After Henderson

James was waiting in the silent hotel lobby, my steel helmet tucked under his arm. He stood up when I stepped out of the lift.

"Good morning Mr Greensmith sir."

"Good morning, James," I said putting on the helmet and fastening the chin strap. "How are Carl and Joc today?"

"Very well sir. They are waiting in the APC. The engine's running, we're ready when you are."

"Let's go," I drawled.

"Why not." James's laugh was low and easy, his shoulder length dreadlocks shook as he helped me pull on the camouflaged flack jacket over my dark suit.

The armoured personnel carrier coughed diesel muck and we rumbled off. It's too noisy, too cramped and too bloody frightening in the APC to think, so I sat in the metal bucket seat, strapped myself into the harness and waited for journey's end. Conversation would have been a dead duck even if it wasn't so rattly, bouncy and loud. I'd never have been able to concentrate. Over my head, encased in combat fatigues, Jocasta's gorgeous buttocks dangled, swinging from side to side in the webbing. She'd waste me if she ever knew what I was thinking about sitting there each day, but a man's got to have dreams even if they are pathetically sad. Joc was a tough girl, she talked to that chain gun in her turret like it was a baby. It's lonely at the top and hard to make friends, I thought, attempting to justify my fantasies. Then I tried wallowing in self pity but couldn't keep it up with Joc's rear describing three dimensional gyrations in front of me.

Carl the Swede put his eyes on and made a real-time check from the geostationary solar wing circling twenty kilometres over our heads. Thirty centimetre resolution that flying eye gave us, 18% of my departmental expenditure just to get a timeshare. I pushed the requisition through the last budget based on weather forecasting for harvest and blight control. There were other uses. Carl ran a lookahead every morning along our route to the government bunker under the airport. I reckoned it was worth every penny just for that.

James had learned to drive armoured vehicles in Texas during UDI and the Mexican annexation, earning a good living chauffeuring rich American school kids across the state border. The narrow southern English roads, torn up by mortar and cannon shells, were another thing entirely. Hunched over the wheel, James peered through the periscope and did his best to steer round the craters. He managed most of them but once in a while a wheel dropped in a deep one, my head whacked against the armour plate and Jocasta's delightful bum shimmied up and down a foot from my nose. It was worth the pain.

II

The lift down to the parliamentary bunker was the only chance I got to be on my own during the day. I looked forward to the lift. When the doors opened this time a dwarfy little gonk dude I didn't recognise came out, his arms full of papers for the incinerator. He was the sort whose trousers were too short and wore a yellow cardigan with wooden buttons. I said good morning, he made this snuffly grunt and scurried out. I don't think he'd evolved enough to own a larynx. I kept my thumb on the Open button because I heard a shout and saw Henderson had just been dropped off by another armoured car. The vehicle pulled away as soon as he was on the tarmac, a clear breach of contract. The terrain was flat, open and very exposed. It was a headhunt and Henderson knew it. He was too far from the lift and he knew that too. Give him credit, he got about half way. Henderson kept himself fit, though how he found the time among all the meetings and late nights I never knew. The last thing he ever did was fling his Samsonite across the concrete apron. It skidded towards geek-man standing by the incinerator clutching his papers.

The sniper's bullet took Henderson cleanly through the back of his skull. Solid steel shot, no distortion, no deflection. It snapped his glasses in two on exit. Henderson died on his feet and folded himself up into a little pile. He was a tidy man.

The nanophone implant in my inner ear started to murmur. It was Carl, explaining in his clipped Scandinavian accent that he went to infra red at Hit plus two seconds and has a target confirmed. "The full headhunt was captured on the satellite video. I'm running a trajectory back-track. It's complete ... now. Can we have justification on the sniper?"

With that sort of evidence I concurred. James burned rubber, the APC roared away in a high speed curve while Jocasta put six rounds per second semi armour piercing into a derelict hotel half a mile away. They were a great team, I've used them from the beginning of my career. Who cared about a few rough edges when your arse is on the menu. Hell, they even did my shopping. I'd like to do more than window shop Jocasta but I knew better. I'm a politician and like they say, politics is the art of the possible.

