Codename Bodycount

Somewhere over Central Europe

The passenger transport Action Force was using to fly its personnel across Europe was a lot better than a noisy, cold Hercules you had to admit, Bodycount decided as he relaxed in the comfortable seat. But considering the size of the force being moved, it needed an RAF VC-10 transport to deliver them to their stopover in Poland. Another six transports of various types were flying behind the VC-10, carrying the vehicles the force would use on this mission.

A hand suddenly clapped down on Bodycount’s shoulder and the commando looked up to see the smiling face of Digger, one of the Z-Force infantrymen.

Digger wasn’t dressed in the usual British-style camouflage uniform with a cap and a hooded jacket. Instead, the Australian wore a uniform closer to his native nation’s, including a bush hat with one side of the brim turned up. His blonde moustache didn’t hide his friendly grin.

“G’day, mate. How’s it goin’?” Digger greeted him.

“Fine,” Bodycount replied, wondering what the Australian wanted

“Mind if I ask you a question?” Digger went on, in his thick accent.

Bodycount shrugged, “Go ahead.”

“How’d you get the name ‘Bodycount’? Strewth, how’d you even end up in Action Force? Some of the stories the other cobbers have told me about you, make you seem a bit like you ought to be in the secret service or somethin’.”

Bodycount smiled. “That’s a long story. Can I ask you a question before I tell you?”

“No worries, mate. Go ahead.”

“Why the hell do you talk like that? You sound like a bad Castlemein advert.”

Digger laughed. “Just cuz it’s a stereotype that Aussies talk like this, don’t mean there aren’t Aussies that talk like me, mate. It’s just the way I am, I guess.”

Bodycount shrugged again. “Fine. But don’t expect me to moan about the weather and go on about cricket and tea, just because I’m English.”

Digger laughed again, “Fair enough.”

Bodycount shifted in his seat to face Digger as the Australian took the empty seat across the aisle.

“To understand why I ended up in Action Force, you need to understand why I joined the Army. Along the way, you find out why I’m called ‘Bodycount’. Sure you want me to go on?”

“Yup.

“Fine. It started with me failing my A-levels.”

“What’s an A-level?” Digger asked, puzzled.

“Exams we take in Britain at eighteen. You do one lot at sixteen. Used to be called O-levels, now they’re GSCE or something. After you them, you pick subjects to do for A-level, if you want to go to university. Me, I did English Literature, Politics and History.”

1978

Eighteen years old, not quite a man, the youth who would become Bodycount stared at the sheet of paper his head of year had handed him. Below his name, Scott Fry, and the other administrative minutiae were the stark results.

English Literature: E.

History: N.

Politics: E.

Despite doing his damnedest to study hard and pay attention, Scott had managed to achieve a dismal set of results.

Scott thanked the head of year and walked out of the office, down the stairs and out the building. He shoved the piece of paper in to his pocket and headed back into the town centre to meet his mum, brooding on his fate.

When he and his mum got home two hours later, he walked into the front room and handed his father the piece of paper, without saying anything.

Scott stood and watched his father. Inevitably, his dad wasn’t impressed.

“What the hell are you going to do now?” Scott’s father asked. “You’re not going to get into university with results like that, are you?”

Scott shrugged. “I dunno.”

“Well, you better come up with something. You can’t do much without a job or without a university place, can you?” his dad went on.

“I know.”

Five days later, Scott stared out the window, as his father ranted on again about his need to find a job or do something else and soon, or else he’d wind up living on government handouts.

Scott made a decision. The following morning, he borrowed money from his mum and left the house just after nine in the morning.

Two bus trips later, he was in Gloucester, the nearest city, walking around looking for the place he wanted. Eventually, he found it: the Army recruitment office.

The sergeant inside wasn’t overly impressed with the youth as he asked him the routine questions.

Reason for joining? Failed me A-levels and I dunno what else to do.

Physical fitness? I’ve had some problems with asthma.

Nevertheless, the sergeant helped him fill out the forms and told him the Army would be in touch.

Within a week, Scott received the letter telling him where to go, and when, for basic training.

Scott didn’t look his father in the eyes as he said goodbye. His father was an ex-soldier himself and was doubtful Scott would make the grade.

Over the weeks of training that followed, Scott almost doubted he would make it through himself. But he did.

He may not have been academically minded, nor was he particularly fit, but Scott managed to pass basic training in the top fifty percent of his class. He immediately volunteered for P Company, the British Army’s notoriously harsh training regimen for prospective paratroops.

Scott’s training instructors could scarcely believe it when he told them he wanted to try out. There seemed to be a collective decision of  ‘what the hell?’ and he was allowed to join the next intake.

Somehow, against the odds, which included the fact that he was six feet and one inch tall, yet weighed less than ten stone, Scott made it through the course. He was assigned to the 2nd Battalion of the Parachute Regiment and went into jump training

1982

Scott had spent four years training hard as a member of 2 Para. He’d filled out from his beanpole physique and was now lean and muscular. He was in the mess getting lunch when the news started on the radio.

“The headlines today; Argentinean forces have invaded the British Falkland Islands in the South Atlantic.”

The room went silent as the radio announcer went on, “''The Royal Marines garrisoned on the island were forced to surrender after becoming outnumbered, although they did inflict some casualties on the invaders before surrendering. The governor of the Islands is understood to be in Uruguay, having been expelled by the Argentine military commanders on the islands. The Prime Minister has announced a military task force will be sent to the islands to re-establish British sovereignty over them.”''

As the bulletin continued, Scott took a seat and began eating his lunch, he had a feeling that the Parachute Regiment may well wind up being sent south…

May 21st 1982

San Carlos, Falkland Islands

The landing craft bucked and rocked in the rough sea of San Carlos Water. Scott was feeling sick, not with the expected seasickness, instead he felt like throwing up because he was so worried. He’d read somewhere that war was supposed to be bloody drills and training bloodless war. That was all well and good, but in training he’d never had to really worry about getting shot. If you made a mistake in an exercise and got administratively ‘killed’, it meant a chewing out by the platoon sergeant or the section leader and a promise to make sure you got it right next time.

Making a mistake here would either kill him or cripple him. He prayed to whatever deity was paying attention that he got through this.

Finally, the landing craft’s ramp hit the sand of Blue Beach 2 and Scott gripped his SLR tightly and ran off the ramp, following Corporal ‘Davey’ Davison. The section ran up the beach and linked up with the rest of the company as the platoon formed up.

The sun had yet to rise and so far, aside from a pair of Gazelle helicopters being shot down, the landings were going well. Somehow, Scott had a feeling that wouldn’t last.

May 28th, 1982

'''Near Burntside Pond, Falkland Islands. '''

The Paras had marched from San Carlos to Camilla Creek House a few days earlier. Then, after resting up they’d moved down to Burntside Pond, a small lake, near the settlement of Goose Green.

At 3:30 in the morning, A Company of 2 Para moved out, down the left flank of the isthmus toward Burntside House, where the Argentines were believed to have a position. At 4:10, B Company moved out down the right flank, whilst Scott and the rest of D Company moved down the centre, supporting B Company.

The night was soon lit by artillery fire from both the Paras own fire-support unit and the Argentine mortars. Scott flinched every time he heard a shell, even when there were none landing near him.

As they advanced through the dark, gunfire could be heard from some of the Argentine positions. A Company, Scott realised, were now engaging the enemy.

Scott just kept trudging along through the short grass and small bushes.

The sound of gunfire to his right snapped his head around. B Company was engaging an enemy force. He kept his attention on his fellow soldiers and reaching the objective, an enemy trench position. With his section bringing up the rear, Scott was insulated from the firefight that erupted at the trench.

Suddenly, a gun opened fire behind him; he threw himself down, as he saw tracers rip through Private Martin ‘Smudge’ Smith of the next section.

Somehow, in the dark, they’d missed an Argentine position. Scott wriggled around and opened fire with his SLR as the rest of the section fired. The Argentine gun fell silent.

Another gun opened up. This time someone threw a grenade, which did its job, silencing the position.

Cautiously, the soldiers picked themselves up. Besides Smudge, another of the Paras had been shot, whilst two more were wounded. A detail was formed to evacuate the wounded and the dead back to the starting positions near the lake. The rest of the company pressed on toward their objective.

By 5AM, the Paras had their initial objectives captured. The next was the ridge above the settlement of Darwin, which was A Company’s objective. B and D companies held position whilst A advanced on the hill.

The two companies on the left flank were taking fire from Boca House, an Argentine strong point on the edge of the ridge and near the shore. Scott could hear Major Neame nearby, arguing with someone on the radio about the need to move up and take the house.

As the section tried to find cover among the sparse vegetation and open ground, Scott snuck a chocolate bar out his jacket and quickly wolfed it down.

Neame moved carefully from his position and word was quickly passed. A Company’s advance on the ridge was more important. B and D companies were to hold position to support them.

As the messenger moved off, Scott looked across at Davey. “Dunno which is worse, holding here while A Company get on with it or assaulting that bloody house,” Scott said.

Davey shrugged. “The bloody Colonel’s not helping,” he opined, referring to Lt. Col ‘H’ Jones, the battalion CO. “He jogged past just now with his Tac. HQ.”

Scott frowned. “He’s going forward?”

“Bloody looked like it,” Davey confirmed. “Looks like the silly bugger wants to lead the sodding charge.”

Scott kept quiet, but had to admit, he thought the colonel was crazy, it was all well and good wanted to lead by example, but that could just as easily get you killed.

The sun was coming up and more enemy fire was coming in. Scott and his section huddled out of the way as best they could.

A Company was pushing up the hill, Scott could see, but was taking casualties doing so. It seemed to be turning into an attrition battle.

Over an hour later, still lying in the gorse, Scott suddenly heard a message over the radio.

“Sunray is down!”

The colonel had been shot. Scott looked at Davey. “Silly bastard,” Davey muttered. Despite his words, Scott could see the cynical NCO was still affected by the death.

It took A Company nearly three hours in total to secure the Argentine positions on the hill, giving them the high ground looking over Darwin and toward Goose Green.

Finally, Major Neame gave the order; D Company moved out and headed for Boca House, flanking the ruin from the right.

As the Paras moved forward, even Scott could see they had no way to approach the enemy with any cover. The Argentines were secure there with machine-guns covering the approach.

The manoeuvre did however bring the ruin in range of the company’s machine guns and as the rest of the unit provided cover-fire, they were quickly set up.

Twelve of the eighteen machine-guns opened fire, a deafening fusillade which made Scott wince. He popped a few rounds off as he saw a head moving in one of the window-frames, but wasn’t sure if he hit anything.

