JOHN ‘LOFTY’ WISEMAN

OPERATION LAVIVRUS

Copyright

Collins

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in 2012

Text © John Wiseman, 2012

John Wiseman asserts his moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 2012.

Cover photographs © Nik Keevil (soldiers); Magdalena Biskup Travel Photography/Getty Images (mountains); Shutterstock (plane).

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Ebook Edition © APRIL 2012 ISBN: 9780007463275

Version: 2017-08-09

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Keep Reading

About the Author

About the Publisher

Prologue

Although the air temperature was just above freezing, the combined effect of the rain and wind generated a wind-chill factor of –20°, yet the blackened face of the soldier was beaded with sweat, blending with the rain to form a salty fluid that stung his eyes. It ran down his face into his mouth, mixing with the camouflage cream he wore, leaving a foul taste in his dry, acidulous throat.

Fear of compromise kept the adrenalin pumping, forcing tired eyes to focus. He tried to keep the blinking to a minimum, regardless of the stinging onslaught. He longed to close his eyes and find refuge in a dry, warm place, far away from here, but that had to wait.

He reached up, and a cold rivulet of water ran down his spine, causing a shiver to start in his tightly clenched buttocks, running down each leg and making his whole body shake. The noise of the magnet as it attached the innocent-looking cylinder to the target was barely audible, masked by the shrieking wind, but to the operative who was carefully placing the device the noise sounded like a railway truck coupling with a goods train.

His heart was hammering, threatening to burst through the windproof material of his camouflaged smock. Blood pulsed at his temples, and the throbbing in his ears was amplified by the howling wind, making him dizzy and causing a slight tremble in his cautious fingers.

‘Get a grip, man. Concentrate,’ he reminded himself. After shaking and pulling on the device, satisfying himself that it was firmly fixed, he dropped down onto one knee, appraising his surroundings.

Common sense told him to run, but instinct commanded him to stay. Every fibre and sinew in his body protested at this lull in activity, screaming to be stretched, to generate heat, to carry him away from the lethal profile that towered above him.

He opened his mouth slightly, which helped improve his hearing and reduced the pulse resonating in his skull. His blood was surging through every vessel in his body, like floodwater in a storm drain. It takes a special type of man to be able to handle such pressure. Training helps to condition the body, but it is experience that conditions the mind.

By concentrating on his breathing he managed to keep everything under control. He blocked out the discomfort of being cold and wet, controlling all the emotions that urged him to run. Inhaling strongly through his nose to a five count, holding each breath for the same duration before exhaling forcibly through the mouth to a count of five, enabled him to keep his senses sharp and helped retain coordination.

He moved deeper into the shadows, seeking shelter from the driving rain. The surrounding mass of unyielding concrete gave him some respite, but only increased the destructive intensity of the wind.

Although the weather was foul it suited what he was doing; he couldn’t have hoped to achieve his aim in anything less. Wind is a killer; it was unrelenting, fiercely probing the thick concrete walls. Searching for weaknesses, it veered continuously, trying new angles of attack. In contrast to the concrete mass, the sinister grey-blue shape offered little resistance to the wind, allowing it to whistle around its streamlined profile, frustrating the gale, forcing it to take vengeance on more vulnerable targets. Whistling and whining in annoyance, it attacked the soldier. Just when he thought it couldn’t get any stronger, a gust would threaten to bowl him over. Only by using all his senses and instincts could he succeed. They had served him well in the past. His hearing battled against the elements, trying to detect any sounds that might compromise him, but this sense was neutralised, so he depended on others. He could smell the heavy odours of paraffin and hydraulic fluid, and he sniffed the air regularly. Cigarette smoke, unwashed bodies and animal smells would all carry on the wind.

His eyes never stopped moving, searching the area for any sign of movement. As he crouched low everything was in silhouette, giving him early warning of movement. He avoided looking directly at the sodium lights that illuminated the perimeter, protecting his night vision, using his peripheral vision to scan the shadows. He felt very exposed as the area was too light. Every puddle in the wet tarmac mirrored the light, making him feel as though he was under scrutiny. Only the shadows and the weather were in his favour.

The sweat was drying now, causing him to shiver. Every time he moved, however slightly, a warm part of his body was invaded by a fresh attack of cold water, chilling his frame.

Resisting the temptation to pull down his woollen cap or use the hood of his smock to cover his freezing ears took great willpower. Although his hearing was ineffective, he needed the discomfort of his exposed ears to keep him alert. Forty per cent of body heat is lost through the head, so he was glad he had spent the time looking for his lucky balaclava. It seemed years ago that he was frantically turning out his locker searching for the elusive item. As he readjusted it, his old sergeant major’s advice from training came to mind: ‘If your feet are cold, put your hat on.’ It was dangerous to reminisce, however, and a sure sign of fatigue. To combat this he removed the hat and wrung it out violently, before swiftly replacing it. This brief action cleared his head, allowing him to refocus on his surroundings.

Cradling the AR15 tightly across his chest, instinctively covering the working parts, he prepared to move. Taking a deep breath he steeled his body in anticipation of a fresh assault of cold water. He checked all his pockets and the fastenings on all the pouches that hung off his belt. Every movement was an effort, as his hands were numb and his limbs stiff. He rubbed his knee, trying to restore circulation, pre-empting the pain that was sure to follow.

From under his green and black patterned smock he pulled out his watch, which was suspended around his neck with a length of para cord. ‘So far so good,’ he thought, nervously fingering the two syrettes of morphine that were taped either side of the watch. ‘I hope I won’t need these,’ he mused, stowing the necklace back inside his clothing.

He straightened up slowly, overcoming the pain of protesting joints, and moved to the front of the bay. He crouched low with his weapon ready, flicking the safety catch on and off. He stayed in the shadows beside a piece of machinery, knowing that soon he would have to cross the curtain of light that illuminated the fence. For the first time he realised he was hungry. Food might ease the gnawing sensation in his stomach.

Trying to remember when he last slept or had a proper meal was too much for his mind to process; only the dangers at hand seemed relevant. He couldn’t afford to dwell on creature comforts.

Inactivity had caused his feet to go numb, so he took it in turns to put all his weight on one foot while he wriggled the toes on the other. He did the same with his hands, changing over the weapon regularly from one hand to the other. His knees were burning and a small nagging pain in his back reminded him of the free-fall descent he had made recently. It all seemed so long ago, like part of a sketchy dream he barely remembered.

As he scanned the area his eyes kept returning to the same object, slightly behind him and suspended six feet from the ground. It was long, white and menacing. It had four small fins sprouting a few feet behind a needle-sharp nose, with four larger triangular ones towards the rear. He was close enough to be able to make out the bold black lettering stencilled on its side. The word ‘AEROSPATIALE’ revived distant memories.

Sometimes the eyes can play tricks on you, especially after they have been battered continuously by rain and wind, and the soldier thought he might have imagined seeing a shadow that wasn’t there a minute ago. It caused a tightening in his throat and a strange flutter in his heart. He studied the area, and sure enough the shadow got bigger. ‘Here we go again,’ he thought, easing off the safety catch and bringing the butt of the rifle up to his shoulder.

CHAPTER ONE

For a man who had had less than two hours sleep, Tony looked remarkably alert. Settled well down in the driver’s seat but with his head erect, he overtook the slower motorway traffic with no apparent effort. His driving was smooth, anticipating what the other road users were doing. He looked as far forward as possible, dealing with things before they happened so they wouldn’t impede his progress. He checked his mirrors regularly, knowing exactly what was behind him. Although he was relaxed, he played little games that helped pass the time. He looked at car number plates and from the letters made up abbreviations.

He found driving gave him time to think and consider his life. The long line of lorries in the inside lane brought back childhood memories. As a kid he had wanted to be a lorry driver. His uncle would pick him up in the school holidays and take him on trips in a timber truck. It was an ex-army vehicle, and Tony thought his uncle had the best job in the world. He looked at all the trucks he was now passing, however, and didn’t envy the drivers at all. His dream of being a lorry driver was soon replaced by the urge to become a racing driver. At the house where he was born in South-East London, his mother had an upright mangle; for hours he would sit at one end and pretended the large cast-iron wheel was a steering wheel, controlling a Ferrari or Maserati.

The weak April sunshine favoured driving: visibility was good and the traffic light. Contrary to the weather forecast it was dry at present, but clouds were building up and the dark sky ahead looked ominous.

Tony was dreading having to use the wipers because he knew the washer bottle was empty. Due to the early morning start he was pushed for time. The lifeless form beside him was partly to blame for this. All the dirt on the screen would just get smeared if the rain was light, and he hated driving if his vision was impaired.

Although the sun was welcome it could be a nuisance. It was in his eyes when he was heading east to London in the morning, and again as he returned west towards Hereford in the afternoon. He had lost his sunglasses and refused to buy a new pair. ‘They’re for posers,’ he thought, tenderly rubbing his ear.

He started whistling ‘April Showers’, keeping it quiet to avoid disturbing his companion. He gave up after a few bars as his swollen lips couldn’t form the notes properly. He took a swig from the water bottle he had beside him, trying to lubricate a mouth that tasted like the bottom of a baby’s pram.

A lot had happened in the past three weeks, and Tony started reflecting on recent events. Three weeks ago the entire regiment was assembled in the Blue Room. This was a converted gun shed and the only place big enough to accommodate everyone. It echoed with the sound of many voices trying to work out what this gathering was all about. The din ceased abruptly with the appearance of a tall, authoritative figure who stared fiercely at his audience. When he was finally satisfied that he had everyone’s attention, he began speaking.

‘Gentlemen, at 0830 hours this morning a large force of Argentinian marines invaded the Falkland Islands.’ The Colonel went on to explain how this affected the nation and what they were going to do about it. Most people in his audience didn’t have a clue where the Falklands were. Some thought they were off the coast of Scotland.

Since this briefing A and D Squadrons had been despatched southwards to assess the situation. Tony had watched their departure with envy and was wondering when his turn would come. Rumours spread faster than dysentery at times like these.

A loud rumbling noise caused by running over cat’s-eyes brought Tony back to the present. The repeating vibrations transmitted up the steering column went through his shoulders to his neck, causing his head to shake and reminding him of the fragile condition of his head.

After a heavy night in the club he was wishing he had taken the soft option and had an early night. He was grateful that the three-hour journey was mainly on motorways and his partner could drive the return leg.

At present, however, the guy slumped in the seat next to him wasn’t any use to man or beast. His breathing was slow and deep, broken only occasionally by a loud snatch for air. This happened every time he forgot to breathe, which became more frequent the longer he slept. Contorted as he was, tangled up in the seat belt in a foetal position, it was a wonder he could breathe at all. A road atlas lay open on the floor with its pages crumpled under a pair of well-worn chukka boots, carelessly discarded. These emitted a strong smell of mature feet, intensified by the efficient heater. But the smell, instead of offending Tony, gave him a sense of security, knowing he had a comrade close by. As much as he would like to relax like his passenger, he opened the window to let in fresh air.

Yesterday afternoon he had played rugby, and he was now feeling the after-effects. His ears were so tender that he could hardly bear to touch them. This was the main reason why he didn’t open the window more often – the inrush of air was too much. They still bore traces of Vaseline because of their tenderness, and they had gone untouched in the shower. A fly had mysteriously appeared, and buzzed around the interior of the car; Tony thought, If it lands on my ear, it’s war. The tenderness of his ears was another reason Tony didn’t wear sunglasses. One ear was split along the entire length of the outer fold, and the other was ripped where it joined his head, distorted by trapped blood so it looked like a piece of pastry thrown on at random by a drunken chef.

He favoured his neck, carrying his head in a fixed position with his strong chin tucked in. When he wanted to look sideways he pivoted the whole of his upper body, trying to avoid any stress on his neck. His eyes pivoted in their sockets as he constantly checked the mirrors – offside, nearside, interior. From time to time he also checked on his lifeless companion, wondering with consuming jealousy how he could sleep so innocently. Every now and again he would try rotating his head, keeping the chin tight to the chest, but the pain and the gristly grating forced him to stop.

The snoring went on uninterrupted, regardless of Tony’s frequent glares, and although he had played in the same team his friend didn’t have a scratch on him. This rankled Tony because he was a forward who fought for every ball, taking the knocks so he could pass the ball to the backs. His work at the coalface went unnoticed, but the backs were in the spotlight, sprinting up the touchline with the encouragement of the crowd. Tony’s companion was the product of a public school where rugby was more of a religion than a sport. His handling and speed would get him a start in most teams: he was a fine player, and yesterday he had scored two tries seemingly with almost no effort. He was always in the right place at the right time, another sign of a good player. Tony’s first love was football, and he didn’t play rugby till he was in the army. ‘Typical!’ Tony thought. ‘Here I am, battered and driving, while fancy pants is sleeping like a baby.’

Apart from the discomfort he was happy. The build-up training was going well, and the rugby match, although intense, was light relief from all the night exercises, tactics and skills training that his squadron was engaged in. Inter-squadron games were normally banned because of the high casualty rate. Victory made the pain more bearable, and he smiled to himself as he remembered the looks on the other team’s faces when the final whistle blew. The slumped figure next to Tony had played a big part in the win; they started as underdogs, but surprised everyone by lifting the Inter-Squadrons Rugby Shield.

