PREVIOUSLY IN WHISKY CHARLIE ONE (An Almost Private War)

They were sat outside a small café just off the Rue du Grand Nez in Paris. One was obviously Russian as his Stalin Fan Club badge was clearly visible. The other was originally from Kyrgyzwazstan but was studying at a French university. They talked in a mixture of Russian and English and the subject seemed to be about ‘them’. “I have what you want” said the older Russian with a very heavy accent. “Everything I asked for?” asked the younger man with very little accent at all. “You want another coffee?” asked a very pushy waiter with a ridiculous French accent. He was actually from Droitwich and was reading French at Aston University. “No thank you” said the younger man politely and a bit of a smug pr1ck really. “I’ll have vodka and none of your cheap shite” said the Russian. The Russian pulled from his pocket a large envelope and handed it to the younger man. The younger man pulled out the contents of the envelope and it seemed to contain lists and pictures. One of the pictures was very familiar. “And that’s the man responsible for the death of my father?” asked the younger man and the Russian nodded. “Flabby McAndrew and you would do well to treat him with some respect” explained the Russian and suddenly it dawned on them. There could be another story about Flabby on the cards. “It’s a chance I’ll just have to take if I want to avenge the death of my father” said the younger man and the Russian wished the waiter would hurry up with that vodka. If he was going to feature in any story, he was going to need it.

Whisky Charlie One – Life’s a Gas

A novel of sorts by

Mistersoft

Just to reiterate (as always), this is just a story; it is historically inaccurate, factually inaccurate, logistically inaccurate, militarily inaccurate, medically inaccurate, geographically inaccurate, scientifically inaccurate, linguistically inaccurate, religiously inaccurate, diabolically inaccurate, grammatically inaccurate and prone to bad spelling and even speling mist-aches. As with all my crap, any resemblance between this story and reality is purely coincidental. Names have been changed to protect identities (especially mine) and unfortunately (or not) it does contain swearing, gratuitous violence, deviant and explicit sex (that got your attention didn’t it?) and of course, plenty of extremely bad puns. You have been warned (as have I and many times).

Chapter One

Flabby looked into her eyes but all he could see was his own reflection. “Take your glasses off dear” he said tenderly or what he thought was tenderly. “On second thoughts put them back on” he added definitely not as tenderly as the last time. The last time he’d seen bags like that, they’d been in a cargo net and dangling under a Wessex. “You do still love me Flabby?” It was more of a statement than a question so I’m still not sure if I should have used that question mark. “Of course I do darling” answered Flabby and he blew gently in her ear. She did have another ear but he didn’t like that one as much, as it stuck out more and it really did highlight the fact she had a serious earwax problem. They had met at a speed dating bash in the town and it had been love at first sight. She had spotted the tall and handsome man and had ignored the weathered face, the very prominent bald patch and the extra few pounds. Flabby had done exactly the same though Angelina, as that was her name (as well as some film star’s) wasn’t quite as bald as him providing it wasn’t too windy. They had gelled very quickly which had left a nasty stain on the living room carpet but it had really seemed the right thing to do. They were now living together in Boathouse Mews in Hereford.

There had been protests but the famous boathouse had been sold and bought by developers as it was on a prime site. The brother of Eamon Holmes, a Barrett Holmes and not to be confused with Barratt Homes, had built a block of very desirable flats and thanks to all the insurance money Flabby had received after his world had been blown up on his last outing, he had taken the plunge and bought a flat on the top floor. It gave him an excellent view of the river and just behind the brewery and squeezed in between the abattoir and the Kwik-fit depot, was a beautiful view of the cathedral. Keeping up his tradition of owning crap cars, a 2CV was parked outside in the elegantly paved courtyard. He knew he should clear the garage as the 2CV had blown away twice but he had to have somewhere to keep his Emmerdale memorabilia until he had a chance to sort it out. Flabby was used to all the jokes and as far as cars go (this one didn’t go too fast or far), he did have a reputation for finding what was bad on the motoring scene. He’d lost track of how many times he’d heard he was driving a ‘Greenpeace Staff Car’ and after the hundredth time or so, it just wasn’t funny anymore. Flabby leaned out over his heliotrope coloured balcony as each flat had all been individually decorated and even the exteriors. It had been Bert that had answered the (in) famous question of ‘what colour is the boathouse in Hereford?’ with ‘any fcuking colour you want’. With that answer, an urban myth had died but generally for Flabby, life was good. Of course this, like all things was subject to change and to prove that point, the phone rang.

Flabby reached across Angelina and picked up the phone. She cried out in pain as he trapped her left nipple but with a tug, she pulled the offending puppy out from under his arm. “Yello” said Flabby into the phone, as Angelina rubbed her rather tender breast. Flabby listened, not saying anything as Angelina started to enjoy the rubbing a bit too much. She thought of Flabby and how sweet and tender he was. “Nipples like Antar wheel nuts” he had once said to her. He really did have a way with words. Flabby was still on the phone as she reached for her other nipple. She liked to keep a spare as Flabby’s sucking made the one very sore. She pinched the nipple between thumb and forefinger and the sensations ran through her entire body. Her hand wandered to between her legs and she could feel the warmth and the wetness and not just because of the bladder infection. Her hands reached inside her knickers and she trembled visibly as she touched her clitoris (whatever that is). “Rodger dodger” said Flabby and threw the phone on the bed. Angelina lay there fingering herself and slowly and seductively pulled off her knickers. There was one slightly less seductive moment when her knickers caught on her leg and as they were white, it looked like somebody surrendering and as they were French knickers most probably somebody French surrendering. But Angelina was indeed surrendering and she was surrendering to Flabby as he lay on top of her. She could feel his weight and she could feel his hardness through his SAS pyjamas (available in S, M, L and XL (like Flabby’s)). His hands squeezed her nipples and she let out a cry as the left one was still a bit sore. She pulled off his pyjama top and pushed down his pyjama bottoms as she so wanted him inside her again. One little push and he would be inside her. “Right I’m off now love, don’t know when I’ll be back, so you’d better finish off without me” said Flabby and pecked her on the cheek before heading off towards the bathroom. “Bugger!” shouted Angelina but Flabby was already trying out the new SAS peach shower gel. She reached into the top drawer of the bedside cabinet and pulling out the SAS CAP (Comforter Alternative Penis) and did exactly as he’d suggested, she finished off without him.

As Angelina finished off without him, Flabby was already in the 2CV and fighting his way through the busy traffic. Although it was primarily designed for old French farmers to take their livestock to market, the 2CV was an excellent town car. Ok, it did offer the protection of a paper bag but it really was quite nippy in town and providing you didn’t ask too much of it, an excellent way of getting from A to B. “I’m buggered if I’d wear them” said Flabby to himself as every sod who drove a 2CV seemed to wear those awful sandals more commonly known as ‘Jesus Boots’. After a few minutes and a close run race with a milk float, Flabby reached Sterling Lines. The camp had totally changed since the last outing as Sterling Lines was now open to the public. Flabby paid his two quid like everybody else, as it was in a good cause and also tax deductible. He parked in the main car park with the rest of the visitors and walked past the various exhibits en route to the more official part of the camp. Three Dale Wintons dangling from a Wasp helicopter was one of the main exhibits. Madame Tussaud’s had been having a clear out and were offloading those who appeared to be going out of favour. Why they had three is anybody’s guess but one of them had been altered to make it look more like Lewis Collins. This had failed miserably and the model looked exactly what it was, which was a model of Dale Winton, which looked as though, it had been hit round the head repeatedly with a shovel. The Wasp had also been an error but the supplier had been clean out of Scout helicopters, so it was hoped nobody would notice. Fans of the film ‘Who Dares Wins’ did and it was the biggest source of complaints from people visiting ‘them’ as the SAS are called in certain circles. Flabby walked past a coach load of tourists and if they all were to be believed, only the driver hadn’t taken part in the rescue at the Iranian Embassy way back in 1980.

“Morning Flabby” said the security guard and it was Derek on today. There was no need for ID cards as Flabby was too well known. Although semi-retired and more semi-retired than his last outing when he’d only been partially semi-retired, Flabby was still a very familiar face. The general public was excluded from this part of the camp and despite many attempts to gain entry, many had tried and all had (so far) failed. Flabby made his way towards the briefing room and took the steps two at a time. Some things he took two at a time but with chocolate HobNobs, he took them three at a time. It’s no wonder he was called Flabby. “Morning Boss” Flabby greeted Major Tom before pulling up a seat next to Knocker. Knocker was reading the latest Robert Ludlum book ‘Still Bourne’ and was not enjoying it. “Its fcuk all like the rest” moaned Knocker. “Morning Flabby” he added. There were plenty of faces but not many that Flabby knew or recognized. Two suits were there and both in their dark black suits with not quite matching green tie with a red stripe or red tie with a green stripe. Flabby could never remember which one was which and neither can I. One is MI5 and the other is MI6 but don’t ask me which one was which. “Bloody foreigners” remarked Knocker pointing at a few sat on the other side of the room. One definitely looked French Foreign Legion and looked suspiciously like the German GSG-9 (Grenzschutzgruppe 9). “Don’t understand what they’re doing here as they only handle internal matters now” remarked Flabby pointing at the German. The German saw Flabby pointing and raised a friendly hand in greeting. Knocker stuck his fingers up but wasn’t quite brave enough to do it so the German could see him. “And who the fcuk is that?” asked Knocker pointing at somebody dripping in medal ribbons. “That’s just lowered the tone a bit” remarked Flabby and he could almost hear the groans. “He’s 49 Para” he added and Knocker looked at him in disbelief.

“Settle down now!” shouted Major Tom and the conversation died or almost, as Knocker still couldn’t believe 49 Para existed. “But somebody made it all up” he protested and it was only after some nasty looks from Major Tom that he shut up. Major Tom started the briefing and as far as briefings go, it wasn’t brief. Knocker was already bored and still protested about the existence of 49 Para but I’d better give you a brief resume of what Major Tom and various suits told the assembled gathering. The problem was and still is the supply of gas to the west. The main supplier is that not very well known country, the Peoples Republic of Kalorgazstan. Kalorgazstan is bordered by other countries and most of them ending in ‘stan’. One of them is Kyrgyzwazstan which is a weapons supplier extraordinaire and the place to go for some uranium if that’s what floats your (now radioactive) boat. Another is the west-friendly and therefore slightly more civilized country of Propania. Another is the Kingdom of Butane but that is so backward that even hippies wouldn’t contemplate visiting there. Kalorgazstan had repeatedly cut off the gas supply to its neighbours and this had resulted in the cutting off of supplies to Western Europe. Propania handled most of this but they were left without enough gas to heat themselves in what was turning out to be the coldest winter since the last cold winter. The west had decided enough was enough and those in the assembled gathering or some of them were the ones intended to turn the words into action or actions. The Defence Secretary, Conservative MP for Lundy Island (West) Sir Desmond Lyneham was fully supportive of any action providing it didn’t come back to bite him and the House of Commons had been strangely united on this matter. In fact, governments from all over Europe had contributed financially but only the French and the Germans had sent a military representative. It wasn’t yet quite sure where the bloke from 49 Para fitted in and as he seemed to be getting up everybody’s nose, it didn’t look as if he would ever fit in. “He’s a fcuking Walt” remarked Knocker and who knows, he might be right.

“First too posh to push and now too fcuking wimpy to fight” remarked Knocker on finding out that Flabby and himself and the German and the Frenchman were the only ones who were going to actually fight. The rest and there were a few, were there in an advisory capacity or in a non-combatant role which is pretty much the same thing or it was as far as Knocker was concerned. The Belgians and the Dutch had sent a reserve but other than that, there would have to be one hell of a lot of blankets being stacked to occupy the time (and skills) of the rest of the assembled gathering. The bloke from 49 Para had been de-frocked and Knocker had been perfectly correct. A Mr Brian Deacon from Droitwich was in fact a shelf stacker for Asda and a member of the Battle of Droitwich Reinactment Society. He was taken away by Derek and given a severe talking to, as well as a mug of Ovaltine and some chocolate digestives. No real harm had been done but security was tightened after that. Derek promised he’d try and stay awake but he couldn’t promise anything, as he’d been on the lash the night before. I say no harm had been done but Mr Brian Deacon of Droitwich had not apparently learned his lesson as he repeated the performance at the Remembrance Day parade. Fortunately a keen eyed ex-Para sussed him and Mr Brian Deacon is now sucking his food through a straw in the intensive care ward of the Droitwich General. “Fcuking serves him right” muttered Knocker when hearing the news and Flabby, who was also there at the time, totally agreed.

“Smudge and Jock will be joining us later” explained Major Tom as Knocker was not happy about a foursome with a ‘Frog’ and a ‘Kraut’ as he so tactfully put it. Smudge had been delayed and Jock was not due down until the following day due to his theatrical commitments. From SAS trooper to stand-up comedian and then on to acting, Jock was a man of many talents. Knocker and Flabby were introduced to first Captain Karl-Heinz Rumminegge of GSG-9 and he was also a man of many talents. Unlike his namesake, he didn’t play football but did have a quarter of a century in counter terrorism already under his belt and was not just somebody coming along for the ride. Captain Sebastien Chabal or ‘The Caveman’ of the French Foreign Legion (FFR) was brighter than he looked. This was fortunate as he had one of those high foreheads and did look as though his shoe size was probably greater than his IQ. It was for this reason; he was called ‘The Caveman’ as unlike his namesake he didn’t have a beard or play rugby. He had served in most theatres though he’d never actually fought in a war or one where he’d been on the winning side. He was now mostly involved in training but did keep up his TV profile by being the resident military expert on the French third channel. “You going to the dinner?” asked Knocker as there was to be a dinner for all the assembled gathering to celebrate the cooperation they’d actually managed to achieve. “I don’t need to fcuking pat myself on the back” said Flabby and he much preferred to be at home rather than brown nosing it with a bunch of bigwigs. Anyway, he had some unfinished business with Angelina providing he could get that CAP away from her. “Costs me a fcuking fortune in batteries” he said thinking out loud and Knocker gave him one of his looks. “See you at the briefing tomorrow” said Flabby and took his leave. He walked past more tourists on the way back to the 2CV. I almost said on the way back to the car there though you’ll notice I managed to stop myself. But anyway, just as Flabby was cranking up the 2CV, for the eighteen-thousandth time that year, a toolmaker from Hartlepool who’d actually been in the Catering Corps told his wide-eyed grandchild about the times he had worked with ‘them’.

Chapter Two

Flabby relaxed at home watching re-runs of the plane crash in Emmerdale from way back in 1993. It always helped to cheer him up after what had been a rather fruitless and boring day. Usually in his line of work, it was a quick briefing and off you went, ending up at some godforsaken airfield in the middle of nowhere. But what had happened that day did occur from time to time and they were very trying times. It wasn’t often that Europe as a whole cooperated and all the frills had been laid on for the visiting dignitaries and the multitudes of hangers-on. As Angelina cooked the fish fingers, Sterling Lines was albeit briefly, a centre for haute cuisine and fine wines. “Do you want mushy peas?” shouted Angelina from the kitchen and wearing nothing but a pinny. It was one of Flabby’s and the artificial breasts dangled in the mushy peas if you weren’t careful as she was finding out to her cost. Wiping a plastic nipple with the dish cloth she shouted out to Flabby if he wanted vinegar and hearing he did placed it on the dining room table. A group of rowers rowed past on the river and were slightly put off their stroke as a four breasted woman walked backwards and forwards in the building that was Flabby’s flat by the river. They did recover well and went to a respectable third at the Henley Regatta later on that year. That of course wasn’t important to the story but just a little background (and totally useless) information. “Grub’s up!” shouted Angelina and Flabby froze the DVD just as the plane hit the deck. They sat in silence, not talking as it is extremely rude to talk with your mouth full. Flabby finished his meal in silence though the mushy peas did have an immediate effect so he squeezed out a fart on the designer antique vinyl chair. “You dirty sod” said Angelina and squeezed one out too. “And you” replied Flabby and replied in kind. Flabby picked her up and carried her to the bed. He threw her on the bed and slowly and seductively took off the pinny. Now back down to the regular two breasts, she posed and opened her legs just a little. Flabby could see she was moist but then remembered she never wiped properly after taking a pish so decided against sticking his head there. He ripped off his clothing, only falling over twice and dived into the bed beside her. I mean into the same bed as there wasn’t another bed next to the bed she was on. English can be so confusing sometimes and I do get confused quite easily myself.

Flabby lay next to her and she made her way down his body. He could feel her hot breath on his stomach and he waited for what was coming next. With all the power he could muster and holding onto the duvet with all his strength, he let rip a mighty fart just as her head was between his legs. “Right, I’m off to watch my DVD” he said and left her to suffocate in what he had left her. “You dirty fcuker!” she shouted and regretted it instantly as she had taken in a breath and thus, taken in the smell. “Do you forgive me?” asked Flabby a few minutes later. Angelina feigned at being cross but she had seen the funny side of it. She cuddled into his side and they both watched the Emmerdale cloth cap recognition DVD. Flabby was quite proud of the fact he could recognize all of the characters just by seeing their caps and that included the women as well. They talked long into the evening and Flabby told her about his life in the SAS and how some author kept fcuking him around. Angelina told Flabby about her childhood and how growing up as a half British, half Chinese child had been. Angelina’s full name was Angelina-Jo Li and her father had owned a chain of takeaways in Droitwich. She had helped in the restaurant and studied as well and had attended university at Cambridge. She came out of Cambridge with a first in Politics and had instantly been snapped up by the Civil Service. She had married but had said herself she had been too young, as it hadn’t lasted. She used to beat her husband but in her own words “He was just the beating type” and they had separated. Her work had forced her to move to Hereford where she was in charge of something or other in the council. She had always been a bit vague about that but it had given her more time and the ability to pursue her passion and that was Russia. She had visited on numerous occasions and had one of the highest totals of frequent flyer miles with Aeroflot. Ok you might have to exchange your frequent flyer miles for a spare part or a refuel but it did also enable her to visit more often. Flabby wasn’t bothered about this and saw nothing strange about it. He was a trusting soul and he trusted Angelina with his life. The evening drew to a close and they both went to bed. Flabby twitched as he slept and Angelina looked over his sleeping body and checked if he was asleep. Seeing he was, she pulled out her mobile from the bedside cabinet and texted somebody. If you could have got close enough and had been wearing your glasses as the text was tiny, you would have seen the text was in Russian.

“Morning Darling” Flabby sat himself down and after scratching his nuts, picking his nose, picking his teeth, held out a loving hand to Angelina. Wisely she ignored it and put his breakfast cereal on the table. Due to the current financial climate, Kellogg’s the manufacturers of such cereals as Corn Flakes or Special K had rebranded one of the more obscure cereals and called them Credit Crunch. It was supposed to take your mind off things but sadly (or not) had been entirely responsible for a string of suicides where merchant bankers had come down for their breakfasts and it had just been too much. There was talk of withdrawing the brand but not everybody seemed too upset about the deaths. Flabby added the milk and a spoonful of what looked like foot powder but was actually an artificial sweetener and tucked in. “Will you miss me?” asked Flabby and she just smiled. “I do know somebody who won’t miss you” she thought to herself but maintained a rather cheesy grin. Her mobile beeped and she checked who it was. “Who was that bunnykins?” asked Flabby. “Double glazing” she replied and made out that she had deleted the message. They sat in silence as Flabby finished off his cereal and his morning ritual of three cups of tea. Angelina ate some lightly buttered toast and drank some sort of fruity tea that looked and smelt vile. Flabby went off to get dressed and she tapped frantically on her mobile and I don’t know what package she has but it looked as though she’d just sent the equivalent of the book War and Peace. Flabby returned now fully dressed and he held her in his arms. He pulled her against him and she winced as his car keys were sticking in her leg. He reached down to kiss her leg better but accidentally head butted her. “Sorry munchy poos” said Flabby as the bruise on her eye was already quite visible. “You know I’m all fingers and thumbs before a job” added Flabby treading on her foot which was quite painful as she was only wearing slippers. “Parting is such sorrow” added Flabby tenderly. “Parting is such pain” said Angelina somewhat ambiguously and slightly breathlessly as Flabby’s bag hit her in the stomach. “I’d better go” said Flabby and pecked her on the cheek, catching an earring and almost ripping it off as it had got caught in his dog tags. “Go!” shouted Angelina and she really meant it. Flabby headed down to the car while she recovered and “Thank fcuk for that” could be heard in English and in Russian. Flabby revved up the 2CV and launched it into the morning traffic. Angelina was already on her mobile and again she was talking in Russian.