A team from Support Company moved up as he fired another burst. They were carrying a MILAN anti-tank rocket launcher. The launcher was quickly set up as the guns kept blazing at the ruin.

Two missiles were swiftly launched at Boca House. The explosions shattered the remaining walls and the gunfire from the Bren guns and L7s began to reach inside the ruin to deadly effect.

Scott saw white flags being waved and Major Neame quickly ordered a halt to firing. After a brief radio conversation, Neame passed word and the company moved swiftly across 600 yards of open ground to the ruin. Scott practically sprinted across the ground. He was keen to avoid being shot.

Once the company had consolidated at the ruin, they had twenty prisoners. Twelve dead Argentines lay on the floor. The rest had apparently fled toward Goose Green. Scott didn’t think that would do them much good.

D company held its position whilst the commanders sorted out what was going on. After a short while, A Company remained in place atop Darwin Hill to dig in and hold it, B Company moved further south along the isthmus to turn and come toward Goose Green from the south, whilst C Company was brought up to approach Goose Green, while D Company moved in from Boca House.

Scott and his section were moving in when 35mm and 20mm anti-aircraft guns near the Goose Green airstrip opened fire. Scott threw himself to the ground as bullets whipped overhead.

Cursing the Argentines for using anti-aircraft guns on infantry, Scott crawled forward under the hail of fire. Eventually, the Company was able to move into a small, narrow pass between two of the hills. This provided cover from the guns, but was taking them off the axis of their approach.

It soon became a moot point when the company’s leading elements stumbled into a minefield near the Goose Green schoolhouse.

Scott stayed put near the rear of the company, whilst the lead and middle elements sought to extricate themselves without getting blown up.

“Hey, Davey,” Scott called. “We’ve got company coming down the ridge.”

The Corporal looked around to see where Scott was indicating. Sure enough a large group of men were moving toward them.

“Must be C Company. No one told us they were coming. I just hope…” Before Davey could continue, the AA guns raked the formation with heavy fire and several men were cut down.

“Hellfire!” Davey shouted.

D Company finally moved out, moving closer toward the schoolhouse. When Scott’s section reached the main body, Major Neame was on the radio requesting artillery support on the schoolhouse, which seemed to be a strong point.

Suddenly there was a shout from someone else, “INCOMING!”

An artillery shell crashed to the ground near the company’s position. Everyone ducked for cover.

Another shell crashed down and there were screams from wounded. A third shell slammed down and more screams could be heard.

Scott cringed and pulled his helmet down tighter as another shell crashed down.

Shells continued to land as a large group of Paras sprinted up.

Scott was close enough to hear the two platoon leaders reporting into Major Neame. They were C Company’s Recon and Patrols platoons. Somehow, they had made it forward whilst the rest of the company was still taking fire on the ridge.

The school was providing some cover for the D Company troops, but the Argentines were still returning fire from the main building.

Neame took charge of the situation.

“I want 10 Platoon to clear out that position north of the airfield. 12 Platoon, give us covering fire on the schoolhouse. Let’s get the wounded tended to, we’re not going to be able to get them evacuated them under this kind of fire.”

Scott joined the rest of 12 Platoon as they moved forward and unslung his SLR as 10 Platoon moved out.

12 Platoon engaged the schoolhouse as the rest of the company moved further away, keeping the school buildings between them and the Argentinean positions for cover.

Once again, Scott was firing at the enemy with no idea whether he was hitting anyone or not. He decided it didn’t particularly matter, though, as long as the enemy kept their heads down.

Private Kenny ‘Chalkie’ White was standing near one of the outer buildings when he suddenly called across to the Platoon commander.

“Hey, boss! There’s a white flag over at the Argies’ position on the airfield!”

The lieutenant dashed across to Chalkie’s position to get a better look as Scott and Davey kept up their fire to cover him.

Moments later, the lieutenant dashed back to the main group of the platoon.

“Alright, lads, keep them busy here. Davey, get your section together and we’ll go and accept the surrender,” the lieutenant ordered.

Davey snapped off a salute, “Rightyewaresir!”

The Corporal turned to Scott and the rest of the squad. “You ‘eard the h’officer, get yourselves together and let’s go and accept the surrender and then we can all have a nice cup of tea!”

Moments later, as the rest of the platoon continued to engage the house; the lieutenant led the section toward the position, which had been dubbed ‘flagpole’.

Scott was slightly nervous as they made their way forward, but tried to set aside the feeling. He remembered what he’d been taught in Basic and what had been reiterated on the journey south, enemies surrendering had to behave in certain ways under the Geneva Conventions and were highly unlikely to turn around and shoot them all in a trick.

The group was nearing the ‘flagpole’ position when a machine gun behind them on the ridge opened fire.

“What the..?” Scott muttered as tracers hit near the Argentine position.

Suddenly, the Argentines opened up with return fire. Scott dived for cover, but several of the others weren’t so fast.

As Scott lay on the grass, firing back, he saw the Lieutenant go down, with several rounds hitting him in the chest. Davey and Lance-Corporal ‘Kid’ Young were hit next.

Scott took charge. “Pop some smoke!” He shouted. “Give us cover. Grab the wounded and get back to the school!”

Someone thankfully was listening and two smoke grenades were set off, creating a screen for Scott to grab Davey’s limp body and throw it over his shoulder.

Half the section had been hit and the other half was now forced to carry them back to the school.

When they reached the school, Corporal ‘Sweeny’ Todd was shouting to someone on the radio.

“No, they weren’t bloody attacking, you prick! The Argentines were surrendering! Didn’t you see the sodding white flag?!”

There was a garbled reply, then Sweeny shouted, “If we’re going to attack we’ll bloody well ask for support next time!”

He turned to Scott, “Get the wounded over to the medical post with Neame and the CP. We’ll stay here and cover you.”

Scott started organising the section, and as he went to pick up Davey, someone said, “The Lieutenant’s dead.”

“So’s Kid.”

Scott checked Davey’s neck. “Corporal’s dead too,” he said after a moment.

The wounded were moved to the medical and command post and Scott, blood streaked down his camo tunic, reported what had happened to the major.

Neame took the news stoically, but congratulated Scott on ordering the use of the smokescreen to cover their withdrawal.

“We’ve got friendly air cover coming,” he said. “Tell Corporal Todd to expect it.”

Scott nodded and hurried back to Sweeny.

“Friendly air incoming, Corp. Keep an eye out.”

Sweeny nodded. “Right, Private. Thanks.”

Minutes later, two jets streaked low overhead. They fired their cannon and launched rockets, which caused a few casualties among the other platoons of D Company. Moments later, a pair of Pucara turbo-props flew over, dropping napalm. Thankfully, no one was killed.

Several light machine-guns returned fire, hitting one of the Pucaras. The pilot ejected as the plane broke up.

Major Neame was quick to dispatch a squad to collect the pilot.

A runner came up and told Sergeant Walsh to form up 12 Platoon and join the major.

Neame quickly organised things. D Company’s Recon and Patrols platoons along with 10 Platoon were dispatched to attack the schoolhouse and destroy it. Neame made sure they had several M79 grenade launchers to do the job.

12 Platoon, now under Sergeant Walsh’s command was rounded up and sent to take out the Argentine ‘Flagpole’ position on the airfield.

As they were headed forward again, Walsh found Scott. “Good work with organising everything after your section got hit,” the sergeant said. “Might have to put you in for Lance-jack for that.”

Scott smiled, “Uh, thanks, Sarge, but anyone else could’ve done it.”

“Maybe so. You keep your head like that and we’ll be keeping an eye on you.”

Scott nodded, but didn’t say anything.

It didn’t take long for the ‘Flagpole’ position to fall to 12 Platoon, thanks to judicious use of their light machine-guns, grenade launchers and hand grenades.

Someone, Scott never knew who, exactly, decided to blow up the Argentine ammo dump, which created a nicely entertaining fireworks display, but meant the position was untenable. 12 Platoon fell back to Neame’s CP.

As they were moving out, three Harrier jump-jets streaked in, finally arriving with their air support, and dropped cluster bombs and rockets on the Argentine positions. Some of the strikes, Scott could see, were barely 200 yards from the Paras’ leading positions. ''‘Talk about ‘danger close’'' he thought to himself.

By 09:30 on Saturday morning the Argentines in Goose Green were in discussions with Major Keeble, the Battalion’s second in command about surrendering. Overnight, Argentine reinforcements had arrived and been greeted by artillery fire from the Paras. The Argentine commanders had quickly become aware of the precariousness of their situation. They were surrounded and under threat of further Harrier strikes.

What amazed the Argentines, however as they moved out of their positions to surrender was the size of the enemy force

The Para force was around a third of the size of the Argentines, with fifteen hundred prisoners being taken by 2 Para, fifty-five confirmed dead and another hundred or so wounded.

June14th, 1982

Wireless Ridge

Scott stood in his trench, looking down in to Port Stanley, the capital of the Falklands. The battle of Wireless Ridge had ended earlier in the morning. 2 Para had had an easier time than at Goose Green, since they’d had major artillery support from the Royal Artillery, armour support from the Blues and Royals and naval gun support from HMS Ambuscade.

Wireless Ridge, so called because of the telegraph poles which dotted it, was one of several hills that overlooked Port Stanley, each of which had fallen to British forces over the past few days. The Scots Guards held Mount Tumbledown, the men of 3 Para held Mount Longdon, the Royal Marines held Two Sisters and Mount Harriet. Now, it was just a matter of waiting for the Argentines to surrender.

Scott rooted through his backpack and found a letter he’d started writing before the San Carlos landings. He figured now would be a good time to finish it.

The letter read:

Dear Mum and Dad,

''Hope you and the girls are all well. Looks like I got myself into a mess, this time doesn’t it? By the time I get to post this, it’ll probably be all over. ''

''We’re heading towards the Islands where we’ll be landing. Hopefully, the head-shed know what they’re doing and the landings go off okay. Where we’ll go next is anyone’s guess.''

''Okay, so we got ashore with no problems. We’re heading for some village nearby. Apparently they want us to take it to make things look good for everyone at home. Hope I get through this.''

''By the time you read this, you’ll have heard about the battle. It was pretty bad; several of my mates and the Corporal got killed. I’m okay, though. My platoon sergeant’s talking about putting me in for promotion and apparently I got mentioned in despatches after I helped save some of the lads from an Argy attack. ''

''We’ve been helicoptered to a holding point for the final attack. I hope I make it through this.''