Traffic was building up as they skirted the capital, and Tony noticed how aggressive the drivers were compared with Hereford. Everyone changed lanes, often without any warning, and glared when the same was done to them. Tony just smiled and mixed it with the best of them.

‘This should be an interesting visit,’ he thought, looking forward to meeting the boffins at the research establishment where they would arrive shortly.

Tony Watkins was thirty-four and had been in the army for sixteen years. He joined the Paras initially, and couldn’t stay out of trouble. When he signed on at Blackheath he had never heard of the SAS, as few people had.

As soon as he started his basic training with the Paras in Aldershot, Tony realised he had made a big mistake. The Paras were definitely not for him. His sense of humour and loathing of discipline didn’t go down well with the staff of Maida Barracks. Things didn’t get any better when he was posted to a battalion; in fact they got worse. He was super-fit, a natural athlete, and enjoyed all the physical stuff, but all the bull was like shackles around his body. Cleaning, sweeping and polishing were not for him. He had to get out.

Salvation came in the form of a soldier who was in transit from the SAS, just returning to Malaya after inter-tour leave. Tony got talking to him and was introduced to the Regiment. He soon became mesmerised by their exploits in the jungles of Malaya. Tracking down the bad guys, living in swamps and parachuting into trees – that was more to his liking than cleaning dixies and picking up leaves.

Selection for the Regiment was tough, but Tony loved every minute of it. Six months flew by. He had finally found a use for his endless energy and was soon recognised as an outstanding soldier. It was an individual effort, and he soon learnt self-discipline. This helped him to control a quick temper and think before reacting. As a kid he was too keen to lash out at anyone who upset him.

After his tough upbringing in South London he found the life easy. He tackled all the training with a passion, excelling at everything. Promotion came fast, and he was already the troop staff sergeant of 2 Troop A Squadron. The intense regime of regimental life was natural for him; he wouldn’t change it for anything. 2 Troop was the free-fall troop, and they prided themselves on being the best and fittest troop in the Regiment.

Signalling early, Tony pulled into the nearside lane and turned off the motorway. The silky-smooth V8 engine of the Range Rover pulled strongly as they climbed a steep road cut in the side of a chalky hill. The scarred white landscape was evidence of a road expansion scheme, and the volume of traffic justified this. It was all heading to London, two lanes bumper to bumper, with most cars having only a solitary driver in, usually with a face longer than a gas-man’s cape.

Near the top of the hill was a slip road that led to the main entrance of Fort Bamstead. Tony slotted in between the slow-moving trucks and turned off.

The establishment nestled around the hill, sprawling down a deep gulley. It was screened by trees and shrubs, with no signs to advertise its location. The locals had long forgotten its presence, and were not aware that some of the best brains in the country worked here. Rows of majestic oaks lined the lane on both sides, and the unusually large silent policeman caught Tony out. He was looking for hidden cameras and hit it going too fast, causing the vehicle to shudder. He took more care when he reached the next ramp, but at least he got a reaction from the living dead lying beside him.

Stirring for the first time, the crumpled figure alongside Tony started to sit up. He opened sticky eyes, running his tongue over dry lips. His mouth opened wide in a yawn that Tony had to copy. He stretched slowly, unwinding to his full length with arms extended above his head, playfully pushing Tony on the shoulder. ‘Here already, Tony? That was quick.’ He yawned again and ground his teeth, using his tongue to search his mouth for moisture.

Tony stopped in front of a pair of heavy iron gates, waiting for someone to come out of the guardroom on the right. His companion was still yawning and sorting out his footwear. It took ages before a uniformed figure appeared, clipboard in one hand and pen poised in the other. The policeman marched smartly towards them, bracing himself against the freshening wind. He looked through the gate, comparing the vehicle’s registration number with the memo on his clipboard, before finally saying, ‘Park your vehicle over there,’ indicating a large lay-by, ‘and bring your ID to the window over there,’ nodding towards the building. He noted down the time, skilfully using the wind to keep the pages flat.

‘You’re not looking your best this morning, Tony,’ his passenger commented.

Tony had to bite hard on his tongue. He had been driving for three hours while Peter, his passenger, slept. ‘It’s all your fault, Pete. I was ready to turn in at midnight, but you had to order another bottle.’

Ignoring the arguing couple, the policeman fumbled with a large bunch of keys to open a small side gate before scurrying back to his warm refuge like Dracula at sunrise.

Ministry of Defence policemen all come out of the same mould. They are usually ex-servicemen with an exaggerated military bearing, sporting a regulation short back and sides, with a small, neat moustache. If they have a failing it is for being too officious, and a reluctance to be parted from their kettle and electric fire.

Tony said, ‘You stay and rest, Pete, while I go and sign us in.’ As he walked towards the window it was second nature to examine his surroundings. He noted the closed-circuit cameras and the powerful spotlights. The close-linked security fence with razor wire on top brought back some painful memories. On many occasions he had spent time climbing and cutting it, trying to avoid its painful spikes.

A portly sergeant with a clipped moustache, displaying two rows of colourful medal ribbons, greeted him at a window. ‘We’ve been expecting you, sir. Just fill in these passes while I phone Dr Jenkins that you’re here. Your mate will also have to come and sign himself in.’

Tony left the policeman, who was busying himself with an internal phone list, holding it at arm’s length. He returned to the car where Pete was still sorting out his footwear and swigging water at the same time.

‘Sorry to bother you, Pete, but when you have finished destroying my map you’ve got to sign yourself in.’

Peter was four years younger than Tony, and apart from a haggard expression he looked remarkably fresh. No matter what he wore or did, he always looked smart and clean. Eventually, satisfied with his footwear, he found his jacket amidst the carnage of the back seat. He climbed out the car to join Tony, who was waiting impatiently, wondering what he had done to deserve having to play nursemaid. As they walked towards the guardroom Pete’s close-cropped hair was unaffected by the wind, and although his leather jacket was crumpled he still looked as smart as a tailor’s dummy. He moved with athletic grace, his well-proportioned body and fine features radiating power and arrogance.

The pair were surprised to see the sergeant still on the phone and were alarmed when he hung up and refocused on the telephone list. He had his glasses on now, and studied the list intently. Tony felt like ripping the list from him but thought better of it. He could almost read the figures from where he stood. Pete sheltered behind Tony, casually leaning on the wall thinking how well a cup of tea would go down.

‘Sorry for the delay. The doctor wasn’t in his office. We finally found him and he’s sending his assistant to fetch you,’ said the sergeant as he polished his specs and held them up to the light for inspection. ‘I’ll open the gates so you can come through.’

Visitor passes were issued and the gates opened. Usually all vehicles were left outside, but this one had special dispensation. A young woman in a crisp white coat came to meet them, and Pete’s face lit up as they introduced themselves. He settled her in the middle seat of the car and spent a lot of time helping her with her seat belt. Her perfume was a welcome addition to the heady atmosphere of the vehicle, and she directed them to a remote area of the camp where three portacabins were sited. Each had a large generator parked outside, feeding the cabin with a mass of cables of various thicknesses.

The portacabins were unique. They had no windows and were lined with wire mesh. This was to ensure that no radio signals could enter or escape . Pete was too busy talking to the girl to notice, but Tony took it all in.

‘Ah, Captain Grey and Staff Sergeant Watkins, so glad you could make it.’ A tall man in his sixties with an unruly mess of thinning white hair and equally untidy eyebrows met them at the door and shook their hands vigorously. The white coat he wore was covered in small burn holes, and his top pocket was stuffed with spectacles and an assortment of pens. His identity pass was pinned on the other side, displaying a picture of a younger man.

‘Tea or coffee, gentlemen? How do you take it?’

Tony ordered for the pair of them. ‘Both tea just with milk, please.’

Dr Jenkins turned to the young assistant, and in his thick Yorkshire accent requested, ‘Two teas, Susan. Standard Nato.’

The interior of the cabin was well lit by an unusual number of ceiling lights. Down each side were benches loaded with display screens, meters and soldering irons. Each bench had a rack containing rolls of multicoloured wires of variable diameters, with little square storage bins containing nuts, bolts and washers stacked at the back.

‘Sorry for the delay at the guardroom, but we cannot have telephones in here. The whole cabin is screened so we get accurate readings, and nothing can influence our delicate electronics.’ He led them past a maze of cables and dexion cabinets, stopping at a large, untidy bench. Kit had been brushed aside to make room for a tube of aluminium twelve inches long and two inches in diameter. The untidy pile of tools, heaped boxes of grub screws and meters formed an amphitheatre around the tube, giving it presence. This is what they had came to see.

Standing close, with blobs of solder and wire snippets underfoot, they looked down expectantly. At first glance they were slightly disappointed at the unassuming-looking object, expecting something more elaborate, thinking, Could this object fulfil our requirements?

‘This, gentlemen, will stop us losing the war.’ The doctor picked up the tube with loving care and started explaining its virtues. Once he got going it was hard to keep pace with him. He went into great detail describing the difficulties that had to be overcome and the amount of work that went into producing the innocent-looking cylinder.

‘The frequencies involved were in the 3 to 4 Hz band . . .’ Peter sat down on the only stool available and Tony leant on the bench, trying to follow the technical jargon. ‘Reducing the circuitry so it would fit inside the dimensions you gave me was the greatest challenge I have had to face in my forty years in this establishment.’ Scarcely pausing for breath, the doctor hurried on. ‘The coaxial condenser needed to be compatible with the zynon 3-mm . . .’ He spoke mainly to the cylinder only, occasionally looking up at the bewildered couple. ‘. . . tredral activator.’

Peter sneaked a look at Tony, searching for evidence of understanding. Their eyes met, forcing them to exchange a huge grin as the doctor continued to baffle them. There was a momentary pause as the tea arrived, and the heap of kit was further rearranged to make way for the mugs and the plate of biscuits.

‘To put it simply, gentlemen, if this device is placed in the correct position it will do everything you have asked me to achieve.’ Even a mouthful of chocolate digestive couldn’t stop the flow of information. A spray of crumbs now accompanied his briefing. ‘It is turned from a solid block of aircraft-grade aluminium. Virtually indestructible. . .’ At last he stopped for a swig of tea. ‘Any questions?’

‘How is it powered, and how long will it last?’ asked Tony.

Thoughtfully the doctor drained his cup before answering, fondling the tube obscenely. ‘To put it simply, it operates like a self-winding watch. Any movement will charge the circuits that lie dormant when motionless. There is an oscillating trembler switch. The whole tube is filled with epoxy resin. This protects the circuits and components, making them virtually indestructible. They’re not affected by vibrations or G force. The end cap has a 3-inch fine thread and is bonded with a heated adhesive when screwed on, making it stronger than a weld. Once sealed it cannot be opened.’

‘What about the effect of climate? What is its operating range?’ asked Tony. Now that Susan had joined them, Pete seemed less interested in the device.

‘The coefficients of all the materials are compatible within a micron. We have heated it in an oven for twenty-four hours and had it in a deep freeze with no adverse effect. The resin has a melting point of 3,000° Celsius and a freezing point that we cannot determine in this laboratory’.

‘If it’s sealed, how do we turn it on?’ queried Tony.

‘In here is a transponder that activates when it receives a signal. It powers up all the circuits. These are duplicated just in case one fails. Two micro-capacitors . . .’ and so it went on.

‘Can I hold it, please?’ The doctor hesitated slightly before handing the tube over. ‘What’s this arrow for?’ queried Tony, pointing to a small engraving at one end.

‘Ah, that’s to ensure that when they are in transit all the arrows face the same way to ensure that they will not become accidentally excited or activated. I will enlarge on this later.’

‘Now for the million-dollar question: How do we fix it?’ asked Tony. Pete still seemed keener to talk to Susan than the doctor. ‘Feel the weight of this, Pete.’ He handed over the device, trying to get him interested and include him in the conversation.

‘Follow me.’ The doctor led the way to the back of the cabin, where a scaffold pole was held in a vice clamped to a bench. Holding the device two feet from the scaffold pole, he continued his briefing. ‘The inside of the cylinder is lined with a multiple layer of ceramic magnets. We borrowed this idea from the space chappies at NASA. Just watch as we get closer.’ He inched the device nearer to the pole, building up the tension like a music-hall entertainer. ‘Look at it now.’ He gripped the device in both hands, and as it got within three inches it started shaking. At less than an inch he let it go; it leapt the gap and firmly clamped onto the pole. ‘There we go: snug as a bug in a rug. Try to prise it off,’ he offered.

Tony and Peter took it in turns to try and remove the cylinder, and only succeeded when they worked together.

‘That’s amazing,’ said Peter. ‘I’m really impressed.’ They both stood there thinking the same thing: This is all too good to be true. It is so simple there must be some drawbacks. They were both experienced in the use of modern technology, and wary of it. It was great when it was working, but anything that can go wrong usually does, especially when the pressure is on. Simplicity is the key, and this device, although very sophisticated on the inside, was simplicity itself. They were both lost for words trying to think up snags or shortcomings.

