Bravo Two Zero - An Alternative?

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]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.
: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

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"?
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.


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..
MS,Bring it have you managed to gain so much inside info?What colour is your tie? I look forward to Chapter 2. Cheers
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
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:
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'
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.
[align=center]Chapter Two[/align]

The Agustas landed at the secret RAF base formally known as Brize Norton and an RAF Tristar stood there for their use. The windows of the departure lounge was full of bobble-hatted people as the Tristar had been scheduled for the flight to the Falkland Islands but had been ‘pulled’ at the last minute for the use of Flabby and the two teams. No hours in the back of a flying Ford Prefect or Hercules as they were more commonly known. Flabby waved to the bobble-hatted faces pressed against the glass and after a couple of minutes they all waved back, together. “Bennies” he exclaimed. “You either love ‘em or hate ‘em” he shouted to Ryan as the Tristar ran up another engine. The Bennies were all crowded at one end of the departure lounge as one had spotted a sheep and another thought he might know it.

Flabby pulled the men to one side as he noticed the flash of a camera but it was just a Benny snapping the sheep for his scrapbook. The eight men stood on the edge of the pan and those that smoked did while those that didn’t went through the motions which actually means they didn’t do anything at all. A nineth member of the team arranged for all the weaponry to be transferred from the Agustas to the Tristar. “Rikshaw” so named because he always had people on the move was the goer and the getter and could rustle up a bacon sandwich in a Baghdad market and even a replacement if it wasn’t crispy enough. He invariably stayed behind and was the logistics and liason officer. He had joined the regiment from the RHF (Royal Helicopter Fitters) and had begged, stolen or borrowed for his twenty years service. A great analytical mind and as light fingered as they come, he was a real asset to the teams and the regiment.

Flabby stroked the hamster which had moved from his holster to his smock pocket and he had inadvertently wiped his nose with it twice so moved his hankie to another pocket. “Poor Rab C” he said to himself and to Rab C who responded by biting his finger. Rab C hadn’t always been alone but Rab C and Cotter had had a serious fallout and Rab C had given Cotter a ‘Damascus Kiss’ and that was the end of Cotter. The kids, Esmerelda and Bert had found what was left of Cotter in the bottom of the cage and thrown up all over the carpet but his wife Cherie had cleared it up. Cherie didn’t really like pets and a stray cat had been dispatched in double quicktime but she allowed the kids to keep Rab C as long as he was kept in his cage as they had bought an exercise ball but Flabby for some inexplicable reason had kept throwing it out the window shouting “Grenade!”.

The two teams chatted on the edge of the pan, the Benny’s had been told they might not be flying for a couple of days and after fifteen minutes, this was starting to sink in. The RAF Police had called up the dog handlers and they were having fun herding the Bennies up and down the departure lounge. As long as you keep them amused, they can’t complain. Ryan was trying to plan the menu for the operation, he was such an excellent chef, he couldn’t always spell what he cooked but he could do wonders with compo especially his Pan-fried Fillet of Lamb with a Rosemary & Redcurrant Jus Dauphinoise Potato. Compo had improved so much since the days of baby’s heads and cheese poessessed, he would have preferred fresh but compo was now so versatile. Flabby was still being bitten by Rab C but then he was starting to get used to this, it was all part of the training though not usually with mad hamsters but a diversionary tactic during interrogation.

The other members of the team were ‘Smudge’ Smith, ex-Pay corps but a computer wizz and could break any codes put in front of him. There had been that incident at the National Eastminster bank but then he was an officer so it was put down to high spirits and the money that had gone missing had not been claimed as it was apparently traced to a farmer in South Armagh and a mixed dairy and arable small holding doesn’t usually clear two million a year and nor do farmers have substantial property empires near Manchester. The only problem was that Smudge was as tactical as an earthquake. He chainsmoked and even managed enough time to have a cigarette in between chainsmoking. His location would be lit up like a Christmas Tree if you didn’t watch out. Boxes of Nicobollox patches had been loaded into the Agustas and Rikshaw was shouting at a crab lacky for dropping one and seriously crushing a bag of Maltesers. Smudge drew deeply on a cigarette and scratched one of his ninety-odd patches.

