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the rent isn’t much higher.”
     
    Robinson shrugged.  Rashid Ustinov and Sergey Ossetia were both refugees from Russia, people who had fled the police state that the new government had created, somehow finding their way to Britain and temporary workers permits.  They both had jobs within the city and paid taxes; they were also both quiet and soft-spoken.  He had worried, at first, about leaving Hazel with them, but they had behaved themselves.  Sergey was homosexual, something that Robinson knew was taboo in Russia, while Rashid had brought home a girlfriend from time to time.  It was hard to see what they actually had in common.
     
    “So, no time to get back into bed?”  Robinson teased.  He wanted her so badly at that moment.  “I’m going to miss you.”
     
    “Randy animal,” Hazel said, teasing him.  He reached out for her and their lips met in a long kiss.  “I’m going to miss you too…and if you get killed, I’m going to kill you, understand?”
     
    “Yes,” Robinson said.  He gave his wife a second kiss, then a third, and then a fourth.  He would come back to her or die trying; what they had was too important to lose.  “I do have some sense of self-preservation, after all.”
     
    He kissed his wife goodbye and started the long walk towards Redford Barracks, pausing only to throw a quick salute to the portrait of General Éclair that he had attached to the wall.  It was – officially – frowned upon, but hundreds of soldiers had decided to ignore official warnings and keep the pictures of those who had died or been betrayed by their own governments after Sudan.  The Netherlands and Denmark had been particularly vile to their soldiers; if a far-right group did manage to get into power there, Robinson privately predicted blood on the streets.
     
    Redford Barracks themselves were a set of massive buildings, set within Colinton, home to The Rifles as well as several smaller units and a Territorial Army base, right next door.  Robinson showed his security pass to the guards at the gate, armed and ready for trouble; they searched him and allowed him to enter the base.  He paused to salute the flag flapping in the wind, and then headed into the briefing room.  Other soldiers would be trickling in over the coming two days; as a Captain, Robinson had the pleasure of being called back into service early.   It wasn't an easy time to be a junior officer in His Majesty’s Army.
     
    He stood and saluted, along with a handful of other officers, when Major General John McLachlan entered the room.  McLachlan was fairly well-known; unlike Robinson himself, he had seen service in the ill-fated Iraq campaign, as well as Afghanistan and several other places where the general public would be astonished to learn that British troops had served.  His dark hair was fading to grey now, but he still gave the impression of strength and, more importantly, competence.  Rumour had it that he had wanted to retire, but the person who would be likely to get his job was an incompetent paper warrior.
     
    “At ease,” McLachlan said, as he returned their salutes.  “You will be pleased to know that we are being deployed, along with several RAF and SAS units, to Poland.  You may have heard rumours about the repeated Argie claim to the Falklands, and the Government has authorised the deployment of a major force of Royal Marines and Royal Navy ships, but we are going to Poland.  So far, the fact that a major force is going to the Falklands, in the hopes of preventing a repeat of the 1982 war, has been kept a secret; the requirement for a deployment to Poland has not.  I assume that all of you know the background, seeing that you all did a tour two years ago during the first crisis; there are few changes of importance in the background.
     
    “Almost the entire regiment is going, along with several other regiments, under my national command and the European command of General Konrad Trautman, who has