The doctor left them to their thoughts and gave them time to discuss things between themselves. He retired to the first bench and opened a drawer, removing a sheath of papers. ‘Is there any tea left in the pot, Susan? I could murder another cup.’ With his glasses balanced on the end of his nose he looked every inch the mad professor. He shuffled a pile of forms and papers, occasionally writing in a notepad. He wrestled with sheets of carbon paper, and kept dropping them on the floor. As he stooped to pick one up he would drop his pen; he spent a lot of time arranging the paperwork to his satisfaction.

Susan returned with a tray full of fresh tea and Peter needed no second invitation to join her at the bench, leaving Tony deep in thought, still playing with the cylinder. While the doctor was recovering a piece of paper from the floor he found a small grub screw. ‘Do you know I looked everywhere for this?’ he exclaimed.

Tony joined them and handed over the cylinder. ‘Come on, doc, there must be some snags. This looks all too simple.’

‘The only snag or drawback as I see it is accurate placing. Because of the size limitations everything is minimal, and proximity to the signal source is paramount.’ As he spoke he rhythmically tapped the device in the palm of his hand. ‘I believe you are now going on to Shrivenham where they will advise you on placement.’

‘Yes we are due there this afternoon,’ replied Peter. ‘Everything is happening at once.’

‘I have got the paperwork sorted. This is the hardest part of the project for us. I am well over budget and have used up the entire department’s overtime allowance. I would rather go with you than face those paper-pushers over the road. What about you, Susan?’

Before she could answer Pete chipped in, ‘We would love to have you along.’

‘Susan, can you put this one with the others, please.’ The doctor handed over the aluminium cylinder. ‘Gentlemen, the only thing I can add is that you must ensure that in transit you have all the arrows facing the same way. We have tested the device thoroughly in the laboratory, but to a very limited extent in the field. We just have not had the time. What do you think, Captain? Will it do?’

Peter’s gaze followed the girl as she walked to the door and busied herself packing away the device with all the others. He noticed the absence of make-up and the neatly swept-back hair. There was a pregnant pause as the doctor waited for an answer.

Tony came to the rescue. ‘Thank you for all your help, Doctor. We certainly didn’t expect you to come up trumps so quickly.’

A sly dig in the ribs got Pete’s attention and he took over. ‘Yes, thank you very much. It is now up to us.’

‘We wish you the very best of luck. Sign here for the thirty-six devices, and again on the bottom of the pink form. Let me sign your passes and remember to surrender them at the gate.’

Tony backed the vehicle up to the cabin and loaded the boxes while Peter chatted to Susan. ‘Come on, you old Tom,’ he called out. ‘We must be going. The wife and kids will be missing you.’

It was Pete’s turn to drive. ‘Did you see her eyes? They were lovely.’ He jumped hard on the brakes to slow down for the sleeping policeman.

‘Why is it that every time you meet a woman you fall in love, and why is it that every time there’s work to be done . . .’ The two argued good-naturedly for several miles, with Pete discussing the girl and Tony the device, before lapsing into silence. They were heading back west but had a short detour to make which would take them to the Royal College of Science, Shrivenham. Tony tried to sleep but Peter thought he was driving his Caterham 7, and was throwing the car around with gay abandon. Tony gave up the idea of sleep and concentrated more on survival. Finally he broke the silence. ‘What do you think?’

They instinctively knew what the other was thinking; they had been working together for two years and a special bond had been forged between them. They understood each other’s moods and fancies, knowing when something wasn’t quite right. When troubled Pete tended to lapse into long periods of silence, mulling things over and keeping them to himself, whereas Tony did the opposite and liked talking about any problems as he attempted to work them out.

‘Well, they certainly have done their homework. I was expecting a bloody big box with switches on.’

‘Considering how little time they had, they’ve worked miracles. It’s a pity there are no practice devices. I don’t like the idea of training with the same ones we are going to use on ops.’

‘The man said they’re indestructible, but he doesn’t know the lads. We could lose them, especially when parachuting, and there are no replacements.’

‘I think we only use them on the target attack phase, and not the infiltration.’

They discussed the best way to train with them, considering the alternatives. Tony tried to keep Peter engaged in conversation as he didn’t drive so fast when he was talking. When they lapsed into silence Pete would speed up and the scenery would flash by. They turned off the motorway onto a narrow country lane, and Tony was thrown around too much for his liking.

‘Do you remember them knock-out drops in Borneo?’ he asked.

Peter didn’t answer straight away as he came up fast behind a pick-up truck. He didn’t check his speed but accelerated past just as they were entering a left-hand bend. Tony’s foot stamped on an imaginary brake pedal with both hands gripping the dash, his eyes out on stalks scanning ahead. His worse nightmare happened: a car appeared, closing the distance rapidly. There was nowhere to go, thick hedges on both sides laced with large tree. A crash looked inevitable.

With less than inches to spare, Pete passed the truck and pulled back in, ignoring the fist waving and flashing lights from both vehicles.

‘No. What drops?’ he asked coolly.

Tony couldn’t speak – in fact he couldn’t remember the question – and when no answer came, Pete enquired, ‘Hungry, mate? Let’s stop at the dog stall for a sarnie.’

Tony stared intently at Peter, nursing the circulation back into his hands. The last thing he wanted at that moment was something to eat. When the crash seemed inevitable all he wanted to do as his last gesture on earth was to punch the driver as hard as he could. He was still fighting for composure. All of his ailments and discomforts had temporarily left him, but now they returned with a vengeance. His ears and lips throbbed, and a bout of cramp gripped his left calf. He thought to himself, ‘Wait till I get out he vehicle . . .’ but he actually said, ‘There’d better be a toilet handy.’

After a short break and all essentials had been catered for, they arrived at Shrivenham and went through the same routine as before. Security was more obvious here, but the same monotonous procedures were followed.

Eventually they were guided to a large hangar, where they were greeted by a lively, fit-looking man wearing a Royal Signals cap badge.

‘Hi, chaps. I’m Captain Charles Minter. Come on in. Please call me Chas. Toilets to the right, and my office is the last on the left, at the far end.’

He shook their hands warmly, pointing down a long bare brick corridor painted in a sickly green with polished brown lino covering the floor. There were many doors on the left-hand side, but only one large double door on the right. They followed the captain down the corridor, declining the offer of the toilet. All the doors were identical, varnished in dark oak with a frosted glass panel at the top. He stopped and opened the last but one door. Balancing on one leg, he stuck his head around the jamb and ordered, ‘Tea for three, Mary, and could you possibly round up some biscuits?’ Some things never change; the army thrives on its tea, and rarely goes an hour without a brew.

They went next door into the captain’s office, which looked more like a museum than a place of work. It was well lit, with two large windows giving a view over open fields. Each had a pair of cheap printed curtains hanging forlornly from large brass hooks, many of which were missing. The floral design was faded, giving the curtains the look of badly stowed sails on a battered yacht. Above one window was a line of regimental plaques, adding a splash of colour. The other two walls were smothered in photos and maps. In places they overlapped, making it hard to see the lime-green emulsion underneath. The grey filing cabinets were smothered in stickers from all the three services. Different squadrons, ships and regiments were represented. One sticker in particular caught Tony’s eye: ‘Paratroopers never die, they just go to hell and regroup.’ Even the desk was covered in militaria, and a conducted tour was needed to explain the models, badges and assortment of ammunition that lay there. Under a layer of transparent plastic were more photographs, and heaped at the back a pile of bayonets and knives. Not even the telephone or the wastepaper basket had escaped from the stickers, and when the tea was brought in by a middle-aged lady, wearing a brown tweed skirt and blue woollen twinset, the cups bore RAF squadron logos.

‘Thank you, Mary. If you set it down over there.’ Chas dropped a pile of maps on the floor to make room for the laden tray on top of a bookcase crammed untidily with books and magazines.

Pete and Tony were looking around the office, thinking they had seen everything, then something else would catch their eye. Chas removed a climbing rope from one chair and a pile of pamphlets from another. He gave the inquisitive pair a few more minutes, then invited them to sit down.

‘I think we have a mutual friend: Jimmy Thompson,’ suggested Chas.

‘Yeah, that’s right. Jimmy’s running Ops Research. He was going to come with us but got called away last night. I’m Tony Watkins, and this is Peter Grey. We are both in 2 Troop and have just came from the Fort.’

They exchanged pleasantries over the tea, and Chas was only too pleased to explain a lot of the paraphernalia that littered his office.

‘This round here never went into production; it was too expensive. This blunt-nose shell came from Iran and can penetrate . . .’ He went on for a good twenty minutes, holding the pair’s undivided attention. Although they were fascinated, however, they were on a tight schedule, and Tony had to take an exaggerated look at his watch to break the spell and get Chas back to the reason for their visit.

Carefully resheathing a bayonet, he laid it back on his desk. ‘That’s enough of my toys. Let me fill you in on yours. I don’t know how much of the background you are aware of, so stop me if you’ve heard it already.’ He made himself more comfortable before continuing.

‘Your Director was asked by the War Office to come up with a plan to protect the Task Force from air attack. He requested our assistance four weeks ago, regarding the menace posed by Exocets. These have been responsible for sinking three of our ships already. Working closely with RARDE, where you have just come from, we had to come up with a solution for stopping these air attacks on our fleet. If we don’t succeed we won’t have a Task Force left. We cannot afford to lose any more ships; this would seriously endanger our invasion plans. Argentina have some very useful pilots and in the Super Etendards a first-class aircraft.’ He paused while he went to the bookcase and selected a large book before settling back in his seat.

‘It’s not just a matter of you chaps going in and blowing the aircraft up. It’s got to be more subtle than that.’ He looked at the pair intently. ‘Because of the fragile coalition with neighbouring countries any assault on the mainland would be taken as an escalation of the war, and we would lose their support. So we have come up with “Operation Lavivrus”.’

He opened the large book on his lap, entitled Jane’s Aircraft Guide, and selected a double-paged pull-out picture of an aircraft that looked menacing even on paper. ‘This, lads, is the Super Etendard. Are you familiar with this aircraft?’

‘I know it’s French and I’ve seen one at Farnborough,’ replied Tony, ‘but that’s all.’ Peter merely nodded and studied the picture before him.

‘Yes, it’s a French strike fighter made by Dassault-Breguet. It’s an old design, but modified extensively. They have a carrier-borne capability, but so far have all been based ashore. It has a new wing, fitted with double slotted flaps, with a drooping leading edge. This is mounted in the mid-fuselage position and swept back at 45 degrees. The tricycle undercarriage is uprated with long-travel shock absorbers for carrier operations.’ All this was reeled off without a glance at the book or reference to any notes. The captain was full of nervous energy and was in his element. ‘The nose wheel is of special importance to you, and we will look at one in the hangar later. The new Atar 9k50 turbojet gives this aircraft an impressive performance: 733 m.p.h. at sea level, 45,000 feet ceiling and a operational combat radius of 528 miles.’

He propped the book open on the desk and used an old whip antenna as a pointer. He indicated different components as he introduced them, tapping the book for emphasis when required. His enthusiasm was infectious, holding the pair’s attention.

‘The armoured cockpit is pressurised and fitted with a Martin Baker lightweight ejection seat. They are all single-seaters, and this is a weak point. With all the sophistication of electronic counter-measures, inertial navigation and weapon systems, it puts too much strain on one man. A second man is desirable. The fuselage is an all-metal semi-monocoque construction, with integral stiffeners. The wings are attached by a two-bar torsion box covered by machined panels.’ A thin bead of sweat formed on his brow, but nothing slowed him down. ‘Now all aircraft are vulnerable on the ground, and you know more about this than I do, but there are several options that we looked at. Considerable damage can be done with a hammer, but this takes too long and is noisy. Obviously explosive does a complete job; it destroys the aircraft, and a timed delay allows the intruders to escape. But what we are trying to achieve has never been done before. We are going to mess with their weapon-aiming systems without the Argies knowing.’ Chas paused to gauge the reaction from his audience.

Tony reflected back to the day he was summoned with Peter into the Ops Room in Hereford and told of the planned incursion onto Argentinian soil. The aim was to neutralise the air threat to the Task Force. The whole operation had to be deniable, which was a contradiction in terms: How could you destroy the threat without leaving any evidence?

The plan was to attack the Super Etendards at their base, not with explosives but with an electronic gadget. To a soldier this was hard to comprehend; he likes to see a mass of burning metal, knowing his job is successful. To infiltrate and leave a device that still allows the aircraft to fly was against his instinct. These electronic devices were untried and involved all the dangers of placement but without the guarantee of success. If they didn’t work there was no second chance.

The operation had to be completely deniable as the British Government would be politically embarrassed by such a venture, and the world would see it as an escalation of the conflict. America had warned of the severe consequences of an invasion of the mainland. Countries sympathetic to Argentina, and those on the fence, could well join the war against Britain.

