Foxtrot 6

'Commanded by Colonel A V Chernov,' VJ chips in, keen to show off what he's bringing to the party.

'We know that half of this brigade is being withdrawn from Kaliningrad Oblast and sent somewhere,' I continue, 'the question is, just where are they going?'

'Over the past six months Ukrainian Sukhoi SU-24 Fencers have used Storm Shadow missiles to give the Russian air base at Rostov-on-Don a hammering,' Mike says. 'Now the SU-24 is, admittedly, an old bit of kit. It was designed designed almost sixty years ago as a two seater swing wing bomber. Basically it's the same sort of aircraft as the American F-111, and intended to do pretty much the same job.'

Mike's strictly old school, he likes to keep hard copies of his briefing notes. He pauses and fiddles with loose papers on the table before continuing.

'Typically, with the Ukrainians, they fly a pop up attack profile. Approaching the target at low level and using terrain to mask them from hostile radar threats, before making a rapid climb to altitude to acquire their target and launch their weapons.'

I pick up what Mark's put down.

'By pairing the SU-24 up with British-made Storm Shadow cruise missiles, the Ukrainians can launch from a distance of up to 150 miles away from their targets. This, effectively, places them outside the range of current air defence systems based at Rostov-on-Don,' I explain. 'The Russians have currently deployed the Tunguska self-propelled anti aircraft systems. It's essentially a tracked self-propelled anti-aircraft gun armed with a surface-to-air gun and missile system.

This isn't so much a presentation as tag team wrestling. Bomber smoothly tags in.

'It's intended to provide day and night protection for infantry and tank regiments against low-flying aircraft, helicopters, and cruise missiles in all weather conditions,' he says and puts up a PowerPoint slide with an image of the ugly, squat behemoth. 'The NATO reporting name for the missile used by the weapon system is SA-19 Grison.'

Viki enters the fray.

'The missiles and guns on the Tunguskas that the Russians are currently deploying in the area around Rostov-on-Don lack the range to engage Ukrainian SU-24s as they launch Storm Shadows, but that's OK, they weren't intended to do that in the first place,' she explains. 'As Mike said, the Tunguska is intended to engage low-flying threats like cruise missiles. Unfortunately for the Russians the Storm Shadow is a fairly stealthy weapon, with a radar cross section about the same as a twenty millimetre cannon shell. When this is combined with the AI operating system on the Storm Shadow's navigation and flight control systems, it can use terrain masking to make it even stealthier. It's a sneaky piece of kit, all told.'

'The Buk, however, has much better radar than the Tunguska,' I added. 'It can track SU-24s inbound, even if they use low altitude and terrain to mask themselves. When they perform the climbing part of the pop up attack the Buk can lock on and fire missiles. It can take out the Ukrainian aircraft inside their own airspace.'

'The Russians have previous for using the Buk in Ukraine,' Viki said. 'It was a missile fired by a BUK in July 2014 which shot down Malaysian Airlines Flight 17 over the Donbas region in Ukraine.'

'So, it would seem logical to assume that the Buks are heading for Rostov-on-Don.' I tell General Schwartz, 'but the question is, how can we prove it?'

'Now me and Viki have been using the social media stuff you got off the Buk units to geolocate them, and it looks like they're being deployed round the towns of Sambek, Krasnaya Gorka and Balka,' VJ explains, 'so this gives a shield to Rostov-on-Don defending Rostov North air base.'

'Which makes sense, it's the Russians being chess players, thinking three moves ahead,' Bomber nods. 'But by moving their Buk units about like knights on a chess board, they may be leaving themselves vulnerable elsewhere.'

'Sure, you guys have gone the extra mile to get what you have come up with,' Schwartz says in a condescending down home southern drawl, 'but what you're failing to appreciate is that the best we can do with this is pass this intel on to the Ukrainians.'

I reckon that's what the combined brains trust in Whitehall and the Pentagon want to do. That's what this project's all about, developing an intelligence product that could be traded with the Ukrainians for something. The question is, what?

Right now the Kiev has the largest stock of up-to-the-minute, hush hush Russian military tech available. Technological hardware, documents and humint from POW debriefings, a veritable smorgasbord of military intelligence that the NATO alliance would just love to get there hands on.

And there are times when cash isn't good enough. It comes down to good old fashioned horse trading. A case of back room military intelligence poker, when the bets are all centred around military secrets.

