Andy McNab's next book - help needed

Discussion in 'The NAAFI Bar' started by King_of_the_Burpas, Sep 3, 2011.

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  1. Andy is a busy chap. Lots to do. So I thought we could help write his next novel for him. It's a way of helping poor ex-Service chappies.

    It was hot. Very hot. So I put the pie in the oven and it was done in 20. I never sit on chairs. Prefer to squat, with my SA80 cradled. Waiting. Waiting.

    Suddenly a bunch of cloth heads burst through the window. The training kicked in. I kicked one in the cobblers and then forgot where the A2 selector was - I usually use HK stuff and it's much easier.

    "Aiiiieeeeeeeee!" said one lad as he raced towards me. I killed him with a spoon.

    Then I tilted the rifle to the right (good drills), switched to full auto and blew the yellow thing off the end of the barrel.

    More chapters needed.
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  2. If it gets turned into a film, can we have Ms Bonham Carter in some domestic sluttyrole who takes one for the team and then takes a little more, then a little more, then a little more til the bad guys' cocks just fall of... I think you get the jist.
  3. Suddenly my hero "Walter Mitty" as we called him, but RSM James Shortt VC,GC,KBE,CBE,OBE,Vitamin E and 7th Dan Blackbelt as the rest of the world knows him came in and saved the day. Naturally I was so in awe at this one man army so I let him take control of the situation whilst I ate my pie. At the end he found a soldier with a medal on his chest, he took the medal and claimed it as his own and had made up a backstory as to how he "legitimately" got the medal.

    Next person....
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  4. I dragged Helena under the table and took a good look at her clunge. Christ, I thought. Where are my flashbangs? Then I remembered Donger and sprayed the room with controlled bursts of sperm. Controlled bursts, as Sgt Thong, used to say. The training kicks in.
  5. The sight of Helena's burst kebab reminded me that I was ravenous from my exertions. The training kicked in, and I remembered the sage advice of the SSM of Training Wing, Kev 'Asterisk' Hughes; 'Wh*n in do*bt, eat p*es'. We never knew WTF he was on about, but we couldn't ask. 'Don't *sk, Don't T*ll', he'd say. I think. But there was only the tinfoil tray left. Bereft of inspiration, I thought desperately of the CO. 'What would 'Twelve Scuds' Tropper do?', I asked myself.

    Faster than a literary agent, I moulded the tinfoil over my head and got pastry flakes in my 1982 tour 'tache. It was the same 'tache, even though so much else had changed.

    It had served me well, supporting the black nasty across my eyes and adding character to my otherwise vapid and weaselly face. It had been fashionable in 1982, so why should anything have changed? The 'tache, that is, not my face. Or the pastry flakes. Or the tinfoil. 1982 was pretty shitful too, even though it was a fateful year - the year between 1981 and 1983. The Regimental calendar would have looked pretty fucking weird without it.

    Sprawled amongst the dust mice, luvvie pubes and dried-up puddles of cat's piss, I was as comfortable as only a highly trained Special Forces Operator could be. Namely, not very comfortable at all. Even so, the tinfoil was having its usual soothing effect on me, and I drifted off into a reverie about 1982...
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  6. Leaning back on the contact cratered wall I cleaned my weapon off with a crusty sock found underneath the up turned sofa.
    Mentally I went over the events that got me here, 1, read instructions on bottom of tin. 2, turn oven up to gas mk8. 3, remove lid. 4, place in oven on a tray so the gravey doen't spill. 5, 25 mins to nock one out before dinner.
    Any one out of sequence and it's brown bread for me. Just glad the training kicked in.
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  7. The title could be "The Balcony....I was first"
  8. Numbness was slowly taking over my aching body. Christ, not again. I slowly rolled Helen over and saw that gaping place where her mum never kissed her. I think again, if her mum did kiss her there show me her mum. I knew I was fatigued, it was all the training I received to recognise the signs. It came from selection, the DS screaming at me, how could I ever forget him, to disregard all visions of Helen, but try as I might I could always tell the signs of fatigue, it came in the form of Helen and numbness.

    I fought the signs and began to load the magazines, all 39 of them. Knowing all full well that I would need them when the time came. As I counted in each round I thought of how I ever came to be in Tashkent, tracking down Kirill Fedoseev.
  9. udipur

    udipur LE Book Reviewer

    Running over the hills on selection, I knew that watching the A Team as a spotty kid would stand me in good stead. Of course the estate then was a rough mix of foreigners, locals and even some interbreeds but I knew how to handle them. No one loved me, couldn't even get a blow off Larry the Lush down the Thalidomide Arms on a Saturday night.