Captain Minter closed the book and offered them a cigarette. ‘Smoke, anyone?’ he said, offering them a packet of Capstan Full Strength. They both declined, deep in thought as they appreciated what a complicated mission they were engaged in. ‘I didn’t think you would. I’m trying to give up myself,’ he said, flicking open a Zippo lighter with a Special Forces logo on the sides; with a deft flick of the wrist he produced a two-inch flame and lit his cigarette. The resulting clouds of smoke brought the room alive. His desk now took on the look of a battlefield. Tony became agitated and backed away from the smoke, and Chas made a circular motion of his arm, trying to dissipate it.

‘We’ll go in the hangar shortly. It’s a non-smoking zone.’ This was his last chance of a puff, and he was taking full advantage of it. ‘Is there anything I’ve missed?’ he asked, tapping ash into an ashtray made from an artillery shell.

Tony coughed politely into a balled fist and asked, ‘What are the chances of getting away with it? Won’t they get suspicious if they keep missing and find the device?’

Chas answered through a curtain of smoke, exhaling forcefully. ‘Good point, Tony, but the clever thing about the placement is that on the ground it is nowhere near the weapons guidance system. You will see shortly how well it fits in position, and unless they have to service the nose wheel assembly it will go unnoticed. As for the missiles going astray, they will probably think we have developed a new counter-electronic measure. The device is completely passive until activated by the aircraft; it’s not switched on till the aircraft switches on its target acquisition radar.’

He opened up the book again to display the aircraft pull-out, and pointed. ‘The device is planted here on the nose wheel, and it’s only when the undercarriage is retracted that it comes in close proximity to the guidance system. They can only check the aircraft on the ground, so I think we have an excellent chance of getting away with it.’

They both pored over the diagram, noticing the position of the bay that held the electronics of the missile guidance system. It was directly above the recess where the nose wheel was stowed when retracted.

‘You put it in the right place and we will do the rest,’ added Chas between puffs on a rapidly diminishing cig.

‘What about the missile itself?’ enquired Peter. ‘Do we do anything to it?’

‘We have an Exocet in the hangar to show you, and our man, Mr Ford, will brief you on this. He is not available till three, so we will look at the undercarriage first. But in answer to your question, no, you don’t touch anything else. Just place the device in the correct position, and everything else is history,’ he said dramatically, stubbing out the remains of his cigarette. ‘Follow me, gents, and let’s see what we’ve got.’

They retraced their steps down the corridor and went through the large pair of double doors into the hangar. It was a massive structure illuminated by endless rows of fluorescent lights hanging down on chains from the cross-girders that supported the steeply angled roof. The walls were of red brick, giving way to corrugated sheeting at ceiling height, with a pair of huge sliding doors at the far end. The sheeting was painted in a fresh green colour, giving the vast area a pleasant, light atmosphere. The floor was painted red, and in neat rows, as far as the eyes could see, were mortars, artillery pieces, missiles and tanks.

Not many people were allowed in this hangar, and Tony thought the public would love to see this display. It was the best in the country, indeed probably in Europe.

‘This is superb,’ commented Peter. ‘Who uses this lot?’

Chas was leading them to the right between a row of mortars and tanks. He stopped by a multi-barrelled mortar, resting with his left leg up on the base plate with both arms folded over the sights bracket.

‘Basically we study weapon systems here. We obtain weapons and equipment from all around the world and evaluate it. We strip it down, test it and fire it. Most of this kit here is Warsaw Pact, but we look at everything. Anything new, we procure and test.’ Tony and Peter could detect the satisfaction that Peter got from his job, and were impressed by his enthusiasm and knowledge. They felt like rats in a cheese factory.

‘Officers study here for their degrees. They have to write a thesis on a particular subject. Also a lot of research is carried out here and improvements are made to existing equipment. This mortar is interesting. We just acquired it from Afghanistan. It’s the only one outside of the Soviet Bloc. I think some of your chaps were involved with its procurement.’

‘What will you do with it?’ enquired Pete.

‘We will strip it down, look at the workmanship and design, then we will take it on the range and check it for accuracy, range, penetration and all that sort of thing. Then back to the workshop and strip it down again, testing for wear and strength, and also durability’.

‘Sounds interesting,’ enthused Tony. ‘I would like a job like that myself.’

‘There you go, Tony. Get a commission, sit for a degree, and you can,’ mocked Peter.

Tony went red, his anger mounting. ‘I don’t like it that much, Pete. Somebody’s got to look after you.’ This was said with venom, prompting Peter to quickly change the subject. ‘What’s that over there?’ he said, pointing to a large artillery piece.

They moved on, slowly making their way to the side wall where the front section of an aircraft was positioned. The nose of the aircraft as far back as the cockpit was mounted like a game trophy coming out of the wall. The sleek shape painted blue-grey was complete with nose wheel assembly, refuelling probe, pitot tubes and tacan navigation system.

‘Believe it or not,’ said Chas, ‘this whole assembly retracts up into that hole, and these flaps seal it. Remarkable engineering, eh?’ He was gripping the landing gear and pointing to the dark aperture above it. ‘This is it, gents, courtesy of Messier-Hispano-Bugatti. Have a close look; it must be imprinted in your brain.’

The nose gear consisted of a large tube of bright alloy, with a smaller tube of steel emerging from the bottom connected to two wishbones. A large squashy tyre was pinned between these, and four struts braced the large tube on all sides, disappearing up into the aperture. About two-thirds down the main tube were two smaller alloy cylinders that ran back at an angle, filled with hydraulic fluid. These activated the gear, and alongside these were two steering levers, each made of bright alloy.

‘Do you notice anything familiar on the gear?’ asked Chas. The two crouched and stretched, examining the assembly minutely.

Chas put his hand on the hydraulic cylinder where the steering arm was connected. ‘Have a close look here.’ From either side the two stooped for a better look at where Chas was pointing. Lying snug between the two was a third aluminium cylinder twelve inches long and two inches in diameter.

‘That gentlemen is our device. Try and remove it.’

The cylinder was so well concealed that the pair couldn’t get a good grip on the tube, and try as they might it never budged. ‘Imagine that with hydraulic fluid and accumulated grime on it,’ interjected Chas. It was a perfect fit and blended in superbly.

‘There are tremendous forces exerted on this gear on take-off and especially landings. That is why we have implanted the magnets. There are many metal components inside the alloy tubes, like springs and pistons, and these help keep it in position. What do you think? Could you position these in the dark undetected?’

‘If we are lucky enough to get this close I can’t see a problem,’ replied Pete. ‘We need to have a mock-up like this to train up the lads.’

‘We are lending you this complete mock-up. It’s going to be reassembled at your training area at Ponty tomorrow.’

‘I can see this area being very dirty, especially when they are flying on non-stop sorties, and this could be a problem if it leaves a bright cylinder amidst dirty, oily components. We will have to be careful not to leave any prints or signs of disturbance in the dirt either, which may alert them,’ offered Peter.

‘Try not to touch anything. Just place the device and maybe smear a little dirt on it which you can get from the main undercarriage.’

The trio were so absorbed discussing the problems that they were unaware of a fourth man who had quietly joined them. He stood well back with hands thrust deeply in the pockets of his well-worn corduroy trousers. A few remaining strands of pure white hair were brushed smartly back over a shiny bald pate. A neatly clipped moustache underlined a strong Roman nose, with a pair of large framed spectacles sitting low on the bridge.

‘You can see why the size is so important,’ remarked Chas. The two lads tried again to prise the device off, but had no luck with the stubborn tube.

The newcomer moved closer, standing braced with his hands still thrust deep in his pockets, ‘Having trouble?’ he asked.

Captain Minter turned suddenly, grinning hugely as he recognised the familiar figure of Mr Ford. He felt like a naughty schoolboy caught smoking behind the bike shed.

‘Ah, Albert. Just finishing here. Meet Tony and Peter.’

Peter attempted to clean his hands on the side of his jeans before shaking hands. ‘Please to meet you, sir. Peter Grey, and this is Tony Watkins.’

Tony returned the firm handshake, surprised by the strength of it. Albert was a retired engineer, having worked with British Aerospace for more years than he cared to remember. He now worked on a consultancy basis with the School, giving them the benefit of his vast knowledge of missile guidance systems. In complete contrast to Chas, his verbal delivery was slow, enriched by a strong Cornish accent.

‘Nice to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you lads. I was tickled pink to get so close to you unnoticed, and heard you whispering,’ he drawled.

‘It’s an old SAS habit. It drives the missus mad. Every time I do something delicate, like changing a light bulb, I whisper. Can’t help it. It drives her nuts,’ replied Tony.

‘I’m just the opposite,’ replied Albert,. ‘I have worked in noisy machine shops all my life and we tend to shout, but it has the same effect on the wife, though.’

Chas interrupted their banter on marital comparisons and said, ‘Albert, I have covered the placement of the device. Would you like to carry on and tell the lads how it works?’

‘Love to,’ replied Albert, taking a deep breath. ‘When the undercarriage is retracted it lies in this position.’ He indicated on the mock-up with a broad sweep of his hand. ‘It’s just above the pitot tubes and the tacan. The tacan relies on ground beacons, not radar. The pitot tubes feed the air data system with information like speed and temperature, and again they have nothing to do with radar or interfere with radio or radar reception. Now just here,’ he patted an area just below the front of the cockpit, midway down the fuselage, ‘sits the radar, and this feeds the missile guidance system, which enables the missile to hit its intended target.’

Albert paused to let the info sink in before resuming. ‘Once the missile is fired, this equipment illuminates the target, feeding all the necessary information to the missile, such as direction, height, range and speed. It keeps the target pointed with, for want of another word, a beam, which the missile follows. Now with our little surprise package in position,’ he pointed to device on the undercarriage, ‘this beam is bent. The pilot thinks the target is still acquired when in fact the beam is off to one side. The missile follows the beam regardless and hopefully misses the target. In layman’s terms, this device tells a pack of lies to the missile, just like a drunken man tells his missus when he returns home late from the pub.’

The silence that followed showed respect for the architects of such a scheme. Albert and Chas drew back to leave the soldiers with their thoughts and deliberations. For several minutes they were totally engrossed, running the scenario through their minds, searching for unforeseen hurdles. Finally they came to the same conclusion, and Tony was speaking for both of them when he said, ‘All we have to do is place it.’

Nicotine addiction finally got the better of Chas and he said, ‘I’ll leave you in the capable hands of Albert and meet up with you in the missile section. See you soon,’ and he disappeared outside for a smoke.

Albert led them through the maze of weapons to the opposite wall where impressive arrays of missiles were displayed. The exhibition represented the state-of-the-art weaponry required for hostilities on land, sea and air. Smaller examples were displayed on blanket-covered tables, with the larger ones housed in cradles on the floor. Some models were cutaways revealing complex circuits, sensors and guidance systems. They all had an explanatory plastic covered display card which gave the name and details of the missile. Under the bright lights they looked too polished and clean to be dangerous. Their sleek lines were a work of art belying their destructive qualities. This opinion was changed by the photographs displayed, however, as they formed the backdrop to each table, showing targets destroyed by these very missiles.

Albert ushered them to a large white projectile which had some bold lettering stencilled on the side. As they got closer the word AEROSPATIALE leapt out at them. When he spoke he tended to favour Tony, so Pete felt a bit left out. He wondered if he reminded Albert of a rebellious son. To gain favour, Pete read out the title on the display card, ‘AM39, EXOCET’.

‘Yes, gentlemen, this is the anti-ship missile, weighing 652 kilogrammes with a high-explosive warhead of 160 kilogrammes. It flies at wave-top height with active radar terminal homing. This is what we are going to lie to. This is the nasty thing that has been causing all the trouble.’

They had a good look at the dart-like object, imagining its performance. They heard some coughing and were surprised to see Chas back so early. In fact he had been away for over an hour, but to the engrossed pair it seemed like minutes. They retired to his office for further questions over another pot of tea, and suddenly they both felt very weary.

Chas rounded up the visit saying, ‘I wish you all the very best, and success for Operation Lavivrus.’

On the way back to Hereford Peter said to Tony, ‘Do you know what I’ll always remember about this visit?’ Tony shrugged in answer, and Pete said, ‘The curtains in Chas’s office.’

CHAPTER TWO

Tony left the cosy cottage and headed for camp. At seven in the morning there was a chill in the air which cost him a good fifty metres to get into his stride. He was still stiff from the rugby, and yesterday’s travelling had done nothing to help his aches and pains. He welcomed the cold air on his ears, but the muscles of his legs were protesting and needed to be warmed up gently.

As he ran he noticed that flowers were appearing and the trees showed the first sign of buds. This was his favourite time of year. The morning gave promise of a fine day; it was clear and still, encouraging the birds to sing.

His cottage was perched on the side of a hill, so at least he started with an advantage. The view from the hill was stunning, and today he could see for miles. Rolling fields stitched with hedgerows dropped away to the river. Behind him the ground rose, with the fields giving way to forested hills. The city of Hereford sprawled in the hollow below him, an assortment of buildings and structures dominated by the cathedral and surrounding churches, standing out like giant chess pieces. One church had a misshapen spire that leant to the left, looking like a discarded ice cream cone dropped by an inattentive child. Away to his left he could see the outline of Offa’s Dyke, which appeared like a continuous blue line. The city was three miles away but looked a lot closer in the bright morning light.

