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<blockquote data-quote="Eccles" data-source="post: 5747774" data-attributes="member: 5675"><p>Twenty minutes after that, the General called back to the minister to tell him that his papers deemed all first contact scenarios to be the concern of the government, and that the single file he had on the issue required the point of contact to be under the codename of ‘Burnplank’.</p><p></p><p>.oOo.</p><p></p><p>Forty minutes after this phone call, the dishevelled junior researcher found herself triumphantly dropping a file on her boss’ desk. In her other hand she was still holding a torch one of the security staff had lent her.</p><p></p><p>“I found it sir,” she announced proudly whilst brushing cobwebs out of her hair. “It was in a filing cabinet in the basement hidden under a broken toilet door, sir. It was filed next to a DIY book on repairing furniture, sir. Oh, and there were a lot of videos in the cabinet, sir. But they’re a funny size.”</p><p></p><p>As she fumbled one of the tapes out of a pocket, the senior civil servant glanced up from the file. “Ah. Betamax. The ‘80s, then. Good old Mrs Thatcher. She made plans for everything…” He opened the file and reached for his coffee.</p><p></p><p>.oOo.</p><p></p><p>Information about the recruits on the file was typed onto flimsy, almost shiny yellowing paper. Two sets of aging papers had been set aside as either dead or untraceable, but three others were still clutched in the minister’s hands.</p><p></p><p>“So we have three,” he mused. “None of them contacted since basic training at the creation of Project: Burnplank. The information we have is out of date. What have we found out about these three?” </p><p></p><p>The minister snatched up the first file and waved it at the roomful of civil servants and researchers in front of him. “Morag Lucas. Surely this isn’t the same woman who gave us so much trouble with the News of the World?”</p><p></p><p>“Yes, minister,” nodded one of the researchers as he lay down a much heavier file containing many glossy photographs of a bushy red-haired woman with sallow skin and nicotine stained teeth. “Trained by MI5, spent a few years as a private investigator, and then hired by Mr Murdoch’s people to dig up information using certain… frowned upon practices.”</p><p></p><p>“Muckraking, phone-cloning b*tch,” snarled the minister. “How she got those photographs of Bernie in the back room of that shindig I’ll never know. Cost us millions in party funding…”</p><p></p><p>“Indeed, minister,” coughed one of the more senior civil servants. “And you are going to have to ask this woman for a personal favour within the next few hours. And if you don’t like that, then I’m afraid there is more to come.”</p><p></p><p>“Alright. What’s the bad news. Surely there can’t be anything wrong with this one. Company Sergeant Major Mills, earned two medals in the Falklands, distinguished service at Goose Green. Though he must be what, fifty by now?”</p><p></p><p>“Indeed, minister,” purred the civil servant as he slid a blue file marked ‘Metropolitan Police’ across the table. “Left the services in the late 1980’s under rather clouded circumstances; allegations of selling weapons couldn’t be made to stick. Fell in with his childhood friends in the East End, and made his money acting as an enforcer for a family...”</p><p></p><p>“A gangster?” interrupted the minister.</p><p></p><p>“Indeed, minister. Sergeant – ahem – Mr Robert Mills is presently serving a 12 year spell of imprisonment for his involvement in a burglary in which two other men died. Linked to the offence due to…” a brief pause to look through the papers. “Ah, blood spatter on his trousers noticed by an officer as he walked near the building. There was, however, no solid evidence that he was directly involved in the two deaths. I would suggest that we offer him some sort of early release scheme to ensure his compliance.”</p><p></p><p>As the minister spluttered, the civil servant gestured, and several glossy brochures were slid across the table. “I am sure, minister, that the last of the three would be more acceptable. Spent a time working as a police negotiator and then working for BP before going into business in Wales. Now employs seventeen to run his ‘commune’ – a place where those with means and an appropriate inclination can go to reduce stress. As you’ll see from the brochures, he also runs teamworking and meditation exercises.”</p><p></p><p>“Yes, yes, but the man’s a complete arse! Look at the original file! ‘Norman Davis claims to be psychic.’ He took chemistry and psychology at Toxteth Institute of Higher Learning of all places. Expelled from there after using a laboratory to mix up a drug to feed to other students as part of a ‘study into opening the human mind’. Accused of cheating in his second year exams!”</p><p></p><p>“But again, minster, never proved. A resourceful, intelligent and empathic individual in other words. Believed as a possible subject for the MI6 ‘mental enhancement’ program, though the results were rather inconclusive. And these three are the only ones we have with the requisite training and conditioning to engage in a ‘first contact’ scenario whilst being simultaneously expendable.”