Scott found his biro and carried on writing.

''This time the battle was a lot easier. We were held in reserve whilst some of the other units were taking the hills over Stanley. Then we got our chance. It was a walk in the park compared to our first battle. We had a lot of artillery support and four tanks backing us up. Now we’re dug in on the ridge, and waiting for the Argentines to surrender.''

''I hope I can get some leave when we get home and come see you. All the best to you and the girls.''

Love, Scott.

‘The girls’ was a reference to his two older sisters. Scott methodically folded the letter up, tucked it into his pocket of his camouflage tunic and put his biro away.

“Writing home?” asked the sergeant.

Scott nodded, “Yes sarge. Don’t worry, I didn’t put any names in of where we’ve been.”

The Sergeant laughed. “Wouldn’t make much difference when the Beeb’s got bloody reporters with the head-shed and on the carriers.”

Scott easily parsed the meaning, BBC reporters were with the officers, nicknamed the ‘head-shed’ by the enlisted men, and on board HMS Hermes and HMS Invincible the two aircraft carriers

“I wonder how long we’ll have to wait for the Argentines to surrender,” Scott commented.

They’d been occupying the hills over Stanley now for several hours. The situation should’ve been clear to the Argentinean commanders.

The sergeant shrugged. “Couple of days, tops,” he answered. “I’ve spoken to the platoon commander. You’re being put in for promotion once we get back. You might wanna add that to your letter.”

The sergeant grinned at the sight of Scott’s shocked expression.

Summer, 1984

Wiltshire, England

Scott shifted position uncomfortably in the seat of the Puma helicopter. He never seemed to be able to get comfortable in the damn seats

In addition to his promotion to Lance Corporal two years earlier, he’d been made commander of a four-man squad within 12 Platoon, D Company. D Company had just completed a training exercise on Salisbury Plain and was flying back to Aldershot in several Pumas.

The helicopter lifted off as Scott finally managed to settle into the least-uncomfortable position he could find. On board were sixteen members of 12 Platoon, whilst the others were in two more of the Pumas in this flight. Three other flights had already lifted off, carrying the rest of the company.

The platoon sergeant was in the helicopter, with Scott. The lieutenant was in the helicopter call sign Delta 5-2. This one was call sign Delta 5-1.

Five minutes into the flight, Scott heard the pilots shouting at one another cross-cockpit, he looked around, as did several of the other Paras that hadn’t managed to catch a nap.

Scott glanced out the window next to the door and saw a strange red and black craft speed past the helicopter. The Puma made an evasive move, then Scott could hear the pilot shouting into the radio.

“This is Delta 5-1 we are under attack from two unidentified aircraft,” the pilot yelled, “We are five minutes out of Bulford camp over Salisbury Plain. We need air…”

The pilot cut himself off as Scott saw an explosion in the air outside the window. The burning wreckage of another Puma was plummeting toward the ground.

“Oh my God,” one of the other Paras muttered. The strange aircraft sped straight at the Puma, firing machine guns.

For a second Scott thought he was hallucinating, the craft looked like a large red skull, with guns projecting from it and two black panels at its sides…

He didn’t have time to think any more about it as a loud alert began shrieking in the cockpit and the pilot and co-pilot tried to keep the aircraft flying as the red skull craft flashed away from them.

“Mayday, mayday, mayday, this is British Army helicopter Delta 5-1; we’re going down, we’re going down. Mayday, mayday, mayday,” the pilot called into the radio.

The Puma dropped toward the ground, several of the sleeping Paras now awake as the helicopter shook and bucked in the air.

The helicopter hit the ground, bounced back up, tipped over, hit the ground again with a loud shriek and several screams from those inside. The rotors were snapped off and flew away in several directions as the helicopter hit the ground the second time.

The nose hit next, the cockpit windows caving in and showering the pilots with glass. The helicopter flipped over, snapping off the tail boom, before crashing down onto the chalk plain.

Scott managed to free himself from his restraints. He shook his head in a vain attempt to clear it. Several of the Paras were clearly dead. At least two had broken necks from the unnatural angles their heads were at. Scott felt himself over, and couldn’t find any broken bones. He did find a large gash across his forehead and cuts on his face.

Scott moved toward one of the other members of the platoon who was unconscious and who had his leg was pinned by a piece of bent metal.

Straining, Scott bent the metal back and then hauled the man clear of the seat, lifted him over his shoulder and staggered to the door, which had been ripped off in the crash.

Staggering outside, Scott laid the soldier down carefully, before going back into the wreck and hauling out three more of the Paras. As he was heading back a fourth time, he saw the two flying skull craft coming back around on what was clearly a strafing run.

Scott dashed in to the wrecked helicopter. Inside, at the back, was an armoured crate. Luckily for him, the crash had broken the locks. Scott lifted the lid and pulled out two assembled Stinger shoulder-launch surface-to-air missiles. He then pulled out two reloads.

One of the other Paras had woken up and struggled to get out of his seat as Scott hurried past. The lance corporal cannoned into him and knocked the wounded man flying as he dashed outside.

Scott quickly brought the first Stinger up on to his shoulder.

He ran through the instructions he’d been given in the training exercise the day before, powering up the missile’s seeker head, deactivating the safety and arming the missile.

He pointed the Stinger at the aircraft, waited for the IFF aerial to get a negative result, lock on and then squeezed the trigger as soon as the seeker started beeping to indicate a solid lock.

The missile whooshed out of the launch tube and flew several feet before the main rocket ignited and the missile flew straight toward the aircraft.

Scott wasted no time dropping the empty tube, grabbing the second loaded Stinger and repeating the process.

As he’d expected, both the strange flying skulls fired off flares and evaded the missiles. Scott worked quickly to reload the first launcher as the wounded soldier he’d shoved aside came out of the wreck.

“Wha’s goin’ on?” he asked in a slurred voice.

“I’m saving our asses,” Scott replied. He got the tone for a lock and fired the third Stinger. The missile streaked away and detonated, blowing the black panel off the side of the craft, which heeled over and plunged toward the ground.

Scott reloaded the second launcher and brought it up to aim. The second skull craft was now speeding straight at him, firing its machine guns.

Scott held his nerve as the bullets ripped up the ground toward him and fired as soon as the Stinger locked on.

The missile slammed into the aircraft’s belly and it flew over them, trailing fire and smoke.

A bullet pinged off the wrecked helicopter, making Scott duck. He turned toward the source of the bullet and saw several vehicles and a large infantry force approaching.

“Oh, that can’t be good,” he said noticing the soldiers’ red uniforms.

Scott moved back into the helicopter. Five of the Paras were now conscious.

“Get up!” Scott shouted as he grabbed his SLR. “We’ve got enemy troops incoming.”

“How’d you know they’re enemy?” the sergeant asked, cradling a broken arm.

“They’re wearing red uniforms. They might be those Red Shadow creeps we’ve heard about on the news,” Scott answered.

“Good answer. Get on the radio, son, see if you can get us some help from Bulford,” the sergeant ordered.

Scott nodded and grabbed the radio pack next to one of the unlucky Paras, who’d died in the crash.

Remembering his training in how to use the radio for emergencies, Scott started broadcasting.

“This is Paratroop Puma Delta 5-1 to Bulford, do you read, over?”

Static answered. Scott tried another frequency, then another.

“They’re jamming us, sarge!” he called out.

“You know the military distress frequency?” the sarge asked.

“No!”

“243 MHz! Use that!” the sergeant called.

Scott set the frequency and started over. “Mayday, mayday, mayday, Paratroop Puma Delta 5-1 is shot down on Salisbury Plain, under attack by suspected Red Shadow terrorists, need immediate assistance, over!”

Scott repeated the call, then a voice with a faint accent he couldn’t place replied, “Delta 5-1, this is Action Force, repeat your situation, over.”

“Action Force, Delta, we’re a Puma helicopter out of Bulford camp, we were shot down by a pair of unidentified aircraft resembling flying skulls. We now have a large force of red uniformed infantry and several vehicles, also red, coming our way.”

''“Five-one, Action Force, we copy. Can you give us your position, over?”''

“Negative, Action Force, I have no idea where we are, I’m just a lance-corporal. I ain’t the pilot and the flight crew’s dead.”

Scott had been able to see that from the mess the cockpit was in

“Keep transmitting Five-one, we’re scrambling a team to assist you.” The other voice paused. “You said ‘flying skull aircraft’, you think they were Roboskulls?”

“No idea, mate, what’s a Roboskull?”

“''It’s an aerospace craft used by Baron Ironblood’s Red Shadow forces. It resembles a red skull with guns sticking out of the eyes and mouth, with black panels on each side, with a red engine at the top and bottom.”''

“That’s the sods, alright,” Scott answered. “I shot the buggers down with Stingers.”

“Say again, Five-One?” a new voice asked.

“We were on an exercise at Salisbury Plain learning to use the Stinger missile,” Scott explained. “We had a case on the chopper which crashed with some Stingers in. I managed to launch two at the Roboskulls, they decoyed them with flares. I fired another pair and shot both down.”

“Bloodiell, nice work, mate.” The second voice had a distinctly Scottish accent.

“''Okay, Five-one, we’ve got a flight of three SAS Force Hawks en route, along with a Puma carrying a team from SAS Force. We’re trying to triangulate your position, stand by.”'' The first voice sounded impressed as well.

Scott acknowledged the report from the radio and turned toward the sergeant, who’d organised the Paras into something resembling a proper defensive formation. Most of them were using the snapped-off tail-boom of the helicopter as cover, whilst Private Alex ‘Jim’ Kirk, the best sniper in the survivors was concealed under the side door of the helicopter.

“Sarge, we got Action Force en route for assistance. They’re trying to triangulate our position,” Scott reported.

The sergeant turned toward Scott and nodded, “Good work, Scott. Tell ‘em the Red Shadows are about two minutes from reaching us and we’re about to fire.”

Scott nodded and passed the information along. The Scotsman on the other end asked how big the Red Shadow force was.

“Estimate company strength infantry, plus four large tank type vehicles and four smaller vehicles.”

“Four Hyenas and four Shadowtraks,” The Scotsman noted. “I hope you’ve got some anti-tank weapons with you.”

Scott frowned, “Uh… I don’t think so, sir.”

For a moment, neither of the men on the other end answered. Then the first speaker said, “You better hope Eagle and his men get there soon.”

“Any luck triangulating our position?” Scott asked.

The crackle of automatic fire from the SLRs cut off the reply and Scott had to ask the unnamed Action Force radio operator to repeat himself.

