Bravo Two Zero - An Alternative?

Discussion in 'NOW That's What I Call ARRSE 1' started by mistersoft, Mar 30, 2006.

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  1. This is a story dedicated to the world’s best regiment of authors, the SAS. It only vaguely bears any resemblance to reality so please do not complain about inaccuracies, it is a story! I would like to thank Dell and especially Microsoft for making this all possible and for not crashing long enough for me to finish it or at least the first chapter.

    [align=center]Whisky Charlie One[/align]

    [align=center]A novel of sorts by[/align]

    [align=center]Mistersoft[/align]


    [align=center]Chapter One[/align]

    The phone rang and Flabby McAndrew leapt up and answered it. “It’s on” was the brief message and Flabby replaced the receiver. “It’s on dear,” said Flabby to his wife who was sat on the sofa knitting a cam net. “It’s on kids,” said Flabby to his kids, also sat on the sofa and entangled in the half-finished cam net. Flabby reached for the remote and switched off the TV just at the end of Emmerdale. “Can you record this for me when I’m gone” Flabby asked his wife. He was a big Emmerdale fan was Flabby and never missed an episode. Even trained killers had to have their relaxation.

    Flabby walked to the cupboard under the stairs and pulled out a bag. The bag contained everything he would possibly need in the event of a ‘job’ coming up. Crossword books, pot noodles, soft toilet roll, a copy of Bravo Two Zero, as he loved comedy and various other items that would comfort him on the days or weeks away. The children had managed to untangle themselves from the cam net and came towards him. “Can we have our pocket money now, just in case?” they asked. His wife put down the cam net, came over to him, and hugged him. “You will be careful this time,” she whispered in his ear. The children hugged him as well. The tears flowed and Flabby pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at a tear stained face. He had never seen the hamster this upset before. He put the handkerchief back in his pocket and pulled it out again, shaking the hamster out of the handkerchief and back into its cage.

    The ‘job’ this time was to prepare for the invasion of Iranistan as the Iranistans had been supposedly developing a nuclear capability for peaceful purposes but had gone one step further and had developed nuclear warheads. They did not yet have the missiles to deploy the warheads but a combined intelligence operation at a firework factory near Middle Wallop had uncovered some startling developments. Extremely large rockets had been ordered through an Assyrian arms dealer and it was only the shortage of blue touch paper and the lack of a milk bottle large enough that had prevented the Iranistans from obtaining full nuclear capability.

    Flabby said his goodbyes and jumped into his Fiat Seicento. He jumped back out and returned the hamster to its cage. He jumped back into the car again and roared off into the night. The security state at Sterling Lines could not have been higher and he tooted his horn trying to wake Joe the security guard so he could get into camp. The Lines was a hive of activity as fellow SAS troopers finished off chapters of their latest books or played around with screenplays. He parked the Fiat in the space marked ‘Whisky Charlie One”. They had been allowed to choose their own call signs and Flabby had chosen that as it had been his mum’s initials and he only had the one mum.

    Flabby was 35 now, a tall, slightly overweight figure of a man or two men as the others joked. He had joined the SAS from an infantry regiment where he had distinguished himself and had slowly risen through the ranks but then the Royal Norfolk Mountaineers was a small regiment, a proud one but a small one and even after seeing active service in various theatres, Flabby had known there had to be bigger and better things. The Royal Norfolk Mountaineers had been amalgamated into the Yorks and Lancs (Bolton) Wanderers and again into the Home Counties (Very Northern) Division and all their illustrious history had been swallowed up into a huge cooperative of a regiment. The regimental silver that dated back to the Napoleonic Wars now sat in huge vault and was only brought out on every second Saturday of the month except for public holidays and Tuesdays. The regiment was gone but Flabby had other fish to fry.

    Flabby finished off his fish, he loved plaice and the compo tartare sauce was to die for. He sat in the cookhouse, downed an active sport Lucozade, and playfully threw the empty bottle at Ryan Christopher who would be joining him in Iranistan. Ryan wiped the blood from his head where the glass bottle had hit him. It had been a NAAFI own brand active sports Lucozade bottle that he had thrown and the blood poured from a nasty gash. Flabby pulled out his handkerchief and handed it to Ryan who dabbed at his head with the McAndrew family hamster, which had been inside the handkerchief. Flabby took the now very bloody hamster down to Joe the security guard and asked him to return it to the family home. Joe acknowledged and went back to sleep.

