Two Years Later
30th December, 2015
Who are you, old man?
Scott looked at his reflection in the mirror opposite him. Age and stress had lined his once-handsome face, and white was showing all through his dark hair. The tailored suit added a severe look to him that didn't help.
And the walking cane didn't do him any favours either.
But that was a necessity; after the last firefight and the grevious wounds he'd taken, his fighting days were done. He'd taken his last bullet, and it had left him, not crippled, but unable to do the same things he used to. And in some way, he was glad of that.
He'd spent months in hospitals, under lockdown and guard. But, as promised, it had all been sorted out. Quiet back-channel deals, and, no doubt, any number of blackmail threats and realizations of how close the 'civilized' world had come to having a nuclear detonation in their faces had quietly resulted in a quiet discharge from service.
His still-piercing eyes studied his own face as a clock ticked rhythmically in the background of the wood-panelled hallway, The green-leather upholstered bench wasn't uncomfortable, but the passage of ages had worn it to a shiny lustre, and the tiled floor was slick-smooth with the same passage of ages.
Outside, the traffic and bustle of London in the holiday season was reduced to a distant, far-off burble and the single iron-framed window was blasted with winter rain.
He might not be picking up a rifle or machine-gun any more, and he might not be diving out of perfectly good aeroplanes, or swimming up freezing cold rivers, but Scott Valentine was still fighting for worthwhile causes.
The thick wooden door at the end of the hallway clicked open, and a younger man in an ill-fitting suit spoke in a quiet voice.
"They're ready for you now, Mister Valentine".
Slowly, and with aching joints, Scott stood, leaning on the cane and straightening his tie, brushing off an imaginary fleck of dirt. Despite the injuries he'd received, he was still somewhat of a mountain of a man, barrel-chested and wide-shouldered. He gave a slight smirk at himself. What would they think of you now, old man? He thought ruefully. Picking up the slim document wallet alongside him, he stood before walking toward the door, nodding to the young man as he passed. He stopped as the young man closed the door behind them, and found himself waiting in a sort of hallway between the one he'd left and a larger room where a burble of raised voices could be heard in debate. His heart thumped, and he quietened it, applying the same steel he'd used all those times before in other situations.
Still facing the enemy, he thought to himself with a slightly smile, before turning the folder in his hands, and reading the cover again. He knew it inside and out, of course, but it helped keep his attention focused.
"PEACE IN OUR TIME: CIVIL WAR, TERRORISM AND PEACE-KEEPING IN THE THIRD WORLD"
It was a large issue to discuss, but after what he'd been through with the rest of Lima and the SAS before that, more than anything he wanted to add his experience to debate. To argue and debate with a view towards the experience he'd had in the field, of men and women on both sides and the realities they faced, and the reasons he'd seen why violence broke out, and was hard to quell.
Somehow, that process had ended up with him here, today, the day before New Years Eve, making a special appearance at the House of Commons to make a speech.
The noise in the other room quietened, and he heard a somewhat muffled voice begin to describe his immediate appearance. In a sudden flash, he thought of his team mates; Jan, Zhenya, Wendy, Neil and the rest. Where were they now, he wondered? He hoped they were well, that they too had found or made their own peace.
The young man appeared in the door into the large chamber and nodded.
Scott took a breath and stepped forward.
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