“They’ve got a rough fix and estimate they’re two minutes out,” the other man answered.

Scott replied, “Good, we’re hanging on for now. Delta 5-1 out!”

Scott dumped the radio and snatched up his SLR and moved to join the others.

The vehicles were holding back and not firing. The Red Shadow infantry was charging forward, not heeding the return fire or their losses.

There was a scream off to Scott’s right and he saw Tom Grey lying on the ground, with Jack Mann trying to tend to his injury.

Bob Day was killed next, taking a headshot from an unseen sniper. Terry Hitchens was raked by a long burst from a Shadow carrying an RPD light machine-gun. The gunner was picked off by Kirk.

Nigel Gibbs fell to a burst next as he tried to help the pair.

Only four of the eight surviving Paras were left.

Suddenly a pair of rockets streaked overhead and slammed into one of the tanks the Scot on the radio had called a Hyena. The tank exploded, taking out the Hyena and Shadowtrak either side of it in its death-throes.

Four more rockets destroyed another of the Hyenas and a pair of Shadowtraks. Three compact black helicopters flashed over the battle, looped around and sprayed the Shadows with 30mm gunfire from nose turrets.

Scott watched in amazement as the trio danced through the air, firing off another six missiles to destroy the remaining Shadowtrak and making the Hyena run for it.

A Puma helicopter dropped toward the ground as the Red Shadow infantry charged the Paras’ positions.

Four men, all in black and grey outfits leaped from the Puma’s side door. Leading the group was a guy in an all-black outfit and a grey anti-flash hood. He carried an MP5 sub-machine gun. Following him, close to him, was a man in black and grey camouflage and carrying an American M60E3 light machine gun. A black wool cap covered his head. Next out was another man in an almost identical outfit, carrying an assault rifle. The last out wore a black and grey outfit that looked like a paratrooper’s jump suit; he was carrying a sub-machine gun.

The four men opened fire, the machine-gunner firing long bursts whilst the other three fired short bursts that cut down a Shadow at a time.

After a moment, only three Red Shadows were left standing.

One charged the SAS Force men, and was cut down.

The second tossed away his empty Kalashnikov, drew a knife and charged at Derek Pike, who calmly shot him.

The third Shadow drew his pistol, screamed, “BLOOD FOR THE BARON!” and then put the gun under his chin and fired.

“Holy shit!” Scott exclaimed. One of the other Paras threw up.

The leader of the four SAS Force men strode toward Scott and the sergeant.

“I’m afraid that’s what the Red Shadows are like,” he said, grimly. “Brainwashed fanatics who’d rather die than surrender. Baron Ironblood’s control over them is total.”

The sergeant snapped to attention. “Sergeant Neil O’Donnell, sir.”

“At ease, Sergeant. I’m the captain of SAS Force; you can call me ‘Eagle’. These are some of my best men,” Eagle gestured to each in turn. “Stakeout, Quickfire and Sparrowhawk.”

“So which one of you’s is the clever bugger who shot down the Roboskulls?” asked the man Eagle called Stakeout, his strong accent marking him as a Liverpudlian.

Scott stepped forward, “Me, sir.”

All four looked impressed. “Nice work, son,” Eagle said.

“Ja, ist gut,” Quickfire said. “Not many can shoot down Eisenblut’s Roboskulls.”

Scott frowned, “You’re German? I thought Action Force was British.”

“Nein,” Quickfire replied, cradling his assault rifle. “We’re European, mostly.”

“I’m Belgian,” Sparrowhawk chipped in.

“But we don’t hold it against him,” Eagle said, smiling.

Sparrowhawk smiled a thin smile, which seemed to suggest to Scott that the Belgian didn’t appreciate the comment.

The three small Hawk helicopters landed close by and the lead pilot climbed out of the open cockpit and walked over, pulling off his black helmet.

“Captain, we’ve just got word from the British Army that they’ve got five Pumas on the way. They’ve found the other Puma from this flight,” the pilot said, his accent marking him as an American.

“Good news, Chopper,” Eagle said.

“Was the other Puma shot down as well?” the sergeant asked.

“Yes,” Chopper replied. “They were lucky though, the pilot managed to bring them down more or less intact and with no casualties. They were able to radio for help.”

“We were being jammed,” Scott put in, “By the Red Shadows, I presume.”

“It’s a good bet,” Stakeout opined.

“Get your flight back to headquarters, Chopper. We’ll remain here until the Army arrives,” Eagle ordered.

The American pilot nodded, pulled his helmet back on and jogged back to the small single-seat helicopter.

As the Hawks lifted off and flew away, Scott stepped closer to Eagle.

“Excuse me asking, sir, but what’s it take to join your outfit?”

Eagle looked over the younger man. “Well, Skip’s always looking for Paras and Marines to recruit into Z Force,” Eagle answered. “Our infantry force can always use men of that calibre.”

“What about your mob, sir?” Scott persisted. “What about SAS Force?”

“You’d need to be a sergeant, at least,” Eagle answered. “Preferably a member of either 22 SAS or the SBS.”

Scott knew the SBS was the Special Boat Service, an elite arm of the Royal Navy.

“Once you’ve gained those two positions, we’d certainly be interested in your career,” Eagle concluded.

As he finished speaking, three Puma helicopters dropped toward the ground from the cloudy skies.

Eagle nodded toward Scott and the sergeant. “Nice meeting you,” he said.

The four Action Force soldiers boarded their own Puma and it lifted off moments later.

Scott turned toward Sergeant O’Donnell.

“Yes, I’ll see about having you put forward for Corporal,” the sergeant said before Scott could speak. “I was going to recommend you anyhow. But you’re on your own about getting into the sass.” British troops often called the SAS regiment ‘the sass’

Summer, 1986

Republic of Santalla, South America

Santalla was a small country on the Pacific coast of South America. In late 1983, the Army General Paulo Mazanna led a rebellion against the country’s right-wing dictator. The civil war had dragged on for some months before Baron Ironblood and his Red Shadows intervened, allying with Mazanna in return for half the country’s wealth and half its army.

After several more months of fighting the capital, Santalla City, and the Presidential Palace fell to Mazanna and the Red Shadows. The President attempted to flee, but was killed. Mazanna then double-crossed the Baron, taking the President’s wealth from his vaults and destroying the military equipment he’d promised to the Baron. He fled the country for parts unknown.

With the country in ruins and no government or armed forces, Santalla fell into chaos and anarchy. Militias battled for control of the cities, like heavily armed street gangs. Thousands fled across the borders into Chile and Peru.

The two countries joined forces and staged an invasion of Santalla, pushing the militias back from the borders, whilst their diplomats appealed to the United Nations for aid.

A UN resolution was passed and an international stabilisation force was deployed to Santalla. US Marines staged a naval assault on the main harbour at Porto Rocas, whilst 2 Para from Britain launched an airborne assault on the Enrique Salazar International Airport outside Santalla City. With these two bridgeheads established, more troops were able to land and aid flights began arriving.

A battalion of Indian troops took over harbour security at Porto Rocas, enabling the Marines to push out into the city proper to establish control. At the same time, Indonesian troops took over security at the airport, allowing the Paras to push into the capital itself. Canadian troops were deployed to the city of Santa Raquel; Egyptian forces took over Rio del Oro, whilst Polish units took control of the city of San Jorge. A joint force of Brazilian, Paraguayan, Uruguayan and Bolivian troops began moving out into the smaller towns and villages, forming safe travel corridors from one city to another, whilst hunting down various bandit groups.

The UN aid operation and the stabilisation force were headquartered at the airport.

Scott, now a full corporal, stood inside the door of the ops room watching the activity in the room. A large wall-map showed the deployment of forces, whilst radio operators along the left wall reported on operations in each city or relayed requests and orders. A row of clocks adorned one wall, giving the local time in each contributing country’s capital and in New York.

Chilean forces had finally withdrawn from the south of Santalla the previous day. The Peruvian forces were due to pull back in the north the following day. The ops room was a hive of activity.

Scott suddenly noticed a soldier in the uniform of a Para sergeant major talking to a lieutenant colonel. The colonel handed the Para a briefing folder, patted him on the arm and then returned the sergeant major’s sloppy salute. Scott frowned as the sergeant-major left. He didn’t recognise the man and there were very few Paras of that rank. Before he could ruminate further, the colonel lifted the mic that controlled the airport’s tannoy system and spoke.

“Platoons 10, 11 and 12 of D Company, Paras, report to your briefing room. Platoons 10, 11 and 12, D Company Paras.”

Scott frowned and left the room. He wondered what was going on, but guessed he’d find out soon.

The ‘briefing room’ was actually a former VIP lounge. The three platoons were crammed in by the time Scott arrived.

At the front, Scott spotted the mysterious sergeant major along with four other men, one of whom was Lieutenant Reynolds, the company commander. The other three were wearing staff sergeant uniforms.

Reynolds quickly began the briefing.

“Good morning, Paras. Today, you’ll be working with the SAS. The UNHCR has been having a lot of trouble in refugee camp North One from drug dealers. A Company has got enough on its plate trying to keep the refugees from fighting as it is, without them getting high on cocaine. Our friends from Special Forces have recce’d the camp and pinned down which of the shacks these guys are operating out of.”

Reynolds paused to look around at the attentive faces. No one spoke.

“10 Platoon will form the outer perimeter. 11 Platoon will form the inner cordon at 25 feet from the building. 12 Platoon will be the net at the five feet mark. Special Forces will be moving in. Our job is simply to make sure no one slips out.”

Reynolds glanced at the sergeant major, who was smirking slightly, but said nothing.

“Your ROE are simple, don’t shoot anyone unless they shoot at you. Remember, you’re going to be inside a refugee camp with lot of innocent civvies around. You really don’t want to open up unless you need to.”

ROE were the rules of engagement. Who you could shoot and when you could shoot them.

Two hours later, the Paras had drawn their weapons and ammo and driven from the airport, south of Santalla City, to the refugee camp to the north. 10 Platoon dismounted to join the Paras of A Company that were manning the guard towers and checkpoints at the camp’s perimeter.

The lorries moved in and stopped in one of the narrow avenues between tents and shanty buildings. 11 Platoon dismounted and moved to the positions given by the SAS men. Finally, the men of 12 Platoon dismounted and moved in taking up their positions around the target building.

The building was surprisingly well built, considering it was made of plywood, corrugated metal and scrap from cars and vans.

The SAS moved toward the front door, pulling on their respirators as they moved.

Suddenly, two panels were pushed away and machine guns poked out.