I could just imagine Schwartz in the smoky back room of a casino in Las Vegas, a big fat stogie clamped in jaws. He'd be sitting across a green baize table from his Ukrainian counterpart. Attractively under-dressed women rest their hands on the players shoulders, as they up the ante.

'I'll see your electronic defensive suite for the KA-52 Alligator helicopter gunship and raise you with intel on the Buk air defence units heading for Rostov-on-Don.'

Sometimes I could curse my overactive imagination. However, the reason that both the UK MoD and the US DoD keep units like Foxtrot 6 on the payroll is that we do the balls-aching, backbreaking, tedious donkey work of OSINT collection and analysis. Oh, and if things go wrong we're deniable.

Hell, we're not so much deniable as disposable. If things had gone pear-shaped for Mike and I in Kaliningrad, if the Russian military had bagged us, both Whitehall and the Pentagon could've painted their smug boat races with their best attempt at shock and horror.

Now it looks as if Schwartz is trying to downplay our efforts to get the intel that the Yanks want as trade goods.

'Let me make one thing clear General,' I spoke quietly.

When he heard my tone of voice, Bomber looked at me sharply. He's very empathic, but more than that he knows that when I growl quietly is when I'm at my most dangerous.

'And what's that Agent Smith?'

Agent Smith? Really? Does he think I'm in some sort of live action role play of the bloody Matrix?

'I'm not an agent, we don't do titles like that on this side of the Atlantic,' I correct him. 'What I think you should take away from this video conference call is this; we did what you asked, we got the intel you tasked us to get, and probably at a lower cost than if you'd had to use any of your in house people. Bearing that in mind, I rather suspect that a little respect is required on your part, don't you?'

'Do you now. Well let me tell y'all...'

'No, let me tell you sunshine,' I snap back, 'America is no longer the shining beacon of hope and democracy it once was. The red baseball cap wearing masses are so socially isolated that they would rather vote for someone facing over ninety criminal and civil charges. This is the same ex-president who threw a fit at losing a fair election, and tried to overthrow the result by inciting an attack on congress. I suggest you take a long, hard look at the state of your nation before patronising anyone over here.'

I thought Schwartz was going to launch into a screaming rant at me. Either that or have a stroke. His face was taking on the same shade as a gammon steak sizzling in a frying pan. Instead he he cut the link and his image on the screen faded to darkness.

'Damn Smithy!' VJ grinned, 'that was freaking brilliant mate.'

'Very impressive, very dramatic,' Bomber says quietly, 'but perhaps not the wisest thing to do? Certainly, it wasn't a good career move bro.'

'Ah yes, I really shouldn't go around speaking truth to power,' I snap, 'old farts with dangerously overinflated egos might get upset.'

'Yeah, lies are, sometimes more acceptable than truth,' Viki started packing up her gear from the meeting table. 'So, can I have your desk when Dirty Harriet sacks you?'

+++

Chapter 19 - Smack Down

Sackville Gardens, Manchester, Friday, 5 July 2024

The chubby, middle aged Desi woman on the other side of the counter weighed me up with a puzzled look. I don't think she sells many copies of The Guardian. Actually, I don't think she's ever sold any.

Until now that is. I've just taken the only other copy of the broadsheet she has in stock. She's found herself face-to-face with someone who clearly reads the paper.

Somehow, though, a great chunky monkey like me doesn't quite fit the bill. My cheap boots, black cargo pants and matching hoodie doesn't quite fit the profile of the woke metropolitan elite.

The COVID pandemic's died down to a dull roar, PPE isn't mandatory any more. But I still put on the black face mask before pulling up my hood. I roll the newspaper up and grasp it tightly in my right leather gloved fist.

Pushing through the shop's door, with it's accompanying tinkling bell, I'm outside in a backstreet.

I turn left and begin walking down Sackville Street towards the park. It's been four years since I decide to quit being a man amongst men and left the Royal Marines Commandos. Now I spend most of my time behind a desk. Despite the physical inactivity at work, however, I still keep fit. My apartment building has a gym in the basement, and I hit the treadmill and pump iron every day.

Making a sharp left into Sackville Gardens, I get to the Alan Turing memorial. I sit down on a bench nearby, ensuring that there's a good line of sight for the entrance to the park. Now all I have to do is wait.

Well, I don't just sit there doing nothing. I take the paper and roll it even tighter than before. Next I fold the rolled broadsheet in two and grasp it a fist's length down from the fold.

