The General folded his hands behind his back and gently rocked back and forth on the soles of his shoes. Irritated, he glanced at his adjutant, occupied with his mobile phone. It was not because he had been called back from the summer holidays that he was tense. The content of his assistant’s conversation with the minister made him edgy. The driver was happily unaware of the conversation and was concentrating on not hitting the grass. He rolled the dark blue Mercedes up in front of the Chief of Defence’s official residence on Kastellet, the Citadel of Copenhagen. The yellow-chalked house faced the Citadel Church but was recessed against the rampart, which gave it a sense of privacy. Neither the pay nor the working conditions were particularly enviable when compared to those enjoyed by the CEO of a private company. And he was the head of one of the most significant public institutions in the country, thought the General as the driver leapt out and opened the door for him. The adjutant was swiftly on the other side of the car and in the back seat before the door had closed behind his boss.
‘We have a real problem. The minister thinks the Russians are stumped. They’ll help in every way possible to resolve the matter and will do all that’s necessary to maintain a positive relationship 190between Denmark and Russia. The Foreign Office have prepared a statement for the press in case the story leaks. We haven’t been given any details apart from that a Danish Special Forces soldier is a hostage in Russia. Great, huh?’ the Chief of Defence said to the adjutant, barely concealing his sarcasm.
‘In other words, we can’t do jack shit from here?’ the adjutant stated as he opened his briefcase and rummaged in it for his notebook.
‘Exactly. MoD’s knowledge is apparently limited to the info FE have received from PET, and it’s all unofficial. But that’s typical of the Police Security and Intelligence Service. We face the first hostage situation directly targeting the Danish nation, and the Defence Forces are sidelined. The minister doesn’t seem to have the balls to change that. Bravo! The Jaeger was kidnapped in Aalborg, and Interpol have traced a Russian trawler allegedly docked in Aalborg harbour. Possibly false registration papers, but all of a sudden, the trawler disappeared during the early hours of the morning. This is unusual, as I understand it – indicating that it was used to transport the Jaeger to Russia.’
As they exited the Citadel’s southern gate, the General touched the brim of his cap: the guardsman from the Royal Life Guard was saluting as the car passed the barrier.
‘Have you found the number for the head of FE?’
The adjutant nodded and dialled a number on the mobile phone, now positioned between the two front seats. When the call went through, he asked to speak to the boss; shortly after, he was connected and passed the phone to the Chief of Defence.
‘It’s CHOD; we need to meet immediately. Yes, today. I’m on my way to the minister for a briefing, but after lunch should be fine.’191
The Chief of Defence ended the call, removed his cap, closed his eyes and let his fingers run through his hair with a sigh. He had always felt the soldiers were his number one priority. But he hadn’t even so much as the hint of a solution for the situation that had arisen. As the boss, the responsibility was his. Much could be delegated to others, but when it came to the soldiers’ security and wellbeing, the buck inevitably stopped with him. This was something he had always been emphatic to demonstrate in practice. As CHOD, he was an example to lower-level commanders; he walked the talk that was paramount in the schooling of younger officers. The Officers’ Academy and the Defence Academy’s leadership courses merely provided the theoretical ballast designed to sharpen a career officer’s intellect. The make-or-break test for officers had always been their ability to manage their people and instil the military ethos into the soldiers. If possible, this was made even more apparent after the military had been tested by a series of demanding and dangerous international missions from the former Yugoslavia to northern Africa, and Afghanistan had professionalised the cadre. Ultimately, commanders should be able to motivate their men to do their jobs, even if it meant putting their lives on the line. Imagine if you only had to convince your colleagues to go to work from 8 a.m. to 4 p.m.? he thought and opened his eyes as he drew his breath heavily through his nose. Slowly, the resolve returned; the rising sun thawed his body after a long, cold night of operations.
The dark blue Mercedes had long since been absorbed by the morning traffic of inner Copenhagen, and the monotonous rumble of motors made him feel drowsy. He closed his eyes, and his mind took him back to when he was a little boy, standing in 192front of the family house in Humlebæk to greet his father. His dad was all dressed up; he had just returned from an audience with the Queen. The sun flashed in the polished sabre scabbard, and the striking uniform impressed the little boy. He was firmly set on one day being a General. And to meet the Queen himself. His father’s sabre still hung on the wall of the official residence, and he still wore the cap his father had worn. For the first time in years, he felt his father’s gaze watching his every action. He could almost hear his voice reciting his favourite quotation: ‘The price of greatness is responsibility.’ Wise words from Sir Winston Churchill. The helplessness the General now felt made the cap feel like a burden for the first time ever. He straightened himself in his seat and knew instantly that he would have to do the right thing in this matter, regardless of what the minister might think. When he opened his eyes again, he felt the relief of resoluteness; he continued looking out the tinted windows without seeing a thing.
The adjutant knew the CHOD well enough to sense all that was not being said and wisely chose not to start a conversation.