Flabby finally reached Sterling Lines as the traffic had been murder. The city had almost been shutdown due to the imminent visit of President Sarkozy of France. He was also due to visit Sterling Lines which is why the camp was on its highest security state and had even been shut to the public. The people of Hereford had been quite cooperative and while they didn’t have much time for the French, at least it wasn’t the Welsh. So Flabby got in for nothing as Derek and Pete (highest security=two on the gate) weren’t taking money. Flabby parked his car in the car park and walked past the three Dale Wintons hanging off a Wasp helicopter. Somebody had twisted the heads round and it gave the display a surreal atmosphere, totally gay of course but very surreal. Even on the entrance to the camp proper, the security had been tightened and Barney and Pete leant against the fence smoking. Pete waved Flabby past while Barney took a quick pish behind a tree. The camp was a hive of activity and anything that didn’t seem bolted down had been removed for safety’s sake. Anything that was bolted down had first been checked for explosive devices and even if they had found one, it would have no doubt been painted before being defused. Flabby sauntered into the briefing room and sat himself down next to Knocker. Knocker slapped Flabby on the back in greeting and it was a while before Flabby could talk again. Jock appeared from the general direction of the offices and Smudge was just having a last cigarette before the briefing. In line with the SAS standard procedures regarding the visiting of dignitaries, he had even remembered to take an ashtray with him. It was of course by now full and overflowing but at least he did things by the book or sometimes he did. “You finished that book Knocker?” asked Flabby. “Nah, binned it” replied Knocker and pulled a paperback from his pocket. “I’ve started on this one” he added and showed them the title. ‘Bourne on the Fourth of July’ was one of the older Ludlum books but supposedly one of his better ones. Smudge appeared with an overflowing ashtray and he carefully emptied it into the fire bucket much to the annoyance of the RSM who glared at him. Smudge ignored him as he usually did and sat down with the rest.

“This is a fcuking circus” moaned Knocker as the briefing wasn’t to start until after the visit. Normally a briefing would take a couple of hours but so far this had taken two days and they were nowhere nearer knowing exactly what the job was. Jock amused himself by singing ‘Who let the dogs out’ and supplementing ‘dogs’ with ‘frogs’ which was much to the annoyance of Captain Sebastien Chabal of the FFR. Knocker contented himself with the classic ‘Two world wars and one world cup’ which was much to the annoyance of Captain Karl-Heinz Rumminegge of GSG-9. They were bored and not the sort to hang around for a visiting dignitary but give them a hedge to live in, in some godforsaken place then they were as happy as pigs in shite. “Tenhut!” barked the RSM and most knew what he meant. In strode a posse of officers and along with Major Tom were the SAS Area Manager, a full Colonel and the Director of the SAS who had a ‘shoulder full of birdshite’ as Knocker usually put it. The room was suddenly full and even MI5 and MI6 were there. The Director SAS started off on one of his long speeches and Knocker tactlessly yawned very loudly. Flabby tried to dig him in the ribs but with Knocker’s build, ribs were generally hard to find. Flabby could hear a helicopter landing and Knocker finally stopped his yawning. “Here’s Frog shite one” he declared rather loudly and very angry looks were thrown his way. Flabby almost jumped out of his skin as a slack handful of buglers let rip right behind them. Flabby certainly hadn’t seen them come in. Everybody stood (Knocker did eventually) and President Sarkozy walked in. Now, Sarkozy is a small man and the Director of the SAS was well over six foot but this did not put off the Frenchman as he attempted to kiss the Director on each cheek. Sniggers were heard from the cheaper seats along with Knocker shouting “Fcuking hit ‘im!” and “Watch out, incoming!” Finally with the help of the Director who leant over, the kissing was done and dusted and Sarkozy started his speech. He spoke entirely in French and for a whole twenty minutes. There were no simultaneous translation facilities and the interpreter had unfortunately got caught up in the traffic and was still stuck just off the ring road, so what Sarkozy said is still a mystery. Whatever it was though some did pick up the odd word, it was said with great passion and much movement of the hands which is why the water jug and three glasses were knocked over. In fact the water jug had hit the deck twice. Of course Captain Sebastien Chabal of the FFR knew exactly what had been said and could have translated it but as somebody kept taking the pish, he didn’t bother.

Finally it was over and they all stood lined up as Sarkozy went along the line shaking each hand in turn. Knocker’s “Fcuk off big nose” was definitely the best crack but Jock’s “Don’t shake it too hard, he might surrender” came a close second. At last they could get down to brass tacks and the actual job they would soon be on. The room had emptied and apart from the Frenchman, the German, the two suits and Major Tom, then our four heroes had the room to themselves. Smudge, who had needed a cigarette a good nineteen minutes ago, just lit up and refused to put it out even when Major Tom ordered him to. “Fcuking kill yourself then” said Major Tom who wasn’t that bothered as he’d never believed all that stuff about passive smoking. Major Tom, who had spent ages putting the mission onto Powerpoint, switched on the laptop that was connected to the large LCD screen. They waited patiently as the laptop updated itself and a while longer as it had to reboot (twice). The Powerpoint wouldn’t load as the anti-virus software wanted to do a scan and hogged all the resources, so they waited a while longer. Smudge lit up another cigarette and Flabby handed round the Tic-Tacs as the anti-virus threw a wobbly as it had found a tracking cookie and then came the first of the world famous BSOD (blue screen of death). Major Tom rebooted (twice), took out the battery as the laptop had locked up solid and with slightly more than a token gesture, threw the laptop against the wall. He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a large file. “Gather round gentlemen” he said and they all shuffled closer. “Fcuking watch it!” shouted Knocker as the Frenchman got a bit too close.

Chapter Three

“Piece of pish” remarked Knocker as Major Tom explained the job. Flabby looked at Knocker and while he couldn’t help but admire Knocker’s confidence, no job was ever simple especially the ones made up by the tw@t writing this. “If only he’d had real army experience” thought Flabby to himself as in his mind, the author had joined up, stood still so people could shove tapes on him and when there didn’t seem any more forthcoming, left and worked as a civvy for the army. This was not the CV of a trained killer or anybody vaguely qualified to write about trained killers. But he had to concede the author had a vivid imagination and what he lacked in military knowledge, he compensated for it with terrible puns mixed in with pure shite. The job that Knocker thought so easy was to find and destroy the convoy carrying the latest anti-aircraft defence system, as it made its way from Kyrgyzwazstan to the Peoples Republic of Kalorgazstan. Kalorgazstan had anticipated a reaction from the West to its playing silly buggers with the gas supply and was reinforcing its defences thanks to Kyrgyzwazstan’s tendency to sell anything to anybody as long as they had it in stock and of course the price was right. The intelligence had come from the Americans as while they didn’t really care about the gas, they did have a spy satellite going spare and a few new bods to train up. Normally they wouldn’t have interfered, which is of course a complete policy change as Americans have been interfering since time immemorial. But in return for some outrageous trade concessions, they were all too happy to help this time.

The ideal time for an air strike as that is what had been decided on, was actually immediately as while Kalorgazstan had beefed up its defences, Europe easily had the capabilities to deal with it. But as it was a European effort, the wrangling was still going on and the strike still had to be ratified in at least five European governments. So ‘Plan B’ was to launch the air strike once the convoy had been destroyed. It had taken hundreds of European civil servants to provide the data using the latest intelligence and the latest risk assessments though it had been the European Chief of Staff who had made the final decision. You wouldn’t think something as important as this would be decided by the toss of a coin but that’s exactly what had happened. Flabby wasn’t too happy with this, as the European Chief of Staff was somebody he knew and knew well. Sir Jock Stirrup had called Flabby smug and complacent on one job and in fact Sir Jock thought everybody apart from himself smug and complacent. “I’ll kick his fcuking cnut in if I ever see him” had been Knocker’s words on hearing about it and I assure you, he meant it. Flabby and his team plus the Frenchman and the German were to fly out to Propania and using local forces on to their destination. The reserves, the Dutchman and the Belgian were to accompany them but were to stay on full alert in Propania. The Dutchman was a very experienced marine and the Belgian an equally experienced paratrooper. They were called, not that it’s that important but I thought you might like to know, Captain Richard van Dijk and Captain Jean-Claude Van Domme respectively. They had all been going to fly with the RAF but the RAF was totally overstretched and the powers that be had got a better deal with Lufthansa. Now who’s smug and complacent? Logistics were to be sorted out in Propania and as we speak or as I type, it’s probably best if you don’t know what’s in various diplomatic bags on their way to their respective embassies in Propania. All Flabby had to do was to get his sorry arrse to Propania along with a change of clothes, washing and shaving kit and the latest Robert Ludlum book (Bourne in the USA). It might be handy if he remembered his passport and perhaps the rest of the team but otherwise it wasn’t exactly rocket science.

Flabby looked into Angelina’s eyes. “Get ‘em off” he said playfully. She peeled off her top, hooking her glasses and putting them back on, the top fell to the floor. She slid off her skirt and wiggled her shapely bottom. On the river, a coxless four were now minus the four as well as the cox, as due to not looking where they were rowing, they had just rowed into the embankment. “And come away from the window” added Flabby as a large crowd was starting to form on the other side of the river. Angelina undid the clasp on her bra and let it fall to the floor (the bra and the clasp). Her breasts weren’t far behind as she had been slacking a bit on the exercises. Her nipples were hard but then the room was a bit on the chilly side. Flabby didn’t like the room too warm as he sweated profusely in his long johns. The large crowd was now even larger and somebody had even brought a pair of binoculars. Angelina lowered her panties and ran a hand through her hair. She then ran her hand through her hair and there was quite a bit of it. “It’s like Nena’s armpit” Flabby had once said though just the once as she’d got annoyed. Now totally naked she danced about the room. The crowd across the river appeared to move with her and the bloke with the binoculars fell in the river. I say fell, he might even have been pushed but some kind soul threw him a life ring. Unfortunately it hit him on the head, knocking him unconscious and he drowned before anybody realised. Angelina bent down and Flabby could almost see what she’d had for dinner. Across the river, the police were dragging a body from the river and trying to move the crowd along. The police had also noticed Angelina and due to a momentary lapse of concentration, the body was again pulled from the river. “I’m ready for you” whispered Angelina into Flabby’s ear but he struggled as he couldn’t see the telly. She sat on his lap and just wiggled. Flabby could feel his excitement rising and he nibbled at her ear as one it meant she stopped nibbling his and two; he had a better view of the telly. “Take me now!” she shouted and the crowd across the river cheered. “In a minute” said Flabby as at this moment in time, the only climax he was interested in was the climax of this episode of Emmerdale. “When I said get ‘em off, I meant your glasses” he added and Angelina looked at him in surprise. She glanced at the telly and two white spots appeared on the screen. “See what I mean” explained Flabby. “They were reflecting on the telly” he added and she stormed off into the bedroom. Across the river, the crowd started to disperse and one disgruntled voyeur was actually looking for somebody to complain to. “If I’d fcuking paid, I’d be asking for my fcuking money back” he said and headed for the nurse’s home as you got a great view of some of the bedrooms from a certain vantage point that he knew (well).

“You do forgive me fluffy bunnies” said Flabby part statement and part question and he didn’t know either whether there should be a question mark or not. “Of course I do munchkins” replied Angelina and they made love again. It wasn’t like the first time. This time it was different as she’d put all her toys away. She liked the toys but Flabby wasn’t so keen. “Every fcuking hole has something buzzing in it” he had told Knocker in confidence which is why for weeks afterwards, Sterling Lines buzzed or it did when Flabby was around. He had stumbled about in the dark for weeks as he’d been far too embarrassed to get new batteries from the QM’s department. It’s ok insisting the batteries are for a torch but nobody was ever going to believe him. “Tell me about your day” said Angelina after they had finished and had wiped up that damp patch on the sheet. Flabby just spilled the beans. He had nothing to hide as the Daily Mail was already publishing plenty of the details, not about his job but there wasn’t that much, that wasn’t in the public domain. The Sun were publishing a completely different story but then (like most times), they had just made it up. It wasn’t that far from the truth but it’s just a shame nobody in The Sun knew what truth was. Flabby was due to leave early the following morning and he was going to have to slum it a bit as the Septembas were either in use or unserviceable so no helicopter ride to Heathrow for him. The SAS minibus was being serviced and thoroughly cleaned as on its last outing it had brought back a good proportion of the flora and fauna from Brecon Beacons. Velour upholstery shouldn’t really be steam cleaned but in this case it was an absolute necessity. Flabby went for a soak so had to return from the pub early as no matter how drunk people are, how annoying they are, how much they wind you up, you shouldn’t hit them. Flabby usually got tense before a job but due to the length of time this was taking to get together, he was both tense and/or bored shiteless. Angelina was sleeping peacefully when he climbed under the SAS duvet with crested cover and matching pillow cases (available in normal and king-size). He wished she wouldn’t snore or fart but as she was sleeping peacefully, he didn’t wake her. Tomorrow was another day and at last there might be some action.

Flabby woke and the bed was empty, apart from him of course. Angelina was already up and breakfast was on the table. She wasn’t looking very well which is probably why breakfast was on the table, as it had been her breakfast. Flabby retched as he wiped the puke from the table and threw the tea towel in the bin. He pulled out a spray that (allegedly) killed 99% of all germs and just prayed that the other 1% weren’t harmful. After cleaning the table with the spray and an old dishcloth, he carried her back to the bed and dropped her gently onto it. He pulled up the cover then pulled it off and put it on the right way as it really annoyed him when the crest was upside down. He fluffed her pillows, even the one she had her head on which did annoy her but he forgave her as she wasn’t feeling well. Yes perhaps he had been a bit of a ‘cnut’ but at least his heart was in the right place. Maybe he shouldn’t have pulled the pillow from under her head but that crest had been upside down as well. “I have to go honey bunch snooky dumplings” he said and she was sick on the carpet. He leant across and kissed her somewhere near the bottom of the duvet. He then whispered tenderly in her ear or close (ish). “Don’t worry bumblykins, you can clean the puke up later” Not waiting for an answer which was a good job as she really let rip this time, he grabbed his bag from the hall and headed out to the car. The car started first time if you don’t count the eleven false starts and he roared (ish) out into the morning traffic. Across the river from Flabby’s flat, a solitary figure stood on the embankment. He just stood there twiddling with a badge on his coat lapel. If you could have looked closer or had a set of binoculars handy, you would have seen the badge was a Stalin Fan Club badge and the man looked remarkably like the one who had been sitting outside the café in the Rue du Grand Nez in Paris. The man pulled a mobile from his coat pocket and pressed various buttons. Somewhere across the river, a mobile rang and Angelina, looking remarkably better answered.

“These fcuking seats are wet!” shouted Knocker and they were. This of course highlighted why velour upholstery shouldn’t really be steam cleaned as it took ages to dry. Knocker pulled out a Lidl carrier bag from his pocket and stuck it on the seat. But it was already too late as a rather suspicious damp patch was already visible on his trousers. In fact everybody had a damp patch which did make them the centre of attention at Heathrow. Jock passed it off to any he could explain to that they were on a getaway for incontinence sufferers but that probably didn’t help. The drive to Heathrow had been relatively uneventful, damp but uneventful. The sight of eight grown men fighting over a hand dryer in the toilets did attract the attention of security but Flabby used his ‘get out of jail free card’ which basically told the security staff to fcuk off and mind their own, once they had dialled the number on the card. The excitement over they settled down as best you can in damp trousers and waited to be called for their flight. Flabby had Robert Ludlum’s second book strangely titled ‘First Bourne’ and the rest settled for various other reading material ranging from Anglers Weekly to Massive Jugs. The Massive Jugs was for Captain Richard van Dijk now nicknamed ‘Dick’ as he was a bit of an expert on ceramics. Captain Jean-Claude Van Domme nicknamed ‘JC’ flicked through a rather gay looking martial arts magazine and while his almost namesake Jean-Claude Van Damme was nicknamed ‘The Muscles from Brussels’, JC came from Knokke-Heist and there was bugger all that rhymed with that. So JC he was but he was no less an imposing figure even with that damp patch. Captain Karl-Heinz Rumminegge or plain and simple ‘Karl’, with all his Teutonic efficiency had managed to acquire a hair dryer and was now blow-drying his crutch in the middle of the terminal. To say it attracted a bit of attention is somewhat of an understatement but despite being stopped by two armed police, he had the driest trousers of the eight. Captain Sebastien Chabal or ‘Seb’ was chatting up some horror who worked at Burger King and doing quite well. “I’d give her a seven if she’d squeeze those spots” said Knocker. “I’d just give her one” added Jock rather ambiguously.

So without attracting too much attention in the terminal, their flight was finally called. Flabby rushed out to find Smudge finishing his last fourteen cigarettes and applying a couple of boxes of nicotine patches. Smudge had found that the best way for the patch to introduce nicotine into your bloodstream was to stick it on your tongue. It didn’t do much for the art of conversation, as you couldn’t understand a word he was saying but at least he might actually endure the flight without going mad and/or hitting somebody. Eight hours later they touched down at Alkane International Airport, the capital city of Propania. The flight had been fine. They had drunk, they had eaten and they had seen in the in-flight film ‘Das Boot’ twice. The apfelstrudel with sauerkraut custard had been to die for and one passenger actually had done though they later found out she was sauerkraut intolerant. They were met by a Mr Devonley-Walmer (pronounced Burnley) from the embassy and he was to see to their needs. “I’d change some money if I were you” said Mr Devonley-Walmer and they bimbled off to the bureau de change to get some of the local currency, the gaz mark. So now with pockets bulging with gaz marks, they followed Mr Devonley-Walmer who had the embassy minibus. The seats of this minibus were not wet but did feel slightly damp to the touch once our eight had got out (as did the seats on the plane). Their accommodation was within the embassy compound but they were free to do pretty much as they liked. There was a briefing the following morning and there didn’t appear to be much of a rush. There were still apparently four countries who hadn’t totally agreed to the action and the draft of the re-draft of the re-draft of the first draft would have to be drafted (or it that re-drafted?) to include the latest amendments. “This is going to take until fcuking Christmas” muttered Knocker and Flabby agreed. So with the evening to themselves they helped kick the jet lag by getting ratted or at least Flabby, Knocker, Jock and Smudge did. The others had their respective embassies to contact and didn’t think a night on the lash the right thing to do. Talking of the right thing to do, they found themselves in a rather seedy bar and the one where girls disappear for a while then return and then disappear again. Ok it was a brothel but it might not have been as twenty minutes at gaz mark seven sounds more like a recipe to me. I’m not saying who it was but if you do need further information, please ask Jock.

Chapter Four

Flabby tucked into his breakfast despite his throbbing head. “I’m never fcuking drinking again” he said to Knocker who was looking somewhat fragile himself. Jock sipped his coffee and winced in pain. Last night’s sexual adventure had been fun but without a condom there was the risk he might have picked something up. He had spent the best part of an hour scrubbing his dangly bits with Domestos and a nail brush. Of course such harsh treatment had made them sore and he was now suffering. Smudge coughed his way through his fourteenth cigarette of the morning and was then sick over the herbaceous border by the patio doors leading to his room. The herbaceous border had already been a rainbow of colours but was now even more resplendent with the extra tomato skins and diced carrots that dripped off the foliage. “That’s better” said Smudge and lit up another cigarette. Mr Devonley-Walmer walked past and noticed the herbaceous border. “Good night last night? He asked but didn’t wait for Smudge’s answer. One, he was in a hurry and two, Smudge was being sick again.

“Morning all” said Mr Devonley-Walmer and surveyed the sorry scene. “Where’s the Cloggy?” he asked and looked round the room. “Well he’s not hiding under the table” replied Jock. “His embassy wants him” said Mr Devonley-Walmer, still looking round the room. In the distance you could just hear Smudge being sick yet again. “Not seen ‘im” replied Knocker and in fact they hadn’t seen the other four at all. “Hold on a fcuking minute!” said Knocker and headed off to check their rooms. A couple of minutes passed and he returned looking slightly worried. “They aren’t in their room and their beds haven’t even been slept in” added Knocker. “Oh fcuk” said Flabby wondering where the hell they were or what had become of them. “Ok fcuk indeed” replied Mr Devonley-Walmer and rushed off to make a few frantic phone calls. He rang the other embassies and found out that all four appeared to be missing. He rushed back and told Flabby and company the bad news. “Wait one” said Mr Devonley-Walmer and rushed off again. He returned within a few minutes and was carrying a fairly large parcel. “Mail call” he joked and handed the parcel to Flabby. “I didn’t order anything” said Flabby but that was actually untrue, as he’d forgotten about pre-ordering the latest Emmerdale box set. The parcel was wrapped in brown paper and was addressed to him but something didn’t seem quite right. It was unusually heavy but at least it didn’t tick. “Give’s it here” said Jock wincing as his SAS boxer shorts caught on his red raw scrotum but grabbing the parcel and shaking it. “It could be a bomb” he joked and banged the parcel down hard on the table. “Phone call Mr McAndrew” said one of the embassy staff and Flabby followed her towards an office in the embassy proper. Knocker and Jock decided it was time they checked on Smudge as the distant sound of ’dry heaving’ was starting to worry them. They hadn’t gone far when the parcel exploded knocking them both to the floor. Roof tiles rained down on them and they covered their heads with their hands trying to protect themselves. Smudge had been blown clean across the garden and had landed in the middle of a rather ornate ornamental pond. He’d bent his cigarette but otherwise, he was unscathed. Flabby had been blown on top of the woman and was quite enjoying it but a knee to his groin put an end to their beautiful friendship. She was a cool customer as dusting herself off as best she could she continued towards the embassy proper. “Are you taking this phone call or not” she asked and pulled her skirt down covering up her civil service standard issue knickers. They had vastly improved over the years and come in a range of styles and colours but many were still loathe to wear them. Who the hell wants ‘Government Property’ emblazoned on each cheek?