Dwarf lemon cardigan blinked at Henderson's body like a sleepy owl, looked down at the briefcase lying in front of him and took a step forwards.

"Don't ..." I shouted. Ok he was weird, but I needed a better reason than that for not saving his life.

But it was too late, or I didn't shout loud enough and anyway I heard incoming ordnance. I took my thumb off the button and the doors slammed shut. Concussion rumbled against the lift armour. The internal monitor showed the outside view. Incinerator, briefcase and my odd little acquaintance had disappeared. Charred and tattered, his papers dispersed in a giant confetti cloud. I noticed his shoes still neatly together side by side. On one level he and Henderson had a lot in common. I wondered if he would have liked that.

III

"Henderson's not coming." I said walking into Ops. The other ministers were already there, waiting for the P.M. Little creeps smirking away over their business plans and memos. I was thirty minutes early for the morning briefing but they had all arrived well before me. They were all younger, keener, anxious to make their mark and stick in the extra hours. The one exception being Henderson, who was now and forever late in at least two different ways, Amen. I felt a bit sorry for them, but not much. I used to be like that myself until one day I grew up and realised that rubbing my own nose in it just forced it further up my nostrils and gave me scabby knees. The revelation, a wild and private epiphany, came as I was walking home and did me no end of good. Call it Saint Stuart on the road to Devolution if you like, except I'm no saint. I hustle with the best.

As I was walking home. Did you notice me say that? Those were the quiet times before devolution really started. The lull before the storm troopers, when there was still a Scotland, England and Wales.

My arse. We were done nine different ways till Tuesday. That's what my grandmother would have said. When I was a kid she was always coming out with these flaky sayings, making my mother tut and hush at her as if I could work out what the sweet Jesus she meant. I reckoned the old bird was a multiple personality; all smiles and sense one minute, then drooling, cackling and drivelling on about three kinds of crazy shit. Maybe she was a project manager who died and went to hell. Wait for me Grandma, here I come.

Now I may be using hindsight, I may be cynical and for a fact my mother said I cried sarcastically as a baby, but did we all wake up one day and take a stupid pill? Perhaps they put something in the water.

What the fuck. Who cares any more? Now it's everyone for himself and all you want is a time sheet and a three month rolling contract. It sure as shit used to piss me off but now I'm more relaxed. I take regular vacations, never drink at lunchtime and do more in one day than the other ministers achieve in a week.

They had all huddled into their little cliques. The big three, Manufacturing, War and Treasury, were by a desk next to filing. Everyone else was drinking coffee and studying the campaign reports from around the country, the land, I don't even know what to call the place we live any more. Whatever it was 'United' definitely wasn't in the name. They studied the troop dispositions, reserves and kill ratios as if looking at them long and hard could make the numbers change. However you looked at it, the independent national county of Middlesex was still way down the leader board.

War looked worried, my news about Henderson made a good diversion.

"Was he ... ?" She started to say.

"Head hunted? Yeah, but Personnel got to him first." I loved saying that. If she could only see her own face.

Media sat down, his plump face green like he was about to puke. I looked round for a wastepaper basket but they were all full and I remembered the new cleaners only came round every second day. He took a nervous sip at his coffee then stood up in a hurry. "Excuse me, comfort break." He belched quietly behind his hand and waddled towards the swing doors farting with each step.

I realised Media had been planning an out too. Now his career plans were in the incinerator. At least his agent could kiss the finders fee goodbye too. Every cloud, as they say.