Tony had left his wife Angie in bed, dressing in the dark so as not to disturb her. She usually ran with him, but since the early-morning sickness and backache started she had cut down on physical activities. She would walk the dog later at a more leisurely pace.

They had been married for two years, and Angie was a sobering influence on Tony. She was the one who kept him on the straight and narrow, and this helped his career no end. It had blossomed since the union, as the regiment looked for stability before promotion. Loose cannons were dangerous.

The small pack sat squarely on Tony’s back, high on the shoulders so it wouldn’t bounce. The damp grass helped cushion the impact of his powerful stride, but soaked the legs of his tracksuit. He chose to run across the fields rather than the roads, wearing boots instead of the customary trainers, as this gave him a better workout. Once in his stride his aches and pains fell away and it felt good to be alive.

Muster parade this morning was in the gym, and he had a ninety-minute session to look forward to, courtesy of Jim the Sadist. He reached the stile where Angie usually turned around, and once clear he lengthened his stride for the last half mile to camp.

Peter hammered the alarm clock into submission, seeking vengeance for disturbing him from a deep, much-needed sleep. He didn’t get to bed till after three, as the Colonel asked him to stay behind after the briefing to run through the details of the new device.

Tony had opened the Ops Room briefing, and was giving an outline plan of their proposed attack. It was sketchy at present, being based on old intelligence. They needed an update, and the big problem of insertion was still the weakest part of the plan. Things had been non-stop for the past three weeks. Everyone was hard at it, but as troop officer Peter had extra responsibilities, having to attend all briefings, presentations and intelligence updates.

‘I’ll get Tony to stand in for me at lunchtime,’ he thought, and started to think of a plan.

He savoured the luxuriant warmth under the covers, snuggling down for an extra five minutes. He fought the nagging impulse to get up and face endless problems; instead he tried focusing on less demanding matters.

‘I must get an early night,’ he thought, but there was little hope of this. On top of everything else going on, he had finally met a girl whom he really liked. She had a great sense of humour, and shared a lot of his interests. He lay on his back staring at the ceiling with his hands behind his head. He envied his Staff Sergeant, who had an uncomplicated life. He went home every night to the same woman, who cooked his food and provided all the necessary comforts.

‘Here I am,’ he reflected, ‘nearly thirty, still living in the mess, and still ironing my own shirts.’

The depression lifted as he thought about the new girl in his life, whom he had just met. She was something special. ‘Wait till the troop find out about Mo,’ he thought. “Will I get some stick!’

Peter was a big hit with the ladies, and his choice of women was somewhat unusual. His last flame was, literally, a fire-eater. He met her at a holiday camp where the troop stayed during an exercise on the coast. His new love, Mo, was a trumpet player, currently playing in the orchestra at the Three Counties Festival. They had met at a reception hosted by the mayor in the Town Hall, and straight away the chemistry flowed between them. She was different from all the other women he had known, and satisfied a deep-seated desire.

‘I will try and see her at lunchtime, even if it only for a few minutes,’ he told himself, staring at the ceiling and trying to keep his eyes from closing. Surprisingly the alarm was still in a fit state to repeat its call, bringing him down to earth. ‘This is dangerous stuff,’ he thought. ‘I’d better pull myself together and get down to the gym.’ With a sudden surge of energy he leapt out of bed, his nude figure transformed into a tracksuit and trainers in seconds.

Still thinking in the same vein, he jogged dreamily on autopilot for the short distance to the gym, where the troop were all waiting. He didn’t see the flowers or hear the birds, and barely noticed the cold. He was looking forward to the coming gym session in a sadistic sort of way. At least for the next ninety minutes pain would replace the turmoil he was presently feeling.

Tony was changing into his trainers while other members of the troop engaged in light-hearted banter. Some sat on the scrubbed wooden benches, others stood by the row of grey painted lockers. As they changed into gym kit they exchanged in vivid detail stories and exploits of the previous night out. This was the first free time that they had been given in weeks, and they made sure they enjoyed it. Tony caught snippets of their conversations:

‘I swear they were as big as this . . .’ ‘She was insatiable . . .’ Every now and then the storyteller would be challenged: ‘How many times, you lying bastard?’ And so it went on.

Peter sat down next to Tony and asked him how his ears were. They updated each other on their brief time apart, ignoring the background laughter, exaggerations and obscenities. An outsider listening to the troop would have thought a fight was taking place, but it was all good-natured.

Suddenly everyone all went quiet. The silence coincided with the appearance of a short, squat figure, dressed in a white vest with black tracksuit bottoms. The vest had red piping around the edges and crossed sabres on the chest. Massive arms hung from broad, sloping shoulders, emphasising a bulging chest tapering down to a narrow waist. Powerful legs were encased in the tight black bottoms, bulging like a speed skater’s, but most impressive was his head, which was covered finely with short ginger hair, so fine that it failed to conceal the many scars beneath. These were pure white, in contrast to a slight tan elsewhere. Almond-shaped eyes glared out from heavily hooded brows consisting mostly of scar tissue. A small pug nose was stuck on as an afterthought, underlined by thin lips that emphasised a cruel mouth which hardly moved when he spoke.

‘Good morning, pilgrims. Nice to see you all so happy.’

A thick Glaswegian accent rounded off his aura. This was Jim the Sadist, long part of regimental legend.

‘Right, gentlemen, you know the rules. Follow me.’ He span around and disappeared through the door that led to the spacious hall. One rule was that once you entered the gym you never stopped running, and the other was that no jewellery was to be worn or anything carried in the pockets.

The gym was large and well lit, big enough to contain two full-size basketball courts. These were marked out on a spotless wooden floor that was swept regularly with sawdust impregnated with linseed oil. The walls were adorned with an endless run of wall bars; the only break in them contained beams that could be pulled out to support pull-up bars and climbing ropes. On one side was a recess that contained half a dozen multi-gyms and free weights. At the far end there was a climbing wall, and suspended high in the ceiling were parachute harnesses. This is where the lads did ‘synthetic training’ prior to parachuting. There was an abseil platform in the corner, with an array of punch bags, and speed balls underneath, suspended from sturdy brackets.

Every gym has a smell of its own – a mixture of blood, sweat, liniment and tears. Hundreds of bodies had been conditioned here, creating an ambience that leapt out and grabbed you by the throat. This was a place of work.

They started off quite sedately, stretching and jogging, warming up tired muscles, jogging around the periphery of the courts, punching out their arms from the shoulders on Jim’s command. They changed direction regularly, high-stepping and hopping on alternate legs. When Jim thought they had got in a rhythm he would order giant striding, bunny-hops and star jumps. Then he would snap, ‘On yer backs. Stand up. On yer fronts,’ and in a high, hysterical voice shout, ‘Top of the wallbars, GOo. Back in the centre, GOooo. Touch four walls and back again, GOoooo.’

The pace was unrelenting, and soon the troop was sweating freely. The sweat dripped on the floor, forming slippery areas that caused a few falls. There was no sympathy for the faller, who he was abused till he got back on his feet. ‘Get up, you idle bastard. No one told you to lie down.’

They completed short sprints, trying to pass the man in front. Teams were picked to race against each other. The race started with the first man carrying his team one at a time in a fireman’s lift to the end of the gym and back. When they had all completed this it was a wheelbarrow race, followed by a few circuits of leapfrog. They finished with a series of stretching exercises, starting with neck rolls, moving down the body and ending with hamstring stretches.

The regiment was motivated by self-discipline, and every man was responsible for his own standard of fitness. Most people give up when they are tired, which is normal, but to be special and to achieve that little bit extra the urge to let up must be overcome. That was where Jim came in. He applied the fine tuning and encouragement to increase performance. He took the men to levels that they never dreamed they could attain. He kept them going when muscles screamed and tendons and ligaments burnt. He drove them on through pain barriers, getting that little bit extra from them. He kept them going when they wanted to quit, and he made good men even better.

‘OK, lads. Nice and warm now, eh? On the line. When I say go, sprint to the first line, ten press-ups, return. Out to the next line, ten crunches, return. Out to the far line, ten star jumps, return. Stand by. GOooo.’

These shuttle runs seared the lungs. The three lines were fifteen metres apart; after six repetitions even the strongest of men were wasted, but Jim made them do twelve. Every part of the body was punished, Muscles that were seldom used protested violently at the abuse they suffered.

When they finished they just wanted to die, but Jim wouldn’t let them. He made them run on the spot to regain their breath. ‘Stand up straight, deep breath through the nose, force out through the mouth. Keep you legs shoulder width apart. Don’t stand there like a big tart! Brace up, man.’ Everyone was searching for breath, bent double trying to take the strain of scorching lungs. Excruciating pains radiated from all parts of the body; death seemed a good option.

Sweat was by now dripping freely onto the parquet flooring, and for the first time that morning Jim looked happy. ‘Come on, air is free. Take advantage of it. Where you’re going there may be none.’

Fitness is judged by the amount of effort sustainable over a given period, divided by the time it takes to recover. It’s what you do in a certain time that’s important. You could jog all day but not get a lot from it. Once you get into a rhythm it becomes monotonous. What this regiment did was rapid heart exertion, which created cat-like responses, speed and power.

Only Jim could talk by now. ‘Right, lads, jog around the courts while you get your second wind. Keep loose, breathe deeply.’

Most of the men were regretting their ill-discipline of the night before, and were grateful that they had not had their breakfast yet. Just as they started feeling human again, Jim raised the pace. ‘Up the wall bars . . .’ And so it went on relentlessly.

‘Right, lads, on the mats. It’s time for your old favourites.’ They lay on their backs with legs raised, doing a series of abdominal exercises. Jim led them, starting with repetitions of ten. The rest position was with legs extended and six inches above the mat; any one who lowered their limbs cancelled out that set of reps, which had to be done again. ‘This is where the power come from. You can’t cheat the gym.’ A continual chorus of groans, grunts, and shrieks accompanied their exertions. They stretched, twisted, curled and contorted, and just when they thought they had finished Jim introduced them to a new exercise. He kept up a non-stop barrage of obscenities in his native tongue. The lads wanted to laugh, but had forgotten how to.

‘Just one more set, lads. Keep flat, arms behind the head, keep the legs straight, point your toes.’ The gym was large enough to allow the body emissions to dissipate and the efficient air blowers replaced the stale air with fresh.

‘Good wee session, lads. Everyone OK?’ He assembled the troop in the centre of the gym, and allowed them to sit down while he briefed them. Praise from Jim was rare indeed, and hard earned. He didn’t let anyone take a drink; this was against his doctrine. It helped condition the body, and more importantly made the mind aware of what could be achieved on limited resources.

‘Now remember, speed kills. Do unto others as they will do unto you, but do it first.’ Jim surveyed the class, ensuring his message had sunk in.

‘Come here, Tony.’ Jim always selected Tony for his demonstrations. He was the punch bag, the rag doll, the guinea pig for the series of punches, strikes and kicks that were about to be delivered. He used Tony because they sparred together in their spare time. He only used someone else if he caught them slacking or not paying attention.

Tony had a martial arts background, making him a natural at close-quarter battle. He had boxed as a youth, representing his school and South-East London. He had dabbled in judo, karate and ninjitsu, but they had all left him wanting. They were non-contact sports and not very practical in a real-life situation. They did teach him timing and balance, both invaluable skills, and the mental side was very fulfilling. But CQB, as taught by Jim, satisfied his appetite. It was a distillation of all the martial arts, picking out the best from each and choreographing them in a series of lethal moves that were both practical and uncomplicated. Jim used everything that was banned in these arts. CQB was a military skill that encouraged fighting dirty. It was kill or be killed. Punching below the belt, kicks to the throat and head were all encouraged. Tony was blessed with the street-fighter’s instinct that no amount of training can instil. This was summed up by his father’s words when he coached him: ’You can put the dog in a fight, but you can’t put the fight in a dog.’

It’s a rarity to find a man who has power, speed, timing and balance, and with the street-fighter’s instinct they add up top a very special human being. Tony loved the training and tried to improve. He was never satisfied.

Jim launched a series of attacks on Tony with lightning speed. He attacked from all angles, going for the eyes, palm strike to the chin, elbow to the throat; the pace was furious. A swift kick to the groin was deflected and taken on the thigh, followed by a swinging right hand to the jaw. When a blow landed or was blocked, a shower of sweat cascaded from the victim, showering the watchful bystanders. Jim’s attacks were fast, but Tony defended himself with equal skill.

After the demonstration the class partnered off, going through a vigorous sparring session. They took it in turns to attack and defend, changing partners frequently so as not to grow used to their opponent. Jim and Tony went around giving advice and correcting techniques.

The lads loved it, especially when a blow landed. It was not so funny for the victim, but hilarious to onlookers. Frequently they were called to watch a new technique, and then they would partner up again to try it. Each move had to be instinctive, and the only way to instil this is repetitions. Unless this is carefully managed there is a danger of boredom creeping in, but this never happened with Jim. He knew when to move on, always getting the best from the class.