‘Knocker’ Down was a one man army. He was six foot plus, sixteen stone and a beast of a man. He had single handedly taken on two WRACs at a disco once and actually beaten them, with a baseball bat. He had a problem with women but let loose on the enemy, he was unstoppable. He had joined the regiment from the MSC, the Military Screws Corps the smallest corps in the British Army who presided over the army’s rehabilitation centre at Colchester. Knocker had originally been with the Rutland Yeomanry, the smallest infantry regiment in the British Army but had switched after too many years as a corporal and had excelled in the MSC before deciding that he needed a more active life as those two hour dinner breaks were a real killer. You could depend on Knocker as long as you kept well away from equipment jokes as his problem with women allegedly stemmed from the fact that part of him was considered the smallest in the British Army but nobody had dared to verify this.

Leader of Team Bravo was ‘Danny Boy’ Dhmorerghahenaienain (Wilkins) and was actually Irish. He had actually been a member of the French Foreign Legion but had left it because it was a bit too French for his liking. He had joined the Royal Irish in Northern Ireland and passed the selection process for the regiment at his first attempt when still comparatively young. Solid, dependable and with an excellent tactical brain. His faults were that you sometimes you couldn’t understand him and his annoying habit of saying “So it is” after every statement. He had picked that up in Belfast while on special duties and had infiltrated the Women’s Coalition and made extremely rude jokes about how and how often he had infiltrated them.

The number two in Team Bravo was ‘Taff’ Leek. He had also tried to join the army as a pilot but had spent more time under the bonnet of a Landrover and had left the AAC disillusioned. Taff was from deepest, darkest Wales where men are men and sheep are nervous and had lived in the shadow of a manmade mountain in the Rhondda Valley. With the pits shutting, the only opportunity to see a bit of the world was to join the army and leave his beloved Wales for the very first time. Taff was a supreme soldier, the fittest in the regiment, neither smoked nor drank and could keep going all day. Another excellent brain but could be distracted by the mention of his hero, Max Boyce. Nobody in the Sterling Lines, EVER mentioned Max Boyce so Taff was kept under control and was usually able to concentrate on the matter in hand.

‘Jock’ Ferguson was the smallest man in the regiment but one of the toughest. Brought up on one of the roughest council estates in Glasgow, it was go to prison or join the army and Jock joined the Black Watch. His days in the Glasgow gangs were over so he could hang up his sabre which he kept for self defence purposes only and concentrate on the army. Rose rapidly through the ranks, terrorised both Catholic and Protestant communities in Northern Ireland and was promoted yet again. Saw action in every conflict and was even awarded the George Cross for saving an ice cream wagon in Glasgow from an attack from a rival firm and held off the Rivilloni brothers until police reinforcements arrived. Was seriously wounded by a knife and a stray cornet but held the ice cream wagon for over two hours against overwhelming odds. Very easy to underestimate but you underestimate Jock at your own cost.

The last member of the team was ‘Nige’ Nigel Ruperting-Smythe, a former Guards officer who resigned his commission to join the regiment. Said he’d had enough of messing the blokes about. Went to Eton, Harrow, Winchester and Slough Grammar School before going on to read Philosophy at Runcorn Polytechnic but switched to Sandhurst and joined the Coldstream Guards rising to the rank of Captain. Got disillusioned with the Guards, all that dressing up, he used to say. A linguist and a mimic, he could fit in anywhere and could order a Big Mac in forty-seven different languages, a real asset to the team. Distinguished himself in Bosnia where he singlehandedly stopped the fighting in Kripoopopopovic by blaming it all on the Irish. Was mentioned in dispatches for that but had his season ticket to London Irish cancelled and was thrown out of the Cranberries fan club.

The long wait was over and the nine men boarded the Tristar. Flabby waved to the Bennies who had been split and herded into two separate pens but still managed to wave back, twenty minutes later. They settled in a row of seats each and tried to get some sleep. “Do you want some orange juice?” came the request from an RAF stewardess of the almost male persuasion. “Fcuk off” came the reply from most of the team. “Please take your feet off the seats” was the next but last utterance of the stewardess of the almost male persuasion as Knocker stuffed him into an overhead locker. “And fcuk off” he shouted, slamming the locker door shut.