“You’re bleeding Jock” said Knocker as he tried to free himself from what seemed like half a ton of roof tiles and assorted masonry. Now Jock had always wanted to say this and Predator was one of his favourite films. “I ain’t got time to bleed” replied Jock freeing himself from a rather large pile of rubble and emulating Blain’s classic line in the film. “Fcuk off Jock” said Knocker but he was smiling. Jock was indeed bleeding but it was just a small gash on his forehead and looked far worse than it was. Mr Devonley-Walmer hadn’t been quite so lucky. Jock and Knocker found him or what was left of him by the monkey puzzle tree and it was going to be some puzzle finding all the bits of him let alone burying them in the same coffin. The embassy security staff were already on the scene and one brave individual advised Jock and Knocker to leave. “Well ok you can stay but don’t touch anything” said the security operative, deciding he preferred his head on his shoulders and not up his arrse. Knocker did have a way with words. “Jock!” shouted Smudge and the two of them looked round to see Smudge doing his ornamental statue routine. There was even a fountain though they weren’t quite sure where he got the water from. “You dirty fcuker!” shouted Knocker as he suddenly realised where Smudge had got his water from. He was pishing in the pond and that was quite an impressive fountain. “There’s bugger all wrong with his prostrate” remarked Jock and the two of them just couldn’t help laughing.

Flabby followed the woman to the embassy proper as the scene of the explosion was being sealed off. The explosion had woken up many in their offices and two of the elder members of staff had been halfway back to their residences before realising it had been an explosion and not the alarm clock that usually woke them when it was time to go home. There were no phones free but Flabby flexed his muscles a bit and a poor junior member of staff was pushed out the way. He had been ringing for the emergency services as there had been a few casualties but he supposed it could wait as most had just been injuries consistent with having fallen off your chair. “Allo allo” said Flabby forgetting his voice procedure training. “Did you get my little present?” asked the voice on the other end of the line. “What present?” asked Flabby not meaning to appear dumb. “The one that should have wiped you off the face of this earth” replied the voice. “Who are you, you barsteward?” asked Flabby suddenly very annoyed. “Remember Gregor?” asked the voice and Flabby thought of all the Gregors he knew or might have knew. “Gregor Fisher?” asked Flabby as he’d seen an old episode of Rab C Nesbitt just the other week. “Does my father’s death mean so little to you?” asked the voice and Flabby suddenly remembered being covered with Gregor’s brains as the sniper had taken him out. “But I didn’t kill him” replied Flabby truthfully. “But you may as well have done” replied the voice and obviously Gregor’s son. “And for that you and your friends will also die” added the voice and line went dead. Flabby pressed the ‘auto trace’ button on the phone but a voice came on the line informing him that the caller did not wish to be traced and had withheld his or her number. “Bugger!” shouted Flabby and a camp looking member of the embassy staff winked at him. Flabby ignored him and headed off looking for Mr Devonley-Walmer as news of his death hadn’t reached the embassy proper just yet.

Flabby found Mr Devonley-Walmer or part of him. The security staff had advised him that it was now a secure crime scene and he would be better off going elsewhere. Flabby had ignored their advice as after all it had only been advice and the security staff were just a bunch of jumped up civvies with little or no authority at all. The grounds were littered with parts of Mr Devonley-Walmer and a defiant digit was still stuck in the monkey puzzle tree. Flabby had no wish to go nearer so did exactly what the digit was telling him to do and so fcuked off. Finally after avoiding more of Mr Devonley-Walmer on the ground, Flabby met back up with the other three. They seemed in good spirits and Smudge’s ornamental statue routine was fast becoming an army urban myth. “We need to find the other four” said Flabby. ‘And we need to find out who did this before he has another go” he added and the four of them headed towards the embassy. Ignoring the protests of all and sundry, they found exactly who they were looking for and that was the Trade Attaché. “Come in gentlemen, I’ve been expecting you” said the Trade Attaché who wasn’t a trade attaché but a member of MI5. “So why aren’t you out there finding out who did this?” asked Smudge. “Because you don’t keep a dog and bark yourself” he replied and explained that two of his underlings were already going over the scene with a fine toothed comb. “And I know who did it” he added and the four stared at him totally dumbfounded. It wasn’t often that ‘suits’ were on the ball or had their finger on the pulse but this one seemed to be way ahead of them. “I know all about Gregor and his son. Incidentally also a Gregor” explained the suit or Mr Brown. He hadn’t told them his name but it had been on the door of his office. “I know that your significant other half, an Angelina-Jo Li is working for the Russians” continued Mr Brown and both Knocker and Jock had to restrain Flabby as he launched himself across the desk. “That’s a fcuking lie!” roared Flabby but suddenly it dawned on him. “All those strange messages and phone calls and this fascination with Russia and all things Russian” he thought to himself. “I’ve been a fool” said Flabby hoping for some sympathy. “You’ve been a total cnut” said Jock totally without sympathy. “Too fcuking right” said Smudge unsympathetically. “A total fcuking ball bag” added Smudge not at his most sympathetic and probably couldn’t have been less sympathetic if he tried.

“But what about the Cloggy and the……………?” asked Smudge. “The Cloggy, the Frog, the Eric and the Belgian have all been kidnapped” interrupted Mr Brown and he didn’t seem particularly sympathetic either. “I know where they are and I know who’s holding them” he added and went on to explain that they had been kidnapped by the Kalorgazstani secret service to use as human shields should the west consider any military action. They were being held separately at some of the gas installations the Kalorgazstanis thought the west might target. “Can’t you do anything about it?” asked Flabby finally getting over the shock about Angelina. “My hands are tied” explained Mr Brown. “But yours aren’t” he added and winked knowingly. “But what about all these fcuking Gregors?” asked Jock and he was (like me) having great difficulty keeping up with the plot. “Young Gregor is operating on his own but he does have help from the Kyrgyzwazstani Chamber of Commerce. “The fcuking what?” asked Flabby never having been targeted by a chamber of commerce before. Mr Brown went on (and on) to explain that the Kyrgyzwazstani Chamber of Commerce was just a front for the many arms dealers in Kyrgyzwazstan and they were extremely powerful people, with some having what basically amounted to private armies. “Fcuk a stoat!” remarked Jock finally catching up with the plot. “What about weapons?” asked Flabby as they had been promised some goodies to play with. “There are weapons earmarked for the attack on the anti-aircraft defence system or there will be when they arrive” explained Mr Brown and went on and on (and on) to explain that now most bags (diplomatic or otherwise) go through the new Terminal 5 and the few bags that aren’t nicked go absolutely everywhere else other than their intended destination. “If I were you, I’d buy them off the Kyrgyzwazstani Chamber of Commerce. “But they’re trying to fcuking kill me!” said Flabby amazed at Mr Brown suggesting such a thing. “But they won’t miss out on a deal” explained Mr Brown and while they were not a country to deal with, unofficially, the UK had been buying off them for years. “You’d never read that in the Daily Mail” said Flabby smiling. “You never read anything of any consequence in the Daily Mail” replied Mr Brown smiling and the four of them totally agreed.

“What about money?” asked Flabby. “You’ve got your SAS credit card haven’t you?” replied Mr Brown. “I can’t fcuking pay with that!” exploded Flabby. “Yes you can and they won’t bat an eyelid” replied Mr Brown and Flabby stared at him in amazement. “The other embassies are quite happy to give you ‘carte blanche’ as far as rescuing their citizens” explained Mr Brown. “Card what?” asked Jock who had been staring out the window and not paying attention. “You’ll have a free reign” explained Mr Brown. Jock was up to speed now and promised he’d try and pay more attention. “But what about young Gregor?” asked Flabby as he wasn’t happy having a loose cannon running around with something nasty and his name on it. “He’ll probably be there when you buy the weapons. Just be careful and if you do try before you buy, make sure the safety catch is off” he concluded and it seemed sound advice to most of them. They left Mr Brown updating his boss in London and headed back to what was left of their accommodation. The remains of Mr Devonley-Walmer had finally been collected though the defiant digit was still in the monkey puzzle tree. They collected what was left of their possessions and climbed onboard the embassy minibus. The embassy had found them alternative accommodation in a hotel downtown, so they and unbeknown to them, one of Mr Brown’s underlings sat on the minibus and watched the Propanian world go by en route to the hotel. After the traditional shite, shower and shave, they all felt refreshed and ready for the day ahead. They ate heartily in the restaurant and drank even more heartily in the bar. Flabby had long forgotten about saying he would never drink again and downed another beer. Mr Brown’s underling also sat in the bar sipping a diet coke when his mobile rang. He pulled it from his pocket and put it to his ear. With the phone still to his ear he walked across to Flabby and handed him the phone. “Allo allo” said Flabby. “Brown here” said Mr Brown on the other end of the line. “There was something else about Angelina that I really should mention” he added. “She really gave great blowjobs” he concluded and the phone went dead. Knocker, Jock and Smudge were required to keep Flabby from killing the underling but eventually he calmed down. He handed the underling the phone and sat down. The underling went back to his coke but as he drank, you could see his hands trembling. In his office Mr Brown was looking pleased with himself. “That should keep the little barsteward on his toes” he muttered to the hat stand as there’s nothing worse than an underling that doesn’t know his place.

Chapter Five

They were heading for a point where the borders of Propania, Kalorgazstan and Kyrgyzwazstan met. The area was somewhat wild and lawless and was also the easiest way to cross from country to country, as despite the best efforts of a local firm of fence erectors, the borders were virtually wide open. The area was affectionately known as the ‘Kalashnikov Triangle’ mainly due to the vast number of AK47’s the Kyrgyzwazstanis shifted in your average financial year. They had rented a car courtesy of the hotel and it was a bit of a wreck. The upholstery was torn in umpteen places and in the boot, a dead chicken was rotting nicely in the recess where the spare wheel should have been. They were of course unarmed but Knocker had a tyre lever tucked away in his pocket. Smudge had the radio cassette in his hand as it had fallen out and was ready to throw it at anybody should the need arise. Jock had nothing in the way of weapons but had decided that in an emergency, there was always the dead chicken. Flabby was too involved in his driving, as the steering was a bit vague and the gear lever kept coming out in his hand. “Fcuking hell Smudge!” shouted Jock over the sound of the engine. “Open a fcuking window!” he bellowed as Smudge had insisted on chain smoking from the minute they had left the hotel. Smudge pressed the button for the electric windows and after a while and after the strange grinding noise had stopped, accompanied by a very distinct smell of burning, the window dropped down into the door frame and was never seen again. “That’s great!” shouted Smudge feeling the wind in his face. In the back, Knocker and Jock weren’t as happy. Anything the front wheels seemed to throw up ended up in the back of the car and that included several totally squashed small rodents and half a ton of loose chippings.

Finally they reached the Kalashnikov Triangle and Flabby pulled the car off the road. Smudge stood there smoking, with one foot in Propania, one foot in Kalorgazstan and pishing on the sandy Kyrgyzwazstani soil as he’d needed to go for a while. He did try alternating but it wasn’t such a good idea to jump around while pishing and so only managed to pish over his boots and twice. “You can fcuking clean that off!” shouted Flabby. Smudge opened the boot and used the more solid parts of the dead chicken to wipe down his boots. “Bang goes my fcuking weapon” said Jock but picked up a large stone off the ground and shoved it in his pocket. He picked up a few more and distributed them round his other pockets though it didn’t do his sunglasses any favours. They all jumped back into the car and it’s a good job the window was open as the smell of dead rotting chicken coming off Smudge’s boots was pretty rank. The road stretched for miles running along the border between Kalorgazstan and Kyrgyzwazstan and then veered away from the border and headed deeper into Kyrgyzwazstan. There wasn’t a car on the road and there wasn’t a sign of any border security and they almost wondered if they were heading in the right direction but the sat-nav was adamant. I say adamant as for some unknown reason the sat-nav could be programmed to speak in any language other than English. “Not far to go” said the sat-nav in German. “Turn right” it said in French. “Straight ahead” it said in Tagalog until finally in Polish, it told them they had reached their destination. Actually they hadn’t but Flabby didn’t want to drive straight into the lion’s den but rather to sneak in the back. In the distance they could see the town and it was reminiscent of some American backwater town as while there wasn’t much there, what was there was lit up in garish and totally over the top neon lights. They acted nonchalantly as a car drove past but the occupants took no notice of them whatsoever. Flabby looked across to the town and marked out the route in his head using all the available cover. Of course while had been doing this he wasn’t watching the road. He’d failed to see another car approaching and he almost jumped out of his skin when somebody other than the other three spoke to him. The other three had also been busy as Knocker had been taking a dump behind a bush, Jock had been trying to sort the sat-nav out and Smudge had been trying to clean his boots. “I’m looking for the road back to Propania so I am” said a man leaning out of the window of a far better looking car than theirs.

Flabby recognized the accent. How could he fail to recognize the accent? It was a Belfast accent and the driver and his passenger looked all too familiar. Although they were all in civvies, the four of them still had a very distinct air of being military. The driver seemed to sense the recognition in Flabby’s eyes and attempted to drive away. Flabby reached in and as the car moved forwards he reached for the ignition keys. Knocker had looked up at the exact moment this had happened as he’d been running out of suitable foliage to wipe his arrse. Running and trying to pull his trousers up at the same time, he headed for the car. Jock was out of their car in a flash and one of his specially handpicked stones hit the windscreen. It might have been a better car than theirs but what it didn’t have was a laminated windscreen. The driver of the car was now going nowhere or nowhere he could see. Smudge tore open the passenger door and closed it even quicker but not completely when he saw the pistol pointing towards him. He slammed the door trapping the man’s arm and the pistol fell to the floor. Tearing open the door again he and Knocker who had finally got his trousers up, laid into the man and dragged him out of the passenger seat. Once out and lying on the floor, Knocker and Smudge continued laying into him until one of Jock’s special stones hit him on the forehead and his body went limp. Flabby had by now managed to switch off the engine and as the car ground to a halt, he was attempting to strangle the driver through the open window. The rest joined in and the driver was manhandled out of the car and dumped on the ground. Knocker held his arms while Jock searched him and found a Glock pistol in his inside pocket which he tossed to Flabby. Smudge also had a Glock courtesy of the passenger and they started searching the car thinking there might be more. The boot revealed a pair of AK47’s, some spare magazines and plenty of spare ammunition.

“This bloke’s dead!” shouted Smudge and they all turned round to look. Smudge jumped and ran towards them shouting. “There’s fcuking hundreds of fcuking snakes!” he screamed and made as much distance as possible between him and the passenger’s body which was covered in a writhing mass of snakes. “They’re Kyrgyzwazstani Pit Vipers” said Knocker as he’d seen David Attenborough a few weeks back and the snakes had featured quite prominently in the new series of ‘Life in the nondescript scrubland’. “The fcuking driver ain’t too healthy either” remarked Flabby and it looked as though the driver had met the same fate. It seemed that the Kyrgyzwazstani Pit Vipers had not been too happy at dissident republicans lounging about in their territory and revenge had been both swift and fatal. The snakes had come out of hiding attracted by the warm sunshine and probably the smell of Smudge’s boots. Flabby explained to the rest how he had recognized the driver. “Des something” he said and continued to explain. In the briefing room back at Sterling Lines, there was usually a rogue’s gallery of mug shots. Flabby had actually been there when the clerk had updated it and the ‘Des something’ was a member of the Continuity IRA. Unfortunately, as the briefing room was to be used for the Europeans and the visit of Sarkozy, it had been decided to remove the mug shots until everybody had buggered off. “Flabby we’ve got company!” shouted Smudge who had been on lookout. “And from both directions!” he added and continued to look out while he smoked. “We need to make this look like an accident” explained Flabby to Jock and Knocker. Using Knocker’s tyre lever and a few long branches, they managed to rid the passenger of the snakes and they dragged his body to his car and bundled him into the passenger seat. The same was done with the driver but the snakes here were a bit more persistent. Finally and with fortunately nobody being bitten, he too was propped up in the car and with the smashed screen, it looked like a simple accident to an innocent bystander or even an innocent accident to a simple bystander. “Heads up!” shouted Smudge as the first van arrived. Of course the contents of the boot were now safely stashed in the back of Flabby’s hire car as no doubt, they would come in handy.

“I don’t know how the fcuk they do it!” shouted an amazed Smudge. The van was covered in Kyrgyzwazstani but what was also on the van and plain for all to see and the only thing in English: ‘Carglass’. Flabby protested to the Carglass operative but his Kyrgyzwazstani was crap and the operative’s English was likewise. The confusion was not helped by the arrival of the second van and this van was almost identical except that instead of ‘Carglass’ the van was adorned with ‘Autoglass’. The Carglass and Autoglass operatives argued, a fight broke out and the two of them wrestled on the ground obviously trying to work out some sort of windscreen replacement hierarchy. Flabby and the rest looked on in amazement but the fighting suddenly stopped. It had obviously been decided and the Carglass operative started to replace the screen while the Autoglass operative sat in his van on the radio to something or somebody. Flabby had tried to intervene but the Autoglass operative was having none of it. They were too close to the town to use their weapons and the hire car was not built for car chases or rapid getaways, so Flabby decided to play the waiting game. He didn’t have long to wait as thanks to an alert Smudge, they were prepared for the arrival of the next visitor and that was an ambulance. Not long after the first ambulance came the second one and just as with the windscreen replacement operatives, the ambulance drivers got stuck into each other. The first ambulance driver had already loaded up ‘Des something’ but the driver of the second ambulance pulled him out and dumped him unceremoniously on the floor. This enraged the first ambulance driver and from nowhere he pulled a gun. Flabby and the rest dived for cover as the first ambulance driver let off round after round. The windscreen replacement operatives having seen all of this joined in and Flabby and the rest found themselves in a small but perfectly formed mini-war. “Time to go!” shouted Flabby and they ducked and dived towards the car. They all bundled in and Flabby drove off as fast as he could, heading towards the town. On the way to the town, they passed a police car which roared past with lights flashing. In the distance and from the opposite direction, you could just about hear the siren of another police car.

Flabby eased off the accelerator a bit and they drove into town at a more relaxed pace. “We still don’t know what the cnut looks like” remarked Knocker as there was still the problem of Gregor. But they were already armed and pretty well armed at that. “I think I’d know him” said Flabby. “I was pretty close to his Dad” he added and he couldn’t have got much closer especially when Gregor’s brains had splattered all over him. “There was something about his eyes” muttered Flabby more to himself and he wished he could remember what it was. The original idea had been to visit the town to purchase weapons but they were now the proud owners of a couple of Glock pistols, a couple of AK47’s and plenty of spare ammo for them. “Maybe we could just get a few extra clips for the Glocks” suggested Flabby but the main thing was to get away from the scene of the demise of the two dissident republicans. If they could have a look around the town as well then that was just an added bonus. Flabby parked up close to the town square and what an amazing place it was. Just as Hay-on-Wye is a town full of bookshops, this town had almost nothing else but shops selling weapons, repairing weapons, designing weapons and basically anything you could think of regarding weapons. There was a small Spar supermarket and while you could get your weekly shop done there, even they had a weapons rental counter in the shop. A sign ‘Deactivated weapons activated while you wait’ caught Flabby’s eye. One, he’d never seen one like that before and two, the people of Kyrgyzwazstan are relatively short and this sign had been hung just a fraction too low. There were two for one offers and you could cash in your SAM Miles and while one shop cleaned dirty bombs while you wait, another dirtied clean bombs and also while you wait. Another sign caught Flabby’s eye though much less painfully than the first and what this emporium sold was anybody’s guess but Blondie’s ‘Atomic’ blasted out onto the street.

A tour guide was preparing to take round a party of Japanese weapons tourists. They were there to find out the best way of mass murdering those that use the Tokyo underground as they were part of a cult. So a bit like Tom Cruise though almost all of them were a good bit taller so not really a bit like Tom Cruise at all. Flabby recognized the tour guide or thought he did. He’d heard that horrible whiny nasal boring voice before and it wasn’t Jeremy Vine. “Shall we try the tour?” suggested Flabby and the rest agreed. It was far better than walking round the streets aimlessly. They paid their money or rather the tour guide took credit cards and the rest would have to owe Flabby and the tour finally started. It took in all the highlights of the town and some I’ve already mentioned but the tour guide went into precise (and utterly boring) minute detail about everything. Not just a gun in a window but muzzle velocity and rounds per minute and the carbon footprint of the manufacturer as that was important these days. Many a terrorist organization had somebody checking that while they were achieving their goals by any means possible, be that fair or foul and it was usually foul, their actions should not have an adverse effect on the planet. The Japanese got slightly confused at this point and thought that the ideal way to reduce the numbers on the Tokyo underground would be to deploy greenhouse gases. It took a long while and much use of a Kyrgyzwazstani-Japanese dictionary to explain that this was just a bit impossible. The tour came to an end and while the Japanese tipped the tour guide, Flabby did not. It had been vaguely interesting but only vaguely. The tour did include a free coffee and Danish pastry at Heckler O’Koch’s Irish Theme Pub and Café and Flabby and the rest were not going to miss out on that. It seemed days since breakfast and Flabby needed to keep his sugar levels up.