“COVER!” someone screamed seconds before the guns opened fire.

One of the SAS troopers was hit by a hail of bullets and went down before anyone could react

Two of the Paras to Scott’s right opened fire with their SLRs, trying to hit the gunners inside. Scott didn’t have a good sight line to fire, so he held off.

The other three SAS men were firing into the building, apparently trying to shoot through the wood to hit anyone inside.

Scott suddenly spotted movement on the building’s roof; two men shoved away a large piece of metal that seemed to be the front of some wrecked car, to reveal a 30mm machine gun.

“Thirty mike gun on the roof!” Scott yelled, before lining up a shot and firing at the two men.

The bullets pinged off an armoured plate at the side of the gun, so Scott took aim again and fired, even as the gunner opened up.

Scott dived for cover behind a battered car that sat in the street, even as the two Paras who’d been firing were cut down. Cursing under his breath, he was sure that was Derek Pike who’d been hit, possibly with Dave McKellan who had been heading that when they’d dismounted.

Scott crouched behind the wrecked car as the 30mm gun swivelled on its mounting and fired toward where Sergeant O’Donnell and Corporal Byrne had been.

Scott had an opening and took it. A long burst of automatic fire from his SLR cut down the gunner and his companion.

The two machine gunners tried to fire at Scott, but the wrecked vehicle hampered their aim.

Scott pulled open the door of the car and leaned across the passenger seat. The driver’s side door was intact, but missing its window. Scott wriggled into the car and peered over the window frame. The machine gunners had stopped firing, trying to spot targets now that everyone had gone to ground behind whatever cover they could find.

Scott propped his SLR on the open car window, before propping himself up as best he could in the cramped Italian import.

“Someone give me some cover fire!” Scott shouted.

Four SLRs obliged with long bursts at the building. The nearest gunner turned his weapon toward the muzzle flashes. Scott could now see him clearly. He lined up his shot and fired.

The drug-runner died instantly. Scott had a clear view of it. The gun fell back inside the shack.

The second machine gunner opened fire, bullets pinging off the wrecked car.

Scott squirmed back out of the car, grabbing hold of the passenger seat and pulling it with him as he went.

The seat tore free of its mountings and fell from the car. Scott picked the seat up, keeping behind the car as he carried it to the back of the car.

Scott knelt his left leg on the seat, sticking his right leg out behind him. He pulled out his bayonet, stabbed the chair and cut a slit in the seat back. He tucked away the bayonet and grabbed hold of the seat at the hole.

Pushing the seat along with his right foot, he advanced around the end of the car. The machine gunner opened fire, which made Scott duck as the bullets punched through the headrest. He kept going, pushing the car seat ever closer to the shack.

Finally close enough, he abandoned the car seat and pulled out his single grenade. He pulled the pin, held the grenade for three seconds and then hurled it through the makeshift gun-slit in the building.

Scott pulled the seat over himself as he hit the ground as the grenade went off. He heard the scream of the machine-gunner.

The surviving SAS soldiers quickly moved up to the door as Scott shoved the seat off himself. Scott darted to a ready position behind the lone SAS trooper nearest him. One of the other pair unslung a shotgun from his back, fired at the top and bottom hinges and then booted the door in.

The other two SAS troops dashed in, weapons up and leading the way. The commando with the shotgun went in next and Scott followed, his SLR at the ready.

The SAS trooper with the shotgun muttered, “What the bloody ‘ell you doin’, Para?”

“Covering your ass, Trooper,” Scott replied. “I just helped you get in, you’re a man down, I figure I ought to help you out some more.”

Scott didn’t see the trooper’s smirk as he cautiously crab-walked along the narrow corridor of the shack to the back room. Scott glanced back at the room they’d crossed to the corridor. Four bodies lay on the floor, blood pooling between them. Scott turned back to the corridor. The cooked grenade had done the trick. He’d killed six people today. It was more than he’d ever known he’d killed.

Ahead, the leading SAS troopers tossed thunder-flash grenades into the back room. The concussive boom deafened Scott for a second, but the eye-searing flash had been blocked by the trooper in front of him.

There were brief bursts of gunfire and then one of the troopers called out, “Room clear!”

Scott lowered and safed his SLR as the three SAS soldiers stood in the room, looking around. He stepped forward and peered around the corner. Six more bodies littered the floor, along with four AK47s and several backpacks. A table was standing in the centre of the room, with several dozen bags of white powder on the top, along with a set of scales.

“I’m guessing they weren’t bagging flour to give to the refugees,” Scott commented.

The lead SAS trooper looked around at Scott, frowned briefly and then looked back at the powder. He bent close and took a cautious sniff.

“Cocaine, alright.” The squad leader stood up. “Nice work, lads.”

The squad leader pulled out a radio and walked back out of the room. The two troopers left grinned at one another before exchanging a high-five.

The one with the shotgun turned toward Scott. “C’mon, kid, let’s go. Job’s done and we owe you a coupla beers back at the airport.”

Scott smiled, “I don’t drink, but I’ll take a good word with whoever’s in charge of selection when I apply.”

The troopers exchanged glances. “Doesn’t drink, he says,” the one with the shotgun commented. “What kind of Para is that?”

“Beats me,” the other Trooper replied. “But considering he took out three machine guns on his own, maybe there’s something to it.”

Scott laughed at that comment.

“You can definitely have a recommendation when we see you at selection, though.” The trooper led the trio back outside. “Along with a very good word to your CO.”

Scott’s grin broadened.

The Para walked out of the building to find the rest of the Platoon gathered near the door and a Military Police truck driving up.

The MPs went inside as Lt. Reynolds ordered 12 Platoon back to the waiting lorries. Reynolds caught Scott’s arm as he walked past.

“Good work, Corporal.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I’ll be putting you in for a commendation; that was good work with that car-seat. What possessed you to follow the SAS team in?” the Lieutenant asked.

Scott shrugged. “I thought they needed the help. They were a man down, after all. I didn’t think about it much beyond that.”

The lieutenant nodded. “You want to see one of the shrinks when we get back? You did kill six people, so the trooper told me,” he gestured towards ‘Shotgun’.

Scott shook his head. “Don’t think so, sir. I’d rather forget it.”

Reynolds looked sad, “You never do.” He walked off, leaving Scott to consider his words.

As Scott started toward the lorry again, he saw Sergeant O’Donnell.

“Nice work, Scott,” the sergeant said. “Shame we lost Pike, McKellan and Byrne.”

Scott frowned. Byrne had been one of Scott’s best mates since the other Corporal had joined the platoon.

“What about the SAS guy?” Scott asked, looking around.

“He bought it, too,” the sergeant answered pointing toward a military ambulance, which was being loaded with the four soldiers’ bodies.

Scott shook his head. “Goddamn drug dealers.”

The sergeant nodded, “I hear you.”

Nearly two hours later, the Paras arrived back at the airport. Strangely there didn’t seem much activity in the main concourse. The Paras exchanged glances before following the sounds of several TV sets playing the same channel.

Scott found himself in one of the mess areas. A TV fixed to a wall bracket was playing CNN, the American news channel.

Scott tapped a sergeant from C Company on the shoulder. “What’s going on?”

“Signals are pirating CNN’s coverage. London’s been attacked.”

“Say that again?”

“London’s under attack,” the sergeant repeated. “From Cobra.”

“Cobra? Who the hell is Cobra?”

Before the sergeant could answer, an ident played, identifying the channel before the ad break concluded and then the news anchors appeared.

“''Repeating today’s top story: London, the British capital is under siege from Cobra, the terrorist organisation which kidnapped peace activist Adele Burkhart in 1982. Cobra forces have continued to cause trouble world wide in the last four years, with efforts by both the US G.I. Joe team and the European Action Force unit to stop them. A report from a TV news crew in London has been aired on the British BBC channel, stating that Cobra forces are in control of London. It’s believed the attack began two days ago, with Cobra troops seizing the Houses of Parliament and several government offices.”''

Scott frowned. The anchor was replaced by somewhat shaky footage from inside a moving vehicle showing men in blue uniforms moving through the streets, before cutting to a clip of the men in blue shooting several policemen outside a building and hurrying inside.

“''Both BBC 1 and 2 and the other two British channels, ITV and Channel 4 went off air for an hour on the day the attack began. The BBC is now operating out of its Birmingham, England, studios. ITV are operating from a studio in Manchester. It’s understood that the main approaches to London have been blockaded by Cobra troops, whilst anti-aircraft guns are known to be in the city and have shot down a Royal Air Force recon plane. CNN has yet to confirm the status of Britain’s Royal Family, but a broadcast was made earlier today by the Prime Minister who was in a northern English city when the attack began.”''

The anchor was replaced by a photo of the PM, while a voice over began. Clearly a radio broadcast.

Scott tuned the PM out; he didn’t particularly like the woman and hated having to listen to her. Instead, he was looking around the room at the other soldiers and the rapt attention they displayed.

Then he heard something which made him look back to the TV.

“''Yes, that’s correct. Action Force has been deployed on to the streets of London and those valiant men and women are engaging Cobra’s forces.”''

Scott could scarcely believe that the Prime Minister had just admitted that, on radio!

“There have been several battles between Action Force and Cobra in this crisis and Action Force have been fighting Cobra forces since the arrest and imprisonment of Baron Ironblood and the demise of the Red Shadow movement, last year.”

Scott frowned at that. Ironblood’s arrest had been trumpeted on the news and in the press, but there’d been some controversy over the unit’s continued existence, clearly it was because of the threat posed by Cobra, which hadn’t been widely admitted until now

Scott wandered off, shaking his head. He still wanted to join Action Force, but right now, he just wished he could be back in Britain, fighting Cobra.

Two days later, Scott was waiting for his squad to arrive and join him for a patrol in Santalla City, when Private Anderson ran up.

“Hey, Corp, you heard the news? Cobra’s been kicked out of London!” Anderson informed him breathlessly.

“Fine. Great, now go round up the rest of the squad, we’re due out on patrol.”

Anderson saluted and hurried off.

Scott heard more of the news when the patrol got back to the airport, Action Force had managed to send Cobra packing after a pitched battle in Parliament Square and near Tower Bridge which had seen the St Stephen’s clock tower – often mistakenly called ‘Big Ben’ – blown up by Cobra, and some MPs who’d been held prisoner executed by the terrorists before they could be saved.

1988

22 SAS Regiment barracks, Hereford

Major Franklin walked into the firing range at the SAS barracks to hear the distinct sound of a Thompson sub-machine gun being fired in short bursts. Near the door, the range-master, a sergeant major named Farmer, was leaning on the wall reading the morning paper. Farmer straightened up at the sight of the officer.