There was nothing fancy about the techniques. No sophisticated locks, holds or throws were taught, just straightforward attacks to the eyes, throat and groin area. Every now and then a scream would confirm the effectiveness of an attack, forcing Jim to smile. ‘Don’t kill each other. Save that for the enemy. Keep the power for the bags. I’m looking for speed and technique when sparring.’

To generate power they used focus pads and punch bags, taking it in turns to hold these for each other. Even wearing headguards and groin protectors the odd blow got through, but unlike footballers who lay on the ground writhing in fake agony the lads carried on, trying not to show that their opponent had hurt them. Minor scores were settled, and sometimes Jim had to step in and defuse the situation.

Thriving on success, and despising failure, every member of the regiment wanted to be a winner. Like every subject, success had to be taught; it had to become a way of life. The best classroom for this was the gym. Courage and determination were matured here; winners were groomed and their resolve nourished. However, the gym was no substitute for the rugged terrain of the Brecon Beacons, where stamina was forged and the elements conquered.

Tony was sparring with Peter, taking great delight in occasionally snapping his head back with a light palm strike to the forehead. Every time Peter lowered his guard or stopped moving he got slapped. This spurred him on to greater efforts to land a telling blow, but Tony dealt with these attacks with apparent ease. This further frustrated Peter, causing him to become ragged and predictable. Tony could sense this but couldn’t help grinning, moving fluidly in and out, countering with stinging blows to the head and body. Frustration turned to humiliation as accurate strikes became more frequent. A thin trickle of blood dribbled down Peter’s chin from a split lip, and a small nick over his left eye was further aggravated by the generous amount of sweat flowing from his forehead. He did his best to hide his discomfort, however, aware that the troop was watching his performance.

Even though they were comrades, the rivalry between them surfaced. All the petty hates, differences and jealousies between officer and NCO emerged, and pride distorted reason. Peter missed Tony with a massive roundhouse punch that would have taken his head off had it landed. He got a dig in the midsection for his effort, and a kick found his knee, just as he was about to try the same.

‘I’m going to kill the bastard,’ thought Peter; just seeing his opponent’s grinning face through red-misted eyes was reason enough. Bigger punches and kicks followed, but all had the same result.

Tony could sense the hostility, which disturbed him, so he back-pedalled to defuse the situation. Peter took this as a sign of weakness and renewed his attacks with added venom. A wild blow glanced off Tony’s head, triggering a short jab that flew before he could check himself. The wicked punch caught Peter on his injured eye, which split open immediately, spurting bright red blood down his face in a scarlet torrent.

Tony dropped his guard instantly, moving in to offer assistance. Peter snapped and drove his knee between Tony’s legs with the last of his energy and pent-up emotions. This dropped Tony to his knees like a shot elephant, folded in half and clutching the source of excruciating agony. His head was full of nauseous lights and his mouth thick with bile.

Jim had been watching this pair with interest, half expecting the outcome. He had let them carry on; it’s best sometimes to let things run their course. He went up to Tony, who was thrashing about on his knees like a fish out of water, grabbed his head and forced it down. The class stated to gather around the injured pair till Jim shouted, ‘What do you think this is, a peep show? Get back to work.’ In a softer voice he continued, ‘Stay on your knees, Tony. Force the air out.’ He looked over to Peter, who was pinching together the edges of his cut eye.

‘Here, boss, use this,’ he said, and threw him a clean white handkerchief that he had in his pocket. ‘Charlie, Fred, come and give a hand,’ he summoned the nearest couple. ‘Take the boss to the MI room, and you can help me with Tony.’

Between them they got Tony to his feet. His face was contorted with pain and he was forced to breathe through clenched lips. He had attempted to spit the bitter taste out of his mouth but only succeeded in dribbling it down his chest. A silver thread of spittle was still hanging from his lip. Jim supported him from behind, with his massive arms wrapped around his chest.

‘I’ve lost one of my nuts,’ muttered Tony. At this Jim held him tight, and with Charlie helping, dropped to a kneeling position. ‘Tell me when it drops’, he said, and he bounced Tony up and down on his buttocks. He had done this many times before, and Tony knew the routine; they called it ‘Testes Absentus’. It was their term for a testicle that goes up into the groin cavity. Some sumo wrestlers would do this deliberately before a contest, but to the uninitiated it is a very painful experience.

Eventually Tony got to his feet, supported by Jim, who was pressing his thumbs firmly into his abdomen trying to alleviate the burning, sickly pain.

‘Thanks, mate. I’d better go and see how the boss is,’ and Tony headed gingerly to the MI room.

Peter had four stitches, and Tony recovered apart from a slight headache and a loss of appetite. Most of the troop sported a bruise or welt of various sizes and colours, which they carried with pride. These were marks of the warrior; it went with the job.

After a shower and a late breakfast, the troop assembled at the armoury to draw out their personal weapons. Tony complimented his boss for the cheap shot and apologised for the cut.

They retired to the Troop Basha (billet), where they stripped and cleaned their weapons. While they were doing this they had an informal discussion on firepower. All the troop had a say on what was needed for their coming mission.

‘Weight is going to be critical,’ stated Peter, who got the ball rolling. ‘We can’t afford to get involved in a firefight.’ The mission was covert, so stealth was their best bet. If they were compromised at any stage, a rapid withdrawal was the strategy –what they called ‘shoot and scoot’.

‘What about silenced weapons?’ asked Chalky.

‘What do you think, Tony?’ Peter handed the question to Tony.

‘It’s so windy down there that I think they’ll be useless.’

Silenced weapons fire sub-sonic ammunition, which is slow, leaving them at the mercy of the wind. Range is also limited, and the stronger the wind, the less accurate they become. In a confined area they are noisy, much louder than the dull thud you hear in movies.

‘If the wind is that strong we’ll probably get away with the odd shot,’ offered Phil.

‘Maybe, but I definitely want some night sights in the patrol,’ countered Peter.

After further discussion and much deliberation Tony issued the following orders. ‘OK, lads. Every man an Armalite; Chalky, Fred, night sights. Grab some ammo and I’ll see you on the range.’

The AR15 had all the credentials needed to make it a first-class weapon. It was light, reliable, with a good rate of fire. The only modification that the lads would make was to cover the magazine release catch with a strip of tape to prevent accidental release.

Close to the camp was the 50-metre range. This had a railway line running past on one side and open fields on the other. There was a gypsy camp nearby, and sometimes they grazed their ponies on the range. Local kids, especially from the married quarters, used to glean the ranges frequently, picking up empty cases and the occasional live round. The MOD police patrolled the area regularly after strong complaints were made by the local school from teachers who had caught their pupils with some interesting souvenirs. These patrols were ineffective; they just tested the inbred skills of the kids, making it more of a challenge, raising the price of the bounty they found.

‘Let’s make it interesting and have a kitty, winner takes all. Are you all in favour?’ asked Tony. A show of hands confirmed this, and got the banter going.

‘You may as well give me the money now,’ insisted Ron. He was the youngest member of the troop.

‘If you shoot like you did last week you’ll do better with a bayonet,’ replied Fred.

To the side of the retaining wall, which was heaped with sand, there was a scoreboard reading, ’Moles 0 – Brummie 4’. Brummie was the range warden, a retired soldier, who waged a constant war on the moles that were responsible for the unsightly mounds of earth that spoilt the appearance of the well-kept grass. He nagged the lads, constantly telling them to pick up all their empties, burn the rubbish and repair the targets with paste when they finished.

Tony was talking to the warden when Peter butted in. ‘Come on, let’s get started,’ he said in a brusque voice.

‘What’s wrong with him?’ asked Brummie. ‘Wrong time of the month? And what’s happened to his eye?’

Breathing control is the secret to accurate shooting. Inhaling strongly through the nose, taking up the first pressure on the trigger while focusing on the target, is the first stage. Holding the breath when the aim is confirmed is the second stage. Squeezing the trigger is the final phase. This eliminates any wavering of the weapon.

The only disturbance they had was the 10.30 from Cardiff. A few excited passengers were seen starring out the windows as the train sped by. This did not stop the lads shooting. Once they started they finished the practice; only a fault with a weapon would prevent this. When all the detail had stopped firing they were checked by Tony and Peter before getting the ‘guns clear’, which allowed them to dress forward and check their targets.

Corporal Phil Jones was the best shot of the day. His group of ten rounds could all be covered by a single patch. His MPI (main point of impact) was one inch above dead centre.

‘Well done, Phil. Here’s the loot.’ Peter handed over the kitty to an outstretched hand the size of a dinner plate. ‘Don’t spend it all at once.’

‘I’m slightly high, but at 100 yards I will be spot on,’ the tall corporal commented, stuffing the handful of loose change in his pocket. Phil was a country lad from Somerset, a powerful six-footer. At thirty years of age he was in prime condition, and was one of those men who seemed to have been around for ever; in fact he was in his tenth year with the regiment. He played second row with Tony, forming a solid partnership.

‘Tony, can you cover for me till two?’ asked Pete.

‘Sure, Pete. Give her my love. Tell her you cut your eye shaving,’ replied Tony as he carried on cleaning up the range.

Back in camp the lads cleaned their weapons sitting around Trooper Ron Evans’s bed space.

‘What’s wrong with the boss, Tony? He don’t seem too happy,’ enquired Fred.

‘I think he is in love again,’ replied Tony, ‘and he’s not too pleased with his eye.’

‘Serve him right. It might slow him down a bit,’ grumbled Phil.

‘What will, the girl or the eye?’ asked Tony. They carried on discussing the captain’s love life as they cleaned and oiled their weapons.

‘Tony, can I get away? The eldest ain’t too well. The missus was up all night with her.’ Trooper Andy Swingler was the troop signaller. He was the only member of the troop with children, and was a devoted father. He was never short of babysitters, as the troop volunteered when he wanted a night out with his wife Jane. It was a good place to take girlfriends, especially when funds were low.

Andy’s five foot eight inch frame was packed with sinewy muscles. He was a keep-fit fanatic and could run all day. He still had his raw Brummy accent after ten years in the army.

‘No problem, Andy. Hand your weapon in and be back here at two. We’ve got a briefing about tomorrow,’ said Tony.

Peter added, ‘Listen in, everyone. Tomorrow we have an early start. Parade at the guardroom 0200, arrive Lyneham 0400, fit parachutes for take-off at 0430, with P hour at 0530. Staff, will you take over? The Colonel wants to see me.’

Tony was taken aback by Peter’s formal attitude, which did not go unnoticed by the men. He tried to maintain the same expression, continuing the briefing in fine detail.

‘Chalky, you will be pleased to know the DZ is Foxtrot Charlie on Sennybridge. Try not to break your leg this time.’

Keen eyes studied the map displayed before them, following the pointer as Tony explained the run in and release points. These were determined by the wind, and the long-range forecast was favourable.

‘Draw and fit parachutes this afternoon, and pack your containers. Keep the weight down to sixty pounds. Three Troop are acting as enemy and have challenged us to a speed march afterwards. I’m trying to get the colonel to put up a case of beer for the winners. It’s like trying to get blood out of a stone, so I hope Pete reminds him.’

Rendezvous points (RVs) were given so they could all meet up and clear the drop zone as a troop as quickly as possible. Emergency RVs and grid references were also given, together with contingency plans in case the jump was cancelled.

Although the radiators were on full blast, it was still cold in the temporary briefing room. The main ops room was being revamped and they had to make do in an old wooden hut that was due to be demolished as part of the new camp rebuild. The very mention of parachuting also brought a cold chill to the room, lowering the temperature by several degrees.

‘Chalky, med pack; Andy, radio, check with sigs on frequencies. Charlie and Ron, I’d like you to take the thermal imagers. Make sure they have new batteries. Chalky and Fred have the night sights.’ Tony paused, looking back over his notes. ‘I think that’s it. Any questions?’

It was way past eight o’clock before Tony returned to the cottage. Rays of light escaping from gaps in the curtains were a welcoming sight to a very tired man. His groin protested at the uphill run, and he was sorry he had declined a lift.

During the run he had time to reflect on what they had done that day. He kept wondering if he had covered everything for tomorrow, and hoped the weather stayed settled like it was now. One vivid picture kept returning, replacing all other images: the expression on the captain’s face in the gym. Try as he might he couldn’t shake it off. Even the scattered light of the city below him and the brilliant stars above failed to erase it. ‘I’m overtired,’ he thought.

Angie greeted him warmly, hugging him closely. She could feel the tiredness and tension in his body. ‘What sort of a day has my little soldier had?’ she asked in a sultry tone.

Tony dropped on the sofa in a weary heap, before answering, ‘You know when you got hurt as a child and mummy used to kiss it better . . .’

Peter looked in the mirror, checking the neat line of stitches. It was midnight, and although he was tired sleep wouldn’t come.

‘Look at that lot. That’s all I need. What are Mo’s parents going to think of me?’ For the first time in his life he was worried about other people. ‘I look more like a bouncer than an army officer,’ he reflected, tenderly rubbing the swelling.

Mo had given him no sympathy, and her attitude when they met at lunchtime was closer to disgust than sorrow. He knew he would be away soon, and not knowing when he was coming back didn’t help matters. She was keen for him to meet her parents before he went, and had described him as a sweet, gentle man. She could imagine her mother’s face when Punchy Pete turned up, cut, bruised and swollen.