Chapter Six

Flabby was still sure that he recognized the tour guide and he was also suspicious that the tour guide was looking at him. He looked again but the tour guide was looking elsewhere. “Won’t be a minute” said Flabby to the rest and disappeared outside. A few minutes later, he reappeared and while slightly breathless, he seemed more cheerful and definitely more confident. “Need a pish” said Flabby and headed for the toilets. In line with the weapons theme running through the town, the toilets were labelled ‘semi-automatic’ and ‘automatic’ and it took a while for him to work out which was which. After an embarrassing visit to the ladies, he made it to the gents. He stood at the urinal and appeared to be going through the motions or at least some sort of motion. He had heard the door opening and what he perhaps hadn’t expected was the jab in the back and he hoped it was a gun. “I hope that’s a gun” said Flabby emphasizing the point. “It is” said a horrible whiny nasal boring voice and it wasn’t Jeremy Vine or least he didn’t think so. It was the tour guide and he felt the Glock pulled from the waistband of his trousers. “You won’t be needing that or not where you’re going to” said the tour guide. Flabby turned his head round slowly and there was the tour guide and he appeared to be looking at him but then again was he? Then he remembered why he recognized him. He was cross-eyed just like his father and this was obviously Gregor junior. Gregor checked for any other weapons and satisfied he had the upper hand (and two pistols), he seemed to relax. “You will die and I will avenge the death of my father” said Gregor with more than one chip on his shoulder. Life had been tough without his father around and he had suffered badly since that fateful day. Even worse was that he’d had to go out and get a job as his father had financed him totally and utterly. “Do you mind if I shake?” asked Flabby indicating he’d finished pishing and obviously didn’t want to die with damp underwear thanks to a persistent drip. “Be my guest” smirked Gregor. “That’s the last pleasure you’ll ever have” he sneered. “Now turn round” ordered Gregor. “But I haven’t put my Hampton away” replied Flabby trying to stall for time. “Your what?” asked Gregor and he obviously didn’t know about Cockney rhyming slang. “My Hampton Wick or pr1ck” explained Flabby and Gregor looked at him incredulously. As Gregor was cross eyed it looked as though he was looking at the condom machine but he wasn’t. “Now turn round!” barked Gregor. Flabby turned round slowly and it wasn’t his Hampton Wick, or his pr1ck that was poking out of his trousers. It was a single shot groin mounted pistol or APWT (Advanced Penis Weaponry Technology) and before Gregor had time to react, Flabby fired and a nice neat hole appeared in the middle of Gregor’s forehead. He slid down the wall and collapsed in a heap on the floor.

The rest rushed in and were amazed to find a dead Gregor and Flabby standing there with a smoking groin. “Where the fcuk did you get that?” asked Knocker. “When I popped out” replied Flabby and explained to the rest that he just thought it might come in handy as a bit of extra insurance. One of the Japanese tourists stuck her head round the door and fainted as she’d never seen anything so big in her life. Plus, in Japan, men’s genitalia don’t usually smoke. “I think we’d better move and quick” said Jock and they headed as quickly as possible back to the car. By now, the word had got round and Gregor sympathizers were already on their trail. Flabby tore off as fast as the car would allow and headed out of town using the same route. Smudge had an AK47 in the front and Knocker covered the rear. Jock had the two Glocks and they opened up with everything as they passed the fighting policemen, ambulance drivers and windscreen replacement operatives. By now rival forensics experts and rival firemen had also joined in the battle, as had rival Rentokil pest control experts, as the snakes had been misbehaving again. Flabby and company’s daring escape had enraged them but it had basically caught them napping. They were of course very well prepared when the vehicles containing Gregor’s sympathizers came into range. It was a total massacre and only one badly wounded Gregor sympathizer limped back to the town. The rest lay in pools of blood as yet more rival ambulances were dispatched to deal with the carnage. Flabby saw some of them passing as they made their way back to Propania and back to the hotel.

Back at the hotel, with the car finally handed back in, they joked and just generally relaxed. It was a good way to release tension and also a good way for the author to pad the story out a bit. “Is an APWT or are you just pleased to see me? asked Jock and not for the first time. There were a couple of messages for them at reception and they sat in the lobby, waiting for Flabby to read them. But first he nipped off to the toilets and removed the APWT as while he was getting a few looks from the female guests at the hotel, some of the men seemed a bit too interested for comfort. Flabby now back and sat down in the lobby suddenly jumped up. “I’ve got it!” he shouted and the three plus many of the guests stared at him. “What have you got Flabby?” asked Jock trying to speed up procedures. “The toilets and why they were called automatic and semi-automatic” he replied and the others looked at him in sheer amazement. There they were waiting for details of the next job and all Flabby was interested in was the names of some Kyrgyzwazstani toilets. “Automatic is the ladies as ladies automatically put the seat down and automatically close the lid when finished. Some even automatically remember to flush” he explained and it became clear to them. It was also clear to them that this information was totally useless but they were all (mostly) too polite to mention it. “Fcuk sake Flabby, just read the fcuking messages” said Knocker and out of all them, you just knew it was going to be him.

Knocker snatched the messages from Flabby’s hand and read them out loud. He used his quietest whisper but most people in the lobby and some out on the street got to hear what was said. Another underling, who was also sitting in the lobby reading a copy of The Times but upside down (the paper not the underling), shook his head in disbelief. The first message was in code and was from Sterling Lines. Flabby pulled his SAS PDA from his pocket and using Code Breaker for Windows Mobile, managed to make some sense of the message. Basically the message was that he hadn’t won the lottery, he hadn’t the required number of draws on the football pools and that the attack on the convoy was going to a second reading in the European Parliament and it still hadn’t been ratified by three European governments. As a footnote, it also mentioned that Angelina and her Russian handler had done a runner and did Flabby want anybody to turn the water off as she’d left the bath running when she’d legged it. The message was now almost two days old, so Flabby mentally kissed goodbye to his swanky flat by the river. He also mentally kissed goodbye to Angelina and he breathed deeply as it was a great loss and yes, he had to admit she had been great with the blowjobs. The other message was from Mr Brown and had been written on the back of his tax return. Basically it gave the coordinates of where the four hostages were being held. If they were interested in killing some time and/or some bad guys between now and when the attack would finally take place, then they were to contact him. The diplomatic bags had finally arrived after being tracked down to a base on Antarctica and there was enough weaponry to start world war three at their disposal. Mr Brown had even signed the message as ‘Yours, Mr Brown MI5 (Spying’s the game)’ and had also stamped it with the official MI5 stamp. “Anybody want a job?” asked Flabby. “Give us a job?” joked Jock not really sounding like Yosser Hughes from ‘Boys from the Black Stuff’ and definitely not looking like him. Flabby liked to do things democratically and so decided to put it to a vote. Democracy was fine and anyway, if he didn’t like the outcome, he could always overrule them as he did outrank them all. It was unanimous or it was by three votes to one that they would go. It had been Smudge who had voted no but they weren’t too bothered. He did get a bit grumpy if deprived of nicotine for long periods of time. A quarter of an hour is a long time to go without the help of an alternative and he was clean out of patches.

After a quiet night spent in the hotel but spent mostly in the bar, they headed off to the embassy, courtesy of the embassy minibus. The embassy was looking slightly better than when they’d last seen it and already builders were working on the damaged accommodation block. Mr Devonley-Walmer’s digit had finally been removed from the monkey puzzle tree and had been reunited with the rest of his remains. They walked through the grounds and into the embassy. Mr Brown was in his office just as the sign on the door had said. He welcomed them and ordered some coffees and embassy biscuits as the diplomatic bag containing those been found somewhere in Patagonia. The Argentineans not wanting to cause a diplomatic incident had returned the biscuits but as a gesture against the matter of the Falkland Islands or Malvinas, had withheld all the custard creams. “Thank fcuk there’s no custard creams” remarked Knocker thus nullifying the Argentinean gesture. “I think we’d better talk elsewhere” said Mr Brown after they had drunk their coffee and eaten all the biscuits. They passed the lorries of the builders and while it was quite a common name in Russia it didn’t seem like your average Propanian name. But apparently Putin Builders had an excellent pedigree, as did Stalin Scaffolding, Siberian Sewage, Perestroika Plumbers and Ivanovic Electricals. Mr Brown talked as they walked but they kept their voices low as it didn’t seem normal that a scaffolding company would need so many parabolic microphones. “Last week, Rentokillsky planted more bugs than they exterminated” explained Mr Brown and complained that you just couldn’t get the staff nowadays. They followed Mr Brown out of the embassy grounds and turning a corner found themselves sat outside a typical Propanian café. “I think we can talk freely here” said Mr Brown. The waiter rushed out and moved the salt cellar more to the middle of the table. Temporarily forgetting why he was there, he rushed back and took their order. Back in the kitchen, the waiter handed over the order and complained bitterly that the mark one salt cellar should be replaced by the mark two, as they were far superior on sound quality and much more multidirectional.

They talked as they sipped their Propanian coffee and in the kitchen, the monitoring officer pulled the headphones off in pain, as another supercharged moped roared by outside. Propanian coffee is much like any other coffee except that you usually have to boil a Propanian kettle first. Add milk and sugar to taste and there’s your cup of Propanian coffee. The hostages were being held at four separate locations but fortunately fairly close together. The German was being held in the control room of a large storage tank and the Frenchman just down the road at the pipeline control centre. The Dutchman was being held at a gas powered power station and the Belgian at the huge railway sidings close to the power station. Gas was not just shipped by pipelines but also by rail providing there were no leaves on the track. All of this had been gleaned from the Americans and Mr Brown never thought he’d ever say it but with all the help they’d been getting from the Americans recently, it was perhaps even the time to start trusting them. “I suggest two teams of four” said Mr Brown and the four looked at him wondering if he had double vision. “Oh I forgot to say. Each country is providing a representative and HMG would appreciate your cooperation” added Mr Brown and Flabby glared at him. He didn’t like being told what to do at the best of times and especially by a suit passing on a message from some ‘spotty herbert’ in the government. And to boot there was probably pressure being exerted by Europe as the UK was due to renew its membership and it hadn’t been quite decided how much they would be paying for the privilege. “I don’t want no Walt w@nkers!” said Flabby rather loudly and the monitoring officer in the kitchen again felt pain. In fact the bloke on the roof of the building on the other side of the street also felt pain as his parabolic microphone was pointing at Flabby. “You had no problems with the first four did you?” asked Brown and Flabby did have to agree that as far as a military pedigree went, the four had been pretty damn good. “You have my word they will at least as good” promised Mr Brown and Flabby smiled as the promise of a suit was as worthless as a Zimbabwean dollar. Mr Brown seemed to sense this and tried to ram home the point. Flabby and the others from years of experience remained somewhat sceptical.

It was Mr Brown’s “You don’t really have much of a choice” that made Flabby snap. He grabbed Mr Brown round the throat and despite his best efforts; he couldn’t free himself from Flabby’s iron grip. “I’ll do what you ask but I’ll do it for their benefit, not for yours or any other fcuker in government or otherwise!” shouted Flabby straight into the face of Mr Brown and by their benefit, of course he meant the hostages. “You just tell me where and when and leave the rest up to us” said Flabby and released his grip. Mr Brown was not living up to his name and was looking extremely red. In the kitchen the monitoring officer was starting to feel his migraine coming back and across the road on the roof, the owner of the parabolic microphone was wishing he’d followed in his father’s footsteps and become a train driver. “Can you make it tonight?” asked Mr Brown now able to speak again. “It’s not a fcuking luncheon date!” shouted Flabby. “Time and place!” shouted Flabby and half of Propania looked his way. “Ok sit down and calm down” said Mr Brown and they were to be picked up from the hotel that evening at eight. Mr Brown reached inside his jacket pocket and threw a bundle of maps and charts onto the table. In the kitchen, the monitoring officer was wishing he’d used the daffodil camera and across the road, the owner of the parabolic microphone was frantically peering through binoculars. “Don’t lose this lot” said Mr Brown and stood up to leave. “See you tonight then” he said and headed off towards the embassy but not before Knocker slipped out a foot tripping him up and sending him crashing to the floor. “Enjoy your trip cnut!” said Knocker with all the contempt he could muster. Mr Brown picked himself up with as much dignity as he could muster and continued back to the embassy. The four continued discussing the job and wondered what the ‘newbies’ would be like. “As long as it’s not that fcuker” said Jock pointing in the direction of the embassy and they all knew he meant Mr Brown. All that was left to discuss, was who was going to pay for the coffees as Mr Brown had conveniently forgotten to. Pigeons flew away in sheer terror and the owner of the parabolic microphone and the monitoring officer in the kitchen both suffered permanent hearing damage, as the area close to the embassy reverberated to the sound of two words. “You cnut!” shouted Knocker as loud as he possibly could and like always, he really, really meant it.

Chapter Seven

Sure enough, at precisely eight in the evening, the four of them loitered about in the lobby making it look distinctly untidy. “Where the fcuk’s the transport?” asked Knocker though he wasn’t expecting an answer. They were all wearing civilian clothes and this was quite usual as embassies across the world had a vast supply of military clothing perfect and ready for events such as this. They actually had a better supply than Sterling Lines and Flabby had been trying to get his smock changed for months. While they might be flown out fully kitted up in some form of military transport, the job also required them to discretely fly into a location and then do the business. The embassies had direct access to not all the files at Sterling Lines but access to such things as medical records and even down to each and everyone’s boot size. The slight weakness in the system was that records were not updated as often as they could or should be. So if you’ve overdone it a bit on the turkey at Christmas, be prepared to squeeze into something that is obviously several sizes too small. “He did say fcuking eight?” asked Jock with his nose in a book. Jock didn’t mind sticking his nose in a good book but as there weren’t any handy, he made do with a Robert Ludlum one strangely titled ‘I Wasn’t Bourne Yesterday’. Flabby pulled out his SAS PDA and checked if there were any messages he might have missed. There was one message and it had been Mr Brown. His message of ‘Did I say eight? Sorry I meant nine’ did nothing to improve Flabby’s mood and there was still the rest to tell. Knocker didn’t take it well and while it wasn’t strictly the cheese plant’s fault, he felt so much better after giving it a good kicking. The person on reception did think of saying something but thought better of it. So they impatiently waited the extra hour and finally the transport turned up.

The four of them stood in Mr Brown’s office. The sign on his door had stated he was out but they’d just gone in anyway. Eventually he arrived and told them they could speak freely. “The SVR, the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki, the Russian external security services are a bit strapped for cash so don’t monitor us all the time” he explained and there was no need to explain to Flabby who they were. Flabby had come into contact with them before, as he had with the GRU and the FSB. He’d also had dealings with the FAPSI who were actually part of the FSB. Flabby had wondered why they had been able to talk freely the first time and then the next time they had been forced to talk at a café. “You can usually tell when they’re monitoring as the phone lines buzz and crackle a bit” explained Mr Brown and Flabby wondered about his SAS PDA, as that buzzed and crackled all the time. It seems the SAS PDA while claiming to be a smartphone, wasn’t as smart as it was advertised to be. “I think you’d better meet the rest” said Mr Brown and pressed a button under his desk. “And the first one we have here is Captain Dennis van Houten. He too wants to drop the ‘H’ but it might be a bit complicated in his line of work’ said Mr Brown and he went on and on (and on) about the bloke’s hobbies and how he was fighting for peace which is much the same as fcuking for virginity but I suppose all we really need to know is that Dennis was another Dutch marine and another Captain. He looked the part; he walked the walk though his talking the talk was done with a rather strange accent and sometimes the wrong words. The others were Captain Kim Clijsters, who was another Belgian paratrooper, Captain Sebastien Schafsteiger again from GSG-9 and Captain Thierry Peugeot, also of the French Foreign Legion (FFR). They were all basically the second choices except Peugeot, as he had been on a job during the period of the selection. As there is more than one called Peugeot in the FFR, just like in the British Army, the FFR use surname and the last three figures of the regimental number so our Peugeot was actually Peugeot 309. So the introductions over, next came the important part and that was nicknames. After much discussion, they became ‘Kim’ which wasn’t strictly a nickname and didn’t requite much intelligence to think of, ‘Sheep shagger’ though the ‘sheep’ bit would be probably be dropped and that’s where they hit a snag as they couldn’t think of a nickname for the Frenchman. It was Flabby who thought of it and as ‘surrendering cheese monkey’ didn’t exactly roll off the tongue, he kept the cheese theme and the Frenchman’s nickname became ‘Brie’ as it was one of Flabby’s favourites.

They tossed a coin and Flabby picked first. He picked Smudge as while he did smoke like a chimney, he seemed indestructible. Knocker picked Jock as he was a hard bugger and anyway, he wasn’t picking any foreigner first. Flabby then picked Brie as he’d heard good reports about the FFR. Knocker picked Captain Dennis van Houten and they realised they’d forgotten to give him a nickname. Flabby suggested ‘Cloggy’ but that was too obvious. They thought long and hard and even Mr Brown joined in but eventually after another long discussion they came up with ‘Dirty Den’ with the ‘Dirty’ bit also probably going to be dropped later. Flabby picked Shagger and that left Kim for Knocker. So the two teams decided, they tossed for who was to rescue who and who would be Team Alpha and who would be Team Bravo. Eventually and after perhaps too much wasted time and effort, the results were that Team Alpha comprising Flabby, Smudge, Brie and Shagger would be hopefully rescuing Dick (Captain Richard van Dijk) and JC (Captain Jean-Claude Van Domme) from the gas powered power station and the huge railway sidings respectively. Team Bravo comprising Knocker, Jock, Den and Kim would be again hopefully rescuing Karl (Captain Karl-Heinz Rumminegge) and Seb (Captain Sebastien Chabal) from the control room of a large storage tank and the pipeline control centre respectively. Just let me print this out as if not, there could be an almighty fcuk up. Right, hopefully that’s sorted now and so back to the story or maybe not, as it does sometimes get a bit confusing (for me as well) so here’s a handy little reference:

Team Alpha

Flabby

Smudge

Brie Captain Thierry Peugeot (F)

Shagger Captain Sebastien Schafsteiger (D)

RESCUING

Dick (Captain Richard van Dijk) (NL) - from the gas powered power station

JC (Captain Jean-Claude Van Domme) (B) - from the huge railway sidings

Team Bravo

Knocker

Jock

Den Captain Dennis van Houten (NL)

Kim Captain Kim Clijsters (B)

RESCUING

Karl (Captain Karl-Heinz Rumminegge) (D) - from the control room of a large storage tank

Seb (Captain Sebastien Chabal) (F) - from the pipeline control centre

So all that was left to do was to collect their 24 hour mission packs which included all that was deemed necessary for a job in the field over roughly a twenty-four hour period. It even contained such mundane stuff as food and toilet paper as you never know when and/or where you’re going to get caught short. There was much swapping as some preferred an Ingram and some an Mp5 and almost nobody liked the dehydrated fondue cheese as most of the packs were an A. “Fcuking B is better” said Jock but Smudge disagreed as he preferred a C. “Still at least it’s not a fcuking P” said Knocker as the P pack was also known as the tree hugger’s pack as it stood for ‘pacifist’. “Hadn’t we better us put some clothes in” said Den in his best English and they realised they were still all in civvies. They went round again and after a couple of minor scraps in the toilets, as changing facilities were somewhat sparse, they were hot to trot and ready to go. Flabby made some last minute checks on the weather at his target and Knocker did the same. They synchronized watches for no other reason other than Flabby’s had stopped and after a quick brief of teams and the now compulsory pre-job team hug, they bundled their kit into the embassy minibus and climbed on board. The minibus headed out to the airport but turned off and headed for the military side. They would be flown to or close to their targets by the Propanian Air Force. As air forces went, it was quite modern and had bought heavily from the USA. There were a few older Russian helicopters and jets but they were gradually being replaced. There was even a choice of helicopters and both were fairly recent Tchaikovsky models. Tchaikovsky had been of course Russian and on moving to the USA after the war had designed and built helicopters continuing what he had first started in Russia. They were now some of the most successful helicopters ever built. The choice they had was either the large ‘Jolly Green Giant’ or Tchaikovsky CH-53 or a slightly older Tchaikovsky SH-3 or Sea King. Because the targets lay in almost opposite directions it was impossible for one helicopter to take them all. So in the interests of fair play, they tossed a coin but it was pitch black and they couldn’t even find the coin, let alone tell if it was heads or tails. So Flabby simply pulled rank and chose the CH-53 as it had far superior legroom. Smudge finished patching himself up with the Nicobollox patented nicotine patches and they climbed on board. After retrieving their kit from the minibus, they climbed onboard again and prepared for take off.

