The noise from all this machinery reverberates all around us and increases and decreases constantly as activity on the runways varies. The Colonel will definitely feel in the middle of the action here, and something tells me that is exactly why this Command Tent is pitched where it is.
The front of the tent is pointed in the direction of the helicopters and has a large double-flapped opening, which is closed. Guarding the opening is one youngish soldier who will be there to stop unexpected ‘guests’ from entering the tent, which obviously doesn’t include us because the guard and the MP exchange quick salutes and then the MP holds one of the flaps open for us to walk straight in.
The inside of the tent is dimmer than outside, but it is still well lit with two rows of long florescent lighting strips running down the middle of the roof of the large tent. Also, running down the middle of the tent are tables that have been set up in a rectangle shape; their tops are filled with computer monitors, two rows of them facing outwards all the way down the tables; there must be at least twenty monitors, ten each side. There are more tables and monitors around the outside perimeter of the tent, these facing inwards and showing various images—some moving and some static. I see aerial reconnaissance photos of the destruction of London and moving drone footage of the same. Whether this is live or recorded footage, I don’t know, and other monitors are showing different maps of London and the wider area, whilst others have text on them that I can’t read from this distance.
There is a hive of activity around the tables of military personnel, all of whom are in uniform. Some are sitting in front of their computer monitors, studying whatever it is beaming at them. They look up from the screens on occasion and feed the information they have discovered to one of their colleagues, or they pick up the nearest phone to relay the information. There are personnel walking around the tent too, between the inner and outer tables, talking to the ones sitting down. They are checking and verifying the information before moving on to gain more, desperately trying to quench their thirst for information and to be the one who takes some vital piece of information to their superiors.
But it is at the rear of the tent where all the important information flows to. It is the rear where the decisions and orders emanate from and the rear where the red bereted MP is leading us.
I see Colonel Reed before he sees Dan or me; he is facing the front at the head of a large tactical table, similar to the one back at Orion. But this one is on a different scale; this one is vast. Alongside the colonel, five other high-ranking officers are studying the large screened table; all but one outranks him but it is clear who is taking charge of this operation and of them.
Colonel Reed hasn’t been passed over for promotion in his military life, or any other part of his life, for that matter. Way back, when I was still enlisted in the army, there were at least a couple of occasions when the rumour went around that the Colonel had turned down or refused another promotion. He was exactly where he wanted to be in the British Army, still able to be in the thick of the action with his finger on the pulse of operations and a high enough rank to directly influence, decide and direct operations. The Colonel is older than many of the Generals above him; his superiors, in many ways, were in name only, it would be a very brave General who went up against him. A promotion and a seat on some committee in the Ministry of Defence was not for the Colonel.
The MP enters the rear area of the Command Tent and stops just short of the men circled around the tactical table, snapping rigidly to attention and whipping his hand up to salute.
“Excuse me, Sir, I have Captain Richards, Sir,” the MP declares forcefully.
Colonel Reed is down leaning onto the tactical table with his hands gripping the side, spread out on each side of his body. He’s studying the large map of London displayed on the big screen and raises his short-cut, silver-haired head as he looks sternly at the new invaders of his space.
“You are dismissed, Sergeant,” he tells the MP without an ounce of gratitude. The MP swivels a turn and marches back out through the Command Tent.
It is immediately obvious to me that the cordial business relationship the Colonel and I had in my capacity as Head of Operations at Orion has evaporated with the demise of Sir Malcolm and indeed, the demise of Orion Security.
The Colonel lifts himself off the tactical table, rising to his full six-foot-two inches, bringing his arms down to his sides and puffing out his chest. He shows off his broad shoulders and muscular physique that a man half his fifty-four years of age would be proud of.
“Good, Richards, you’re here,” he says ominously, “and I see you’ve brought your man with you,” he adds, derogatorily, referring to Dan. “Please join us,” he finishes, lifting his hand towards the opposite end of the table to indicate where he wants us.
The end of the table is currently taken up by General Wright, but he quickly shuffles around to the side to make way for us. General Wright was once a subordinate of the Colonel, but with well-planned subtlety and deftness, Colonel Reed ensured his rise through