Henderson must have been confident of making it to the other side and blabbed to one person too many. Media probably reckoned that someone in the cabinet stitched Henderson up and he was literally shitting himself trying to work out who. Only I knew that the P.M. had rumbled his move and taken the option to terminate. The least I could do was let James, Carl and Jocasta waste the little snit she'd hired to pull the trigger. People like that gave us contractors a bad name. Always short term stuff, no client commitment, they didn't care if it got messy because they had no intention of being around to scrape it off their shoes. The P.M. wouldn't mind me hitting the hit, I've probably saved her a few Middlesex K-dollars. I considered telling the other ministers for about half a second before deciding I couldn't be bothered.

"How's it hanging?" I asked War and she swallowed hard, trying to smile. She couldn't quite pull it off and that told me the situation was going downhill fast. She was going to have to tell the P.M. I couldn't wait.

War flapped her hand up and down, "So so."

Lying bitch, I thought, it's a disaster. But it's not my disaster.

"Anything I can do to help?" I said. She was actually grateful and smiled. I could hardly believe her naivety.

"Thanks, but it all happened overnight. I think we'll get it under control in a few hours." She put her hand on a slim pile of glossy folders, "I was just going through the service level agreements, checking some response times."

"You could have paged me. You know my number don't you?"

"No, I don't think so," she said fumbling through her diary.

"It should be on the board." I said, running my finger down the list, knowing it wasn't there. I promised to get the call sheet amended. Maybe I'd even remember.

Right then the P.M. walked in dressed in a khaki twin piece. General Artjurian limped behind her. Role-play is so important in today's government, you can say a lot with clothes and style before you opened your mouth. The P.M. was a past master, her clothes suggested a uniform without quite being one. They said 'I'm in charge, I'm experienced, I've been there and done it'. In my opinion Artjurian had gone too far, he should have just worn the peaked cap and medals. The eye patch and empty left sleeve were way over the top. I couldn't take that sort of thing seriously.

"Morning everyone," the P.M. said.

"Good morning Madame Prime Minister," we chorused.

"And how is the free state of Middlesex this morning?"

The silence told her everything she needed to know. The room temperature dropped even lower than some of the cabinet members I.Q.'s.

Treasury started to speak, trying to take some of the heat off War. He'd always fancied her, I wouldn't mind checking out some of her zones myself but office romances seldom work and your next contract could put you on opposite sides. I recalled that War joined the cabinet soon after Treasury, coming down from Northumbria as part of the manpower fallout from the disastrous New Wall project. As Treasury talked I decided that behind his round, rimless spectacles he was less of a cold fish than I thought, even if he did use too much coconut oil on his hair.

"Commercially we're still very strong. The economy, growing at a sustainable 3.2%, is really pushing the envelope on the competition. We're promised major league technical breakthroughs from three companies in which we have substantial holdings. One is Pacific rim, the other two are South African. All are expected to make significant announcements before year end."

War smiled at him gratefully. My mind leered into overtime; warm coconut oil. It's a minor weakness and l usually have it firmly under control. I was less impressed by Treasury's speech, it was standard issue first year MBA. Everyone knew that war stimulated the economy, it was the main argument the Facilities Management companies used to persuade the old U.K. parliament to devolve down to county level.

Squaring up his notes Treasury smiled a lipless lizard's smile. "I have this month's balance sheet here. It's quite healthy."

The P.M. glanced down the columns. Like me she's not so easily taken in by mere facts.

"Tell me something new."

"Middlesex Free State Plc up 1.7 at close of day yesterday."

The P.M. tipped her head approvingly. Suddenly I had the overwhelming impression that she knew what was going on, playing him out a line just to see how far he would run.

"And this morning?"

"Down 20." It's a whisper.

The cabinet gave a collective gasp of dismay I was only too happy to join in. Performance related share options certainly build my team spirit but below a certain point you wanted to find out just how worthless those bits of paper could get. Ten years ago in Quebec it was very good and I was very rich - on paper. Unfortunately some people never learn, and three months later the British Columbian Army reminded the French what they had forgotten about the Heights of Abraham. I fled south and spent a paralytically alcoholic evening feeding my shares to a goat outside a TexMex bar.