“Morning, sir,” Farmer said, with a sloppy salute.

Franklin returned it in an equally sloppy manner. “Mornin’ Sarn’t-Major. Am I going mad or is someone firing a Tommy gun?”

Farmer smirked, “No, Major, that’s Sergeant Fry. He’s using the Chicago Typewriter.”

Franklin frowned at the use of the old-fashioned nickname for the weapon once popular with gangsters in that city

“What the hell’s he doing using a forty-odd year old antique?” Franklin asked.

“Practicing, same as always. He’s been in here every day when he’s not training or on an exercise, using every weapon we’ve got. The Sterling, the Kalashnikov, the MAC-10, the Skorpion, the Uzi, the Galil, the MP5, the FAMAS F1, the G3 and HK33 and even the Sten and the MP40 we’ve got from the War.”

Franklin gave Farmer another frown. “Why the hell is he using all of those?”

Farmer laughed. “That’s not all. He’s tried out that new Italian SMG – the Spectre M4, the Steyr AUG, the Chinese Type 79, the M16, the Type 81 Chinese assault rifle and the CAR-15.”

Franklin stared at him in shock. “He’s only been here four months.”

Farmer nodded, “Yeah, and he’s in here at least five or six hours a day, firing at least a hundred rounds a day through a weapon. He’s proficient with all of them. He learns to shoot with them, then learns to strip and clean them, reassembles them and then moves on. He’s waiting for us to get that new SA80 the rest of the Army’s adopting to practice with that.”

“Good grief. How’s his shooting?” Franklin asked.

“Improving at a steady rate,” Farmer replied. “He was a fair shot when he got here, notwithstanding him barely getting through Selection. He’s a decent shot with the SLR, but he’s getting better with everything. He’s put fifty rounds apiece through the Dragunov, PSG1, L96 and the L42. Gets head-shots out to 750 yards.”

Franklin whistled. He suddenly noticed that during this recitation, the sergeant had stopped firing and so, turning, went down the other empty lanes until he found the man in question.

Scott was cleaning the Tommy gun when he heard Franklin approach. Scott straightened up and saluted.

“As you were, sergeant,” Franklin said. Scott relaxed and finished wiping the sub-machine gun’s parts and quickly reassembled it.

Franklin studied the sergeant for a moment. He was tall, a hair under six foot one, with a lean, not muscular frame and close cropped brown hair. It was the first time Franklin had met him, though he knew the sergeant and seven others had recently passed selection and joined the regiment.

“Anything you want, sir?” Scott asked as he carefully put the Tommy gun back in the locked cabinet where it was usually stored with the Sten and the MP40, the latter of which was a German weapon from World War Two that some long-forgotten member of the original SAS had brought back from the North African desert.

“Yes, I was sent to find you by Colonel Stamp. He’s got an operation and you’ve been picked for the team.”

Scott picked up his camouflage jacket and pulled it on, then picked up his tan-coloured SAS beret and pulled it on with a great deal more care than the jacket.

“Lead on, MacDuff,” Scott said, “It’ll be nice to go on a real op.”

Franklin nodded, “I understand you’ve been with Mobility Troop.

“Until last month, yes, Major. I got transferred to Boat Troop. Someone seems to think I should be rotated around to learn the ropes.”

“It’s not an uncommon practice around here,” Franklin replied. “Not getting seasick?”

Scott smiled as the pair neared the door. “Not at all, sir. In fact I’d barely learnt to swim at school. Boat Troop’s the most time I’ve spent on water since 1982.”

Franklin automatically returned Farmer’s salute as he frowned, walking outside. Scott and Farmer exchanged a high-five as the junior of the NCOs passed by.

“1982? Oh, you were in the Falklands?” Franklin asked. “I’m afraid I didn’t graduate Sandhurst until it was all over.”

“Yes, I went South,” the capital ‘S’ was clear in the way Scott said ‘south’. “Goose Green and Wireless Ridge.”

“Ah, 2 Para. I was with the Royal Welch Fusiliers, I’m afraid.”

Scott smiled. “My dad was with them after he left the Paras. Had an accident not long after the War. He transferred to the Royal Welch and then trained as radio operator.”

Franklin led the way to the command room where Colonel Stamp was waiting for them. Three other NCOs were present, Scott recognised two, Wilson and Edwards. Wilson was a medically trained trooper in Boat Troop. Edwards was in the Counter-Revolutionary Warfare wing, he’d been one of the men who’d put Scott through Selection.

Once Franklin had left, Stamp got down to business. “Sorry to have to throw you four together, but what with the continued threat from Cobra and the IRA, I’m putting teams together for ops on an ad-hoc basis depending on who’s the best for a job and who’s available.”

The four men nodded in understanding.

“We’ve got two teams operating in Columbia, supporting their army in the continuing battle against their home-grown terrorists, FARC and M19, and the drug-smugglers. Unfortunately, we need an operation carried out and can’t use those two teams. Too much chance of a mole in the Columbian army. Instead, I’m sending you. You’ll be dropped in the jungle near a compound the drug-runners are using. We believe it’s got vital intel on the whereabouts of the airstrips the cartels are using. You’re to get in, get the intel and get out,” Stamp explained. “Edwards will lead the team, Wilson is your medic whilst Thompson and Fry will basically act as riflemen.”

Two days later the team was dropped by a Columbian Army helicopter three miles from their target. The team rappelled down from the hovering helicopter. Thompson took point whilst Scott brought up the rear with Wilson and Edwards in the middle, the latter carrying the team’s radio.

The four-man team made good progress through the jungle. After two hours of travelling, Edwards called a halt for a short break. Thompson took out his canteen of water and took a drink. Each of the soldiers passed the canteen around until it was empty. Scott remembered how he’d initially recoiled at sharing a drink in such a way, but in enemy territory, it was better to share a canteen and have an empty one, than four part empty ones, sloshing about in someone’s pack, to attract attention.

Edwards checked his map. “We’re about another hour out. Only a mile left to go.”

Thompson led the way as the team moved off once more. Scott walked backwards, covering their rear. He was about to turn back to face forward when he heard a loud animal’s growl and a disturbance behind him, he span around as Thompson cursed.

A Jaguar cat had leaped out of the undergrowth and attacked the point man. The big cat swiped its claws across Thompson’s chest as the soldier struggled to get the creature off himself.

Edwards charged forward and tackled the Jaguar off Thompson, only to get raked across the face by the cat. Wilson and Scott dashed forwards and dragged Thompson clear. He was bleeding heavily from wounds on his chest, face and neck. Scott left Wilson to attend to him as he dashed forward to Edwards.

Scott turned his rifle around and swung like a baseball player, slamming the butt into the Jaguar’s head, dazing it. The spotted cat turned toward him, but he slammed the rifle into the animal’s head a second time, knocking it out

Scott dragged Edwards across to Wilson. The squad leader was bleeding badly as well. Wilson paused in his ministrations to Thompson, throwing a vial of liquid and a syringe to Scott.

“Load that syringe up. Ten mils, then inject him in the arm,” Wilson instructed. “It’s an antibiotic. No telling what germs the damn thing had on its claws.”

Scott quickly did as he was instructed, then began dressing the wounds on Edwards’ face before moving to his chest.

It took a good ten minutes for the two men to clean and dress the wounds. Wilson administered painkillers to both men.

“We’re screwed now,” Wilson said. “We’re not going to be able to finish the mission with these two unconscious.

Scott didn’t answer. He picked up Thompson’s M16 assault rifle and put it next to his own. He then began taking magazines from the unconscious point man’s webbing and piling it up. Wilson watched as Scott then pulled out a roll of duct-tape from his pack and began tapping the magazines together in threes. Scott next took Wilson’s MP5 submachine gun from the medic’s piled up kit and put it with the two M16s.

“What are you doing?” Wilson asked as Scott handed the medic Edwards’ M16 and removed the three grenades the two downed soldiers carried.

“Planning to complete the mission,” Scott replied. “Give me your ammo.”

Wilson frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“The ammo for your Hockler,” he replied, using a regimental nickname for the German gun. “I need it.

“No, I meant what are you talking about that you’re going to finish the mission?”

“What I said. It’s an important mission for the interdiction ops in Columbia. I am not bugging out and abandoning this operation,” Scott answered, finally grabbing hold of Wilson and removing the magazines from the medic’s webbing.

“You’re going to take that compound single-handed?” Wilson asked. “One man against sixty?”

Scott began taping the MP5 magazines together. “What’s the matter, Wilson? Never seen an action movie?”

“This isn’t Commando, and you’re not bloody Schwarzenegger!” Wilson said. “You can’t do this!”

“I know it’s not Commando.” Scott replied. “If it was, I’d be carrying an M60, an M202 rocket launcher and wearing the grenades on my vest by the pins. Which would be stupid.”

Wilson glared at him, not appreciating the flip response. Scott finished his work and slung the MP5 across his chest, put on his backpack, shouldered one of the M16s and then picked up the second M16.

“If I’m not back within three hours, call in. Tell them you need a back-up team to extract you and the wounded,” Scott said. “Oh, and keep an eye on that cat…”

With that he walked off, as Wilson checked his watch.

Half an hour later, Wilson checked his patients. Both were still unconscious. He checked the Jaguar. It seemed to have drifted from unconsciousness to sleep.

Ten minutes later, Wilson heard automatic weapons fire in the distance. He frowned, listening. Someone was firing an M16 in short bursts, whilst at least two .30 calibre guns were firing full-auto. Sporadically, he could hear what sounded like Kalashnikovs.

One of the .30 calibre guns cut off abruptly after two minutes. Seconds later, there was the sound of a small explosion. The second .30 calibre gun fell silent.

An hour after Scott had left, there were still sounds of sporadic gunfire. Mostly an M16 and what sounded like pistols and shotguns.

There were two more small explosions in quick succession half an hour after the gunfire started.

A larger explosion rocked the rapidly darkening jungle. The Jaguar flinched, but didn’t wake. The sound of the M16 was replaced by the more distinctive clatter of an MP5.

Eighty minutes after Scott had left, the gunfire had stopped.

Ten minutes later, Scott walked out of the jungle from a different direction. Wilson nearly leaped out of his skin in shock.

“Where’d you come from?” he demanded.

“A dirt road over there,” Scott replied, pointing. “Found a jeep at the compound.”