    Fast forward a couple of decades and I was faced with all that a coordinated terr force could throw at me. Using the right kitchen ingredients and a bit of Colgate, I fixed thirteen Claymores, two flashbangs and a couple of belts of AP rounds, guaranteed to cluster at less than three inches. I knew that Abdul wouldn't have been alone so I needed some space between me and them. The bomber jacket/Timberland/fake levis combo had always done me proud and even got me a couple of jobs with the Firm, so I threw them on and was off down the bus stop before you could sing Bunyan's tribute to the Regiment.

    Then the training kicked in and I was able to get on, get my bus pass out and find a seat without a single OAP being turfed off their spot or a mother upsetting her bairn in the stroller. I checked zip to make sure the old chap was safe and then the bus moved off.
  10. wedge_cadman

    wedge_cadman War Hero Reviewer Book Reviewer

    I slowly paced the room searching for any abandoned pastry flakes, the training sgts voice screaming in my ear "save it for Ron, later on. You never know when you'll eat next".
    The fatigue was fighting with the training in the corner as I squatted waiting for the flashbacks to wash over me. The training has overcome the fatigue, time for action. I had to prepare for tonight's recce with the Baron. The information we were after could bring down the government and damage the reputation of some very experienced soldiers with many tours under their belts.
    First of all a trip to B&Q to get the tools we would need and some of those nice smelly candles to keep the smell of blood at bay.
  11. Chapter 2

    Beep beep beep. The sound of the oven timer going off took my already tired mind to another place - and another pie. The Starlifter tailgate was spreading apart at 30 fasaand feet and the game was on. Check O2. Check harness. Check cool-box. Red light... green light HALOOOO!

    We landed OK but in the wrong local. Bloody airforce. Bloody useless bloody airforce but no time for bitterness, I'll sort that when we - Ha! 'We', little did I know then - when we get back and I have a couple of custard pies in my hands. Now was the time for command so I told Shirty to break out the comms, Lefty to break out the nav gear and Cooky to check the cool-box. The reports came in: Shirty gave out a painful groan, "They've gave us the wrong batteries, this thing takes AAAs and the bloody Special Air Scaleys have gorn and gave us AAs." "We're dun for A**y. Done for I tells yer." Then Lefty shouts "Bloody hell! Bloody Special Air Loggies! They've only gaan an' given wor right handed nav gear. I wasn't trained for this. I'll never see wor lass again, man." Lastly Cooky gave his assessment, "The cool-box contents are fine, but they're gingster pork pies and not pukka Melton Mowbrays like we were promised. Boyo." I couldn't Adam 'n' Eve it.

    It looked bleak. It needed leadership. It's times like this that's when the training doesn't cut it. It needed someone special.

    It turned to the other three and said "This'll be our lay-up so get busy you three and I'll nip over this wadi wall (for we were indeed in a sandy place) and go for a butchers at our neighbourhood." Orf I went knowing that my men were comfy and secure. After about 10 minutes and about 10 klicks the stuff flew from the fan. A whole regiment of rabid Bedouin tooled up for a rumble. And that's when the training kicked in. Three flash-bangs had them averting there eyes and covering there ears. Which was their second mistake, the first being in my DZ. I swung me gat from behind me just like a hula-hoop and started the slotting. My tool of choice on this deed was the AR-18 and it had a 40 round mag. I had 20 mags, they're were only 150 rag-heads.

    When the dust settled and the smoke cleared I checked my ammo; 17 full mags left. I must have slotted a couple with the same round. The MOD will be pleased.
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  12. Controlling my breathing,just like in training, I slowly approached my target from the rear.Moving silently, the way i'd been taught,I got within killing distance and raised my combat fighting knife, issued all those weeks ago in the Regiment. My target had no idea what was about to happen.

    Then, as my training kicked in, I stabbed furiously until the insides were spilled and the warm sticky liquid seeped out.

    The pie had no idea what had happened. It's was an unfair fight as over the years, whilst serving with the Regiment, I had killed and eaten countless pies. Each one seared into my memory.