“Bing bong” went Nige. They all sat up and looked at him and were just going to tell him the error of his ways when the real “Bing bong” sound went and they all tried to fasten seatbelts as the plane was just about to land at Falafel International Airport in Kebabstan. Knocker just tied one end of a belt round his leg. The pilot came on the PA system and said that there would be a slight delay as today was Falafel’s big boot fair and it was being held on the runway. The plane circled for what seemed ages as boxes of pirate DVDs and cuddly toys were cleared off the runway and finally they were allowed to land. The plane taxied to a quiet end of the runway and the teams saw the two Pumas that would their transport to the heart of Iranistan. The weather was glorious and Flabby looked at his watch forgetting there still wasn’t a battery in it. They knew that they wouldn’t be leaving until nightfall so Flabby decided that maybe he could either get a battery or if not another watch.

The Falafel big boot fair was in full swing and the team shopped for bargains. Flabby couldn’t find a battery but bought a genuine authentic Rolllex watch at a fraction of the price he had seen them in the NAAFI. It seemed to work and he stuffed his old watch into his pocket, waking Rab C who bit him. The others picked up some good bargains, Jock got a Chinese made AK-47, Nige got an Mp3 player with instructions in Azerbaijani but since he spoke it then it wasn’t a problem. Jock had a cow’s udder omelette washed down with a can of Yak Cola, Smudge had an argument with one of the traders about the offside law but got a good deal on the new Terminator 4 DVD, he thought there were only three but the guy seemed to know. Rikshaw bought a team of camels from one stall and sold them to another making a profit of over a thousand burgers, the local currency equivalent to over seventy-five pence in real money. A good time was had by all.

Kebabstan, although a Muslim country was a modern country and because once somebody found a puddle of oil then the US had pumped billions into the country. The capital Falafel was a modern city with modern buildings and excellent transport links. There were modern hotels and even alcohol was allowed though you could get your hand chopped off for parking illegally or jumping a red light. The Kebabstan armed forces were equipped with the latest from the US and to emphasize this, a squadron of Starfighters flew over and one crashed. This was the Kebabstani equivalent of the Red Arrows and the eight Starfighters, sorry seven Starfighters performed aerobatics for the big boot fair crowd. The fact that the Starfighters were blowing REAL smoke was a worry but they disappeared after a couple of sweeps but Jock was sure he’d heard another boom in the distance but it must have been thunder.

Nige called Flabby over as there had been a message from the Boss back in the UK. Apparently it was unwise to trust the Americans but Flabby already knew this so wondered what the Boss was trying to say. The transmission had been on a secure frequency but Flabby knew that even secure transmissions aren’t as secure as they should or could be. Flabby racked his brains and asked the rest of the teams what they made of it. Danny Boy glared at the rest of them when somebody mentioned they could blame it on the Irish but nobody had any hint of what was happening or what was to come. There was a huge crowd at the big boot fair and suddenly the team were looking at them with some suspicion. Taff noticed a crowd of plane spotters but thought nothing of it as the Starfighters had just been over and it’s quite something to see a Starfighter fly, continously. He had spotted the flash of binoculars and thought nothing of it.

The team moved into a room that had been put aside for them. The crews of the Pumas were there swapping moustache stories but it all seemed innocent and above board. Flabby reached for his hanky and of course was bitten by Rab C so excavated his right nostril with a soilitary digit and pulled out something that was equally large and unpleasant so in true military fashion went to stick it under the seat when he found something already stuck to the bottom of the seat. He knew immediately what it was and with a hand signal called for silence from the team. He pointed out the bug and disptached the rest of the team around the room. Three more bugs were found but they left the one by the Puma crew as they were still swapping moustache stories and were drowning out anything else in the room. Flabby ground the four bugs on the floor with the heel of his boot and pondered. He looked at his watch which had now stopped and reached for his hankie to wipe the contents of his nose on and was promptly bitten yet again by Rab C. This was not going to be as straightforward as he thought and Rab C bit him again.

Thanks to rickshaw for the names, I used them and him, hope he doesn’t mind. If anybody is interested in a chapter three, please let me know. Just to reiterate, I haven’t copied anything, I wasn’t even aware of the RGJ version until uncle_ho pointed it out and surely there’s room for two versions or even more. I’m not claiming I invented the idea of spoofing Andy McFlab but I don’t see why I should be excluded from having a go myself.
Great stuff mistersoft, keep it coming. I make it a point to avoid anything associated with the RGJ. They eat their own young you know.
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