Wilson noticed he was carrying the MP5 in his hands, whilst both M16s were over his shoulders. As the sergeant put them down, Wilson noticed that both assault rifles were empty. He also noticed he had none of the nine grenades he’d left with.

“How much ammo did you come back with?” Wilson asked.

“Three rounds,” Scott replied. He was busy setting up the radio.

“Three rounds?” Wilson asked, incredulous.

“There were sixty of them and they had good cover,” Scott answered, sounding defensive. “And it was a cast-iron bitch to kill the thirty-cal nests.”

He looked over toward Edwards and Thompson. “How are they?”

“Unconscious, still,” Wilson said, stooping to check them.

“Any idea how long ‘til they wake up?”

Wilson shook his head, “No clue.”

“Great. Good thing I brought the jeep.” Scott finally activated the radio.

“Dugout this is Striker-One, request extraction from Ell-Zee Alpha. We have two wounded, mission completed successfully. Over.”

After a brief burst of static, a voice replied, “''Striker-One, this is Dugout. Winger-One is en route. Estimate forty minutes to Ell-Zed. How bad are the wounded? Over.”''

“Dugout, Striker, Wounded suffered multiple claw wounds from large feline. Are currently unconscious.”

“''Striker, Dugout. Say again your last, over.”'' The radio operator at the base with the call sign ‘dugout’ sounded incredulous.

“Dugout, Striker. I repeat, two wounded suffered multiple claw wounds from large feline. We are moving out to Ell-Zee Alpha. Over and out.”

Whilst Scott was on the radio, Wilson had reloaded the MP5 with one of the magazines Scott hadn’t appropriated from him and taken a magazine from Edwards’ webbing and reloaded one of the M16s. He handed the latter to Scott as the younger man finished packing the radio.

“What do we move first? The wounded or the gear.”

“As much as we can of all of it.” Scott picked up his own backpack and put it back on, then put Edwards’ prone body over his right shoulder. He then grabbed Thompson’s backpack and slung it over his left shoulder.

Wilson picked up his own pack, slung Thompson over his shoulder and then grabbed the radio set.

They hurried through the jungle to the jeep, which Scott had parked off the dirt road

“Why are you so keen to get extracted?” Wilson asked, breathing hard.

“Because I had to frag their radio room and I don’t know if I killed the guys inside and the set before they got a message off.” Scott reached the jeep and set Edwards in the back.

“That was what cost me four of the grenades I took,” Scott went on. “And how I got this,” he pointed to a long scratch on his left cheek.

Wilson stepped over to look at the scratch after putting Thompson in the jeep.

“Not deep. No worse than a razor cut. What was it?”

“Damn splinter from the door when I blew the radio room up.” He took his pack off and left it on the driver’s seat. “Wait here. I’ll go get the rest of the weapons.”

Scott dashed back into the trees. He returned moments later, carrying the two M16s and the two wounded men’s webbing gear. Wilson took one of the M16s and held it on his lap, his MP5 tucked next to his seat.

Scott took the driver’s seat after removing his pack and quickly had the jeep moving.

“What was the big explosion?” Wilson asked. “I thought it was going to wake the Jaguar up.”

Scott shrugged as he slid the jeep into the turn to take the junction leading toward the LZ. “Fuel tank. I threw a grenade at four guys, one tried to throw it back and completely screwed up and hit the tank.”

As the jeep slid to a halt next to the field that was landing zone Alpha, the Colombian Army helicopter that was extracting the team dropped from the cloudy sky. The two SAS commandos quickly grabbed their comrades and the gear and ran toward the helicopter as it touched down in the muddy field.

Moments later, the helicopter was airborne and heading for the Colombian Army base where the SAS were operating from.

Britain

Two weeks later

After spending two days in Colombia whilst Edwards and Thompson recovered, and Scott was debriefed by the SAS Major in command, the team had returned to Britain. Scott had then be debriefed again by Colonel Stamp and an officer from the Secret Intelligence Service named Frape. After that, Scott had been given two weeks leave, which he’d used to visit his parents and sisters.

Returning to Hereford, Scott was summoned to Colonel Stamp’s office.

“SAH!” Scott snapped, as he saluted.

“At ease, Sergeant. Sit down.”

Scott took the proffered chair.

“Congratulations, you’re being awarded the Military Medal for your actions in Colombia. You were recommended by Major Harrison and I seconded it. You’ll receive the medal soon enough, it just won’t be gazetted very quickly since ops in Colombia are classified. Second thing is, we’re moving you across to Air Troop from Mobility. You’ll stay within ‘A’ Squadron, of course,” Stamp informed him.

Scott looked faintly stunned at the news of his medal. He didn’t react to the news of the transfer.

Stamp watched Scott for a moment. “Are you alright, Sergeant?”

Scott blinked. “Yessir, Sorry, sir. Slightly surprised by the news of the medal, sir.”

Stamp smirked, “Just don’t get surprised like that in the field.”

“Sir, I expect anything to happen in the field. I don’t expect to be told I’m getting a medal.”

“Fair point,” Stamp commented. “Your transfer to Air Troop is effective immediately. You’ll be getting HALO and HAHO training. Shouldn’t be too much trouble for you, since you’re already a qualified paratrooper.”

HALO was High-Altitude Low-Opening parachuting, where one jumped out of a plane and free-fell to low altitude before opening one’s chute in order to evade detection. HAHO involved jumping at altitude and opening the chute high in order to covertly travel across borders or into hostile areas without risking the aircraft the troops had jumped from.

1989

Republic of Duna

Northern Africa

Scott was leaning against the front of a Land Rover, considering the two groups of men in front of him. To one side were ten other members of 22 SAS. Nominally in command of them was Captain Gardiner. The other nine were fellow NCOs from all four squadrons of the regiment. Smith was from ‘A’ squadron’s Mountain Troop; Cook was from ‘D’ squadron’s Mobility Troop; Downey was from ‘C’ squadron’s Air Troop; there was Moore from ‘B’ squadron’s Mountain Troop and Old from the Boat Troop of the same squadron. Moss and Griffiths were from ‘C’ squadron’s Mountain Troop; Andrews from the Counter-Revolutionary Warfare wing and Finn from ‘D’ squadron’s Boat Troop.

The other group, by contrast, was only four strong. Three of them, Scott had met before. Eagle, Stakeout and Quickfire of Action Force’s SAS Force stood near a black lightweight jeep with a large gun atop its roll-cage and an SAS Force badge adorning its bonnet.

The fourth member of their group was the most perplexing to Scott. Although they’d never met, Scott knew him as soon as he saw the man’s face. Ragnar Ragnarsson had won the Trans-Global Rally three times before disappearing in mysterious circumstances. No one in the world of motor-sport had known where he’d disappeared to. Now, though, he was standing with the other three SAS Force commandos, wearing black racing coveralls, a grey scarf which he’d had covering his mouth when the Action Force team arrived, and grey goggles which now perched atop his head. An Uzi sub-machine gun hung across his chest on a short sling.

Scott couldn’t quite work out why a champion rally driver had turned up in an elite multinational special ops team.

Before he could actually go over and ask, Scott’s attention was drawn to Eagle stepping forward.

“No doubt you’re wondering why you’re here. Well, it’s simple. SAS Force has openings for a few new members. Your colonel recommended you ten NCOs as potential recruits. Two of you will make it. The rest won’t. To determine who does, we’re staging a series of tests to evaluate you. The first test will be for your group to stage an attack on SAS Force’s camp five miles from here and to kidnap me,” Eagle explained.

Eagle lifted his own MP5 sub-machine gun. “We’ll be giving you weapons. They’re specially made weapons that we use for training. They make a racket, but don’t fire bullets. Not even blanks. Instead, they have a low power laser, which will illuminate what they’re aimed at. You’ll be wearing a laser-sensing chest plate, same as the SAS Force troops. If you’re hit, the chest-plate will light up and emit a loud beep. This signifies you’re a casualty. You are to sit down where you are, cross your legs and fold your arms.”

The British troops exchanged dubious looks.

“We have a variety of models, styled as sub-machine guns, assault rifles, light-machine guns and sniper rifles. The jeeps are armed with machine guns versions. You will be evaluated on individual performance and on your performance in the team.”

Eagle paused. No one spoke.

“Good luck.”

With that, he turned and walked over to the jeep, followed by the other three men. Ragnar, rather unsurprisingly took the driver’s seat, whilst Quickfire and Stakeout simply rode on the jeep’s running boards, holding its roll-cage.

Captain Gardiner stepped over to the Land Rover, pulling out an envelope folder as he did.

“Alright, gather round. This is the intel we have on the target camp.”

Three of the SAS soldiers pulled out their lights to shine on the bonnet of the Land Rover as Gardiner pulled out several overhead photos of the camp.

Scott started looking them over as Andrews picked one up.

“Helicopter pads,” he said, tapping the photo. “Looks like four of their Hawk mini-copters. They’ve also got three Whirlwind twin gun batteries. Four of their Panther jeeps, plus a Puma anti-air jeep and the recon buggy.”

Scott tried to work out what was what as Andrews went on. “Looks like company strength infantry. Standing sentries around the perimeter….” His voice trailed off.

“How do you know so much?” Cook asked.

“For one thing, I’ve done analysis of overheads before. Several times I’ve had to analyse the aftermath of Action Force operations. For another, I’ve worked with Action Force twice. Once was when Cobra hit London. I got to know a lot about how they operate,” Andrews replied.

Scott spoke up. “They’ve got a barbed wire fence around the camp. The obvious weak-point is the main gate.”

He tapped one of the photos. The ‘fence’ was actually just a roll of wire around the camp, barely a foot high. The ‘gate’ was a gap between the fence’s ends with a wooden pole on two sawhorses.

“Seems to me, we should stage a distraction at the main gate and then have a small team sneak in the back,” Scott went on.

“I’ll do that,” Andrews said. “I’ll go sneaking in.”

“You’ll need someone to back you up,” Scott said. “I can do that.”

“What, and the rest of us just stage the fake attack?” Downey asked, sounding annoyed.

“Well, if it goes wrong,” Scott told him, “You can all charge in and rescue us. If it works, you’ll just have to try harder on the next test.”

Downey glowered at him.

“Got any better ideas?” Scott asked.

Downey didn’t answer.

Moss took charge and split the other eight soldiers into two teams of four who would ride in each of the Land Rovers. Captain Gardiner then led them over to where a truck was parked, with several crates next to it. Leaning against the truck, Scott saw two soldiers wearing desert camouflage outfits and floppy bush hats.

Both had a black ‘Z’ emblem on their left sleeve.

“Who are you guys?” he asked.

