Working as a police officer in Mexico Chapter 1856: 804: The Sun Never Sets, but Its Sun Is Finall

Capítulo 1856: Chapter 804: The Sun Never Sets, but Its Sun Is Finally Setting

Scottish Border, Gretna, February 18, 1997.

The morning fog clung to the hills at the border between England and Scotland like filthy cotton.

Visibility was less than fifty ters. But on the English side of the border, in a hastily bulldozed temporary position, the soldiers of the 1st Battalion of the Royal Fusiliers found this fog to be damned “friendly.”

Very strong.

At least, those so-called Scottish madn equipped with “Stingers” on the opposite hillside couldn’t see them.

This regint is famous.

Founded in 1685 by George Legge, ford from two companies of the Tower of London Guard, it is one of the oldest infantry regints in the history of the British Army.

The Battle of Mons (1914), the Marne River Battle (1914), the Som River Campaign (1916), the Passchendaele Battle (1917), the Hundred Days Offensive (1918), countless more.

The Normandy Landing (1944), the Falaise Pocket Campaign, the Arnhem Battle (1944), pushing into Germany.

Sergeant Patrick Reed licked his chapped lips, lying in the cold mud, observing in vain through the night vision mode of the binoculars. Nothing but swirling gray and white. The radio crackled with nothing but the suppressed breathing and curt confirmation signals on encrypted channels.

“B point, no anomalies.”

“C point, sounds of vehicles, southeast direction, distance unknown.”

“Command, the fog is too thick, we’re fucking guarding a bunch of marshmallows here.”

Reed cursed under his breath. They had been urgently redeployed three days ago, originally stationed in Germany, drinking beer and watching the “old Russians” to the east, a relatively pleasant life. Then ca an order, throwing the entire battalion into this cold, damp, hostility-laden hellhole. The official statent was to “strengthen border controls to prevent terrorist infiltration and weapon flow.” But every soldier knew: on the other side of the line, they were no longer “compatriots,” but “rebels,” perhaps even “enemy troops.”

“Sir,” the rookie Davis’s voice trembled a bit, “I heard that yesterday in Inverness…”

“Shut up, Davis.”

Reed cut him off, not wanting to hear the rumor that the Scottish separatist forces had used a new missile to attack a transport plane, which, although not hit, forced the airport to close for six hours. The news was being suppressed, but it spread faster than plague in the camp. The sky was no longer safe either. The re thought gave chills to anyone looking up.

A sudden engine rumble erged from the fog, not a car, rather like… tracks?

Reed’s heart tensed, pressing the comms button: “Command, A point reporting, sounds like armored vehicles, direction due north, distance undetermined.”

“Received, A point. Maintain observation, do not open fire without orders. Repeat, do not open fire.” Command’s voice was tense.

Do not open fire? Reed looked at his few brothers beside him, then at the fog wall. If they really rolled a tank over, even an old one, their L85A1 rifles would be re sticks.

The engine noise grew closer, a faint ground vibration. The fog stirred, vaguely revealing several massive black silhouettes.

“Oh God…” Davis murmured.

Not tanks.

Several heavy trucks, their fronts adorned with the distinct blue and white St. Andrew’s Flag, their beds tightly covered with tarpaulins. Atop each truck stood two to three people, clad in mixed clothing, but the cold mist glinted off the AK rifles and RPG launchers in their hands.

The convoy halted not thirty ters from the border fence. A figure jumped down from the cab of the first truck, walking up to the fence. He was a tall man with a beard, wearing an old British Army bulletproof vest, unard, standing there, as if he could see through the fence and fog to their position.

He raised a loudspeaker, his thick Highland accent pierced the silence:

“Soldiers of England! Can you hear ? I’m Callum of the ‘Kainegom Brigade’! Don’t be nervous, we’re not here to fight today!”

Reed and everyone in the position held their breath, fingers on trigger guards.

Callum continued, his voice eerily calm: “We’re just here to remind you, and the folks in London! Look at these trucks!”

He turned slightly, gesturing to the convoy. The tarpaulin of the rear truck was lifted at a corner, revealing neatly stacked green wooden crates inside, the blurred Russian markings and prominent danger symbols recognizable even through the fog.

“Ammunition! dicines! And the ‘good stuff’ you’ve been dreaming of!” Callum’s voice rose, mocking, “Guess who gave it to us? Guess why we can transport it here unhindered, right under your Queen’s nose?”

He paused, letting silence and fear fernt.

“Because you have friends all over the world, Englishn! Or perhaps, enemies all over the world! You’ve been stealing, robbing, killing for hundreds of years across the globe, now, it’s ti for your creditors to co knocking!”

Reed felt his throat dry. He had heard rumors about the Eastern European weapons black market, about certain “mysterious sponsors.” But seeing these trucks openly parked at the border was revolutionary. When did the Empire’s border beco soone else’s delivery route?

“Today, we’re just passing by.”

Callum said finally, his tone as relaxed as talking about the weather, “But next ti, we might not just pass by. Tell London that the sky and land of Scotland are no longer their backyard. And tell yourselves, is it worth bleeding for an empire that’s collapsing?”