    Back in the cookhouse, Ryan and flabby talked about the current ‘job’, the political situation, the price of fish, the benefits of the sweeper system and other topics of the day. Ryan was his number two and an experienced trooper. He had several books under his belt already, they were not any good but he had sold a few and he was also a fine soldier. Ryan had joined the Army to be a pilot, it was a simple mistake to make and the RAF office had only been next door. He had ended up in the Catering Corps and was world famous in Catterick for his Eggs Benedict. He had tried to keep his fitness levels high despite tasting five thousand calories worth of food a day and poisoning himself on numerous occasions. He had gone through the selection process for the SAS, knocked up an excellent Tartlet of Soft-boiled Quails Egg & Parmesan Shavings followed by some Gravadlax with Chilli Crème Fraîche Blini and he was in.

    Flabby knew it was close to the time of the briefing as the little hand on his military watch was close to the eight. The large hand had fallen off on day two when the multi timer mode had gone haywire. He had timed a lovemaking session with his wife and had broken their record by eighty-three days. “Bloody military watch” grunted Flabby noticing that it was now ninety degrees celsius and he was at a depth of ten fathoms. “Bloody military” joked Ryan showing off his Snoopy watch. “Time for the briefing” said Ryan and they left for the briefing room.

    The briefing room was packed. Those who hadn’t booked, stood at the side and all chattered nervously, you could cut the tension with a knife. The Boss was on the stage with some suits as they were called. Probably MI5 or MI6 or both as MI5 had green ties with red stripes and MI6 had red ties with green stripes. None of the suits wore ties so this was something big and very special and very confusing. The Boss called for silence. You could hear a pin drop. “Shite!” Flabby’s watch pin dropped on the floor and everybody looked his way. He smiled and showed all his watch and a mass murmuring of “Bloody military watches” broke the silence. “See me afterwards McAndrew” said the Boss and started the briefing.

    The briefing went on for at least an hour. All details were covered, point of entry, point of exit, the weather, the nearest MacDonald’s, what to take, what not to take, what to see when you were there, local tourist hotspots, it was all highly technical and highly detailed and far too technical and detailed for a non military type like me to comprehend. Ryan and Flabby knew the score.

    Flabby had his Mp3 player switched on radio and BBC Radio 5 Live had just announced that Hereford United had just beaten Chelsea 4-1 and had taken the Premiership for the third season running. It hadn’t always been like that but Hereford United had been taken over by a Russian cider billionaire and he had pumped billlions into the club and bought a team that was second to none, they were permanently drunk but had the squad depth that meant they got away with it most Saturdays but midweek games were always a bit risky.

    “Turn that radio off McAndrew and see me afterwards” shouted the Boss as the suits took over. If for some reason the transport couldn’t pick them up then they would be on their own just like in Predator and Rambos 34-38 and their only chance of returning would be to capture a helicopter and fly themselves out. Flabby was relieved he’d got all those hours in on Microsoft Flight Simulator and was able to fly anything and everything as long as the keyboard was configured the same as his and it had a Logitech Trackball.

    The targets were to be the usual air defences, tracking stations, mobile phone masts, transmission towers, MacDonald’s, road and rail links, barracks and associated buildings like the Halal Iranistan NAAFI which served a mean camel burger with cactus relish and side salad. Of course the main targets were the nuclear facilities, difficult to spot from the air but easy on the ground as a satellite photo showed with a ‘Welcome to the nuclear facility’ sign for all to see. The teams would be split with Flabby and Ryan in the main team with the nuclear facility their target. The others would concentrate on the other targets and would knock out as many before being caught, as in every book they always get caught or else you can’t have a whole chapter on prisoner abuse and torture.

    The briefing ended and Flabby and Ryan went to see the Boss. “Firstly buy a new watch, now!” shouted the Boss “And secondly, don’t trust the suits” warned the Boss. Flabby and Ryan looked at each other and then at the Boss. “Do you know something Boss?” asked Flabby. “They’re working for the Americans” replied the Boss. “But I thought we were as well” replied Flabby. “Yes but they have a secret itinery” whispered the Boss looking round as the suits looked in their general direction. “What do you mean Boss?” asked a confused Flabby.