The CH-53 lifted off and climbed. On the civilian side of the airport, things had ground to a halt as an Aeroflot pilot claimed he’d been short changed on a refuel. It was probably the fact he’d paid for it out of his own pocket that made him so determined but planes were starting to stack up as nothing was able to land. The Aeroflot pilot had taxied to the start of the runway and stopped and to make matters worse he’d put on the steering lock and swallowed the key. But Flabby neither knew nor cared about this but it did mean that the pilot of the CH-53 had to climb rather high to miss all the stacked aircraft. Finally away from the airport and any waiting planes, he brought the helicopter down as they would soon be in Kalorgazstani territory. The CH-53 was ridiculously big for just the four of them and their kit but better that than being crammed into some four-seater as Flabby had experienced all too often. The CH-53 was now skimming across the rooftops of small farms as they were well inside Kalorgazstan territory. Because of the terrain, there were very few underground cables and so this was a constant danger for the pilot. Some overhead cables they managed to go under but others, they had to climb first and it was at these moments that the chance of being picked up on radar was greatest. Navigating wasn’t too difficult as the pilot was following the pipe line and the crewman held up a hand. “I hope he’s telling me five minutes” said Flabby to himself rather than being told to fcuk off in a seriously big way. “Out and roll to the side” he thought to himself as he’d seen far too many jumping out the back of helicopters sent to meet their makers as they’d got intimate with the tail rotors. The crewman held up two fingers and Flabby nodded in reply. He made his last minute checks and made sure his safety catch was on. He’d also seen a few accidents thanks to non-compliance with that rule. The rest also went through the motions but Smudge didn’t as he was dying for a cigarette. “These fcuking patches are w@nk” he said to himself but obviously too loud as Den looked at him rather strangely. The pilot hovered, the wheels weren’t quite on the deck and with the rear door now open, they could just about make out the ground in the darkness. In a matter of seconds, they were out and rolling away from the helicopter but the pilot had pulled up almost immediately and was now well on his way back to the airport in Propania.

The four of them regrouped in a small copse. Flabby was already impressed with the two ‘newbies’ and they seemed know the score. Smudge however didn’t and as tactical as ever had lit up after the long helicopter ride. “For fcuk sake Smudge” whispered Flabby. From the copse, they looked down on a valley. They were already close to the pipeline which had been another reason he hadn’t been too keen when Smudge had lit up. Across the far side of the valley was something of significance and was lit up like a Christmas tree. Flabby checked his SAS PDA and using Memory Map and the latest available maps for Kalorgazstan, he guessed the railways sidings would be to the right of the power station as he looked. “Right let’s make tracks” said Flabby and they made their way into the valley. Flabby clicked off his safety catch and gestured to the others to do the same. Smudge did so but only after he’d lit up again. “You’re a fcuking liability Smudge” whispered Flabby but he didn’t really mean it. They walked for a good fifteen minutes and made a rather large detour round a small farm as a dog started barking. Dogs can be dispatched easily enough but sometimes it just wasn’t worth the bother. The power station towered above them and they took things a bit slower. There was not just one fence but two and it was very well lit. They stood close to the first fence using a clump of bushes for cover and scoured for that chink in the armour, the weakness that would enable them to get in without letting the whole world know. “It doesn’t look easy Flabby” whispered Smudge. “I’d be more worried if it was too easy” replied Flabby as at least it didn’t look like a trap.

Flabby looked through night goggles and switched to infra-red mode. He couldn’t see any of the telltale beams that were used in active infra-red security systems. He scoured the fence and the ground between the fences for any sign of tripwires or pressure pads or even passive infra-red motion detectors but he couldn’t see anything other than a few rabbits feeding on the lush grass. He was pretty sure that if the rabbits hadn’t set anything off then there wasn’t any extra security or so he hoped. The fences weren’t electrified and while there was a camera closer to an entrance, there didn’t seem to be cameras covering the entire length of the fence. However, what Flabby did see was a small red flap just like a cat flap and this was on the second fence at ground level. It seemed strangely familiar though of course he’d had cats in the past and they’d usually put in a cat flap. The cat flaps hadn’t generally worked and it had been usually everybody else’s cats that had come in and he’d never forgiven that big ginger tom from down the road that had come in and pished up the Welsh dresser. That was the one he’d taken on the Antiques Roadshow and even the expert had asked him if he could smell pish. They waited a few minutes and nothing moved or stirred, other than the rabbits that were still enjoying the grass. Flabby crawled forward to the fence and pulled out the multi-tool including wire cutters (available from all good DIY stores, garden centres or direct from the regiment). He snipped a hole in the fence, stopping after each snip and waiting for any reaction. The rabbits did stop eating but after a quick sniff in the air (and a convenient arrse) had just carried on eating. The hole was now big enough for Flabby to crawl through and that’s exactly what he did. Smudge passed everything through once Flabby had made it and was just about to crawl through when the rabbits stopped eating. One rabbit looked directly at Flabby and obviously not liking what he saw, shot through the red cat flap type thing. The noise was deafening as alarms went off all over the power station. “Leg it!” shouted Flabby throwing his kit back through the hole. “They were fcuking guard rabbits!” he added, following his kit as quickly as possible.

Chapter Eight

Flabby was finally back on the ‘safe’ side of the fence and he gathered his kit. Before following the others, he pulled a tie-wrap from his pocket and drawing the two bottom ends of the fence together, slipped the tie-wrap through and pulled it tight. The hole in the fence hadn’t quite disappeared but it could pass a customary glance without being blatantly obvious. Flabby always carried tie-wraps with him. They always came in handy for restraining prisoners (or girlfriends) and had a multitude of uses and even as a sex aid. But there had been that embarrassing episode down at casualty so he preferred not to go into details about that. With the fence now temporarily repaired, Flabby ran for all he was worth heading for the nearest cover which was the same clump of bushes they’d huddled round before. It was at times like this you might consider setting up an all round defence but there was nothing to the left of them, nothing to the right of them and behind them was just open countryside and the small farm with the barking dog. The dog was fast asleep and it twitched as it dreamed a wonderful dream of lamp posts, chasing rabbits and bitches in season. So the four of them faced their front and they did what usually occupies a large proportion of time in any job and just waited.

Inside the pen, the rabbits were bored. They’d all run through the red cat flap type thing as they had been trained to do so but inside the pen, there was no lush grass and some were feeling slightly peckish. They knew the humans would release them but it was just a matter of when. Cowslip in particular was totally bored. All rabbits tend to have names of plants or flowers as they don’t have internet access or membership of the local library and have to rely on what’s around and what’s familiar. Cowslip wasn’t really a guard rabbit; she was an actress or an actress who was just between jobs. The guard duties help pay for her stage school fees and there was one thing that could be said about the guard duties and that is, it was a job for life. Quite a rarity in today’s financial climes though it did get a bit worrying when the power station put braised rabbit on the menu from time to time. She wished she’d taken the job her agent had recommended. It had been an advertising role in a local butcher’s shop but the main reason she had turned it down was that it was required for her to take her fur off. Cowslip didn’t do nudity and so the job went to somebody else. Yes ok, there had been that film many years ago but she had been very young and had really needed the money. Yes everybody likes to earn an honest buck though the film had been full of dishonest ones and it had put her off double penetration for life. “Here we go!” said Hawthorn, a large buck rabbit who had been on look out. The humans were on their way and life was definitely going to get better. Of course what the rabbits didn’t know as they had no internet access or membership of the local library was that Kalorgazstan each and every year has a Rabbit Festival and while rabbits do take part, they are generally on the menu. Still, Cowslip never ever had to worry about parts drying up as she was lightly basted in a roasting dish next to the potatoes. You come into the world naked and that’s exactly how she left it.

“Fcuk off Smudge!” shouted Flabby quietly. He had been looking through the night goggles when Smudge had lit up and he was now all but blind. “Vorsicht” whispered Shagger as he had spotted the movement next to the red cat flap type thing. Sure enough, a door opened by the red cat flap type thing and three people walked out onto the grass between the two fences. Flabby hoped they wouldn’t spot his repair on the fence but they didn’t look the brightest bunch. His sight had fortunately returned though Smudge had set fire to a bush and there was much silent beating of the smouldering bush before it burst into flames. Eventually the smouldering was put out and the three people were none the wise of it. One of the people seemed vaguely familiar and Flabby switched on the face recognition mode on the night goggles. He tweaked down the brightness a bit as night goggles are great with little or no light but the area between the fences was well lit up and what he was seeing kept breaking up. He dropped it down a resolution but it kept asking him if he wanted to update the drivers. I’m not sure if the night goggles understood it but banging them on the ground soon put an end to any more requests for updates. The third person was Dick! Flabby passed the night goggles around which was quite painful as the strap was still round his neck but eventually all realised they were looking at a couple of guards who had obviously taken Dick out for a breath of fresh air. “We need to hit them before they reset the rabbits” whispered Flabby and passed it on to the rest. The guards did have pistols but they were safely tucked away in their holsters. Dick appeared to be unshackled and seemed quite chatty with the guards. One of the guards went to reset the rabbits but Dick almost seemed to sense this wasn’t going to help so held him back and engaged him in conversation. It was time to strike and Flabby gave the word.

Smudge fired first and the smoke grenade landed bang on target between the fences. Brie and Shagger fired off a gas grenade each and the area between the fences was thick with smoke and choking gas. Flabby with respirator on rushed to the fence and pulled his Swish Army knife from his pocket (Ash advertished by Shean Connery on TV). The Swish Army knife and not to be confused with a Swiss Army knife, was a multi-functional tool and selecting the scissors, he cut the tie-wrap. The fence popped open and Smudge held it while Flabby crawled through. Flabby headed for Dick’s last location and bumped into one of the guards. A swift karate chop to the neck sent the guard off to sleep and he was just about to chop again when he realised it was Dick. Dick was suffering because of the gas and Flabby was suffering as he’d always hated physical exertion while wearing a respirator but he dragged Dick towards the hole in the fence or so he hoped. They almost fell over the other guard who was rolling on the ground rubbing his eyes. Flabby dealt with him as he had done the first and feeling his way along the fence finally found the hole. Smudge was still there and while he hadn’t donned his respirator, he was adding to the smoke as he’d just lit up again. Flabby dragged Dick to the clump of bushes and left him to recover. He made it back to the fence and repeated the quick fix with the tie wrap. They all met up again at the clump of bushes and by now Dick had recovered enough for them to be able to move. They headed off in the general direction of the huge railway sidings as fast as they could and looking back, Flabby could see two prostrate figures on the ground. They wouldn’t be out for long but they needed to get to the sidings before the world and its dog was alerted. As they ran off in that direction in the distance he thought he could hear somebody coughing but he was wrong. It was the rabbits coughing and all of a sudden a job for life didn’t seem quite so attractive.

After what seemed an age of running though it was only a few minutes, they could see the huge railway sidings stretching out in front of them. Security here was minimal and the sidings were actually used by economic migrants who were seeking a better life than in Kalorgazstan or the country where they’d paid large amounts of money to criminal gangs to get them to the West. The wire fence was almost crushed flat by the constant stream of bodies that had gone over it. Flabby had no idea exactly where JC was being held but he guessed it was in one of the many buildings on the far side and across the many sets of tracks. While the gas was shipped in by rail, many things were also shipped out and not just the economic migrants, as the area round the power station was an industrial zone and a good proportion of Kalorgazstan’s GDP (Gross Domestic Product) went out using that very railway. Huge factories surrounded the power station and it was a distinct advantage having a power supply so close and having energy virtually on tap. Kalorgazstan is the world’s largest producer of coal scuttles and while it’s not life changing information, it might come in handy one night in the pub when they have a quiz. Dick had borrowed an Mp5 and although in civvies, he was a welcome addition. He had recovered from the effects of the gas though if his mother could have seen him, she would most probably be handing him a tissue as the gas does make you a bit snotty. Still, whether he had a green sleeve or not, he was still a welcome addition.

They crossed the first set of tracks and looked both ways. Flabby remembered the adverts on the telly and to this day, he remembers the Green Cross Code but that wasn’t why they stopped and looked both ways. Towards the power station, there appeared to be a commotion going on so no doubt the guards had been found and the other way, a handful of Iraqis were looking for their transport to the West. Flabby ignored the Iraqis but he couldn’t ignore the commotion coming for the power station. They headed as quickly as possible (only tripping up eleven times) for the buildings on the far side of the sidings. One by one they searched the buildings and by one by one I don’t mean they took it in turns but in the end only an office type building remained. Flabby was first in and each room was searched and classified as ‘Clear’ though Shagger did classify the kitchen as ‘Klar’ though he could have been reading off the bottle of window cleaner that was sat by the sink. Flabby pushed open the last door and there was JC sat in an armchair. He seemed fine but he seemed to telling Flabby something. Now Flabby was far too experienced to fall for that old hiding behind the door routine and there was a quite horrible crunch as he jammed whoever was hiding behind the door, up against the wall. Flabby released the door and a large oily man slid to the floor. The large oily man had been armed and Flabby kicked the small pistol towards Smudge who picked it up and shoved it in a side pocket of his webbing. JC seemed unharmed and was obviously pleased to see them. Flabby again used the Swish Army knife to cut some tie-wraps, the ones that had been securing JC’s wrists. JC rubbed his wrists trying to get some circulation back into them. They were just catching up a bit when Shagger shouted that they had company.

It was about three nanoseconds before this was confirmed as the windows disappeared in a hail of automatic weapon fire. They all dived for cover and Smudge pulled the pistol from his webbing and slid it across to JC. JC looked at it disappointedly but it was better than nothing though only just. The large oily man was starting to come round and Shagger crawled across towards him. He tried speaking to him in various languages but the man didn’t seem to understand him. The rest tried to reply to the automatic weapon fire and there was some success. Targets did fall when hit. Dick crawled across to the large oily man and he tried his repartee of languages. The man only seemed to understand Kalorgazstani so they had a bit of a language barrier. “Spultsje” said Dick and while he wasn’t Frisian he could speak it fairly well. The large oily man seemed to understand and they actually started to converse. It seems the large oily man had attended a course in the Frisian city of Leeuwarden and had picked up the language. Spultsje is the Frisian for balls and what a lucky break that had been for them. Using Dick as interpreter, Flabby asked the man if it was possible to use a train to get out of their predicament. The man was all too happy to oblige but was quite insistent that he wasn’t leaving the room until all the automatic weapon fire stopped. By now Smudge had managed to work his way round those shooting at them and was picking them off one by one. With a slight lull in the proceedings, the large oily man helped by Dick and Flabby had made their way to a large diesel locomotive. The rest followed and Smudge made his way back to the office and joined them on the loco.

The large oily man explained through Dick that it would be easier to uncouple the rolling stock as they could move much faster. Flabby was out there like a shot and while he’d never done the uncoupling rolling stock course, he eventually managed it or he thought he had. The odd shot did ring out and one whistled over Flabby’s head but the rest in the loco opened up and the shots seemed to diminish. The man switched on the loco and the noise woke everybody up including various economic migrants hiding in some of the wagons. The rolling stock were still attached as the man found out when edging the loco forwards. He slipped it into reverse and Flabby jumped out and this time successfully uncoupled the rolling stock. In various wagons, economic migrants celebrated as they thought they were on their way. As the loco edged slowly forwards and the wagons stayed behind, so did the economic migrants. Still, they were philosophical as a train was leaving later for France and they knew a man who knew a man who knew a gang that would get them through the Channel Tunnel in an instant and of course for a rather large fee. The loco accelerated and they were on their way. The shooting had stopped as they were now well out of range and those left alive had got bored with the whole affair.

Chapter Nine

You just knew it wasn’t going to be that simple. They had reached a huge collection of points and all the points were against them. Smudge jumped out and switched the first set using the manual override lever. By the time he’d got back in the loco, they had changed back again. Close to a large town in central Kalorgazstan, the railway controller who was extremely fat had noticed Smudge changing the points and had changed them back again. He had heard all about the theft of the loco by both telephone and by radio and was intent on stopping the thieves in their tracks. The Kalorgazstani Army Air Corps had scrambled two of their attack helicopters and they were already quite close to the loco. “It keeps fcuking changing on its own!” shouted Smudge after changing the points yet again and seeing them change back again. “We’ll fcuking see about that then” said Flabby determinedly and pulled a plastic explosive charge complete with detonator and timer from his webbing. These were the new and vastly improved mark fours. The mark threes had affectionately been known as ‘ring pulls’ as like cans of beer or soft drinks, you pulled the ring and the thing exploded in your face. It did seem strange that something that exploded in your face could be named affectionately but I suppose we are dealing with an entirely different mentality here. Flabby climbed down from the loco and found what he was looking for. The large and oily driver of the loco gave him the thumbs up so that confirmed it. It was a junction box and all the signalling information was routed through here including the state of the points. Flabby placed the charge on the door using the magnet and set the timer. He walked (you never run) back towards the loco and checked his watch. He quickly gave up on that as it had stopped again but a couple of minutes later, the junction box was no more. The fat railway controller watched in horror as his lights went out and he grabbed the nearest phone to tell somebody all about it.

Smudge was now able to change the points and they slowly made their way through the multitude of them and finally out onto open and clear track. It was on the last set of points that Smudge thought he could just make out the sound of a helicopter but he just put it down to the noise of the loco. The fat railway controller knew where Flabby and company were heading so using the radio, he cleared the track. It wasn’t a particularly busy line and this was fortunate but it was getting ever closer to the Propanian border. This of course he passed on to the Kalorgazstani Army Air Corps but they told him, they were already on it. The large oily man was quite chatty and if you understood Frisian, you would have found out that while he was proud to be a Kalorgazstani, he was against holding countries to ransom over gas supplies. They were making excellent time and in a matter of minutes, they would be over the border and safe and sound back in Propania. It was again Shagger who spotted they had company. It had been almost impossible to hear the noise of the helicopters over the noise of the loco but you couldn’t fail to spot the shape of a Hind-D. Yes, the Hind-D is getting a bit long in the tooth but they had some formidable armaments and it wasn’t as if the loco could do much to avoid it due to being confined to a track. The large oily man had seen Flabby using his SAS PDA and he pulled at Flabby’s pocket. Through Dick he explained that he wasn’t totally sure but he thought there was a tunnel on this part of the track. Flabby pulled out the SAS PDA but he couldn’t get a GPS signal in the cab of the loco. He held the device out the window but pulled his arm in quickly as one of the Hinds opened fire with its machine gun. Using the map, Flabby could see roughly where they were and it only took a quick scroll to find out they were about half a mile from the tunnel. The large oily man smiled, chuffed he’d been right and gave the loco all it could. The track was perfectly straight and fairly flat and they could travel at top speed. But it did make them a fairly easy target for the Hinds. The only worries for the Hind pilots were a few wires and the close proximity of trees to the track.

The large oily man drove for all he was worth as the rest tried pot-shots at the Hinds. “Where’s that fcuking tunnel?” screamed Flabby as a missile flew past them and exploded on the side of the embankment. It was lucky that the crews weren’t as well trained as some of the Russians he’d seen in his time but if they didn’t hit that tunnel and quick, they were dead meat. Flabby let off round after round and was horrified to see another missile on its way and heading straight for them. Flabby hadn’t seen the tunnel looming in front of the loco and was totally relieved as the loco entered the tunnel and the missile exploding harmlessly against the tunnel entrance. The large oily man jammed on the brakes and the loco ground to a halt. Flabby picked himself up off the floor and examined the situation. They were still in Kalorgazstan. With two Hinds, they could neither go forwards nor backwards. Backwards wasn’t looking too good as there was now rubble on the track from the missile hit. If they sat there long enough, the ground troops would be sent in and he did bet that one of the Hinds was already calling them up. They needed to get rid of the Hinds and quick. But how? They were pretty well armed but sadly the 24 hour mission packs no longer contained something like a handheld Stinger or the like. They did have smoke, gas and fragmentation grenades and that was it really. The large oily man started up the loco again and they crawled forwards until they reached the exit of the tunnel. Sure enough one of the Hinds was patrolling and tantalisingly, they could even just see the Propanian border as the sun was starting to come up. “So close and yet so far” remarked Flabby going all philosophical on us.

It was the large oily man who had suggested it. Through Dick he explained it. They were all horrified to see that a large and oily man was wearing a large and oily string vest under his shirt and it was even more horrific when he started to peel it off. He put his shirt back on and that was slightly better. His idea was just a bit far fetched, just a bit biblical and there was no way it would work or so Smudge thought. Flabby was sitting on the fence a bit and the other four were equally split. The only question was who would have the dubious pleasure of practicing with a large and oily string vest? It was Flabby who got the short straw though he did in fact volunteer for it. Carrying the string vest (at a distance) he climbed down off the loco and headed further into the tunnel to practice with some grenade sized stones. The rest explored the tunnel and they were pleased to report that the large oily man had also been right about the ventilation shafts. At each end and with one in the middle, there were a total of three ventilation shafts. They could even have been escape routes should there be an incident in the tunnel but these were the mainstay of a ridiculous plan. But it was the only one they had at the time. Flabby was getting quite good using the large and oily string vest as a sling and he could put a stone down almost where he chose. He hoped he would be able to do the same thing with a live grenade but he supposed he’d only have the one chance to get it wrong.

Now Flabby did know a bit about the Hind-D as the author had just Googled it for him. He knew that the crew were well protected with bulletproof glass and that the rotors had been strengthened to protect them against ground fire but a grenade was another matter as was a charge and Flabby thought that might just tip the balance in their favour. Of course he still had to deliver the grenade and/or the charge and for now, a large and oily string vest was all they had. Time was against them as he expected ground troops to arrive very soon and that was them caught like rats in a trap. And then it suddenly struck him. “What the fcuk am I doing pishing around with a fcuking string fcuking vest?” said Flabby and felt slightly embarrassed as probably the best way to launch a grenade was using the grenade launcher as it was standard on all SAS Mp5 models. “Fcuk sake, even those airsoft w@nkers have ‘em” he added and headed back for the loco. “Here you soft cnut” said Flabby handing the large and oily vest back to the large and oily man. “Why the fcuk didn’t you say?” asked Flabby and rest did look a bit sheepish. “Tell him the idea about the ventilation shafts was great” said Flabby to Dick who passed it on to the large and oily man. He smiled a broad smile that totally matched his stature. Strangely though, he didn’t bother putting the string vest back on.

