The year is 2012. Britain has been reduced to an economic basket case with mass unemployment and rampant inflation. It now costs over £2500 for a pint of milk, billions have been lost in savings and people feel their lives are worthless. The public are starving and are reduced to eating their pets out of sheer desperation, Wheelbarrow sales are through the roof. All the time the self-serving politicians get richer on the backs of the very few left in work that are taxed at a whopping 90%. The ruling elite are a hated uberclass. Crime is out of control with feral street gangs stalking the shadows like urban vultures waiting for easy prey whilst the dreaded Metropolice pursue and criminalise 'non-compliants' to earn their lucrative bounty.
As in ancient Rome, the plutocrats realise that the masses need entertaining, and nothing serves this purpose better than the games. London is hosting the Olympic Games - an international showpiece that will indicate to the world that Britain is booming with cash hot off the printers. The games have cost a whopping £800 trillion - slightly over budget than initially planned by several hundred trillion. People have had enough - including the armed forces' high command. Something had to be done.
MI5 have intelligence that notorious Islamic assassin Abdul Mohammed is in the UK and plans to assassinate the President, Gordon Brown. They call in disgraced former monk and SAS hit man Jack Small to deal with the threat. Small's mission is to ensure that Mohammed does not succeed. There's one slight problem: Jack doesn’t know his cartridges have been filled with sand. Someone at the top wants Jack to fail - conveniently ridding the nation of an insane self-proclaimed dictator that's trashed a once proud country beyond recognition. And it’s all deniable. To make matters worse, Mohammed is Small's arch enemy. Their paths had crossed before and old habits die hard. Jack has a score to settle.
The Opening Ceremony was lavish and Wembley Stadium was awash with colour both from the laser show and the massed ranks of sari-clad Bollywood dancers that filled the central arena, accompanied by the regimented lines of Brazilian homosexuals especially flown in by special request of the Europresident for Life, Peter Mandelson. The Gay army threw petals as they minced in unison to the heady beat of the bhangra music that perfectly epitomised the enforced multiculturalism that abounded. It was a rainbow revolution and the crowd – every one shipped in from Europe – was loving it.
Jack Small had been on the roof of the stadium for several hours. It was a warm summer evening and he had a commanding view of the crowds below and the surrounding areas. An oily pall of smoke still hung over Streatham and the fires still burned in Walthamstow even though it was several days since the food riots had been quashed with clinical, brutal efficiency by Metropolice’s feared Special Purpose Undercover Detachment – the SPUDs.
Though a trained sniper Jack was getting impatient now and he thumbed his luxuriant moustache. He swept his Heckler & Koch sniper rifle around the stadium roof – paying special attention to the blind spots that could hide his quarry. He peered through the Schmidt & Bender 4x40 wide angle scope. Nothing... yet.
Far below the central arena cleared and a fanfare sounded. An enormous cheer filled the stadium as President Brown arrived in his armoured helicopter. The chopper touched down perfectly and, as the rotors slowed, a heavily armed phalanx of SPUDs marched out and secured the presidential party. Jack watched through his scope as the chopper’s side door slid open and a beaming president emerged, smiling and laughing uncontrollably. The man really was as lunatic as he’d heard.
If there was going to be a hit then now was the time thought Jack and he swept his scope around the stadium roof for another check. Nothing. His gaze fell once more on Gordon Brown and he immediately noticed a tiny red light dancing on the president’s forehead. Damn. He was behind him! Jack spun around to see the dim red spot of a laser pointer intermittently dazzling him through his scope. Surely the gunman had seen him? He drew a bead on the huddled dark shape under the lighting stanchion and thumbed the safety off. Remembering his training at H, he breathed in and exhaled gently before holding the crosshairs on his unknowing target. In a matter of seconds the 7.92mm round would be boring through the assassin’s scull. ‘Time to die you bastard’ whispered Jack and he squeezed the trigger.
Click! Nothing. ‘Oh fuck!’ Jack immediately chambered another round, the ejected cartridge clattering down the roof. There was no time for breathing now, it was a snap shoot. Small brought the rifle up to the aim and fired again. Nothing. A flash filled his scope. The gunman had beaten him to it.
Fanciful claptrap or a chilling vision of a nightmare future, whatever one’s view, Operation Cyclops is a tour de force from the action maestro which became Lithuania’s number one bestselling book before it was even written. Match that McNab!
Clunge has really lost the plot – Variety Time
Gordo in power in 2012? Yeah… right! – The Spectator
Magnifique – Le Waltage
Game on! – Daily Mail