    “The Americans are split, they’re always split but there’s the Jewish lobby and they don’t want Iranistan to have nukes as they will be pointed at them and there’s the Hispanic lobby who just want to drink Tequila and listen to Gloria Estefan but don’t want Iranistan to have nukes but since they’re pointed at Israel then they’re not bothered and then there’s the Irish” explained the Boss. “And what about the Irish, Boss? Asked a confused Flabby. “Nothing, there’s just the Irish” explained the Boss. “So who is it with the secret itinery? asked Flabby. “We’re not totally sure yet” replied the Boss. “There’s the Afro Americans and the Native Americans and the Asian Americans and the Canadian Americans and the Dutch Americans and the German Americans and the Polish Americans and the French Americans and the Italian Americans and the Middle Eastern Americans and it’s not them and of course there’s the Irish” went on the Boss. “Yes but what about the Irish, Boss?” repeated Flabby. “There’s just the Irish but I suppose we could blame them, everybody else does” concluded the Boss.”I hope it’s all crystal clear now” finished the Boss as Flabby and Ryan left for the NAAFI.

    Complete with new watch, four pound a week for forty-six weeks, Flabby prepared for the ‘job’. He wasn’t going make the mistakes they made in Iraqistan when the desert turned out be a very cold place. Flabby in his room had all his kit laid out on the bed. He started to get dressed, first the longjohns from Milletts. He turned the heating off in the room as he had started to sweat profusely. Layer after layer went on, everything checked and double checked. He was now bombproof and fireproof and protected from the cold and the wet and he needed the toilet so off it all came layer by layer and eventually he was of the right proportions to fit in the toilet.

    Flabby dressed again, each layer checked and double checked until he was dressed ready to go. He walked down to the armoury and withdrew his personal weapons. The Heckler O’Koch, the Irish assault rifle, smoke grenades, flares, grenades, a swiss army knife, a bag of Maltesers, various handguns, all the ammunition and ration packs from the QM’s stores. Each item was checked and double checked and finally he was ready to go. Ryan stood next to him similarly kitted out with PE and detonators to hopefully make a mess of the nuclear facility and a satellite phone to make contact and hopefully get extracted after it was all over and get back to fight for the book rights.

    They walked outside talking about what the Boss had said. “Have you any ideas Ryan?” asked Flabby. “Fcuked if I know” replied Ryan, he could knock up a mean Roasted Monkfish wrapped in Parma Ham, Sundried Tomato & Fresh Basil served with a White Wine & Mascarpone Sauce but he wasn’t the brightest sometimes. “They’d had plenty of experience with the Irish especially the Northern Irish but he couldn’t see what the connection between the Irish and Iranistan was. It had been so much simpler in South Armagh, living in a hedge, a nice Caramelised Red Onion, Wild Mushroom, Thyme & Mozzarella Tart and watching the world go by. Happy memories, shoot a sniper, Dressed Salmon with Lemon & Watercress Mayonnaise for lunch and back in your hedge again.

    The roar of the Agustas drowned out any conversation as the teams leapt into the back of the helicopters. Next stop a secret RAF base just off the A40, just follow the signs for Brize Norton and then off to the Peoples Islamic Republic of Kebabstan, the country bordering Iranistan. Flabby checked his kit for the last time and was horrified to find the family hamster curled up in the bottom of a pistol holster, it looks as though that hamster was finally going home and might even see some action. He pressed the light button on his watch and decided that next time he would buy one with a battery already in. He settled into his seat and stroked the hamster. He was always nervous en route to a ‘job’ but he had a bad feeling about this one and it wasn’t helped when the hamster bit his finger. With finger bleeding, Flabby sat in the back as the black Agustas roared their way to the RAF base wondering if he would ever see his wife and kids again or see Hereford’s next home game or cash in his Tescos Plus points for that nice hedge strimmer. The Agustas roared on and Flabby knew there was something he couldn’t quite put his finger on which is exactly when the hamster bit him again. Whisky Charlie One was not a happy teddy.