Things were happening too fast for Pete’s liking: rehearsals, training, briefings, and on top of all this an injury. He was also concerned at the way the troop had rallied around Tony rather than him. He tried lying down again, closing his eyes and hoping for the relief of sleep to blank out his anxieties. Army beds were not the most comfortable of berths, and he struggled.

Knowing that he was parachuting in the morning always affected him this way. So many things could go wrong: hard pull, malfunction and mid-air collision were all distinct possibilities. A bad spot could cause you to land in water or hit power lines; landing on the DZ with equipment was bad enough as it was. In one part of his mind he hoped that the jump would be cancelled, but he also looked forward to the challenge.

Everything was his responsibility; the colonel had made that quite clear at their last meeting. He was told he had to take charge more, and not leave everything to his Staff Sergeant. He couldn’t help thinking of Tony again, and their fight.

He tossed and turned, trying to switch off his overactive mind. Just when he was on the verge of sleep an explosion of light would pierce his tired eyes, bringing him fully alert and leaving a myriad of dancing lights bouncing around his skull. There was no escape; the more descents he had done, the worse it got the night before.

All too soon the alarm clock went off. He arose from sweat-soaked sheets.

Conversation was non-existent in the minibus, and the early start was only partly to blame. Parachuting always had the same effect, and most people wanted to be quiet. They feigned sleep, reliving past descents, mentally going through a checklist: good strong exit, stable fall, smooth opening, lower equipment, feet and knees together for landing.

They never knew until the last moment whether the jump was on or not. The weather seemed good, but it could change in an instant. They were jumping in Wales near the mountains, and the weather here was unpredictable. The C-130 rarely became unserviceable, but it did happen. The ground party who manned the DZ had the last say. If they gave the thumbs up, the jump was on.

Every descent was different, and if you were unprepared you could get caught out. All these men were experienced, however, and left nothing to chance. They always went through the same rituals and mental rehearsal.

Chalky – Lance Corporal Henry White – a veteran of more than 1,000 jumps, had broken his tibia and fibia the last time he jumped on Sennybridge. This was a freak accident that happened eight months ago. A gust of wind caught him as he was about to land, causing him to fall heavily on a trip flare piquet that had been left behind by some irresponsible unit. He was now fully fit, but he sub-consciously flexed the old injury, trying to reassure himself that it wouldn’t happen again.

Chalky was of mixed race, and had endured plenty of malice and racial abuse as a child growing up in the East End of London. His father was a West Indian seaman who met his mother at the Stepney General Hospital, where he was taken sick after a voyage. She was a nurse there, and fell pregnant after a brief affair. He sailed away, promising to return, but he never did. He was never seen or heard of again. Coming from a religious family, his mother was ostracised for bringing disgrace to the family. She was cast out and had to fend for herself. She had to work, so Chalky was passed around among the few friends she had left. Sometimes she had to take him to work at the hospital, where he was hidden in the laundry or looked after by a porter.

It was a tough community to grow up in without a father. His mother suffered endless abuse from bigoted neighbours, and Chalky couldn’t wait to be big enough to defend her. Although she doted on him, he was a painful reminder of the past, and joining the army was a natural escape for him. He fitted into his new family well. At twenty-seven years old, with seven years in the Squadron, he was the troop medic, probably influenced by his mother.

Fred massaged the scar on his leg where he had been burnt hitting high-tension cables three years ago. It seemed like yesterday that the brilliant blue flash lit up his body and the surrounding area of Salisbury Plain. Cables are difficult to see from the air, even in daylight. The parachute collapses when the cables are touched, leaving the parachutist to fall to the ground. Electrocution is the lesser of the two hazards.

Tony’s main concern was the insertion phase of the coming operation. Stretched out on the seat with his hood up and arms buried between his thighs, he thought about deception plans. Any aeroplane entering another country’s air space is immediately challenged. It is acquired by radar, and unless it gives the correct response aircraft are scrambled to intercept it. In a time of conflict the plane may be shot down. The Argentinians had a good air defence system, and intelligence was trying to get up-to-date info on its performance and limitations. A modern system like theirs acquires the target, and unless it is identified as friendly it fires an anti-aircraft missile. Tony’s problem was how he could make his aircraft appear friendly.

He pushed this to the back of his mind, concentrating on the problem at hand. He was responsible for lining up the aircraft and getting it over the exit point. The RAF navigator would get the aircraft on the run-in track at the correct altitude, then it was up to Tony to eyeball it from the ramp, getting them over the release point.

The parachutes they were using were twelve-cell steerables with reserves to match, on a piggy-back system. These were state of the art and only available to the Regiment. They had a good performance, capable of holding a 20-knot wind, and if need be they could cover a lot of ground. This was fine if you could see where you were going, but at night you just wanted to land gently, and a high-performance chute could get you into trouble. These were definitely not for the novice.

On a night descent it is an advantage to have some moonlight with a little cloud cover. On all but the darkest nights the ground can be seen until the last 1,000 feet, when the earth is enveloped in shadow. Their jump was scheduled just before first light; they would catch the end of the old moon, making conditions ideal.

No visual aids were being used on this descent; if they could be seen from the air they could be seen from the ground. 3 Troop were already deployed in the area to test the effectiveness of the covert entry; they would dearly love to capture a 2 Troop birdman and pluck him of his feathers. Inter-troop rivalry verged on the sadistic.

For safety reasons a ground party was in the drop zone in radio contact with the aircraft, but neither displayed or gave signals. Their sole job was to keep an eye on the ground winds in case they exceeded the limit, and provide medical cover.

The lads came alive as the bus turned through the large ornamental gates of RAF Lyneham. Security was impressive, the area being well lit and guarded by RAF police who waved the bus through. Sandbag emplacements had been built to dominate the approaches to the base. Tony took particular interest in these security arrangements; he would soon be trying to breach similar defences.

There was some small talk on the short journey to the hangar, the sleepy atmosphere transformed into a lively scene as people stretched and chattered. Past exploits were discussed, and misfortunes recalled. ‘I remember carrying Chalky . . .’ ‘Fred put out all the lights in Salisbury . . ..’ The men were in good spirits, ready for the descent.

The navigator gave the lads the flight briefing. His ruffled hair and bulbous eyes reminded Tony of a rabbit caught in a snare. His tired, monotonous voice confirmed his dislike of early starts, and he made an exciting event seem dull. He yawned continuously as he pointed to an enlarged aerial photograph of Foxtrot Charlie, and traced the run-in track using a black china graph pencil.

‘The wind at 18,000 feet is at 230 degrees steady at 35 knots. This changes to 200 degrees at 8,000 feet, slowing to 20 knots. Opening height for this sortie is at 3,500 feet with the same wind but at 190 degrees. Ground wind,’ he paused for an infectiously long yawn, ‘is 8–10 knots.’ Tony couldn’t wait to take over the briefing and inject a bit of spark.

‘We calculate the release point here and the opening point here.’ The navigator circled two red points on the photo. ‘I will get you to this point here, and Staff, you will take over when the red light comes on. You should see this lake clearly, and all this forestry will stand out.’

Charlie was picking his teeth with a broken matchstick, removing the traces of a kebab he had the night before. All this talk of knots and degrees went over his head; he just wanted to jump and follow the others.

Eyeballing a C-130 at night is not easy. Tony’s job when the red light came on was to get the aircraft exactly over the release point. Staring into the slipstream from the ramp is the most accurate way of lining up an aircraft. Peter and Tony confirmed the navigator’s calculations to verify the checkpoints. They added the final details to the air briefing Peter was going to give.

The cavernous interior of the aircraft looked even bigger with only eight men sitting in the middle. They sat either side of an oxygen console, fully dressed, strapped into webbing seats, with bergans (rucksacks) held between their legs. It was only a short flight so they wouldn’t have time to strip off or stretch out.

Aircraft have a smell of their own, a heady mixture of cold alloy, warm nylon, hydraulic fluid and paraffin. Soon the tantalising smell of RAF coffee would add to this rich bouquet.

Conversation was made difficult as the high-pitched whine of the four turbines increased. As the noise level rose, so did the vibrations. Tony watched, fascinated, as the safety ring of a fire extinguisher revolved slowly, and a discarded polystyrene cup did a dance of its own until Fred crushed it under a size 10.

With engines running evenly, the aircraft lurched forward as it began to taxi out to the main runway. The big Herc rolled and swayed like a ship in heavy weather. They were wasting no time this morning and rumbled forward, turning sharply onto the threshold. It dipped down on its undercarriage as the brakes were applied, and the passengers braced themselves for take-off.

A whirr of hydraulic pumps set the flaps as the engines ran up to full power. Raring to go but held back on the brakes, the whole structure shuddered. When the brakes were released the huge camouflaged aircraft leapt forward like a spirited stallion, building up speed rapidly before soaring up into the early morning sky.

Once it was clear of the ground the pilot eased the throttles back as they climbed steadily to 18,000 feet. Seat belts were undone and the loadmaster came round with the traditional RAF coffee in polystyrene cups. To the old and bold this was the worst part of the jump.

As they sipped their strong, sweet brew they were given an altimeter check. Each man had two altimeters, and they carefully calibrated then both. Through nervousness rather than necessity, they tapped them to ensure the needle wasn’t sticking.

A dull red light was the only illumination in the aircraft, set above the oxygen console. It didn’t affect night vision, but it cast an eerie light over the eight men huddled in the centre of the cargo hold, like witches around a cauldron.

Twenty minutes before P hour they plugged into the console and the aircraft depressurised. All too soon the rear ramp was lowered and the stale air was immediately purged by an invading blast of cold air. Loose webbing at the rear of the aircraft flapped around in torment. Everyone’s ears were affected by the change in pressure; the men cleared them by holding their noses and blowing. They got ready, ensuring their weapons were secured down the left-hand side. Next they secured their bergans, attaching the lowering device to the harness.

Five minutes before P hour they unplugged from the console and plugged into the small oxygen bottle they carried on their harness, before waddling to the ramp for an equipment check. They kept their goggles up to save them misting, and checked each other’s chutes. Only hand signals could be given as their oxygen masks covered the lower face. Their bergans were carried behind the thighs, connected to the harness with quick-release hooks. When everything had been checked they followed Pete, who was Mother Goose – where he went his chicks would follow. He led them to the ramp where Tony had his head stuck out in the slipstream.

Holding on with one hand and giving corrections with the other, Tony was bringing the aircraft on track. Each motion with the open hand was a five-degree correction to one side or the other; the loadmaster, who was secured to the ramp by a monkey belt, relayed Tony’s signals to the pilot.

Five degrees left, steady. Five degrees left, steady. Tony could make out the lake and the distinctive forest shape that he recognised as the release point. When he was satisfied he stood up and pointed to the green light. The red light went out and the green one came on.

Bunched on the tailgate, eager to go, the lads kept a finger under their goggles to keep them clear. They were now bathed in green light, looking like aliens from outer space. Tony gave the thumbs up, and was gone.

He felt free; there was no more weight hanging from his shoulders, and his aching back was now supported on a cushion of air. Engine noise was replaced by a rush of cold air which lightly buffeted his body. He looked around, and above him he could see seven more bodies in formation like bulky frogs hurtling earthwards at 120 miles per hour. ‘What a way to make a living,’ he thought.

He could make out several lights below him from scattered farms, and could picture the cosy scenes within. Directly below him was a large pine forest which he recalled from the air photograph. Standing out was the silver thread of a river that ran alongside the wood, and a duller line of a road that ran across it.

They were a little deep, if anything, so he swept his arms back and straightened his legs, tracking towards the opening point. He was the low man and the others would follow him. His head-down position increased his speed, causing his cheeks, which were compressed by the oxygen mask, to flutter. He flared out again, checking his altimeter, which was unwinding fast, the luminous dials giving him a clear picture.

At 4,000 feet he brought in his right hand to grasp the handle of his ripcord, waving his left arm out in front of his head to warn the others of his intention. At 3,500 feet he pulled the ripcord, instantly feeling the retarding effect as the drogue came clear of his body and started extracting the main canopy. The rigging lines deployed first, allowing the sleeve which sheathed the canopy to peel off; this eliminated a lot of the opening shock. As the canopy caught air it inflated with a dull ‘crump’, breathing one or two times before remaining fully inflated and stabilised.

Tony looked up and checked his canopy before carrying out all-round observation. He had lots of time to do this today, as normally they open their chutes much lower, but at anything lower than 3,000 feet the opening noise of the canopy could be heard from the ground.

Pulling down on his left toggle, Tony turned to watch the others deploying. One after another, the chutes popped open, slowing rapidly, but the seventh shape was distorted, hurtling past the others. Instead of a symmetrical shape an untidy bundle of material streamed behind the tumbling figure, disappearing rapidly as it merged with the earth’s shadow.

Tony landed softly and ran round his chute to collapse it quickly. He ripped off his gloves before removing his helmet, goggles and mask, all in one rough movement. After a quick look around he exaggerated a yawn to help clear his ears so he could listen out for the others. He removed the sling from his weapon and laid it down while he took off his rig. After stripping the carrying straps from his bergan, he stowed the chutes and parachuting equipment inside a large para bag which they carried for this purpose as it helped speed up deployment from the drop zone.