The guy I'm waiting for enters the park. I watch as he approaches my position. He's average height but sports a beer gut; balding with a sallow, freckled complexion like a new potato. Probably aged in his late forties, he's dressed in an off the peg suit and a yellow hi-viz bomber jacket.

I know where he's going. He's heading from work to the Moulin Lounge in Canal Street. His name's George Bradshaw, he works as a Project Manager for a construction company. All intel provided by Filthy McNasty.

'George, is that you?' I call out as he passes.

He turns to see who's calling his name. I stand up and close the ten feet separating us fast.

The copy of the Guardian I'd bought earlier rolled up tight with the solid fold will do all the hard work as an improvised baton. I swing it in a short hard stabbing jab into his groin.

He lets out a grunt of pain. But Bradshaw isn't out of it. He steps back and takes a swing at my face. Raising my right hand in a curving motion, I deflect his fist, wrap my left arm over his right and slam my left elbow into his face twice. He sags at the knees and begins to slump. I help him sit on the bench that I've just vacated. He's really out of it. There's a halo of alternating stars and twittering birds orbiting his head.

I sit down next to him, reach into his crotch and grab his already painful dick. I squeeze hard enough to make the sod yelp in pain.

'So, you're not content with giving Nell Mackenzie a black eye, now you've started stalking her, which is not a good idea,' I growl in a threateningly quietly whisper. 'To quote the old warning on fag packets, that could harm your health.'

Bradshaw tries to speak. I silence him by squeezing his family crown jewels again.

'I don't know what motivated you to smack her one. Maybe you're a frustrated gay man, someone who's so far back in the closet that you can't even admit it to himself,' I squeeze and twist his dick this time, he yelps in a very satisfying way. 'I don't know and I don't care. What I do know, pal, is that if you ever, and I do mean ever, go near the Mackenzie girl again, then what's happening to you know will seem pleasant by comparison.'

I jab my elbow into his beer gut in a short, vicious strike.

'The first think you'll know of it is when you're standing on the platform at Oxford Road Station, and just as the train comes in, you feel a good, solid push,' I hiss, 'you get the message do you sunshine?'

He nods.

'Good, I'll be on my way then.'

I stand and walk away without a backwards glance.

+++

Chapter 20 - Love

The Warehouse Serviced Apartments, the Northern Quarter, Manchester, Saturday, 6 July 2024

Nell surprised me this morning; she had Spotify running through the This Is Bach playlist. It turns out that she likes classical music on in the background when she studies. You live with someone for ages and they can still chuck you a curve ball that takes you by surprise.

We're sitting opposite each other across the small table that pretends to be her flat's dinning table. We're both doing homework for. She's making sketches in an A5 Moleskine notebook; ideas for clothes designs she wants to make for her blossoming burlesque career. I'm writing up notes for my doctoral thesis.

I pause and glance furtively at Nell. The problem is I keep being distracted from my work by the beauty of her blue eyes as they flick between scraps of paper with her rough sketches and her notebook.

There's very little sign of the black eye she received. This time last week it looked livid, now, not so much. It's healing, and I suspect that skilfully applied makeup has done a lot to conceal it too.

'What?' she asks looking up at me.

'Nothing,' I answer.

'OK then,' she says and resumes her own homework.

I study her as Nell peers closely at the densely printed text in the law book. A strand of blonde hair falls across her forehead, it takes me all of the self-discipline I possess not to lean across the table and brush it back into place.

'Stop staring at me,' she says without even looking up from the sketchbook.

I return to typing up my notes.

I pause and take another sneaky peek at Nell. This time she looks up.

'Why don't you get on with your work?' she has a slightly peevish tome of voice.

'It's your fault,' I answer, 'sitting there and distracting me by being all gorgeous.'

She smiles at me.

'You silver tongued devil you,' she says, 'you could talk all four legs off of a carthorse and then convince it to enter the Kentucky Derby.'

'You what?' I reply.

'Nope, it's 'say what' if you want to talk right in Texas,' she smiles and pouts simultaneously.

'Yeah, but we're not in Texas, are we?' I grin cheekily at her, 'this is Manchester, the OG, not the one in New Hampshire.'

'I'd kind of noticed,' she raised a plucked eyebrow, 'my first clue was all the rain.'

'I need a break,' I announce, 'fancy a cuppa love?'