They were probably only going to get the one chance so it was decided that the Hind patrolling the tunnel entrance away from the Propanian border would be the best bet. Hopefully in the confusion, they’d be able to make the border before the other Hind realised. The Hinds were well protected but weren’t totally immune to small arms fire. Plus they did have plenty of smoke grenades left should they require a diversion. Flabby had noticed that when he had strayed too close to the entrance to the tunnel, the Hind had always been around. It was decided that as a diversion, a couple of them would start clearing the rubble from the track. This would help to lure the Hind close enough and hopefully make them both think that they were ready to head out back in that direction. The loco would be ready to roll and the entire supply of smoke grenades were located at the other entrance and would be set off just prior to them making a dash for it. Flabby climbed up the steps on ladder on the side of the tunnel and walked across the walkway to the centre. A long ladder continued upwards and he could just make out daylight shining through the top cover. The ladder didn’t seem that safe but Flabby continued climbing. “Fcuk it, I’m well insured” he said to himself and he was (as advertised on TV). Flabby opened the top cover and peered carefully out. He daren’t risk being seen as that would give the game away and that would be the end of that. In a Hind-D, the pilot sits behind and above the techy speccy barsteward (not the official term) who handles all the armaments and he had to keep well out of sight until the Hind was well and truly in range. Dick and JC were already starting to clear the rubble and the Hind was looking interested. At the other end of the tunnel, Smudge was finishing off setting up the smoke grenades and the other Hind seeing the occasional glimpse of him, was also quite interested. Back at Flabby’s end if you’ll pardon the expression, the Hind was coming in for a closer look. Fortunately there were no wires nearby and the trees were slightly further away from the track meaning the Hind could hover virtually up to the entrance of the tunnel. Flabby kept his head down at all times, not wanting anybody to see his white face staring up at them but the Hind hovered lower and lower. JC let off a couple of rounds at the Hind but it didn’t seem to take any notice. Flabby could see the techy speccy barsteward pushing on a joystick and the front cannons started to move in their mount.

Now was the time to move, Flabby jumped to his feet and let off a grenade. He quickly reloaded and another one shot off in the direction of the Hind. He managed a third before the pilot woke up and attempted to pull the Hind up. The first grenade had damaged the main rotor head, the second had damaged some servos and the third had damaged one of the rotor blades. The blades seemed to crumple and the Hind spun dangerously close to Flabby before crashing to the ground. Dick and JC ran for their lives as sections of the rotor blades shot into the tunnel. Flabby was already on his way down the ladder and as he looked up, he saw a ball of flame as the Hind exploded. Finally back on the ground he ran for the loco. Dick and JC were already onboard as Smudge let off all the smoke grenades. The other Hind had been distracted by the explosion and was still investigating the scene when the loco with all onboard shot out of the tunnel like a rat out of a drainpipe. Smudge had managed to jump onboard just as it had been leaving the tunnel but he was obviously in pain as he’d crushed his cigarettes. There wasn’t far to go to the Propanian border though even at speed, it seemed to take for ever. The other Hind was now hot on their tail and the techy speccy barsteward was already lining up a shot when from the Propanian border appeared the helicopter gunship of all helicopter gunships, It was the Tchaikovsky 1812 and it postured and gestured, not entering Kalorgazstan but as it bristled with high-tech weaponry and generally threatened, the pilot of the Hind-D thought better of it and buggered off home for a nice cup of tea. The expected Kalorgazstani ground troops arrived not long afterwards and found the twisted wreckage of what had once been a Hind-D and the pilot and the techy speccy barsteward stuck up a tree. The loco sped on into Propanian territory and they’d made it. The sun shone down on them on what was going to be another beautiful Propanian day.

The large and oily man stopped the train at the first Propanian station they got to and trains in the region got back to normal or they did once the tunnel entrance had been repaired and the wreckage of the Hind had been taken away. Flabby didn’t know how Knocker and the rest were getting on but at least they were all back safe and sound with no injuries except a packet of crushed ciggies. The large and oily man claimed political asylum in Propania and is still waiting for the decision but it did look favourable considering the contribution he made. The loco was eventually returned to Kalorgazstan but the fat railway controller never saw it as he’d died of a heart attack the week before. Just like the railway control centre, you could say all his lights went out as well. The large and oily man would always miss his time on the loco. I suppose you can understand that as he’d had more than a vested interest.

Chapter Ten

Knocker, Jock, Den and Kim sat in the back of Sea King en route to a large grassy area close to a storage tank control facility. Knocker had no idea what a storage tank control facility looked like and probably wouldn’t know one, if it fell in his soup but he had all the information he required. Fortunately somebody had downloaded a picture of the very storage tank complete with control facility and all thanks to Google Earth. Knocker switched on the reading lamp and stared at the picture on the SAS PDA as he’d managed to upload it. Happy with what he saw, he switched off and returned it to his pocket. It had not been a smooth trip as the route had been littered with overhead wires. The motion of the Sea King as it ducked and dived avoiding the wires had not been kind to some. Jock looked decidedly green and Den looked even worse. Kim looked totally at ease and Knocker seemed to be coping as well. Knocker sat back and thought how Flabby possibly would have handled this job. He had the greatest respect for Flabby and wondered how they would cope when Flabby finally retired. Knocker was quite happy to drive a desk but he knew Flabby was like a caged lion without a job to go to and a real job usually meant killing somebody. They had been together a long time and had seen many changes, some good and some not so good. Knocker pulled the SAS PDA from his pocket again and switched back on. He too had Memory Map and the latest map of Kalorgazstan and he was able to pinpoint the grassy area exactly. It wasn’t far to the storage tank control facility and all was pretty clear on the map. He scoured the map for any possible hazards and spotting a small river, he’d quite happily bet his pension that some soft cnut would fall in.

They were getting close as one of the crew gave the sign for five minutes. There were considerably fewer overhead wires and Jock and Den seemed to be picking up a bit. Jock definitely looked less green than he had earlier. The crewman indicated two minutes and they double checked all their kit. Safety catches were applied and Knocker slid the SAS PDA back in his pocket. They were hopefully going to be extracted from the same location and they had just under six hours to complete both missions. This meant that the Sea King would be able to fly back to Propania still under the cover of darkness. The Sea King went into the hover and the crewman opened the side door. He talked the pilot down as there were plenty of trees around and the last thing they needed right now was a blade strike. They were on the deck and in a matter of seconds, the four were sheltering in some undergrowth and the Sea King lifted off again and headed back for home. Knocker did a quick head count and pointed to the safety catch on his Mp5. “Nice safety catch” joked Jock and Knocker gave him one of ‘those’ looks. “Don’t fcuking start Jock” warned Knocker and my, wasn’t he taking it seriously tonight. “Lighten up Knocker for fcuk sake” replied Jock and Knocker did lighten up a bit. It wasn’t often he was in charge and he did miss Flabby. “If I don’t take it serious, then who will?” asked Knocker. “The fcuking author isn’t” he added and Jock did have to agree. Den and Kim just looked at each other and you could see they were wondering what the fcuk had they got themselves involved in. “Let’s go” said Knocker and they headed off in the general direction of the storage tank control facility.

“Fcuking cnuty bollox!” shouted Knocker not very tactically but now soaked to the skin. Somebody had fallen in the small river and it had been him. He couldn’t understand it as the other three had crossed the log without any problems. It hadn’t looked slippery. On the far side of the bank, Jock fumbled with a tube of cam cream in his pocket. No, it hadn’t been slippery until he’d smeared some on the log. He’d only had a few seconds but it had been time enough. “That’ll teach the fcuker” said Jock to himself but a bit too loud as Knocker heard him. “What’s that Jock?” asked Knocker as he hadn’t been quite able to make out what Jock had been saying. “Nothing Knocker” replied Jock and smiled a very satisfied smile. Practical jokes or horseplay were all part and parcel of the job and while nobody would intentionally endanger anybody’s life; a good soaking was pretty high up the scale. Knocker was moaning at anybody within range and was not a happy teddy. “Are you still dripping Knocker?’ asked Jock and the only one who got the joke. Den and Kim looked at each other again and they were really starting to wonder how the SAS got their incredible reputation.

They continued in the direction of the storage tank control facility. Fortunately for them, the Kalorgazstanis didn’t build many houses (or cricket grounds) close to large storage tanks and the countryside was almost free of any human activity. I say almost, as a road cut across their path and there were still a few cars about mostly driven by middle-aged, medallion wearing men on their way back from a local disco, where they’d been chatting up somebody young enough to be their daughter or even their granddaughter. It had been totally unexpected but the car had come flying round the corner, lost control and had ploughed into a small telegraph pole. This they had seen from the cover of the hedge on the side of the road and they rushed to the scene of the accident. It was a difficult call but they had no fight with the driver of the car and the accident might bring unwanted attention from police and or an ambulance. Yes they would probably be long gone but they were also coming back this way and scenes of accidents have a nasty habit of attracting unwelcome attention and for long periods of time. But Knocker had made the decision and they respected him for it. Not all agreed with him but they still respected it. It was Knocker who was first on the scene and he pulled open the driver’s door. Remembering they were abroad, he closed the passenger door, ran round the vehicle and pulled open the driver’s door. The driver slumped against the steering wheel and a token airbag, now the size of a small grapefruit made farting noises as it deflated. Knocker felt for a pulse and the driver was still alive. Smoke was starting to come from the engine and fearing the thing might blow up (even though it wasn’t an American car), they dragged him out of the car as carefully as possible.

Knocker leant over the driver. They had dragged him through the hedge and into the field on the far side of the road. The driver did look a bit rough and let’s face it, he had just been dragged through a hedge and yes, it had been backwards. There were no obvious injuries, there was no blood and his breathing seemed quite regular. It also seemed that the driver wasn’t drunk and it wasn’t a medallion round his neck but some sort of ID as it had his picture on it. “I’ve fcuking seen that before” said Knocker pointing at the writing under the man’s photograph. As in any official photo, it bore no likeness whatsoever to the man sprawled out on the grass and it could even have been his mother. Knocker pulled the SAS PDA and found what he was looking for. He had managed to scan the Google Earth picture and had uploaded it to the SAS PDA. Whatever the driver was, he had something to do with the storage tank control facility as it was exactly the same writing on the picture as was on the man’s identity card. The identity card looked like some sort of swipe card and Knocker carefully removed it from round his neck and shoved it in his pocket. Again it was decision time as if they brought him with them, he would be a hindrance and the police might even start looking for him but if they left him, there was still the possibility of police arriving at the scene. The car was not driveable as in the contest, the small telegraph pole had definitely come out the winner. If the identity card was indeed a swipe card, then there was every chance he might not miss it for a while and they hopefully would be long gone by then. It was decided to leave him and the man was again dragged through the hedge (again backwards) and deposited back in the driver’s seat. The smoke from the front of the car had stopped and it now seemed safe to do so. Just to make him comfortable, Knocker gave him a crack across the head with his Glock pistol. He would have a sore head in the morning but at least it would give them more time or so he hoped. Knocker shut the door and the air bag farted its last before deflating completely.

They continued across the Kalorgazstani countryside and Knocker was finally starting to dry out. He steamed like a freshly deposited turd even though the night was quite cool. Den and Kim were starting to become impressed though they never actually spoke about it. Den and Kim actually say very little and this is of course deliberate. If the story ever gets made into a film or even (God forbid) a movie, the parts of Den and Kim could be played by extras. This helps to keep costs down especially as Bruce Willis has shown an interest in playing Flabby, particularly after the chapter involving the string vest. He might be getting past it a bit but he still doesn’t come cheap even though part of his contract includes a clause giving him a supply of string vests for the rest of his life. It was actually Kim that spotted it first but by pointing, Jock saw it and told everybody else. “There’s the tank” said Jock and you couldn’t really miss it. It was obviously full mainly due to the fact the Kalorgazstanis had cut off the supply again. It really was the biggest gas tank they’d ever seen though Den and Kim didn’t elaborate and Knocker and Jock hadn’t seen that many anyway apart from the time the SAS had played the MCC at The Oval. Lord’s Cricket Ground had been closed due to a prankster putting up a ‘Keep off the grass’ sign and it had been three weeks before it had been deemed a hoax. It had also taken the more elderly MCC members about a fortnight to realise that there wasn’t a game going on. So the game had been switched to The Oval and after a close game it had been declared a draw. They had raised plenty of money for charity, like the MCC chosen charity, FPOS (Free Pimms for the Over Sixties) and the SAS chosen charity, RSAA (The Royal Society for the Abolition of Airsoft).

“There’s just the one” said Knocker peering through his binoculars. There was just the one solitary guard at the gatehouse and like most who occupy gatehouses during the small hours, he appeared to be asleep. The gas tank was fenced but nothing sophisticated or elaborate. They could even see the pipeline control centre and it was just a few hundred metres away from the tank. It’s perhaps tempting providence to say something is easy but on the face of it, this didn’t look like being their most difficult job. There was a complete absence of anything or anyone military and whoever was holding Seb and Karl they wouldn’t be heavily armed, if in fact armed at all. Jock crept up to the gatehouse and carefully and as quietly as possible tried the door. It was open and he crept in. His foot knocked over a collection of snow shovels that had been placed by the door as winter was finally over and they could be returned to a store. The guard didn’t wake despite the deafening clatter of the snow shovels and now Jock could see why. On the desk sat what looked like a hearing aid and next to it, sat a small battery and it didn’t have a copper top. “Fcuking cheapskate” whispered Jock but the guard slept on. Using his ample skills and meticulous training, Jock had the guard gagged, bound and locked up in the broom cupboard in a matter of minutes. Jock could see why the snow shovels were destined for elsewhere as there wasn’t much room in the broom cupboard but he made sure there was (just) enough room for the guard. He signalled for the rest and they joined him in the gatehouse.

There was an entrance for vehicles and an entrance for those on foot. The entrance for those on foot needed some sort of swipe card and Knocker pulled the swipe card from his pocket and ran it through the reader. The door opened and in they went. There were only a couple of buildings so it wasn’t hard to find Karl. He had been locked in a small room off the main control centre and as the gas wasn’t being pumped, the control centre was set to automatic mode and there wasn’t a soul in sight. They had a team hug though Den, Kim and of course now Karl, were a bit dubious about it. Jock handed Karl an Mp5 as he always carried a spare and they set off for the pipeline control centre. It didn’t take them long to reach it and this too was unoccupied. Using the same swipe card which seemed to open all doors, they gained entry and Seb had also been locked in a small room off the main control centre. It was quite comfortable really and he even had a separate toilet. Food and drink had been provided, as had a large stack of Kalorgazstani porn mags. Seb explained he hadn’t been able to read anything but he’d managed to make do by looking at the pictures. He was handed a Glock but he did insist on bringing the large stack of magazines. “As long as you fcuking carry them” were Knocker’s only words. They had another team hug but Seb refused to put the magazines down so it wasn’t a proper hug.

There was nothing left to do, so they made tracks and headed back towards the large gas tank. The guard had dropped off again in the broom cupboard and he was found the following morning and none the worse for wear. Leaving the large gas tank behind, they headed back to the extraction location but Knocker’s worst nightmare had come true. A police car’s lights flashed by the smashed car and an ambulance roared off obviously taking the man to hospital. Because of the lay of the land and perhaps they were a bit blasé as all had been going so swimmingly, they stepped out almost on top of the police. There was a stand off and the two policemen although armed did not bother to draw their pistols. It probably would have been the last thing they ever would do. Knocker was also reluctant to open fire as there were still a couple of hours before extraction and he didn’t fancy fighting world war three with herds of indignant police as if anything happened to the policemen, they would no doubt be missed. Karl spoke with one of the police officers as it appeared this one spoke some German. They looked as though they were arguing but that’s the way German is usually spoken. “They vant you to make statement” said Karl addressing Knocker. “Do fcuking what?” replied Knocker. Both Karl and Seb had been briefed about the accident the rest had witnessed. Knocker might be a bit rough round the edges at times but he kept his men in the know. Karl explained that rather than calling out the traffic accident investigation branch, the police were quite happy that Knocker should make a statement, in fact they insisted. After all, Knocker had actually witnessed the accident. “What the fcuk” said Knocker as they had time to kill, so he wrote his version of events and through Karl, the German speaking policeman got the facts about the accident.

With the statement finished, the police got back in their car and were just about to leave when the German speaking one called Karl over. They talked and Karl explained what he’d said. “He says he should fine you for leaving the scene of an accident” explained Karl and the veins started to stick out on Knocker’s forehead as he seethed with rage. Knocker raised his weapon and he seemed to be thinking about it when Karl spoke again. “He says he’s only joking and thanks for your help” said Karl and the police car drove off with both policemen waving. “Cheeky cnut” said Knocker lowering his weapon. He didn’t like being made a fool of but he eventually saw the funny side. I think it was about six months later but that’s not important right now. They wandered up to the extraction location and patiently waited for the Sea King. On the dot or five minutes late which is close enough, the Sea King touched down and they got onboard. It lifted off and headed back towards Propania. Jock was sick, Den was sick but they all got back safe and sound though the two pukers were a bit late as they had to clean up the inside of the Sea King before they were allowed to leave. “Piece of fcuking pish” was Knocker’s description of the job and he really wished it was that easy every time. Sadly, as many had found out to their cost, life isn’t always like that.

Chapter Eleven

It was just Flabby, Knocker, Smudge and Jock left in the hotel. The respective braces of Dutchmen, Belgians, Frenchmen and Germans were being both briefed and debriefed in the respective embassies. When I say there was just Flabby and company in the hotel, of course that’s not strictly true as the hotel was quite full due a conference for the manufacturers of feminine hygiene products. So while you couldn’t get a room for the night as the hotel was bunged, you’d have no problems getting hold of a tampon. Not that Flabby wanted to get hold of a tampon but the offer was still there. They were all relaxing after what had been an exciting time. Flabby told again (and again) how he had brought the Hind down and Knocker told of how their job had gone so surprisingly well. Flabby played with the SAS PDA as he listened to Knocker. A new email had arrived and it was from Major Tom back at Sterling Lines. The jist of the message was that Plan B had been cancelled and now Plan C was the order of the day. It seemed that Mr Brown would be briefing them all shortly. The message was all clear enough though Major Tom wishing them ‘Good lick’ confused Flabby for a minute or two. In the end, he just put it down to a typing error. With the hotel jammed full of feminine sanitary products, the last thing you felt like doing was licking.

Sure enough, a message came through that Mr Brown wished to speak to them. The embassy minibus would be picking them up after it had completed the weekly shopping run. It arrived shortly afterwards and the four climbed in amongst the boxes and boxes of supplies. The minibus swung into the embassy and the hordes of builders were bringing the accommodation back to its former glory. Even the garden was being replanted and a firm called KGB Landscaping were replanting, cleaning the puke off the herbaceous border and generally tidying up the grounds. The monkey puzzle tree had been given a short back and sides and they’d even installed a water feature to complement the pond. Mr Brown met them and held a finger to his lips. He sniffed it as he’d just been intimate with a typist who worked in the consular section but I think he was trying to tell them that it was a monitoring day so they had to be careful what they said. They picked a quiet spot next to the cement mixer and talked. Plan B had indeed been cancelled and Plan C was totally different to its predecessor. Plan C involved attacking the Kyrgyzwazstani Chamber of Commerce as the anti-aircraft defence system had not been sent out due to an international shortage of bubble wrap. The convoy had been rescheduled but that gave them the time and the opportunity to hit them. Flabby and company already knew the location but Mr Brown had put together a cunning plan to attack the storage warehouse where the anti-aircraft defence system was being kept.

“Your fcuking having me on!” shouted Flabby over the constant drone of the cement mixer. “We’re the SAS not fcuking secret squirrels!” added Flabby as Mr Brown divulged his cunning plan. The Paris-Dakar rally would be passing very close to the Kalashnikov Triangle it seemed. “That’s a bit off fcuking course” remarked Knocker but the Paris-Dakar had previously incorporated parts of South America and the rally was no longer the shortest distance between two points. It had gone global and Mr Brown suspected that it was no accident that the rally coincided with the cutting off of the gas supply. The eyes of the world would be on the region and it wouldn’t look particularly good if the west launched an air strike during what was an international event with an accompanying media circus. “How are your rally driving skills?” asked Mr Brown and they all looked at him. “Follow me” instructed Mr Brown and as he didn’t say walk this way; none of them imitated his slight limp. They didn’t talk as they walked as it was pretty obvious they were being followed. They walked past the café they had recently sat at and turning a few corners, found themselves in front of what looked like an old warehouse. Mr Brown used a swipe card to gain entrance and the entrance system didn’t exactly have all the hallmarks of a typical old warehouse. Inside, the place was a hive of activity but what caught Flabby’s eye were the four rally vehicles being worked on by men in white coats.