"A fall not inconceivably related to the arrival of Kent's fifth armoured brigade in Reigate," the P.M. snapped. General Artjurian squared his shoulders and put on his grim veteran face. He may have gone overboard on stage props, but his regular written briefings were top notch. Artjurian distrusted the WorldWeb, no-one knew who ran it, who was looking over your shoulder or even if what you sent would be what arrived. A single word changed could make a whole world of difference. Paper was still Artjurian's favourite method of communication and also had the immense advantage of avoiding his notorious accent.

"We've been monitoring troop movements around the empire of London," War stated the obvious. "Last week Wessex moved two divisions of infantry into Hemel. Kent mobilised armour west towards Reigate at 0400 hours."

"Prognosis?"

War gestured vaguely at the shiny folders on her desk. "I've been going over some options."

Treasury interrupted. "If I may say, the War Office decision to raise minimum service age to forty five was tactically rather brilliant. Overheads have been significantly reduced, allowing stronger investment in research, manufacturing and utilities. Projected save in the next five years is 35% pensions and 40% health care."

The P.M. gave him this really weird look like he was an alien just landed from planet Blonde. I guess she was getting rather pissed with him because her finger started wagging from side to side like it did when Mortimer resigned.

If she did say anything to him I never heard what it was because Carl came on the nanophone again. Simultaneously the indicators on the wall map flashed white all along the western border and everyone started shouting and pointing at the lights.

Personality comes out under stress so God knows what any psyche-profiler would have made of me then. I stuck my finger in my other ear to hear Carl better and had a flashback memory of folk singers. Next moment I was doing a little jig and making a passing dreadful attempt at Greensleeves. I doubt anyone else noticed, they were all staring at the wall map catching flies. General Artjurian unholstered his pistol and holding it by the barrel solemnly smashed the glass dome over the red telephone with the butt. Carl talked at me steadily. Observing the start of a full scale war through VR from a height of twenty kilometres gave him a dispassionate objectivity.

"Three columns of Wessex armoured infantry crossed the border at 08:19 moving towards Amersham. Heavy Kent armour is advancing on a broad front between Leatherhead and Dorking."

"Carl," I murmured, picking up and rustling a sheaf of internal memos, "tell James to bring the APC back towards the bunker."

"Minimum resistance from Middlesex ground forces, non-existent in my opinion," Carl continued. "TacCom analysis suggests Kent is vulnerable. We have theoretical air superiority."

"Did you hear what I said," I hissed as loud as I dared. "If London doesn't interfere Kent can be at Heathrow in under two hours. If we can't stop them we'll have to fall back to Reading."

"Um, right. Sorry sir, I was flying."

There was a steel keybox on the wall beside the area map. I walked over, opened it and removed the nine inch long key for the fire-safe. I'd already unlocked the heavy safe door when the P.M. called my name. "Greensmith, I'm invoking disaster recovery." Straightening up I handed her the thin black file. "Please give me the contingency plan. Oh, thank you."

"Carl's had a look. Kent has no air cover, we should launch an air strike immediately and ..."

"Thank you, Stuart. We'll be following procedure nevertheless. I'm sure it will be more than adequate."

A ripple of excitement ran through the gathered cabinet. Disaster Recovery: something we had planned, designed and tested since we first won the Government contract.

Stuart. The Prime Minister had used my first name. Normally it was Greensmith or Agriculture if she was in a good mood, Food if she wasn't. I hated it when she called me Food, it made me feel like a servant. The last time she used first names was after the elections when we won a four year extension from the Middlesex plebiscite. That was only the second time I'd called her by her first name; Ellen. I knew she liked to play the Prime-Minister-of-Steel and perhaps it was that little bit harder for her, being a woman. But I knew she was not so stern and puritan all the time and I didn't let the cut of her clothes fool me for one minute. You see, I knew that she shaved. From the waist down she was bald as an egg. That was some interview I can tell you.