'Coffee, not tea,' she warns me. 'Thanks to the British tea ceremony my back teeth are floating in the damn stuff.'

I go to the corner of the flat's main room that's been given over to the galley kitchen. The Nespresso machine's confounded me ever since I first moved into the flat. That means I end up spending longer than necessary faffing about filling it with water and inserting pods. However, in the end I'm rewarded with two thimble-sized cups of Cappuccino.

'Look, there's something I wanted to talk to you about,' I tell her over my shoulder as I wait for the water to warm up. 'It's a work thing, from the Institute.'

I take the coffees over to the table. Nell lifts the cup to her lips, sniffs the coffee and then takes a sip.

'Hmm, that's good. You're getting better at this,' she says. 'So what's this thing from work you want to talk over hun?'

'It's sort of complicated,' I tell her. 'If I'm completely honest about what I do, about what's likely to become my career, I'll be in breach of a Non Disclosure Agreement. But, if we're going to have a full on relationship I need to be open with you about what I do, as it's likely to become my career when I get my PhD.'

Nell chews her bottom lip for a moment. It's something she does when she's considering a knotty problem.

'Did you know that back in the States, when I first went to college, I did an associate degree in law and qualified as a paralegal before I switched to art?'

'No,' I shake my head.

'What's the lowest denomination coin you've got on you?' she asks.

'I think I've got a penny,' I dig into the pocket of my jeans and put the small copper coin on the table.

'Great,' she drags my A4 pad over and starts scribbling. It only takes a couple of minutes before she pushes the pad and pen over to me.

'X marks the spot,' she taps the pad with a slender forefinger, 'put your scrawl there.'

'Does this mean I've signed my heart and soul over to you?' I ask.

'Nah, I've already got that hun,' she grins. 'You've just retained me as your legal council, anything you tell me now is covered by attorney client privilege.'

'Oh,' the penny finally drops. Into Nell's purse to be precise. 'So now I'm clear to tell you everything that the Institute's NDA forbids me from telling anyone. Supposedly. Very clever, that's why I love you.'

'You better believe it,' she smiles and blows me a kiss.

'OK, well, I don't work for a think tank, but rather a private intelligence agency' I blurt out, 'I'm a spy.'

'You're a spy?' She looks unimpressed, 'stop saying crazy stuff like that.'

'It's true. Well, if we're going to be pedantic, I'm an Intelligence Officer. And if we're being even more pedantic, I'm actually an intelligence analyst. I specialise in OSINT, Open Source Intelligence - basically I find stuff on the internet and try and make sense out of it,' I tell her. 'And before you ask, the Trans-Atlantic Institute for Strategic Studies is a non-profit NGO. We have contracts for the Ministry of Defence over here and the Department of Defense in the States.'

I recognise the sceptical look in her eye. I probably had something similar when the Institute's talent scout first approached me.

'So what sort of thing do you do?' she asks, 'save the world from evil Russian Oligarchs, and seduce femme fatales?'

'I've never met an oligarch and the only femme fatale in my life is you,' I tell her. 'Like I said, I'm an analyst. I sit at a desk staring at a computer monitor all day. I make phone calls and go through reports and websites trying to read between the lines. My work day is about as boring as being paid to watch paint dry.'

I don't like lying. The thing is, I've not strayed too far from the truth, which is the core of any good lie. But I know enough about the spook world to realise that you never, ever, tell anyone everything.

And I do occasionally work in the field, like my jaunt to Kaliningrad last week. Hell, I even recruit and run assets like Filthy McNasty. But if I tell Nell that She'll get worried that I could do myself a mischief.

'Anyway, I announced at work to the rest of my team that you and I were...' I pause, '...what's that American phrase you came up with?'

'Exclusively dating,' she fills in the gaps for me.

'Yeah, that's it, and they all want to meet you. So we're having brunch tomorrow at the Northern Soul Food Café sometime in the next couple of weeks,' I give a pathetic half-shrug by way of an apology. 'If it makes it any easier, everyone who has a partner is bringing them too.'

'I'll have to check with my diary, but if it doesn't clash with washing my hair it should be cool,' she picks up an invisible diary and mimes checking her schedule. 'Nope, it looks pretty clear.'

'I'll take that as a yes then,' I tell her, then a thought occurs to me, 'hey, this will be our first outing as a couple.'

'So, no pressure then,' Nell says shaking her head. 'I just got to get something from the bedroom, don't go any place.'