</p><p></p><p>“Alright,” nodded the minister pushing the files away. “Burnplank it is. Make the necessary arrangements, and start coming up with scenarios to cover our ar*es when these three f*ck it all up…”</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Eccles, post: 5747774, member: 5675"] Twenty minutes after that, the General called back to the minister to tell him that his papers deemed all first contact scenarios to be the concern of the government, and that the single file he had on the issue required the point of contact to be under the codename of ‘Burnplank’. .oOo. Forty minutes after this phone call, the dishevelled junior researcher found herself triumphantly dropping a file on her boss’ desk. In her other hand she was still holding a torch one of the security staff had lent her. “I found it sir,” she announced proudly whilst brushing cobwebs out of her hair. “It was in a filing cabinet in the basement hidden under a broken toilet door, sir. It was filed next to a DIY book on repairing furniture, sir. Oh, and there were a lot of videos in the cabinet, sir. But they’re a funny size.” As she fumbled one of the tapes out of a pocket, the senior civil servant glanced up from the file. “Ah. Betamax. The ‘80s, then. Good old Mrs Thatcher. She made plans for everything…” He opened the file and reached for his coffee. .oOo. Information about the recruits on the file was typed onto flimsy, almost shiny yellowing paper. Two sets of aging papers had been set aside as either dead or untraceable, but three others were still clutched in the minister’s hands. “So we have three,” he mused. “None of them contacted since basic training at the creation of Project: Burnplank. The information we have is out of date. What have we found out about these three?” The minister snatched up the first file and waved it at the roomful of civil servants and researchers in front of him. “Morag Lucas. Surely this isn’t the same woman who gave us so much trouble with the News of the World?” “Yes, minister,” nodded one of the researchers as he lay down a much heavier file containing many glossy photographs of a bushy red-haired woman with sallow skin and nicotine stained teeth. “Trained by MI5, spent a few years as a private investigator, and then hired by Mr Murdoch’s people to dig up information using certain… frowned upon practices.” “Muckraking, phone-cloning b*tch,” snarled the minister. “How she got those photographs of Bernie in the back room of that shindig I’ll never know. Cost us millions in party funding…” “Indeed, minister,” coughed one of the more senior civil servants. “And you are going to have to ask this woman for a personal favour within the next few hours. And if you don’t like that, then I’m afraid there is more to come.” “Alright. What’s the bad news. Surely there can’t be anything wrong with this one. Company Sergeant Major Mills, earned two medals in the Falklands, distinguished service at Goose Green. Though he must be what, fifty by now?” “Indeed, minister,” purred the civil servant as he slid a blue file marked ‘Metropolitan Police’ across the table. “Left the services in the late 1980’s under rather clouded circumstances; allegations of selling weapons couldn’t be made to stick. Fell in with his childhood friends in the East End, and made his money acting as an enforcer for a family...” “A gangster?” interrupted the minister. “Indeed, minister. Sergeant – ahem – Mr Robert Mills is presently serving a 12 year spell of imprisonment for his involvement in a burglary in which two other men died. Linked to the offence due to…” a brief pause to look through the papers. “Ah, blood spatter on his trousers noticed by an officer as he walked near the building. There was, however, no solid evidence that he was directly involved in the two deaths. I would suggest that we offer him some sort of early release scheme to ensure his compliance.” As the minister spluttered, the civil servant gestured, and several glossy brochures were slid across the table. “I am sure, minister, that the last of the three would be more acceptable. Spent a time working as a police negotiator and then working for BP before going into business in Wales. Now employs seventeen to run his ‘commune’ – a place where those with means and an appropriate inclination can go to reduce stress. As you’ll see from the brochures, he also runs teamworking and meditation exercises.” “Yes, yes, but the man’s a complete arse! Look at the original file! ‘Norman Davis claims to be psychic.’ He took chemistry and psychology at Toxteth Institute of Higher Learning of all places. Expelled from there after using a laboratory to mix up a drug to feed to other students as part of a ‘study into opening the human mind’. Accused of cheating in his second year exams!” “But again, minster, never proved. A resourceful, intelligent and empathic individual in other words. Believed as a possible subject for the MI6 ‘mental enhancement’ program, though the results were rather inconclusive. And these three are the only ones we have with the requisite training and conditioning to engage in a ‘first contact’ scenario whilst being simultaneously expendable.” “Alright,” nodded the minister pushing the files away. “Burnplank it is. Make the necessary arrangements, and start coming up with scenarios to cover our ar*es when these three f*ck it all up…” [/QUOTE]
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