"Listen please. Listen." She shouted and banged the table and everyone turned away from Artjurian who was pointing at the two light clusters crawling towards Heathrow across the area map. "This is now a Hard Hat zone. Treasury bring the helmets please. Who is Red Hat One? Somebody?"

"That would have been Henderson." I said.

"Oh. Well, who is standby?"

"Media, he's still in the toilet."

"Go and get him will you, Greensmith. And for God's sake tell him not to drink any more coffee."

IV

Under the emergency lighting the corridor was the blurred dim red of a brothel. Media was on his knees in front of the chocolate vending machines peering at the colour coded labels. He looked up with a guilty smile.

"I can't find the right buttons," Media shrugged helplessly, his normally plump cheeks sagged each side of his chin. "This light makes the colours look the same."

"Thanks, Stuart. Chocolate's the only thing that settles my stomach after ... You know."

"You should take better care of yourself," I said. "Come on, the P.M. wants you."

Voices floated out of the air conditioning as we walked back to the Operations room. I think Media would have bolted back to the toilets if I hadn't been with him. Instead, he stopped and we listened. The voices were calm and stern and said,

"... in progress. Follow the Contingency Plan until recovery is complete. This is now a Hard Hat Zone. Disaster Recovery is in ..."

We stood in the shadowy red lit corridor and a big shudder travelled all the way from Media's shoulders to his feet. I'd always wondered what a man with no bones looked like. Now I knew. Media gave a sigh so huge it sounded like a sob. He was young, kind and helpful, a harmless man completely out of his depth. Media should have been sitting on a gingham picnic cloth on top of Box Hill with his plump girlfriend, eating egg and cress sandwiches and drinking Earl Grey tea from the thermos. Uncharacteristically I felt sympathetic. Usually I reckoned everyone deserved what they got. We're all grown-ups, we've got eyes and presumably Media's were open when he signed his contract. I put it down to age and too many late nights.

"I don't want to ...", he began.

"Let's get this over with," I interrupted, trying to be brusque, but waited while he slowly unwrapped a bar of chocolate covered sugar honeycomb, popped the entire thing into his mouth and dejectedly walked on.

V

The Operations room was in chaos. Artjurian and the Prime Minister had broken open the D-ring file and spread the pages across the desk. The campaign map blinked and twinkled on the wall, forgotten and ignored.

"Perhaps they are swinging round to join up for an assault on west London." War said hopefully. We shot her down, no mercy.

"That would be funny if it wasn't so stupid."

"We're right in the fucking middle."

The General was complaining in his strongly accented English.

"Sum off zer paigers our messing."

Treasury skulked in a corner with his mobile 'phone. "Hi darling. Look something's come up and... yeah I love you too. Look, I won't be able to make lunch today ok? Yeah I know I said ... sorry, sorry ... maybe Friday ... I said I was sorry. No, I'm not shouting at you. I've go to go. Bye." He glared bitterly at the phone and very loudly, very clearly said "Fuck it."

War caught his eye and scornfully turned away, beaming radiantly at Artjurian.

"I'll print off another copy for you, General."

"Thayar!" Artjurian stabbed with his finger. "Suction serventain point fowar. Es thay foam numbar fur thay aerfowers. Way mast half an hair stroke."

Talk about scoring brownie points. Artjurian had just ordered an air strike, repeating what I said a quarter of an hour ago. I prepared my told-you-so expression and plastered it over my face. The P.M. pointedly refused to look anywhere in my direction but she knew and that was enough.

Media was self-consciously adjusting the internal head band on his red plastic hard hat.

"Where do you think Artjurian's from?" I asked him.

"I don't know. Somewhere in the Balkan Macedoine I thought."

"That's what he told us. I reckoned the Caucasus. That accent of his is unreal. The man in the video shop sounds a bit like it, but he's from the Punjab."

Media held out a hat with 'Gr'nsm'th/Ag' stencilled on it. "Aren't you going to put this on Stuart."

"Ask me if I care."

