma'am. A retired general and his son-in-law, a padre, the father to be. The gentlemen appear to be in some conflict. We need you to grip them before they disturb the mother...
Mother and baby are well ma'am... A little girl... No, the gentlemen have not been told... The general may be difficult; he has been visiting and talking widely about his first grandson ma'am... I am grateful ma'am, ten minutes then. Goodbye.'

Major-General (Retd.) Alexander Hopkinson crushed the remnants of his cigar into the tall brass ashtray, grimacing at the nervous pacing of his son-in-law. Twitching about like a bloody ballerina. Weak. No guts. Never had. 'Sit down, will you, Charles. Have some dignity.' The Reverend Charles Aitken, his normal unhealthy pallor worsened by worry about his wife's protracted labour rounded on the old general. 'Don't tell me how to behave, General. I 'm tired of your interference. Bessie is not strong. This could be too much for her.'

Anger and contempt darkened the general's thin, almost ascetic face. 'Rubbish. Elizabeth is as strong as a mule. Producing babies is a perfectly normal female activity. It's what women are for. Faffing about your parish drinking tea with a bunch of middle-aged hypochondriacs whining about the state of their nerves is no good for a daughter of mine. You should get off your arse and get a grip on your career. You 're nearly fifty and still a curate. You 're a failure, man. What Elizabeth ever saw in you I 'll never know.'

'Will you never underst-' Charles Aitken stopped in midsentence, jerking as a small, whip-thin lieutenant-colonel in the dawn-grey ward dress and scarlet tippet of the Queen Alexandra's Royal Army Nursing Corps strode sharply into the waiting room. The colonel's head-dress, a huge white linen diamond starched stiff as a breadboard, forced her to turn her whole body to survey the room. Competence and authority no mere man would even consider querying exuded from her every pore, matched and reinforced by a presence far greater than her physical size. 'Reverend Aitken? I am Charlotte Bruce-Adams, matron of this hospital. I am delighted to tell you that you have a lovely daughter, with all her fingers and toes and a powerful pair of lungs. Your daughter is a beautiful baby, strong and healthy. Mother is well, but a little tired. You can see them both tomorrow, when mother is ready to receive you.' She smiled brightly. 'What's your daughter's name to be? My staff will need it for her identification label.'

Charles Aitken slumped into a chair, unable for the moment to speak, praying silently, giving thanks for the safe delivery and dreading the old general's reaction. But the general was already on his feet. 'Daughter? A bloody daughter? I wanted a...' He stopped himself and turned on the hunched figure of Charles Aitken. 'I might have expected it, you worthless creeping Jesus. Not enough balls to give my girl a son, damn you. You 're despicable, Aitken, useless God-bothering half excuse for a man. I have a bloody good mind to...' The QA colonel, ready for but still horrified at the scene, decided to take command immediately.

'General! You will compose yourself, sir! How dare you behave in this way in my hospital. I must, with respect, remind you that I command here, not you: I will not hesitate to have you removed forthwith if you persist in such unbecoming conduct. I trust that, when calmer, you will be thoroughly ashamed of yourself. Reverend Aitken, you will give your little girl a name, now.'

The Reverend Aitken did not move or utter a sound. General Hopkinson, watching closely, saw his chance for lifetime dominance, be it boy or girl. He fought his fury as he clamped both hands around his ashplant stick and spoke at first through clenched teeth, easing as the words came. 'Thank you, Matron. I forgot myself, please forgive me. This is Queen Charlotte's Hospital. The girl's father is Charles. Your own name is Charlotte. On the other hand you wear Queen Alexandra's Cross and I am Alexander. Charlotte wins three to two. I see no reason to tempt fate. Charlotte it is. I will arrange to have the girl christened as such at the Royal Military Academy, Sandhurst, in due time.'

Lieutenant-Colonel Charlotte Bruce-Adams, appalled at the general's callous indifference to any preference the baby's parents might have switched her attention to the Reverend Aitken, who was still sitting silent, with his head down. She expected some sign of anger or objection from him, why she did not know: the padre had not spoken a word since she had entered the room. Maybe the general is right. Maybe Aitken is a nonentity. The soldier in her sided with the general, preferring positive action of some kind to no action of any kind, but her voice was edged with her irritation with both men. 'Very well, General. I will convey to your daughter your joy in baby Charlotte. A warning: I will not tolerate a repeat of this disgraceful scene in Mrs Aitken's hearing. You may visit her of course, but I direct that you and the Reverend Aitken do so separately. I am extremely disappointed in having to issue such a distasteful order, but you should not doubt that I will enforce it. Gentlemen, you should both be proud of the way Mrs Aitken has borne up throughout a long and difficult confinement. She has presented you with a fine, healthy baby. Be thankful for that. Good day to you.'