“This is C” said Mr Brown introducing them to the first white coat. “Why’s he called C?” asked Smudge. “Because he’s a bit of a cnut” replied Mr Brown and the white coat glared at him. Mr Brown introduced the rest of the white coats and they were also known by single letters. There was even a Q but Mr Brown had actually meant queue as it was close to dinnertime and he wanted to make sure he wasn’t left with the shepherd’s pie like last time. The vehicles were rally prepared vehicles but there had been some subtle modifications made to them. Various weapon mounts had been fitted including grenade launchers and a very sophisticated communications system had also been fitted. Smudge did notice there was a distinct lack of ashtrays and Knocker wondered why the doors had been welded shut. Mr Brown explained that there was no real valid reason for this other than the person in charge was a lifelong Dukes of Hazzard fan. “When do we get to try them out?” asked Smudge. “Don’t be fcuking stupid, these aren’t for you” replied Mr Brown and before anybody had a chance to pose further questions, he walked to the far side of the warehouse and pressed a button. A door opened slowly and in a small bay off the main warehouse were two rather sorry looking Landrovers. “These are for you” explained Mr Brown and Flabby just managed to hold Knocker back from punching Mr Brown’s lights out.

But it wasn’t as bad as it had first seemed. The Landrovers were perfectly serviceable and there was a large pile of surplus weapon mounts left over. The job was to hit the Kyrgyzwazstani Chamber of Commerce but it wasn’t scheduled to happen for a couple of days so there was time to modify the Landrovers. Of course the white coats wouldn’t be helping but as they disappeared for their meal, Knocker saw plenty of things that would end up on the Landrovers. If it wasn’t nailed or bolted down then it was fair game as far as he was concerned. Another plus was that the Landrovers were actually street legal, so they wouldn’t have to rely on the embassy minibus to get around. While various mounts could be fitted, the actual weaponry could be left to the last minute. While the car in front might or might not be a Toyota it might be slightly unnerving to realise the vehicle behind has a grenade launcher. Mr Brown also disappeared as the food there was far superior to the embassy. Unfortunately he had left it too long and ended up with the shepherd’s pie. Unbeknown to him, Knocker had spoken to the cook and had reserved four portions of the steak and kidney pie thus depriving Mr Brown of his preferred dish. Revenge is a dish best served cold and while the shepherd’s pie wasn’t totally cold, it was cooling off quite a bit.

The next couple of days were spent modifying the Landrovers and the white coats were not happy teddies. The very second they put anything down; it disappeared immediately to reappear on or close to the Landrovers. Flabby had also raided the local DIY store and the local supermarket and a few ‘essentials’ had been acquired. The most important had been soft toilet roll but other things such as bags and bags of nails had been purchased to use in the homemade mortar on the back of one of the Landrovers. They all had served in Northern Ireland and had all learned from their enemy. It was a scene very reminiscent of an episode from ‘The A Team’ but not as far fetched. Nobody knocked up a Chieftain tank from an old dustbin and parts of an old threshing machine using a blowtorch and lengths of garden hose. Though Knocker did come close as when it came to choosing what flavour of crisps he wanted, he was heard to say “I don’t want no plain” which is quite close. On the evening prior to the job, all the weapons were mounted which was one GPMG (General Purpose Machine Gun) per Landrover along with a grenade launcher on each. One Landrover did have the homemade mortar but as it was giving them so many problems, it was decided to bin it and a cool box was installed instead. It didn’t exactly increase their firepower but at least the beer would be kept cold. Flabby did try to get a refund on the bags and bags of nails but the store refused, so he swapped them for a leather case for his SAS PDA.

The Landrovers really looked the part. They had stuck any sticker they could get their hands on onto both the Landrovers and it really looked as though they were being seriously sponsored. Both Landrovers were soft tops and the tops could be removed in seconds enabling them to use the GPMG. Both Landrovers did have roll bars fitted and while it did limit the range of fire, they would have looked very odd without them. Each Landrover had a (fictitious) number but one had to be redone as they’d chosen the same number. The first vehicles from the rally were due to enter the area near the Kalashnikov Triangle the following morning and while Flabby would have preferred a night attack, there was safety in numbers with all the other rally vehicles. He was hoping they would get into the town and be blowing apart the storage warehouse before anybody had even vaguely realised. “But I still don’t see it” said Knocker for the umpteenth time. What Knocker couldn’t understand was that rather than launching an airstrike with the eyes of the world watching, they, the SAS would be going in with all guns blazing and still with all the eyes of the world in the general area. “It’s the same fcuking thing” insisted Knocker and Flabby too was puzzled. He didn’t really trust Mr Brown, he didn’t trust any of the suits and he certainly didn’t trust any politicians. “I think what we’re dealing with here is called a calculated risk” explained Flabby. “I think what we’re dealing with here is called a soft cnut” said Jock and Flabby couldn’t help but smile. They were there to carry out the wishes of politicians and most of them (the politicians) couldn’t even blow their own noses without help. “I hope that cnut isn’t going to hang us all out to dry” added Jock and Flabby was also seriously worried. He even thought of contacting Major Tom but decided against it.

The following morning, they arrived at the embassy in the Landrovers. This caused quite a stir with the builders and it’s sometimes amazing how many people bring cameras to work. These weren’t just phone cameras but large professional cameras with huge lenses. They felt like celebrities as they drove up to the embassy proper and then round the back of the building to the loading bay. They each withdrew a 24 hour mission pack and unpacked them carefully. “Where’s the fcuking rest?” asked Jock as there was just the four of them. “Where’s the fcuking euro zone?” asked Knocker and seeing Mr Brown grabbed him and waited for an answer. “I’m sorry gents but their governments have changed their minds” explained Mr Brown and they suddenly felt somewhat short staffed. With two in each Landrover and one of course driving, that just left one to man the GPMG and nothing else. “What the fcuk!” roared Knocker and his grip on Mr Brown tightened. “I’m sorry but it’s out of my hands” said Mr Brown who was having difficulty in breathing. “But you’re not out of mine you cnut!” shouted Knocker and it took the other three all their strength to get him away. “Leave him Knocker, he’s not worth it” said Smudge mumbling slightly as he had a cigarette in his mouth. “Something here doesn’t smell quite right and I don’t mean that fcuker” said Knocker and he was seriously doubting this job. “But we’re damned if we do and damned if we don’t” said Flabby trying to reassure him but it wasn’t working. “You know me Flabby” said Knocker and it was true, they had known each other a very long time. “I’ve never refused to carry out a job but this one smells and it smells fcuking terrible” said Knocker but Flabby knew Knocker wouldn’t do the dirty on him. They’d been through far too much together and if there was something iffy about this job, they’d all face it together. “Does anybody want to drop out?” asked Flabby. Nobody moved and nobody spoke but Flabby was not as insensitive as he might seem at times. He knew nobody was happy about the job and neither was he.

As they drove out of the embassy with Flabby and Jock in one Landrover and Knocker and Smudge in the other, Jock was sure he saw one of Frenchmen waving to him. He half heartedly waved back but neglected to mention it to the rest. The roads were fairly quiet as many people had flocked to watch the rally. The two Landrovers made excellent time and were close to the Kalashnikov Triangle before they knew it. The weather had been a factor as riding about in an uncovered Landrover in driving rain is no fun but fortunately the weather had been kind to them and the sun shone down on them. They stopped with the town in sight, taking care not to stop where all the snakes basked in the now pleasantly warm sun. Both soft tops were removed and Flabby manned the GPMG while Jock drove. On the other Landrover Knocker manned the GPMG while Smudge both drove and smoked. The town seemed strangely quiet and there was no sign of the rally. Flabby couldn’t remember if it was to pass through the town but there weren’t that many roads in the area and the fact they’d got there had obviously meant the rally wasn’t going to pass their way. “I don’t like this Flabby” said Jock from the driver’s seat. “Let’s have a quick decko” replied Flabby and pulled out his binoculars. The town was quiet; there were a few cars about but not many people. He could see a sign advertising a two for one offer on the Russian T-72 battle tank but that was about it.

They were already in Kyrgyzwazstani territory and Flabby still wasn’t happy. He gave the order to replace the soft tops but before anybody had the chance to move, a MIG-41 or Fcukpig (all Russian fighter aircraft are assigned names beginning with the letter F) flew over them at speed. From the town, Flabby could see four of the T-72 battle tanks heading their way. “Leg it!” shouted Flabby and they attempted to make a break for it. From the other direction another four T-72 battle tanks trundled towards them along with a few scout cars and even some ground troops. “I think we’re fcuked!” shouted Flabby and while there were times to stand and fight, today was neither the time nor place to do it. Flabby looked at his watch and knew there was only one thing he could do. He got down from the Landrover and depositing his Mp5 and all other weapons in the back of the Landrover, he walked towards the scout cars with his hands up. The other three reluctantly copied him and they too walked towards the scout cars with their hands up. “I told you it fcuking smelt” said Knocker. “I know Knocker, I know” replied Flabby and he just couldn’t help feeling he’d been set up.

Chapter Twelve

The four of them walked towards the leading scout car while the ground troops secured the two Landrovers. An elderly Russian looking man stood next to the scout car and twiddled with a badge on his coat lapel. The troops were Kalorgazstani but the elderly man had all the hallmarks of being Russian. Incidentally the MIG-41 was Russian and had been leased by the Kalorgazstanis. It was due back in a few days otherwise the Kalorgazstanis would be losing their rather hefty deposit. “As I live and breath” said the Russian still twiddling with his lapel badge. Flabby was pretty sure it wasn’t a Veteran’s badge and as he got closer, he could just make out the head of Stalin in the centre of the badge. “Flabby McAndrew, we meet at last” said the Russian and he held out a hand which Flabby ignored. “Suit yourself but it seems as if I’ve known you for a very long time” added the Russian and introduced himself as Sergei Moriatrovic and a former full colonel in Russian Military Intelligence. “Am I supposed to be impressed?” asked Flabby not letting the Russian get the upper hand though having just surrendered to him; it looked already as though the Russian had the upper hand. “What a tangled web we weave” said the Russian, his heavy Russian accent still detectable in his reasonable English. “Get tae fcuk” said Jock not wishing to be left out. “Ah, fighting talk” said Sergei looking at Jock and he seemed genuinely impressed. The MIG-41 roared overhead as the pilot was starting to feel left out as well. A truck drew up next to them and Flabby and company were shoved in the back of it. The ground troops or the ones not driving the Landrovers joined them in the back and as he received his third bayonet prod in the last couple of minutes, Flabby decided that now was not the time to think about escaping. The convoy trundled along the road and turning off the main road drove along what was no more than a track and headed for Kalorgazstan.

In the British embassy in Propania, there was uproar. The builders were still hard at work though if you looked closely, the work didn’t actually seem to progress. It was Mr Brown who was on the receiving end of things as eight rather angry Europeans were starting to wonder which side he was on. The original four who had been captured (Dick, JC, Seb and Karl) had been scheduled to go with Flabby but had seen Flabby and company drive out in the Landrovers. Due to a misunderstanding originating at the Belgian embassy, the replacement four (Den, Kim, Brie and Shagger) had also thought they were going. Things were not helped when Dick, while looking for a pencil sharpener, found a badge inside Mr Brown’s desk. The badge looked remarkably like the one Sergei had been playing with though of course, they didn’t know that. “He’sh a fcuking shpy!” shouted Dick and the rest joined in. Actually of course Mr Brown technically was a spy as he worked for MI5 but I think they were insinuating he might be a double agent. “Indeed he is” said a strange voice behind them and there was Mr Brown’s underling or Mr Scarlet and he had been sent by London to ascertain the identity of a possible double agent. Mr Brown reached for his drawer but Dick was too quick for him. There was a loud cry as Mr Brown’s hand was trapped in the drawer and there was an even louder cry when Dick slammed the drawer again. “Ok that’s enough” said Mr Scarlet. Mr Brown freed his damaged hand and held it to his chest. He was in some serious pain but if he was looking for any sympathy, he was wasting his time. “What about Flabby?” asked JC and they all looked at Mr Brown. “He’sh shet him up” said Dick and feigned a punch at Mr Brown. Mr Brown flinched which didn’t do his hand any favours. Again, there was a distinct lack of sympathy in the room. “Are you all game to help him?” asked Mr Scarlet and he was almost knocked over by the rush. All eight volunteered and perhaps in this instance, volunteering was the right thing to do. Mr Scarlet opened one of Mr Brown’s drawers and pulled out the key to the key press. He walked across the locked key press and opened it. Inside was a multitude of keys but he only picked three. “Tie him up please” said Mr Scarlet pointing to the pathetic figure of Mr Brown. Willing hands threw Mr Brown into his chair and with rather a large number of tie-wraps, he was firmly secured. “Follow me” said Mr Scarlet and they headed towards the basement of the embassy.

The basement of the embassy was huge and there were bomb shelters and backup communications and computer rooms and there was even a backup stationery cupboard but it was the rooms where all the weaponry was stored that interested them. The first held all the 24 hour mission packs, so eight of those were thrown out into the corridor. Mr Scarlet locked the room again and moved on to the next. This room, once unlocked was an Aladdin’s cave of handheld anti-aircraft missile systems, anti-tank missile systems and strange electronic devices. The eight picked what they thought they might need and that was also dumped in the corridor. Mr Scarlet relocked the room and headed for the last. Once unlocked, this was just a clothing store but there weren’t many rescue missions carried out in shorts and flip-flops as that was what some were wearing so something a bit more suitable might be an idea. As none of the details of the eight were actually on file yet, it took a while and just like before, changing facilities were a bit sparse. But eventually they were all suitably kitted out and they stood in the corridor wondering how they were going to carry all this lot. There was rather a lot of equipment in the corridor and they’d be lucky to make the garden let alone rescue Flabby, so transport needed to be arranged. “I’d just nick the embassy minibus” said Mr Scarlet and Dick set off to do exactly that. The rest started moving the kit to a loading bay where hopefully Dick would bring the minibus. Flabby would have given his eye teeth for all this equipment but of course Mr Brown had sent him out slightly vulnerable and exactly as he had been ordered to.

Dick found the embassy minibus and it was unattended and even had the keys in the ignition. There was an industrial dispute going on at the embassy as it had been found out that as far as embassies go, this one had the highest number of staff. Various studies had concluded the staff numbers should be cut and PUES (the Propanian Union of Embassy Staff) were prepared to fight it all the way. At that very moment, the union representative and the area official were in deep discussion while the staff waited. They were all sat in a local cinema as the embassy didn’t have a place large enough to fit them all in. The embassy minibus driver (daytime hours) was sat next to the embassy minibus driver (night-time hours) in a row that included the seven cleaners and the eleven mechanics responsible for the upkeep of the vehicle. In front of them sat rows and rows of cleaners and behind them rows and rows of gardeners. As in all union meetings everybody was addressed as ‘Brother’, even the women, as it was sometimes quite difficult to tell. So Dick didn’t have any problems obtaining the embassy minibus and on checking, he found the four refuellers hadn’t been idle. So with a full tank, he drove round to the loading bay area and reversed the van against the loading ramp, only scraping the van twice. The six paintwork and body repair technicians would have been horrified. They loaded the kit but space was a bit tight, so some of the seats were removed and unceremoniously dumped on the loading ramp. In the cinema, as the area official droned on, the three upholsterers were none the wiser. Mr Scarlet joined them on the ramp and gave them the latest intelligence. The MIG-41 had been spotted on radar and spy satellites had been watching the area and while they hadn’t quite documented exactly what had happened, Mr Scarlet had a pretty good idea what had gone on. This and more, he passed on to the eight.

“Good luck!” shouted Mr Scarlet as the embassy minibus drove out of the embassy grounds. This had not gone unnoticed and next to what was left of the accommodation block, a gardener spoke into the handle of his shovel, while the minibus was happy snapped by one of the workmen as some of the other workmen paraded for a team photo. Dick was driving with JC also upfront. The bus was a hive of activity as weapons were unpacked and checked. Fortunately the days of laboriously filling magazines were long gone, as the SAS used the new and highly efficient self-loading magazines. Grenade launchers were loaded and Shagger wished he’d had that nervous pish. They soon left the Alkane traffic behind them and were getting close to the Kalashnikov Triangle. There wasn’t much traffic on the roads and only a Propanian kestrel flew overhead. It had got bored shiteless hovering over the same piece of ground by the road and had only managed to catch one mouse all day. Propanian kestrels are much the same as the ones you might see in the UK or mainland Europe but they tend to be extremely impatient and consequently less bulky. Eventually the eight reached the spot where Flabby had surrendered. For a few miles, they’d already noticed the road had been recently broken up and it looked as though the cause had been something heavy like perhaps a large earth mover. “Or a tank?” JC had suggested and it got them thinking. Den scoured the countryside through his binoculars looking for any sort of a clue but apart from witnessing the mating dance of the Kyrgyzwazstani Pit Viper, there wasn’t much to report. “I shuggesht we follow the road damage” shuggeshted, sorry suggested Den and at the moment, it did seem their only option. So they headed back, watching the road and they too arrived at the track heading off towards Kalorgazstan. After the track, there was no further road damage so they were pretty certain; this was where whatever caused the damage had headed. “It could be Flabby. He’sh a bit rotund” said Dick unkindly though unfortunately perfectly truthfully.

They’d only driven a few metres up the track when something flew over them very fast and very low. “It’sh a fcuking MIG!” screamed Dick over the sound of the aircraft. Dick knew his aircraft and this was the latest that Russia had to offer. A fully fly by wire supersonic fighter with excellent handling capabilities and armed to the teeth. But the new Russia wasn’t the power it once was and it had been rumoured that all the state of the art electronics on the aircraft had been sourced from two catalogue shops, namely Conrad and Maplin’s. Also this was the commercial version built solely for the rental or leasing market and there were a few subtle differences from the full production model. There was a radio-cassette instead of a CD player and of course no Mp3 capability. Just like a Ford Transit, rental or lease aircraft received a hammering and were usually rented or leased with the renter or the leaser keen to find out how fast it went and/or how much can you fit in. Certain extras, some totally unnecessary like insurance pushed the total price up and rentals or lease agreements generally gave you a token amount of flying hours but you were then charged for each subsequent flying hour and it wasn’t cheap. But in the MIG-41, the pilot was having the time of his life. He’d already had the drive of his life as he drove a Peugeot but that was safely parked back at the airbase car park. The pilot scanned the number plate of the embassy minibus and it was fed into the computer. A large British union flag appeared on the screen as the computer had correctly identified the diplomatic plates. He selected the weapons system menu and pressed the random option. He liked surprises and the embassy minibus was just about to get one too.

“MIG-41!” shouted Shagger just in case Dick hadn’t been heard. “The Fcukpig!” shouted Seb. “I’ll get the fcukpig” said Karl and grabbed a large black box from the back of the minibus and switched it on. He was relieved to see that it was fully updated and from a menu, he selected the auto-scan option. The box beeped and an image of a MIG-41 appeared on the screen. Karl then selected the jam option and the box made a strange sort of whirring noise. In the MIG-41, the pilot’s head-up display indicated a jam was taking place and he pressed the anti-jam option. Back on the deck, Karl had seen that the pilot had selected the anti-jam facility and why wouldn’t he? I mean the pilot not Karl but Karl on seeing it, selected the jam anti-jam option and the box whirred even louder. In the MIG, the pilot again saw that the jam anti-jam was working but there were no options to press. Across the screen was a message and it said ‘Module not fitted. Please read the manufacturer’s handbook before continuing’ in Russian. It had started out as being a cracking day but it got suddenly worse. The controls became heavy and sluggish. The pilot struggled but he was losing height fast and there was really only one thing for it. He frantically pulled at the yellow and black lever between his legs and in an instant, the canopy disappeared and he was shot into the air. The parachute opened and he started his descent to the ground. The MIG now pilotless and out of control, started a steep descent and hit the ground in a ball of flames. The only casualty was a lone rabbit which took the full force of the crash and was literally blown to bits. Ironically the only sort of recognizable bit left of the rabbit was a foot. Lucky rabbit’s foot anybody? This incident does hammer home a point and that’s if you’re going to build an aircraft, try and get the shielded cable. It’s only a few pence extra per metre and in this case, would have been worth every penny.

Karl had never had so many pats on the back. He’d had plenty of stabs in the back but that’s another story. “Nishe one Karl” said Dick and patted him on the back. It was pretty obvious they were on the right track and I promise you, there was no pun intended. It wasn’t as if they were trespassing and a MIG-41 is a bit of an over the top response even if they had been. “Letsh go!” shouted Dick who seemed to be doing all the talking. “Wagonsh roll!” shouted Den. Having all got out of the bus, they did what comes naturally to anybody with any form of military experience and got back in the bus. No doubt they’d get out of the bus at some later stage but for now, they headed along the track heading towards Kalorgazstan. As Dick and Den, the two Cloggy men joked and laughed and generally pished about, Flabby sat in a cell wondering what tomorrow would bring. He suddenly felt very old very and tired and also rather annoyed as he’d hardly featured in the chapter.