"Do you ..." he began predictably, but I had walked away.

Artjurian lifted the red phone's receiver and dialled. War sat in front of a monitor miserably pressing keys at random. "I can't remember my bloody password."

Artjurian slammed down the phone.

"Say say say want cow," he shouted red faced. The P.M. looked at him open mouthed.

"What?"

"Say want cow."

"Anyone?" The P.M. appealed.

"They say they won't go," I translated. Artjurian was good company out of the cabinet. He was a real contractor, a promiscuous tart who always went to the highest bidder. We had spent several evenings in the bar swapping tales of incompetence and skulduggery. Having got drunk with him I found that the following morning I could still understand every word.

"Right, I've fucking had it. Give me the phone." The P.M. snatched the receiver from Artjurian's hand. I almost felt sorry for the person on the other end but it was the Prime Minister who's voice got quieter, her own face that went pale with controlled fury.

"What do you mean you won't take off?"

(pause)

"Is there a problem with the weather?" She looked at me significantly, I shook my head. I knew from Carl, conditions were fine.

"The Brazilian Air force has a contractual obligation to provide air power to us. The nation of Middlesex is in a state of war."

(pause)

"My name is Ellen Kibble. I am the Prime Minister of Middlesex."

(pause)

"Yes. I understand now. Thank you for explaining."

She replaced the receiver with scrupulous care. When she spoke to War her voice was splintered and brittle.

"Elizabeth, would you please bring the Air force contract."

"I was looking for it earlier," War stammered, rummaging through the shiny card pamphlets spilled across her desk. "I'm sure it's here somewhere."

An avalanche of brochures cascaded onto the floor, each embossed with a different corporate logo. The black and gold Prussian eagle of TeutonicX Navy GmbH caught my eye. I frowned and tossed it back onto the pile. What was War doing wasting her time with this sort of stuff. When you're a second rate state you contract to second rate service providers. There was no way Middlesex could afford naval facilities services from the like of TNG or The Senior Service. We couldn't even use them. For one thing, we'd need a coast line.

"I've got it. Here it is." Treasury called out from across the room. "It was on my desk."

The P.M. snatched it from him and War leaned over her shoulder as she extracted the stapled contract, frowned, flipped through the pages then stared blankly at the cover. When she looked up, she was wall-eyed. I'd never seen the P.M. look that way before. It was like she'd woken up and found herself naked in the mens toilet.

"I don't understand ... It doesn't mean anything." She sounded bemused, a little scared and I think it was then that she first realised that we were, speaking as an independent nation, sailing pretty close to the edge.

"Here, let me." War took the contract from her as Treasury walked up to peer between them. "That's funny, it's written in Spanish"

"Actually it's Portuguese." Treasury interrupted. "Last quarter I outsourced the Civil Service to Iberian Burocracia. I saved a fortune in wages and took a ten percent discount by declining the translation services option." His expression was ingenuous. "It was in my year end report. All our contracts have been re-written."

Carl the Swede came on the mike again. "Weather report, boss. Storm approaching from Kent. It could be getting very hot soon. What's occurring in that meeting of yours?"

I moved away and studied the wall map. Kent armour had almost reached Kingston, clearly intending to cross the Thames at Teddington weir. Suddenly I had this overwhelming urge for a cup of real coffee. Not the crud that seeps out the machines, I wanted ground coffee, hot and strong. I was missing the first cup of the day, the kickstart jolt I needed as soon as I got in the office. I should have gone down to the cabinet rest room when I was looking for Media. Too late now.

"Carl, give me James."

"Here he is."

"James, listen. Everything's gone short term down here. Have a look around the agencies, check availability, offer a CV update. See if there's any activity."

"Sure, I'll be discrete. By the way, we're just arriving at the airport perimeter. Everything's clear down to Reading, we can have you out of there in ten."

"Thanks. I'll call."