    Some would disagree with what iv done over the years, but at the end if the day, the Regiment is there to eat pies. They aren't going to eat themselves. Then the training kicked in again and I bugged out of there. Asterix Hughes trained me well.
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  13. Moments later, the Pie had its revenge. The burning pain of heartburn gripped my oesophagus like Smudger Smith would grip a young nigs throat after a bad exfil from the boathouse. I rummaged in my rig for what I needed. Tossing aside stun grenades, ammo and green boiled sweets I realised I'd run out of remegel...what an embuggerance. My training kicked in instantly, with the wise words of SSM Massive Massie ringing in my ears "Boots, never forget Boots".

    I picked myself up, struggling to overcome the heartburn, using my assault chopping board as a crutch I hobbled to the front door, slotting several family members who got in the way with my SAS issue throat ripper. The front door blew outwards as the my FRG barked it dry cough of vengance, the door became a flying slab of death decapitating the postman, and knocking Mrs Jarvis, the old lady from No. 86 clean off her feet. The bitch had it coming since she reported me to the plod for setting up an OP in the hedge of the young theatre students over the road.

    I ripped off my 50's issue cooking apron and staggered to the bus stop for the 32, this would provide me with transport to my LD - The town centre bus station, no time for epic 7000 mile yomps with a mini cooper strapped to my back, this heartburn was getting the better of me and I had to conquer it like a 12 foot wall at Sennybridge RGJ Assault course...and fast.
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  14. the_boy_syrup

    the_boy_syrup LE Book Reviewer

    We had arrived at the RAF's forward operating base where we were to spend three days before "going in"
    I kept my racing spoon tied to my smock this meant I could dive in and sample peoples scoff and brews as I went past.
    Day two and Dinger, Chris and I have been banned from the Per Luigi 5* star restaraunt where the crabs where getting hacked off with us knicking their "food and drink" (their nickname for scoff and brews)
    We blagged some Iron rations from the poolside bar Cheesburger chips and a Bud for me Dinger and Chris shared a large Pepparami.
    Dinger our comms expert tuned in our SATCOMM and we found a signal and logged in to a secure signal TCM SKY317
    We settled down to watch a Bridge to Far and ripped the piss about twats parachuting in with duff coms fucking WW2 amatuers.
    Dinger lifted our direct line and barked his instructions "This is Romeo 20 First Floor send Chips, Dips and Bud over".

    3 days later and it was going to ratshit.
    We had been dropped off by the RAF in the wrong location.
    We stood and listened and looked at the stars.
    Chris got his directions and soon pointed us in the right direction.
    Following the steady thump, thump, thump we moved cat like down the streets all the time keeping a good all around awareness.
    The thumping grew louder Dinger looked at me winked and we knew this was it the sound grew louder we could hear whistles thumps booms and cracks.
    Suddenly he sky was lit up "Yesss get fucking in there" Chris said and called for an airstrike.
    The Airstrike arrived Chris chucked 10 Euro's at the barman "Get these down you lads he screamed their double Vodka, Gin, Larger and Coke"
    We looked round and we knew we'd made it the RAF had dropped us two streets away to avoid the one way system but we had overcome.
    We had worked out our cover stories "Chris had wanted to be RAF Reg but Dinger caled him a cunt whislt pointing out the EFI was 10k away and nobody would ever buy it.
    Pilots were out as we'd forgotton the slip on shoes.

    So a Dolphin Trainer,A Flange inspector, and Colt Severs stunt double prepared themselves for action.
    01:00 we've been in the thick of it for 5 hours now and the final assault was about to go in.
    We ran through the final plan a kebab, two cheesburgers chips and coke all round.
    An hour later we had a problem.
    Chris was missing,Dinger couldn't get comms and 118 wasn't working where we where.
    We flagged down a passing car who happened to be a taxi driver.
    Fucking great this said dinger before spewing every where and dozing off.
    The Taxi driver had't understood our directions of "NATO take us to NATO Base".
    Dingers only impression was off a Harrier so that didn't count.
    The taxi dropped us at the local police house this was bad news as we were otnumbered...........
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  15. They came in waves. Endless waves racing towards my station like rollers onto the beach where "Fiji Bob" used to fish as a boy.

    I thought we were going to be overwhelmed. Supplies were running short. There was nothing for it, this was an emergency.

    The raiders were quick, but I was quicker. I had to intimidate them, my voice and whatever laid to hand as my weapons.

    "OI, ONE SAUSAGE, CNUT, WE'RE FEEDING YOU NOT FATTENING YOU!" I yelled as I swung, catching the leading raider across the knuckles with my ladle...
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