General Sir David McKinlay, the Deputy Supreme Allied Commander Europe, or DSACEUR as he was called, entered the conference room with a pronounced limp. A gray-haired Scot, he proudly wore the distinctive Lovat Green trousers of the Royal Marines with his shirtsleeve order. He might be a four-star general, but the vagaries of the British military system meant he continued to wear his Royal Marine uniform, much to the confusion of his allies. Indeed, he recalled with amusement the Portuguese general who had asked him, on the day he had replaced a crimson-trousered cavalryman, if British generals were allowed to invent their own uniform. Vive la difference, he thought as he looked around the room, and McKinlay certainly did not fit the usual mold for such a senior British general.

He had come up the hard way and was commissioned from the ranks. A former Navy rugby prop forward, he was mustachioed, bulky, if not a touch overweight—but battle-hardened as befitted a veteran commando. He looked older than his fifty-seven years and spoke with more than a hint of his native Falkirk accent. He was a man who saw things as they were and unless there was a compelling reason otherwise, and those instances were rare, he believed it was usually better for everyone in the long run if he told it as it was.

After over two years in post at Supreme Headquarters Allied Powers Europe, known as SHAPE, he had a good feel for the idiosyncratic world of NATO and the political and diplomatic complexities of high command. In addition to that, in common with most senior Royal Marine officers, he had impressive credentials as a commander up to brigade level. Indeed, his two DSOs from Iraq and Afghanistan bore witness to his extensive combat experience, as did the prosthetic he wore to replace his right leg, amputated above the knee as a result of an IED strike in Helmand province ten years earlier.

This morning McKinlay was in the chair for his boss, Admiral Max Howard, the Supreme Allied Commander Europe, the SACEUR. A strong-minded and politically savvy US Navy Admiral, Howard was currently in his personal plane over the Atlantic, en route to a Congressional hearing in Washington. SHAPE’s other four-star general, the Admiral’s Chief of Staff, General Kurt Wittman, a politically well-connected Luftwaffe logistician with no operational experience, had been called back to Berlin. That made McKinlay the senior general there that day and the man on the spot.

“Well, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, taking his chair at the head of the table, “please proceed.”

But he got no further.

“Excuse me, sir.” Group Captain Jamie Swinton, his Principal Staff Officer, or PSO, was at his shoulder. “We’ve just had a call from SACEUR’s comms team. He is still mid-air, but wants to talk to you immediately. We’ve fixed up for you to take a call on the Tandberg VTC in your office in five minutes.”