Designated Targets

Scotland, an hour outside of Fort William.

Prince Harry, with freshly minted major’s pips still gleaming on his shoulders, called the regiment to parade on the lawn in front of the manor to tell them the good news. Kinlochmoidart was a baronial mansion set within two thousand acres of private gardens and woodland, which had been given over to the Special Air Service for the duration of the war. Having an heir to the throne make the request had smoothed the process considerably. The secluded location was perfect, with easy access to Loch Shiel and Loch Sunart for the boat troop, and to the highlands and the Grampians for the mountain troop. Parachute training could be done out of Fort William, where Harry’s celebrated ancestor General Lord Lovett of the commandos was ready to provide every assistance. The forests of the estate were also well suited to honing the field craft of the trainees.

And there was a really excellent pub, just a four-mile run down the road.

The Palace had Harry placed on the Civil List as soon as it became known that he had arrived with Kolhammer, providing him with a handsome income. This he used to open a personal account at the Glenuig Inn so that any man who was able to run the four miles to the pub in full kit in twenty-four minutes could drink his fill on the royal tick—as long as he could make the return run in thirty.

“Harry’s Little Marathon,” as it became known, wasn’t officially listed as a prerequisite for graduating from the selection course, but no one who failed to make the run was ever seen wearing the sandy beret of the regiment.

It was a cold, autumn afternoon when he called the men together. One hundred and twenty of them jogged onto the makeshift parade ground in woodland camouflage battle dress, having come in from an orienteering exercise in the hills around the manor. They were supervised by fourteen of his own, members of the sixteen-man troop that had come through the Transition. One of his officers—Lieutenant Peter Hamilton—was on assignment God only knew where.

The prince was dressed like the others, in a twenty-first-century British camouflage pattern. He climbed on top of a wooden ammo crate to address the men. They were the first training cohort to come through, but they already looked very different from the general run of squaddies and conscripts found in the contemporary British Army.

For starters, they were all combat veterans who had served at least four years in the Regular Army before applying to attempt the six-week selection course. Having completed that course only a fortnight ago, they were now looking forward to twelve months of training that would turn them into “basic” SAS troopers. Or they would be, Harry thought darkly, except they’d probably be thrown into action very soon, when the Germans invade.

There had been no break between the end of the brutal selection course and the start of their “basic” training, but Harry was about to give them one.

A towering “Jamaican” with a thick East End accent, Sergeant Major Vivian Richards St. Clair, roared at the men, instructing them to stand at ease.

Harry held aloft a piece of paper, which he let everyone see, flapping in the breeze. “I have here an order from Adolf Hitler,” he called out.

The men were too disciplined to react overtly, but he did note a ripple of surprise as it passed through the ranks.

“I wasn’t expecting it for a little while longer, actually, but it’s come in a bit early,” he continued, raising his voice to project over a blustery nor’easter that had sprung up. “Shall I read it?”

Some wag couldn’t help himself. “If it’s from Adolf, you could wipe your arse with it, sir!”

Harry smiled as laughter broke out. He damped it down with a wave of his hand. When he spoke again, it was in an exaggerated Prussian accent. Sadly, none of the ’temps recognized it as his best Schwarzenegger. “For some time, our enemies have been using, in their warfare, methods which are outside the International Geneva Conventions. Especially brutal and treacherous is the behavior of the so-called Commandos . . .”

A great cheer went up at that point, and Harry let it subside before he continued, switching to his own voice.

“. . . who, as is established, are partially recruited from freed criminals in enemy countries.”

An even louder roar of approval greeted that.

“I believe they may be talking about the Australian SAS, Sergeant Major,” he said in a voluble aside to St. Clair. “Convict stock and all that, I suppose.”

Peals of laughter rolled over him, almost, but not quite, drowning out the protests of the three or four Australians in the ranks.

“From captured orders,” Harry continued, “it is divulged that they are directed not only to shackle prisoners —”

A cheer.

“—but also to kill defenseless prisoners.”

A bigger cheer.

“Naughty fucking commandos!” somebody called out.

He let the commotion die down completely before he read on.

“I therefore order that from now on, all enemies on so-called Commando missions in Europe or Africa, challenged by German troops, even if they are to all appearances soldiers in uniform or demolition troops, whether armed or unarmed, in battle or in flight, are to be slaughtered to the last man. It does not make any difference whether they are dropped by parachute. Even if these individuals, when found, should apparently be prepared to give themselves up, no pardon is to be granted them on principle.”

A few of the bolder types tried to raise a few hoorays at that, but the effort fell somewhat flat. Harry let his gaze slowly traverse over every man watching him. He grinned wickedly.

“Well, you lads are new to the regiment, and we don’t expect you to be familiar with all of our traditions just yet. But let me assure you, where we come from, this is very old news. Where we come from, our enemies don’t just pop a bullet into the back of your head if you’re foolish enough to let yourself be captured. Where we have come from, they cut off your fucking head and make a movie of it for the whole world to watch! ” he yelled.

Silence was the only reply. The faces of the new men, he saw, were decidedly uneasy. His own troopers, however, were grinning wickedly.

“And what, Sergeant Major, is regimental policy in the face of such piss-poor hospitality?” he asked St. Clair.

“A bloody good drink, sir,” the gigantic black noncom roared back.

“Right then,” yelled Harry, “to the pub!”

“Smashing spread, Major Windsor!” said a young trooper juggling a southern-fried chicken leg and a pint of ale. “Me old mum doesn’t cook half as good as this nosh.”

Harry clapped him on the shoulder. “Well, eat up, son. We’ll be busing it back to barracks tonight.”

“Yes, sir!”

The tables of the Glenuig Inn were groaning under the weight of the feast Harry had organized. Kitchen staff from Balmoral castle had been driven in two days earlier to prepare the food in secret. A banner hung across the bar congratulating the troops for passing the selection course, the first official acknowledgment that they had achieved something even remotely noteworthy. The day they’d actually graduated, the training cadre simply tapped those who had made it, and sent them on a twenty-mile forced march in full kit, followed by two hours of jujitsu training, and a night-maneuver exercise.

“Nice one, gov,” St. Clair said as he leaned against the bar with a glass of Highland Park almost hidden in one enormous paw. “The lads was beginning to suspect you were a bit of a tyrant.”

Harry took a long draw on a pint of Wee Heavy. “I am,” he said, licking away some froth. “Sibling issues.”

The small whitewashed alehouse couldn’t contain all the soldiers and invited locals who’d crowded in for the celebration. Despite the chill of approaching dark at high latitude, they spilled out of the building and onto the grounds, where they tended to cluster around large braziers of burning peat. Quite a few wandered across the road to take their drinks onto the white-sand beach that fronted a small bay letting onto the Sound of Arisaig.

“You think these lads will be ready?” asked St. Clair.