With practised efficiency he was ready to move in under ninety seconds, loaded up with the para bag balanced on top of his bergan, heading off to the RV.

‘I wonder who was tumbling,’ he thought as he opened and closed his mouth, trying to get rid of the waxy film that blocked his ears. Finding the gap in the hedgerow he had been heading for, Tony waited impatiently for the others to arrive. ‘Hurry up, lads. I can’t go and look until someone comes.’

Chalky was the first to arrive, followed closely by Fred. Tony told him to hold the lads at the RV while he and Fred went to find the low man. He knew roughly where to look, recalling the tragic sight of the figure flailing directly over the opening point. He was dreading what he would find. The troop had suffered two fatalities and he had witnessed both of them.

Ron was a former Green Jacket. He had been shocked to find that he had passed selection to be posted to a free-fall troop. His first love was water, and a boat troop would have been his ideal choice. Being new, he couldn’t argue, and knuckled down to learn what he called this terrifying skill. He couldn’t understand the casual approach of the old sweats. It wasn’t bravado: they actually looked forward to the next drop. He fought hard to control his fears, thinking things would get better, but each descent was worse. Being young and enthusiastic he hid his fear well, covering it with a sense of humour that convinced other troop members that his apprehension was faked.

He was last man in the stick, which was where they placed the least experienced member. What little confidence he had was sucked out of him when the ramp was lowered. Looking at Tony hanging precariously around the side of the plane with the slipstream tearing at his face made him physically sick. Being bathed in the red light while he huddled on the ramp was his vision of hell. He couldn’t take his eyes from his altimeters; he didn’t want to see anything else. He was aware of the light turning to green, feeling the change in air pressure as the team dived into space. Then he was alone. His training took over, forcing him to stagger forward and tumble over the edge.

Hammered by the slipstream, his asymmetrical form was immediately sent spinning, toppling him end over end. Calling on his limited experience of thirty-nine descents, he corrected the tumbling once he relaxed and stopped flailing his limbs. But the tumble had shifted his load, making stability difficult and forcing him into a left turn that quickly built up speed. His equipment was hanging to the left, causing him to overcompensate, and before he realised it he span violently in the other direction. He reached terminal velocity in ten seconds, and the gyrations increased to blood-surging speeds. His eyes were riveted to his altimeters, forcing his head down, which added to his plight. Trying to terminate the descent he came in early for his handle, which flipped him onto his back, tearing off his goggles. Even with his eyes stinging and swimming in fluid he refused to close them, staring at the altimeter needles’ relentless progress towards the zero mark. The discarded goggles battered his helmet, threatening to crack it open. His head pounded as he hurtled earthwards out of control, with a mask full of saliva which bubbled and frothed as he screamed.

He should have spent more time sorting out the spin to ensure a clean deployment, but panic had taken over. Maintaining an arched back with head up would have restored stability. He ripped the handle from its housing and pulled. Instead of the familiar opening shock, a vicious pain shot across his chest and arms, but the pressure on his eyes eased immediately. The chute had deployed, slowing him down, but rigging lines had been thrown around his body and over the canopy, preventing full development. Falling feet first with a bundle of washing above him, Ron fought for air. The pressure across his chest was immense, and with his arms securely locked to his body breathing was difficult. For the first time he stopped looking at his instruments and focused on the red handle of his reserve, which seemed a million miles away.

Different thoughts flashed through his mind and everything now seemed to be in slow motion. ‘Nobody really cares for me. No one is going to miss me. Not many people know what I’m doing or where I am. Now I’ve let my mates down. I am a failure.’

Light years of falling took in reality only seconds. One part of him was saying ‘ relax’ and promised comfort, while the other screamed for him to make the effort to reach the reserve handle. Survival instincts are strong, and the screaming won. With a determined effort, aided by adrenalin, he went for the handle. But every time he moved, more pressure was put on his chest, threatening to asphyxiate him and increasing the pain in his arms. He desperately wanted to get back on terra firma, but not this fast.

He was still gyrating, but at a slower rate, the bundle above him retarding his fall. The danger now was that, even if he reached the handle and deployed the reserve, it might become wrapped around him. The normal drill was to cut anything above you away, but he was effectively a prisoner in his own harness.

Sheer determination, engrained in him by his army training, paid off. A Houdini-type effort allowed his right arm to slip around and hook a finger into the reserve handle. As the reserve deployed it took a lot of pressure off his body, enabling him to move his arms and rip off the mask that threatened to suffocate him, allowing him to suck in great breaths of air. The reserve lazily tried to inflate but was hampered by the tangle of lift webs and rigging lines that entwined him. It certainly helped retard his rate of descent, but he was still falling too fast for comfort. The relief of pressure on his chest was a godsend, enabling him to start trying to free the rigging lines. Just as he was about to congratulate himself he saw the dark, menacing shape of pine trees coming up fast to meet him.

He crashed through the wooden canopy. The springy boughs slowed his fall, depositing him on mother earth with surprising gentleness, as if seeking forgiveness for the terror she had put him through. Lying there with the red handle welded to his sweaty palm, Ron looked skyward and offered his thanks.

Tony, with Fred a few yards behind, followed the edge of the wood, stopping often to listen, while Fred scanned the landscape with his night sight. At the apex of the wood where it joined a young plantation, Fred grabbed Tony’s arm and offered him the night sight, pointing ahead. Adjusting the scope slightly, Tony could make out the billowing canopy entangled high among the branches of a tall pine. Following the rigging lines down, he spotted a figure sprawled at the base of the tree.

Covering the short distance in record time, Tony prepared himself for the worst. He gently lifted the man’s head and recognised Ron in the slim beam of his wildly shaking pencil torch. Tony whispered his name. A large grin appeared on the face of the trooper, followed by a wink. Confused for a second, and still gently cradling the head, Tony was amazed when the corpse said, ‘Am I late, boss?’

At this, Tony lost control. ‘You f—ing great dozy bastard. What the f—ing hell do you think you’re doing?’ He ranted and raged, threatening to tear Ron a new rectum. Fred tried calming him down, but Tony had to run out of expletives first and get rid of all his pent-up emotion. The gentle cradling had turned into a neck choke as Tony tried to erase the stupid grin from Ron’s face.

Ron was happy with all the attention he was getting, offering no resistance to Tony’s onslaught. Nothing could be worse than what he had just experienced; he was simply glad to be alive. Finally Tony calmed down and released him.

‘Can I say something, Tony?’ Ron asked nervously. Tony nodded, breathing deeply to bring himself under control. ‘Can I have a troop transfer?’

Fred stepped in to avert another outburst but was surprised when Tony put a reassuring hand on Ron’s shoulder and said, ‘We’ll talk about it back in camp.’

In a clump of stunted mountain ash, Tony reported in to Flight Lt Mace, the DZ safety officer. He told him of the location of Trooper Ron Chandler and left him and the doctor to help recover his kit.

Tony and Fred rejoined the patrol at the RV, where they sat in all-round defence, eager for news. With all pretence of a tactical insertion gone, Tony brought the patrol up to date, telling them of Ron’s escapade.

He had chosen a long route over the Beacons as a test of stamina. Initially the route was due south to the Cray reservoir over fairly flat ground, before turning east to climb over two valleys to the Storey Arms road. From here there was a hard climb over Pen y Fan, the highest point in the Beacons, along the ridge past Cribyn, then over Fan y Big before dropping steeply to the Neuadd reservoir, where hopefully the transport would be waiting. Altogether the march was 35 kilometres long, over rugged hills.

‘Right lads, saddle up. It will be first light soon and I want to be on the high ground,’ ordered Tony.

Putting down his night goggles, Captain Kennedy, 3 Troop Commander, turned to his sergeant and said, ‘They must be on the ground now. Remind the boys it’s a case of beer for every birdman captured.’ He had taken up position in the night but had to stay outside a 5 km circle from the DZ for safety reasons. They had heard the aircraft but had seen nothing. His troop was eager to go; it was no fun lying on damp ground. He deployed most of his men to the north, thinking that was the route 2 Troop would take as a deception plan, before heading south. Once it was light it was a foot race to the Neuadd reservoir, so he got his men up and started the sweep southwards, hoping to intercept his rivals.

The lingering smell of peat gave way to the fragrance of pine as the patrol entered a forest block where the going was firmer underfoot. Conditions changed from ankle-twisting tufted grass surrounded by water-soaked peat that sucked the boots down, reluctant to release them. Walking on the carpet of pine needles was like walking across a Persian rug, allowing Tony to set a cracking pace. Light started filtering through the trees, so they stayed in the shadows and used the fire breaks that ran in their direction.

Features could be seen as the light improved, and objects took on more definition. As Tony’s troop emerged from the forestry block, they saw movement to their left.

‘Look over there,’ pointed Phil. ‘It’s 3 Troop.’

The race was on. Tony put Andy as lead scout, telling him to open his legs and go for it.

CHAPTER THREE

‘You must be mad, Andy. Look at the state of your feet.’ Jane Swingler was sitting on the toilet seat, fiddling with a bottle of shampoo. ‘Why don’t you become a postman or something like that?’ she went on in an agitated voice. ‘I wouldn’t mind what you did. Anything would be better than this.’

‘Don’t start, Jane. I’m knackered. We did 35 clicks today, mostly running.’ Andy’s head was the only thing visible above the steaming, soapy water. ‘Postmen get bitten by dogs, anyway.’

Jane’s high voice reverberated in the confines of the small bathroom, emphasising her distress. ‘You should try looking after the twins for a day and you will soon know what it’s like to be really tired. You don’t have to run over mountains or chuck yourself out of stupid aircraft.’ When Andy failed to respond she carried on, ‘The doctor came again this morning. He’s worried about Maureen.’ Maureen was their eldest, just turned eleven, and asthmatic.

‘Look, love, I know you’ve had it hard lately, but let me do this one last thing, and I’ll consider coming out. I’ll be a postmistress if you want, but don’t let’s argue. I’ll be away soon.’

Jane knelt by the side of the bath and gently towelled his head. ‘Andy Swingler, you’ve been saying that for the last twelve years. Stand up and let’s have a look at you.’ She towelled him down, spending longer than necessary around his groin. ‘What time do you have to parade in the morning?’

‘Cushy day tomorrow. Not till eight,’ he replied.

‘I must be mad,’ she said, before leading him by the hand to the bedroom.

The Colonel sat behind a substantial oak desk, scarred with age and engrained with decades of polish-laden grime. It faced a large window that looked out across the drill square. Apart from a few chairs it was the only piece of furniture in the room. The walls were padded with polystyrene insulation, covered with a light blue plastic sheet stapled at intervals, resembling an over-stuffed sofa. White acoustic tiles covered the ceiling, and a hard-wearing coir carpet covered the floor. Two large fluorescent lights did a good job of lighting the room, but one emitted a low hum. A single door was the only access, and this was heavily padded also. This room was aptly named by the lads the ‘padded cell’.

Clinically neat, the desktop displayed only three trays, a telephone and a neat line of pens by the side of a large memo pad. The trays were equally spaced and filled with neatly stacked correspondence, the in tray winning the altitude stakes. A basket tucked away in the corner behind the desk was the home of a black Labrador who lay comatose, taking no notice of the person who had just been given permission to enter.

The coir carpet was beginning to wrinkle by the door, causing Peter trouble as he strove to close it. This only added to the nervousness he always felt when he went before the CO. The Colonel was a large, dominant man, greying at the temples and, like his desk, old and scarred. He had a deep, sonorous voice, a broken Roman nose and hypnotic eyes that transfixed all who came before him.

‘How’s the training going, Peter?’

‘Very well, sir, but I need a replacement.’

The Colonel scrutinised Peter before saying, ‘I heard there was nonsense on the DZ. What happened?’ As an afterthought said he added, ‘Sit down.’

‘Trooper Chandler had a malfunction and scared himself to death. He’s requested a troop transfer, and I endorse this. He’s a good man but not cut out for free fall.’ Peter sat stiffly upright on the wooden chair.

‘It’s the wrong time to suddenly decide you don’t like bloody free falling,’ the CO responded, his raised voice sounded strangely flat in the acoustically suppressed office. ‘He can’t pick and bloody well choose. He did the long course in Cyprus last year, as well as Fort Bragg. How many jumps has he done?’

‘He was taken off the American trip, Colonel, because his mother died. I guess he’s done at least forty jumps, though.’

‘Forty jumps and still not sure.’ There was a long pause as the Colonel deliberated, absent-mindedly rearranging his pens. Suddenly, with a display of frustrated vigour, he slapped his palms down on the desktop, and using his most intimidating expression demanded, ‘Who have you in mind to replace him?’ The dog lifted its head at this outburst, then, overcome by the effort, flopped back in his basket.

Each troop, when up to full strength, consisted of sixteen men, giving four four-man patrols. Half of 2 Troop were already deployed down in Georgia under the command of Troop Sergeant Hannigan. Peter was deliberately kept back to run this operation with his staff sergeant to assist him.

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