Chapter Thirteen

In the half light, you could just about make out a figure on the floor. The figure was half sitting, half lying and seemed to struggle to stay upright. To the side of the figure was a tin plate with a slice of dry looking bread on it and a tin mug containing what looked like a watery soup. It might even have been water but water isn’t generally lumpy. The figure picked up the soup but being so weak, it dropped the mug and the mug crashed to the floor. The watery soup spread across the dirty floor and using the dry bread, the figure mopped up what soup it could. Its long bony fingers put the bread to its mouth and biting off a morsel, it chewed slowly and deliberately, trying to obtain as much sustenance as it could. A rat appeared from the corner of the room and it too concentrated on the soup. The figure tried to scare it away but the rat showed no fear. The figure reached for a metal bucket and with great effort, swung it at the rat. The bucket also crashed to the floor and its contents of stale urine and human faeces covered the cell floor. “Flabby, are you going to stop watching that shite and come and play table tennis?” shouted Knocker from the recreation room. Flabby had been in the TV room and he still wasn’t sure what he’d been watching as while it had been that DiCaprio twonk, the film had been dubbed into Kalorgazstani and he hadn’t understood a word. They were being held in a state prison but as there was a bank holiday looming, all the prisoners had been sent home for a long weekend.

It was all too complicated but Sergei had finally revealed all. He’d also revealed almost all when he’d had a pish next to Flabby but of course Flabby hadn’t looked and had just read the name on the urinal. Shanks of Barrhead it had been and Flabby maybe because of the circumstances or maybe because of his advancing years had reminisced. “They don’t make urinals like they used to” he had thought to himself but then nostalgia wasn’t what it used to be either. Russia was having problems. While some were filthy stinking rich, others were just filthy and drank homemade vodka and drank themselves to death. Russia still had a huge military force but couldn’t afford to maintain it and this had not escaped the attention of many of the Generals. The Stalin Fan Club was the name of the organization that hoped to very soon wrestle control from the democratically elected (ish) handpicked (more like it) President and Prime Minister and restore Russia as a world super power. They knew power came not just from military might but from energy and the control of the gas supplies to the West was a key part of their plan. “But why me?” Flabby had asked and Sergei had explained they needed a scapegoat and Flabby had been picked. It was only because of the looming bank holiday that Flabby and the rest hadn’t been paraded in front of the world media as Capitalist meddlers. The Kalorgazstani media valued their time off and come any bank holiday, you were lucky to see a news bulletin and the weather reports were sometimes several days old. Of course after the parading of Flabby and the rest and the subsequent mud slinging at the West, Russia and in particular, the members of the Stalin Fan Club, would offer help, aid, weapons, lots of vodka and even energy expertise to Kalorgazstan and it eventually would end up as no more than an annexed state and part of a greater more powerful Russia.

“We need to get out of here” said Flabby now in the recreation room though not playing table tennis. Knocker was playing Jock and thrashing him as he kept dropping the ball just over the net. Jock being a short arrse, couldn’t reach and he was getting increasingly annoyed. They had effectively a whole prison to themselves and if the prison security wasn’t bad enough, there was still the matter of the ground troops, the scout cars and the eight T-72 tanks. There was also the MIG-41 or as far as they knew, as they hadn’t yet heard about its demise. They also didn’t know about the embassy minibus heading their way with eight rather angry and well armed Europeans in it but then maybe Flabby’s crystal ball was just a bit cloudy. “So we’re going to be on the telly? joked Jock. He too realised the significance of the whole thing but he did have great difficulty in keeping serious. They had been quite thoroughly searched before being let loose in the prison but the four of them were masters when it came to concealment. It was a shame that they hadn’t taken full advantage of those skills, as the only thing they had between them that might be of any use, was Flabby’s Tic Tacs. Ok, they were the cinnamon ones and quite hot but you’re still not going to take on a T-72 with them. Though Flabby had won a major concession from Sergei when Smudge had been allowed to keep his cigarettes and lighter.

They did have a couple of days but what they needed was action. Unfortunately, the only action they’d experienced was bowel action, as the food while plentiful, was absolutely bogging. “Another game Jock?” asked Knocker. “Fcuk all else to do” replied Jock and Knocker continued to thrash him though only at table tennis. Flabby sat thinking and hoping for a plan while Smudge sat alone in the smoking room and did what came naturally to him and lit another one up. “I’ve got an idea” said Smudge still with cigarette in hand. “The recreation room is non-smoking you w@nker” complained Knocker but Smudge ignored him as he did virtually everybody else. Smudge pointed to the smoke detectors on the ceiling and held his lit cigarette underneath it. Nothing happened, so grabbing a chair and climbing up on it, he repeated the process. The fire alarm was deafening and it had certainly woken up those outside as two of the tanks collided. Another ran over one of the ground troops and you could say he’d been fast tracked. “Why the fcuk didn’t we do this sooner?” asked Flabby as over the sound of the fire alarm, he could hear the sirens of fire engines. If he’d looked carefully, he would have seen the embassy minibus hot on the tail of the last appliance. As quickly as they could, Flabby and the rest barricaded the entrance to their wing, using anything that wasn’t bolted down and some things that previously had been. Ground troops had been sent up to investigate but they couldn’t get past the barricade and use of more substantial force would not have met with fire service approval as the prison was now full of firemen as well. A couple of Kalorgazstani police cars tore into the prison to add to the confusion followed by an ambulance as the driver had been listening in on the radio. He hadn’t had so much as a traffic accident all day and it made a welcome change for an ambulance to do the chasing.

The embassy minibus tore into the prison. The main gate had of course been open to allow the emergency services through. Seeing the tanks and what was left of the ground troops, Dick swung the minibus round a corner and they all jumped out fully armed and ready for action. The two tanks that had collided were exchanging insurance details but that became somewhat irrelevant as both of them exploded in a ball of flames. The MILAN ET (Extra Terrestrial) was a vast improvement on the MILAN ER (Extended Range) and Den had effectively killed two birds with one stone. The scene became even more confusing as a large obviously Russian Hip helicopter came into view and hovering over the prison exercise yard, what seemed like dozens of heavily armed soldiers abseiled down into the prison. They were all dressed in black and looked very much like Russian Special Forces (SF). “Oh fcuk” said Karl as while they didn’t mind some extra fire power on their side, he hoped they were on their side and even if they weren’t, the Russians had the reputation of killing more than they generally saved. While all this was going on, Sergei slipped quietly away from his office and headed outside. The ambulance driver had nipped off for a cup of tea as the police had radioed in for catering facilities due to the large amount of troops and emergency services on the ground. He ordered a tea and a cheeseburger and then watched his own ambulance drive past. With Sergei at the wheel of the ambulance, it drove through the main entrance and disappeared into the Kalorgazstani countryside. The ambulance driver nonchalantly finished his tea and his cheeseburger. It was at that very moment he thought, that maybe it was the right time for a career change.

Inside the prison, it was chaos as the Russian SF attacked the Kalorgazstanis and the eight Europeans continued with their fight. They still weren’t totally sure if the Russians were on their side as there had been far too many close calls for them to be called accidental. But then as quickly as they’d arrived, they disappeared. The Hip landed in a field close to the prison and the Russian SF headed out the prison and climbed into it. The Hip took off and disappeared into the clouds. The eight were left to fight alone but it was virtually all over. All the tanks had either been destroyed or had been put out of action. Staff cars sat smouldering in various parts of the prison and those troops that hadn’t surrendered were either dead or wounded. In their section of the prison, Flabby and the rest were dismantling the barricades they had put up. Smudge was jubilant and telling anybody and everybody that smoking obviously wasn’t as bad for your health as was to be believed. It was Shagger who found the control room and with the flicking of a few switches, they were able to reach Flabby and the rest. They all had a massive team hug though Knocker wasn’t happy as he ended up next to Brie and he stunk of garlic something rotten. On their way out, they shooed off any remaining Kalorgazstanis and they seemed all too happy to go. All but Shagger climbed into the embassy minibus and they drove out of the prison and stopped just outside the main gate. Shagger closed all the doors from the control room and picked up the key to the main gate. He walked to the main gate and left via the pedestrian entrance but not before locking it behind him. He slipped the key under a nearby flower pot and climbed into the minibus. It was crowded in the minibus and there was the odd fight for the few seats but generally they were all happy and contented.

Flabby and the rest stayed in the hotel back in Propania for a few days before flying home. All twelve of them went out on the lash though they didn’t bother with the brothel. Jock finally got the all clear after his unprotected sex though he did joke that if they had gone to the brothel then with the eleven others downstairs waiting for him, there was no way he was unprotected. All twelve were really starting to get on and you just had the feeling that come Christmas there was going to be a hell of a lot of Christmas cards going to be exchanged. Mr Brown was already back in the UK and was facing treason charges. These were later reduced to contravention of the Civil Service code and as long as he fed the Russians crap for the rest of his career then he’d be fine and would stay out of prison. Sadly (or not) he was later killed in a freak accident. He had been working under a car and the axle stands had given way. The car had fallen on him killing him instantly and despite the fact the car seemed to have fallen on him twice, the coroner had seemed to ignore that and his death had been put down to an accident. Flabby never saw Angelina again. The rumour was, she was working in Moscow. But he would always remember her and he didn’t bear her any grudges, the two timing, traitorous, Russian loving, four eyed, cantankerous old bitch. Of course in Moscow there were far more job opportunities as former Stalin Fan Club badge wearers disappeared or were posted to Siberia so it was a case of when one door closes another one opens. Of course that doesn’t always apply to coffins, as some of the former badge members disappeared without trace. The damage to Flabby’s flat hadn’t been as bad as was to be expected and even after it getting a good hosing down, there were still memories of her in the flat. A pubic hair here or a toenail clipping there. The snot she wiped on the toilet wall and the stain on the mattress when she suffered tampon failure and in a big way. They were all things he would never forget along with the fact the fcuking cow bubbled him.

The West’s argument with Kalorgazstan and vice versa was just a memory now. A new contract had been negotiated and the West had even managed to get a discount. Of course the suppliers didn’t pass it on as while they claimed they had a duty to their customers, they actually seemed to have more of a duty to their shareholders. The eight Europeans went back to their duties and as thanks for their efforts they were awarded the undying gratitude of their respective governments which was a bit of a let down. Jock went back to show business and managed to land a starring role in Guy Ritchie’s new gangster film ‘Three Cnuts and a Baby’ along with Ross Kemp and Vinny Jones. Smudge went back to trying to grow his own tobacco as the price of ciggies was shocking nowadays and Knocker went back to Sterling Lines to drive a desk. It meant regular hours, plenty of people to shout at and of course promotion. It also increased his pension, if in fact he lived long enough or didn’t die of boredom before getting it. The Kyrgyzwazstani government nationalized the weapons industry which made absolutely no difference to the sale of military hardware but at least they got all the profits. Flabby was at a crossroads in his life and he just didn’t know which way to turn. It was much the same that fateful day the steering went on the 2CV. He hadn’t known which way to turn either and even when he had done, it made bugger all difference anyway. He sometimes thought of Sergei and how it was he who had forced this decision on him. He supposed he would never see him again. But then again would he?

Chapter Fourteen

Flabby had booked himself a holiday. He had hoped that some time on his own might help him to decide what to do with the rest of his life. He’d booked the holiday with just a couple of things in mind and that was it had to be quiet and it had to be peaceful, so well away from the massed ranks of the great unwashed or tourists as some people call them. Of course what he didn’t mind either was good travel links, plenty to see, good food, good beer, some illicit sex and satellite TV. He had chosen a small village on the French and German border and somewhere he had actually been before. He had stolen a bike and killed a couple of chickens during a European sponsored ‘Special Forces Week’ many years ago. He had fallen in love with the place and had always vowed to return. And so all these years later he was back and booked into a small hotel. The food was excellent, the beer was excellent and the serving wench seemed to be gagging for it, so basically not a bad choice. He spent his time relaxing and even tried his hand at writing poetry but he never kept anything he wrote as it was crap. The following day he was off to visit the famous Offenbach Falls, where the River Strudel plunged into a deep gorge and then continued its journey in less dramatic fashion. Of course the Offenbach Falls are not to be confused with the Reichenbach Falls, as they’re in Switzerland.

The Offenbach Falls were so called as Offenbach, the German born French composer had visited them and had come within an inch of losing his life at what had previously been known as the Strudel Falls. Offenbach had got too near the falls and after slipping on a damp crisp packet (Laufers a German firm and the flavour was Cheese and Onion), he had almost fallen and if a Belgian writer hadn’t grabbed him, he would have surely gone over the edge and almost certainly fallen to his death. The falls had been named after him in his honour but sadly, the only recognition the Belgian author got was that he had been allowed to keep the offending crisp packet. Showing all his gratitude, he had lobbed it in the bin. The Offenbach Falls had also been the inspiration for the title of Offenbach’s most famous piece of work. One particular day, Offenbach had been at the falls. The Belgian author had also been there but he doesn’t really feature in the story. At the top of the falls, there is a road and the road connects two small towns. Despite the absence of warning signs, the road was prone to icy patches and a delivery wagon had hit a patch of ice and overturned sending some of its contents into the river. The driver had been fine but some say his Bleu d'Auvergne never looked the same after the accident. The driver had been supplying one of the lesser known French shops (Le Tescos) but that’s not really important or relative to the story. Most of the driver’s load had been tinned produce and most were packed into cardboard boxes. As the River Strudel soaked into the cardboard, the boxes starting spitting out their contents. Offenbach watched the falls as the wagon’s contents fell down the falls. One can, two cans, cancan! It was his eureka moment and while the Belgian author was going along similar lines, who the hell has ever heard of anything or anybody called tintin?

Flabby was stood on the very spot where Offenbach had stood, all those years ago. The ground was slippery as it had rained recently and a gusty wind blew the spray in his general direction. Flabby felt lucky to be alive and even luckier when he slipped on a discarded pretzel wrapper and almost went over the falls himself. He was at peace with the world and he’d even (almost) forgiven Angelina, the dick chomping slapper. He shut his eyes, regretting it instantly as he started to wobble but a hand grabbed his jacket and prevented him from falling. Flabby opened his eyes and there in front of him, well sort of to the side and back a bit was none other than Sergei Moriatrovic. “Don’t do it Flabby” said Sergei releasing his hold on Flabby’s jacket. “I should kill you” said Flabby through his teeth which is a strange thing to say as most people talk through their teeth. Ok, some talk through their arrse but that’s totally different. I suppose the only ones who don’t actually talk through their teeth, are those who keep them in a glass and are registered Steradent users. “I wouldn’t” replied Sergei and gestured to the top of the falls. At the top of the falls stood somebody holding an AK47 and as it wasn’t hunting season, Flabby guessed Sergei had brought along a bit of insurance. “Why did you do it? asked Flabby and seeing Sergei again had brought it all flooding back again. “Just like you Mr McAndrew, I believe in my country” replied Sergei and he suddenly looked very old and very tired. “But sometimes you get it wrong and I’ve been paying the price ever since” added Sergei and Flabby almost felt sorry for him. He reached out carefully, remembering the AK47 at the top of the falls. But as he reached out, the wind blew the pretzel wrapping under his foot and he slipped falling against Sergei. Sergei fell backwards and tried to grab Flabby’s wrist but the pair of them fell over the side and disappeared into the spray.

At the top of the falls, the owner of the AK47 decided against alerting the Gendarmerie. He had nothing personal against Flabby but he didn’t think he’d like to answer questions about Sergei or the fact he had an AK47. He waited for what seemed ages and kept watch on the river past the falls but there was nothing to be seen. So, he walked back to Sergei’s car and drove off heading for Russia, as while he was now the proud owner of a black Mercedes, he was between jobs yet again. He hoped the Russian Mafia were still headhunting. Flabby was missed at the hotel and the Gendarmerie finally got in on the case but as no body had been found, they just assumed Flabby had simply fallen to his death and the river had swept him away. Reports were sent out to the Gendarmerie further downstream but nothing was found. It was a few days after that in the local Gendarmerie that a small girl walked in. She was holding something in her hand and she reached up to the desk and carefully put it down. She had found it in the river and with the help of a map, she showed the Gendarme exactly where she had found it. She had asked her mother if she could keep it but her mother had insisted she bring it in. The Gendarme picked the item up and it was a small badge. He didn’t understand what was written on it but it’s all perfectly clear to us. The badge was a members badge and only members of the Emmerdale Fan Club are entitled to wear it. It just had to be Flabby’s!

The news spread round Sterling Lines like wildfire. Nobody could believe it and nobody wanted to believe it. In France, the Gendarmerie had carried out exhaustive searches and had to all accounts and purposes called off the search. There was nothing more they could do and it wasn’t unusual for a body not to be found. Of course they knew nothing of Sergei and it was probably best it stayed that way. Eventually after an application to the Secretary of State for Justice, an inquest was held and after hearing reports from the Gendarmerie, Flabby McAndrew was declared legally dead by the coroner. A quiet funeral service took place as had been his wish and only his children Esmeralda and Bert and a few close friends attended including Knocker, Smudge and Jock who managed to get time off from filming. A headstone had been erected and the words ‘Wherever you are, I hope you’re resting in peace’ had been engraved on it. There were no flowers, as had also been his wish and all monies were donated to service charities. Knocker cried the whole way through and his used tissues blew around the churchyard annoying the verger. But he was a sensitive sort and didn’t say anything which probably saved more than his soul. They all went back to the flat and sat there reflecting on Flabby’s life. How he came to the attention of everybody, how he annoyed some but how others looked up to him and wished they could be just a tiny bit like him. As Jock wolfed down the quiche Lorraine, he too thought of Flabby and how he had helped him develop into what he was now. Smudge was outside on the balcony and as he used what looked like an urn as an ashtray, he thought how Flabby used to keep on at him about his smoking and how they’d be the death of him. “Got it wrong that time mate” he said and raised a glass to Flabby. Knocker had finally stopped crying but on hearing the theme tune to Emmerdale, it started him off all over again. “I won’t forget you Flabby” he blubbed and neither will I.

THE END

Or is it?

Captain Yeux D’Oiseau steered his small fishing boat past the harbour wall and out to sea. They were off on a night’s fishing and he was hoping for a large catch as it would help pay off some of his gambling debts. This was the Mediterranean and to emphasize this, down in the galley the cook Pierre buttered the bread with some sort of dubious looking axle grease. It looked like shite, it tasted like shite but it was good for you as it was made out of olive oil. To maintain this healthy lifestyle, the cook prepared the food with a Gauloise hanging out of his gob and when not, he took large swigs from a bottle of Absinthe. So as the cook prepared the culinary feast of bread with axle grease and fag ash, the captain tuned into the shipping forecast. A storm was brewing and would hit them a few hours later. The captain wasn’t too bothered, he’d fished these waters for years and while he rarely caught anything, he wasn’t going to let a storm get in the way. There was the crew to pay and the four crew members, all called Pierre depended on his skills to land some fish and to bring it (and them) back to port safely. The port was on the island which is close to another island and the French got their claws into one of them and the Italians into the other. I think it was the French one as most of the crew wore stripy jumpers and berets worn at a very suspect angle.

The storm hit them hard and the small fishing boat bobbed up and down like a turd in a wave machine. They had been forced to pull in their nets mainly because of the storm but also as there was a submarine in the area and the last thing they wanted was a guided tour of the sea bottom. Pierre was on look out while Pierre opened a tin of Spam to go with the bread. A kettle boiled on the stove and Pierre watched Pierre slicing the Spam as he prepared the coffee. It wasn’t difficult, you just spooned it out of the jar. There’s nothing like a good strong cup of French coffee to keep out the cold, even though they bought all their coffee at Lidl. Pierre saw something bobbing up and down in the water but the kettle was old, so it was probably just lime scale. Outside, Pierre now wearing his waterproof beret, had also spotted something bobbing up and down in the water. He pointed it out to the captain and the captain brought the boat around.

They could now see it was a body and the body of a man. “Fcuking hell” said the captain. “Not another one” he added as the Mediterranean seemed be to full of bodies floating around. “It’s not Bourne again” said Pierre as they had only pulled him out of the water the other week and that was actually the third time. “That cnut’s got a fcuking death wish” remarked Pierre and it did seem like it. “Don’t recognise this one” said Pierre and opening his Swiss army knife; he selected the special attachment for pulling bodies from the sea and did just that. “Is he dead?” asked Pierre. “I can’t tell” said Pierre. “You can tell me, I’m the captain” said the captain. “I mean I can’t decide if he’s dead or alive” replied Pierre. “Do you need time to think about it?” asked the captain, keen to know if the man was in fact dead or alive as he was very close to his pulling bodies from the sea quota. “Let’s take him down below” said Pierre and they dragged the seemingly lifeless body down below. They laid the body out on the table which didn’t do the bread any favours and squashed most of the Spam.

They examined the man and noticed strange marks all over his back. “Is that gunshot wounds?” asked Pierre. “Looks more like stab wounds of some sort” replied Pierre and pulled a tiny piece of something from one of the wounds. He examined it using the magnifying glass of the Swiss army knife and came to a startling conclusion. “They’re not gunshot wounds, they’re pretzel wounds!” he said and the rest stared at him in utter disbelief. “You absolutely sure it’s not that cnut Bourne?” asked Pierre as he was becoming a bit of a regular. “He’s far too flabby” replied Pierre and that was very true and blatantly obvious. The man suddenly twitched and they all jumped back. When they had put him on the table, they had failed to notice that his feet had been dangling over the stove. The man was now no longer lifeless and he coughed and then threw up all over the stove. “I suppose it’s off to fcuking Burger King later then” said Pierre and they helped the man to his feet which was a big mistake, as they’d been seriously sautéed on the stove. They couldn’t understand the man and he couldn’t understand them but somehow they did finally manage to communicate. But what they couldn’t find out was what a ‘Knocker’ was, as the man kept repeating it time and time again.