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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 (#ue89a1239-6e89-5c42-a0c6-d8892710e48b)
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.’