    If anybody is interested in a Chapter Two, please let me know, if not sorry for wasting your time and mine.
     
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  2. :D :D Mistersoft, you have way too much free time on your hands. However........I am on the edge of my seat. Go for it with gusto. :twisted: :twisted:

    Roll on chapter 2 :p

    fastmedic
     
  3. Don't you dare stop now! I shall, of course, sue your ass off for revealing details of Operation BOMBE SURPRISE and the part that I played in it. Do we know each other or have you been talking to "Smudge", "Knocker" and "Danny Boy"?
     
  4. Good stuff MS. About time you put your keyboard skills to good use.
     
  5. Very gd im hooked on it plz continu.e writing the story by all meens I want to see if "WC0" finally blows the hells outa that nuclear firework factory with his special pe4/malteaser mix that shuld make a good bang for the irish to hear,but im gripped to know if flabby makes it back from Iranistan to trade in his tesco club points for that brand new hedge trimmer.

    B20..

    P.S i think theres a hidden agenda by that hamster maybe its part of the secret itinery (hamster american) filled with a mini nuke if WC0 should fail..
     
  6. MS,Bring it on......how have you managed to gain so much inside info?What colour is your tie? I look forward to Chapter 2. Cheers
     
  7. lol, please please continue.

    P.S you do realise then when Gen. Jackson checks ARRSE for his latest arrse fix and he sees that someone has enough time to think + type that it's no wonder he thinks the army can do "more with less", as they're all sat around taking the piss out of... *lowers voice to barely a whisper* the regiment... shusssh
     
  8. When is part 2 released MS? Don't keep us waiting too long.
     
  9. Mistersoft get your backside on that swivelling chair, your pinkies on that keyboard, your brain in gear and bring us Chapter 2, pronto! Earlier this week I decreed his worship MDN the Arrse's Poet Laureate, so are we now looking at Arrse's Booker Prize winner? :)

    Err... what's the hamster's name by the way? I'd really like to know! :oops:
     
  10. I've been harbouring a longing to affect blacked out eyes and have been thinking of breaking the mould with a cookery book. I already have a working title "Cooking with black nasty". Please let me into a secret, do you use wild thyme in your Thyme & Mozzarella Tart or is Sainsbury's own brand just as devastating in a close quarter battle?

    Note to editor: is is tart not spelt with an 'e'
     
  11. fcuking outrageous...

    :D :D :D :D
     
  12. That man is a genius..... move aside ?Tom Clancy?
    SR10
     
  13. You need a good literary agent-now!
     
  14. Thanks everybody, I was just having fun and hoped somebody might like it. It seems great minds think alike or in my case , fools seldom differ as I've just checked the RGJ site and yes, it's similar and NO I didn't copy it. Having served in Minden for two years with the RGJ as company I would not go anywhere near the RGJ site, fond memories of Minden but not fond memories of the RGJ, except perhaps one or two.

    I'm just about to start chapter two but have had problems as I found out that my spellchecker is illiterate and have had to dispense with its services. It is at this minute attending a course for those with reading and writing difficulties. I apologize for any spelling mistakes it might have offered as correct.

    I have no association with the illustrious author's regiment. I know their local in Hereford only because an old landlord of my local in Gloucestershire moved to Hereford. I know the regiment provided bouncers at the Worm Park discos just outside Hereford until it was stopped. He who dares wins but he who moonlights get's shat on from a great height. I did attend the TA SAS training camp near Konstanz in Southern Germany and watched trained killers (part-time) leaping out of Lynx and getting tangled in the TOW missile launchers or living in a shell scrape or constructing Rambo style man traps where you wanted to walk. Still it was soon over and they were back at the supermarket or the office and I went back to Hildesheim to fiddle with another Lynx. Met the Director SAS there, eight foot tall and kept his beret on getting in and out of the Lynx. Are you going to tell him to take it off?

    Met Major General Pete de Billious in the FI as it was his FI. He didn't send me a Christmas card so I didn't send him one either and that's the end of any possible association between me and the regiment. I haven't fully read the one on the RGJ site and deliberately as I know which way I'd like this to go and if anything is vaguely similiar then I know it's pure coincidence. Anyway it's up to you, I know I haven't copied anything but feel free to compare.