I found I was looking forward to getting back inside the APC, just the four of us rumbling down the road to who knows where. Callipygous; the word just popped into my mind and I smiled. Education is a wonderful thing.

As I returned to the huddle round the P.M. Artjurian caught my eye, winked and tapped his own throat with a finger. The sly old dog had clocked what I was doing. He was probably planning a bale-out himself.

Denied the ability to do anything effective, the P.M. turned on Treasury. "And how did you expect us poor mortals to read contracts in Portuguese legalese?" She winced at the inadvertent rhyme. It made her angrier and nobody smiled. That just showed how crucial things were getting. Normally when she said anything remotely clever we all grinned like Cheshire cats; a survival reflex that had suddenly become a liability.

"We've got at least one fluent speaker in the cabinet."

"Who?"

"Henderson." Treasury said brightly then his face fell. "Oh. He's not ... With us. Any more."

"Exactly. Thank you very much for not telling me about this earlier, Treasury."

"The Brazilian Air force didn't mind. Apparently the verb conjugations are similar or something."

"Oh good. Why don't we just 'phone them up and ask them. Excuse me we've found the contract but it's written in a language none of us can read. Perhaps you could parachute a translator down when you're next flying over."

"I went to Spain for my summer holidays," War said. "Let me have a look." She bit her lip, furrowed her brow and made little noises in her throat. "Um, it says Top Gun Air Support, large cup size. No, that can't be right. All our aeroplanes have wings? Oh, it's too different. Juan spoke English, he was my waiter."

The P.M.'s voice filled with despair. "General, Mr Artjurian sir. I don't suppose you happen to speak Portuguese?"

Artjurian turned round, folding down the collar of his jacket. I was right, he had a two-way, probably a pico or a nano subdermal in his larynx.

"Park your geese no problem." Random chance predicted he must pronounce the occasional word correctly.

Everyone listened while Artjurian translated the Portuguese and I translated Artjurian. When it was over the P.M. leaned on the table and stared at her hands. When she looked up, it was like she was ten years older.

"So that is why they refused to fly."

Nobody spoke. I had no intention of opening my mouth, it wasn't my call.

"The Brazilian Air force are contracted to provide air defence and offense capabilities for the nation of Middlesex."

It was a statement. I guess everyone else felt like me; there was no need to reply. The P.M.'s lip curled into a cold snarl.

"But the response time is three days. They don't have to react to any request we make for seventy two hours."

War tried to speak, managing a small, a very tiny "Yes, but Treasury said we would save ...."

The P.M. held up her hand. "Stop. Don't say anything. Don't make it any worse. That's it everybody, we've lost the contract. Kiss goodbye to everything we've worked for, goodbye Middlesex."

"Shit, there goes my bonus." Treasury kicked a chair across the room, giving me the perfect opportunity.

"You bastard, this was all your fault and all you can think about is your fucking bonus!" Actually I didn't care either way, I just didn't like the guy. It was too good a chance to miss. I got a great response, he swelled up like a toad and clenched his fist. Artjurian crossed to one side, unfastening the pistol holstered at his waist. Treasury deflated like a leaky balloon.

"I was doing my job Greensmith. You should have read my reports."

"You're a prick."

"Fuck you!"

He nearly went for me again. It was all I could do not to laugh.

"Oh that's great, you've just screwed all our bonuses and blown any chance of a contract extension. I think you owe us all an apology."

"Be quiet both of you," the P.M. shouted. The iron glint in her eye meant she had picked herself up. She was down but not out, and I hoped she would not try some grand and pointless gesture to keep the share-holders happy. "Post-mortems will come later. We can recover by using ground troops. I suggest you two, especially you, Food, keep out of the way and let us get on with things."

She'd called me 'Food'. I really didn't like that. She was picking on me even though it was all Treasury's mess. I knew why; this was failure, the time for lashing out at random, for assignment of blame to all and sundry.

"General, report on ground troop dispositions."

"They tripes are in they bare rocks. They half knot bean mobil iced."

