The United States President’s eyes widened, his tone strained, ‘N-No Dimitri…let us discuss this further…’ He looked up as a secret service agent entered the presentation room, the younger man’s face grim as he indicated the message was urgent. The president glanced back at the Russian screen, seeing the picture fade, the agent clearing his throat in alarm, ‘Sir…we have numerous enemy incursions in the atmosphere above us…the aliens have apparently launched dropships.’
Security personnel appeared on the other screens, urgently whispering to their leaders, the Chinese transmission abruptly cut as the screen went blank. The agent sighed, shaking his head in despondency, ‘Hundreds of small craft, Mr President…Air Combat Command advises we now have insufficient fighter reserves to fully respond against such a large threat. All batteries are being deployed…in short, the deteriorating situation is now becoming almost untenable.’
Chapter Fifteen: The Scottish Highlands
Margaret McLennan smiled as she glimpsed three of her rescue dogs chasing two pheasants across the heather, the rising birds more than able to escape the attention of the pursuing white and tan Springer Spaniel, black Labrador and long haired white Lurcher cross mongrels as the furious startled barking increased, the inseparable three young companions surprised at the sudden flapping of wings as they chased each other playfully through the undergrowth.
She looked round as the other four older dogs’ heads rose to her left, the interests of the grey Fox Terrier and three ‘Heinz 57 (mixture of numerous breeds)’ medium long haired dogs in the peat bog and stagnant pond aroma far exceeding any urge to join the chase, their extensive canine experiences telling them that the chances of catching such a prey were remote at best.
At sixty two, Margaret had retired to own a small guesthouse on the western shore of Skye in the highlands from Edinburgh in the south, her civil service pension and that of her late solicitor husband providing more than enough to supplement a meagre income from the five letting rooms in the remote cottage. Providing her favourite rustic dinner and breakfast food with pride for the few visitors, she had chosen not to advertise on the internet, preferring a small passing trade of curious tourists to discover by chance her rather unique style of welcome.
Most patrons were drawn by the drab and dour exterior of the building that depicted the films and programmes they had experienced of an older Scotland, several even motivated by the Irish comedy, ‘Father Ted’, the formidable lonely structure bearing some resemblance. The few that ventured through the gates were then fascinated by her collection of rather bizarre wooden garden ornament gatherings, sculptures and the numerous rescue dogs. Margaret’s self designed and scorched lacquered wood signs promoted the charity that rescued canines from across Europe and further afield…the customers drawn further as they realised all proceeds were donated to the welfare of her pets and four legged friends.
Able to afford the large section of enclosed land that came with the main house, she had personally constructed safe and reinforced runs for ferrets and rabbits, fostering and adopting the animals from Scottish shelters and even further afield, then providing safety from marauding predators such as foxes or the suspected wildcats. Three donkeys, two small goats and five geese were added to her collection over time, any visitors engaged further by an option of assisting with the feeding of the animals every morning or sometimes even late evening. The cold house and accommodation wasn’t for everyone, but a rustic charm had endeared her to several regular holidaymakers.
Initially suspicious, locals had eventually become fascinated by her elderly energy and love of animals, some even bringing injured specimens from around the island for her devoted care, knowing she would either tend for them personally or call her locally contracted vet if further treatment was required. The occasional donated tin or bag of pet food was usually left unanimously, Margaret completely unaware she had a secret but shy highland admirer that sensitively watched from afar.
All the gestures were acceptable to the retired widow, knowing once the animals were fed and watered, the tourists departed, she could venture out along the narrow lanes of the beautiful island in her formidably large enclosed pickup truck, accompanied by the beloved dogs that now completed her existence for a planned long walk. Perhaps three or four hours would follow of solitude in the beautiful rugged countryside she and her late husband had holidayed in at least once every two years, the Trossachs and Welsh countryside their other favoured destinations.
Margaret sighed as she saw the peat and mud coated older dogs, the pets shaking vigorously as she grinned, shaking her head in mock disapproval and considering the pungent journey back in her large vehicle. The other younger pets relinquished their pursuit to return to her side, wagging their tails furiously and panting, their tongues extended as they yawned with excitement and adrenalin (most dogs will yawn when excited).
Clicking her tongue, she stepped further along the moist earth based path between overgrown heather and bushes, her climbing boots splashing through squelching puddles as the virtually blackened older dogs pounced back into the peat bog, growling playfully with each other as the water and glutinous mud cascaded over their matted coats.
Margaret giggled as the younger dogs raced off again, their shrill barks ringing out