No one was paying any attention to me. I was being side lined, my advice was being ignored. I sulked.

It was then that I had my idea. It was a beautiful idea, the sort you absolutely have to make happen. But the person I needed to tell wasn't ready to listen. The Prime Minister was up on her toes, her fingers hooked like claws, she looked about a foot taller. I walked across to the other side of the room to wait my chance.

"Oh, do I have to issue the mobilisation order?" War said.

"Yes. You are the Minister for War. Generals can't mobilise troops, only Ministers can. It's called democracy."

"Do you want me to do it now?"

"Yes." The P.M.'s teeth were clenched. "I do."

War started leafing through the Disaster Recovery plan. The P.M. looked at the ceiling and sniffed. It was impossible, but for a second I thought I saw tears sparkle in her eyes.

"Sweet Jesus, give me strength," she sighed and her shoulders slumped. It was the moment I had been waiting for.

"I can get the Brazilians flying," I said quietly.

VI

As things turned out my idea didn't make much of a difference to the last days of Middlesex. The P.M. loved it, clutched at it like a drowning swimmer, convinced it would turn the tide of war in our favour. I took a field promotion to Air Chief Vice Admiral on the spot and she promised a mention in the New Year's Honours. She was insane, how she expected a Minister for Agriculture to take a sideways promotion like that I don't know. I'd never even heard of the job title and concluded later on that she had made it up. The Honours never arrived either which was a pity because they would have looked good on my C.V. That morning in the bunker was the last anyone ever saw of Prime Minister Kibble or any of the other cabinet members. Artjurian turned up years later as a minor Warlord along the river Po.

You see, I'd remembered that the crop dusting operation was covered by the Brazilians as well. You might think that spraying fields was a waste of talent for those guys but it was a highly skilled job requiring precision flying at ground level. Those men and women flew under the power lines. They were a lot more amenable to my 'phone call, partly because their rate would be hourly (war contracts paid by the day, flat rate including bank holidays and weekends). They also found it highly amusing that a beleaguered nation would call down a dusting operation on fields full of enemy troops. I did too.

There was a moment though, when I thought they wouldn't go for it. The flight captain got cold feet about biological warfare and his external auditors, but I explained exactly what I had in mind and it was okay again. I think they would even have done it for free if I'd asked, but hey, it wasn't my money and the service was budgeted.

I would have loved to have seen those Kent Tank commander's faces when the planes came over the hedges. But by the time they were in action James had retrieved me from the bunker and we were heading towards Reading on diplomatic plates. I resigned myself to loosing a week's pay, getting that last time sheet signed off was beyond my powers. But we had the APC and I settled back in my seat to enjoy an unscheduled matinee of Joc's perfect bum. We were well out of it.

VII

News spread fast among the agencies. James had done a fine job with the CV and I got a lot of kudos for what came to be known as Greensmith's Duster. It's become a sort of contractors legend. Before long quite a few offers came in, even one from Kent, but I decided on the Kingdom of Mercia. It was a long way from London and the hereditary leadership kept things that bit more stable. New contracts were always exciting; new people, new situations, a chance to show off your experience and maybe even meet a few old acquaintances. Mercia was well placed to do well; Cornwall county was protected by the sea, the Welsh were happiest fighting themselves, and the way was wide open for expansion into the English home counties and the Midlands. Everyone knew that there was going to be a shake up. It wasn't practical to have so many small independent kingdoms. Middlesex was just the first of many. There was going to be consolidation, merger, hostile takeovers.

VIII

They didn't have to do it, but those flyers kept under the radar, hedge hopping all the way from Heathrow. I like to think it was a parting gift from them to me. Like I said, in the end it made very little difference. You needed a lot of ladybirds to stop one tank, let alone a battalion. The thing was I had a lot, fresh in from the Californian breeders, all ready for the tomato glasshouses. One hundred million ladybirds dropped over five acres of winter wheat didn't stop the Kent armour, but it sure as hell slowed them down.