“Z Force infantry,” one answered with a distinct Irish accent. “Don’t worry, we can’t radio the SAS Force base. Your captain’s got the battery from our radio. We’re just here to deliver the weapons.”

The Irishman bent over and opened one of the crates. Inside was a row of weapons.

Moore immediately selected an FN Minimi light machine gun, known as the L97 in the British Army. Downey, Griffiths and Finn selected the M16 assault rifle.

The second soldier opened another crate, which held Carl Gustav anti-tank rockets. Finn and Griffiths immediately took some out. The third crate held several suppressed weapons. Andrews took a suppressed Browning 9mm pistol, whilst Scott grabbed a suppressed Uzi, which he slung across his chest. He then took an M16 from the first crate. Smith, Moss and Cook took MP5 sub-machine guns from the third crate. Old selected a bolt-action sniper rifle.

“Do we need ammo for these guns?” Scott asked as Andrews took a second, unsuppressed, Browning from one of the crates and holstered it on his right hip.

“No,” the Irish soldier answered. “The magazine’s replaced by the sound generator equipment. You pull the trigger and it makes a noise, like a kid’s gun.”

The soldier took out a Browning and demonstrated. His colleague opened a fourth crate and began removing the sensor chest-plates Eagle had mentioned.

As the British troops struggled into them, the Irish soldier went on, “The anti-tank rockets have paintball warheads. They’ll detonate and shower the target with paint, which will count as a kill. You’re only supposed to use them on the vehicles.”

“Can we hit the Whirlwinds with them?” Andrews asked.

“Sure.”

Scott stared at Andrews as the other soldiers started getting into the two Land Rovers

“Aren’t you taking another weapon?” he asked.

“Don’t need one,” Andrews replied. “I’m a crack shot with pistols. Haven’t you heard of me?”

“No, don’t think so…”

“Bill Andrews,” he said, sticking his hand out. “Commonly known as ‘Double-Tap’.”

Scott shook his hand. “Oh, I’ve heard about the pistol marksman called ‘Double-Tap’. I thought you were already in Action Force.”

Bill grinned. “Not yet. What’s your name?”

“Scott. I seem to have been christened ‘Bodycount’ lately. I’ve been on four missions and I’ve got a reputation for being the guy who gets the most kills.

“Really?” Bill looked sceptical. “You count them?”

“Not every time, but my first mission, I went up against sixty tangos and came away with a small scratch on my cheek.”

“Oh. I heard about that. I thought Edwards was bs’ing me.” Bill looked more impressed now.

They grabbed seats in one of the Land Rovers and the two off-road vehicles sped off.

A mile from the base, Scott and Bill were dropped off from the Land Rover. They jogged across the sand dunes, looping around to approach the SAS Force camp from behind. The Land Rovers continued on toward a rocky outcropping overlooking the camp.

Once Scott and Bill were in position, they waited for the signal to start their attack.

The distant sound of weapons fire sounded across the night.

Bill and Scott exchanged alarmed glances before they heard the sound of four M2 Carl Gustav anti-tank rockets being fired in quick succession. The pair leaped to their feet and sprinted up the sand dune as fast as they could as the M2s fired again in quick succession.

They were near the top when they spotted the first SAS Force sentry, wearing a grey helmet and scarf and black utility fatigues. Bill dropped the sentry with two quick shots to the chest. Scott spotted a second and fired a burst from his suppressed Uzi. Bill dropped a third with another double-tap.

After shooting another pair of sentries, they hurried off between the rows of tents toward the command tent.

Inside the command tent, Eagle was listening to a report from the SAS Force radio operator, Playback.

“We’ve lost contact with Sparrowhawk’s observation post on the outcrop. The British team have started their attack from the outcrop. Presumably they took out the OP. They’ve used Carl Gustav anti-tank rockets to neutralise our Hawks, the Whirlwinds and the Panthers and the recon jeep. Quickfire and Stakeout are leading the fight back.”

Eagle frowned as Playback turned back to his radio set.

“They can’t be expecting this attack to succeed, surely?” Eagle muttered.

“I don’t think they are, sir. And, please, don’t call me Shirley.”

Eagle looked up at Beaver, glowering at the bad joke.

“Sorry, sir, just trying to lighten the mood.” The Canadian turned his attention to the map on the table in front of them.

Playback spoke up again. “Just had a report from two of the Attack Troopers on sentry duty at the back of the camp. Five sentries on the perimeter are down. They think we have intruders inside the perimeter.”

Beaver grabbed his sub-machine gun and turned toward two Attack Troopers standing guard near one of the tent’s entrances.

“You two, come with me.” He turned to the other pair at the other entrance. “You two, keep Eagle in here.”

Both nodded acknowledgement before the Canadian hurried out.

Scott and Bill were making their way carefully toward the tents when they saw the trio charging out of the tent toward them.

Both opened fire. Beaver and one of the Attack Troopers were hit immediately. The second Attack Trooper barely had a chance to raise his sub-machine gun before Bill dropped him with a double-tap.

In the command tent, Eagle asked Playback to raise Quickfire on the radio.

After a moment, the German radio operator reported, “Quickfire’s down sir. Half his squad’s out of commission.”

“Get me Jones, then. Or Ragnarsson.”

There was a short pause as Playback switched channels and made the radio calls.

“Sir, Stakeout’s squad report he was hit by the sniper. They’re pinned down and unable to move or they’ll be hit. Sergeant Ragnarsson was inside his Panther when it was hit,” Playback informed him.

“Dammit. Then get me…”

Before Eagle could finish his sentence, Scott and Bill burst through the tent’s flaps and shot both Attack Troopers. Playback dived for his gun, but was hit next.

Eagle raised his hands slowly as Scott pointed his M16 at the officer.

“Nice to see you again, Captain Buckingham,” Scott said as Bill pulled his lightweight scarf off and moved around Eagle to tie his wrists with it.

“It’s Major, actually.” Eagle replied. “Who are you?”

Scott frowned. “Oh, you disappoint me, sir. You forgotten Salisbury Plain already?”

Eagle’s face shifted from a frown to a smile. “Ah, the young Para who shot down the Roboskulls. Congratulations on getting into 22 SAS.”

Bill pulled Eagle’s own scarf off and proceeded to gag him. “Sorry, Major. Can’t risk you shouting for help.”

The two commandos grabbed one of Eagle’s arms each and steered him out of the tent.

Half-dragging, half frogmarching him, they hurried across the camp back toward the fence where they’d entered.

Near the fence, Scott shot another pair of Attack Troopers who were standing sentry and then he and Bill picked Eagle up and threw him over the barbed wire. He hit the sand and slid down the dune. They leapt over the fence and slid after him.

At the bottom of the dune, Scott and Bill grabbed Eagle’s arms once more and pulled him to his feet and half carried him away with them.

As they ran, Scott pulled a radio from his belt and pressed the transmit button three times without speaking. The radio emitted three short bursts of static.

In the distance, the sound of automatic fire from the two jeeps slackened off, before their engines could be heard roaring into life.

Several minutes later, the Land Rovers caught up to the running trio and Scott and Bill bundled Eagle into the back seat.

Once the two Land Rovers arrived back at the Z Force lorry where they’d left the two infantrymen and Captain Gardiner, Scott and Bill untied Eagle and removed the gag.

“Well done, gentlemen. If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to confer with Captain Gardiner and these two infantrymen.”

Eagle, the two other Action Force soldiers and the British officer moved away from the SAS commandos as they began exchanging stories about what had happened. Scott and Bill learned that the squad in the Land Rovers had almost run over an SAS Force observation post atop the outcropping and had to deal with them, before they could destroy the vehicles. They related their exploits.

As Eagle and Gardiner walked back to the squad, Scott heard a jeep driving up and turned to see Ragnar driving the SAS Force dune-buggy type jeep. Quickfire climbed out as it halted.

The two men held a brief sotto voce conversation before Eagle turned to the squad.

“Right. Thanks to all of you for coming. I’ve decided on the basis of the reports I’ve received and my own observations to ask Sergeant Fry and Sergeant Andrews to join Action Force,” Eagle informed them.

“What?!” Downey exclaimed. “Just after one exercise?!”

“Yes. There were never any more exercises. We wanted to test you and these two men came out on top. They were responsible for analysing the recon imagery of the camp and planning the attack. They carried out the hardest part and got away. They adapted to working well together and with the support of a unit of men they’d never met before. Crucially, I’ve also personally met them before and read all their records.”

Downey looked ready to punch Eagle in the jaw.

Moss stepped past him. “So, this whole exercise was just a set-up to enable you to evaluate them and recruit them?”

Eagle nodded. “More or less. The rest of you did well, though. You’re all a credit to 22 SAS.”

Eagle turned to Scott and Bill. “Your choice, gentlemen. Join or leave with them.”

As he spoke, a Duna Army lorry drew up and Captain Gardiner waved the other soldiers toward it.

“I’m in,” Scott said. “I’ve been waiting five years for this.”

Bill nodded, “I’m in, too.

Eagle grinned. “Good, help Quickfire and the Z Force infantrymen pack up the guns you used and we’ll head back to the camp.”

Eagle walked over to the SAS Force jeep and climbed into the seat next to Ragnar as the Icelander handed him a canteen

After packing up the gear and a more leisurely drive across the desert, Scott and Bill were escorted into the command tent.

“First things first,” Eagle said. “I hope you’ve got codenames in mind?”

“Call me ‘Double-Tap’,” Bill said.

Scott thought for a moment. “Might as well go with ‘Bodycount’. It’s the closest thing to a nickname I’ve got.”

Eagle introduced the other men in the tent. As well as him and Quickfire, Beaver, Sparrowhawk and Playback were present. A moment later, another man walked in. He was wearing desert pattern camouflage and a red beret with a black ‘Z’ badge on.

“This is Colonel Skip, commander of Z Force,” Eagle said. “He’ll explain why we’re here.”

Skip nodded, when he spoke, it was in a rich Scots accent Scott thought he recognised, but wasn’t sure where from.

“Aye, alright. The Duna government asked for Action Force’s help. They’ve been suffering raids across their northern borders from Cobra terrorists. Seems they’re operatin’ out of Libya. As we all know, Gaddafi supports various international terror groups, including the IRA, PLO and Abu Nidal. It seems he’s now allowin’ Cobra haven in his country. A Z Force unit was dispatched here to investigate. Four days ago, a patrol of a jeep and an ATC was attacked by Cobra troops.”

Skip paused to look around at the SAS Force soldiers.

“It took us two days to find the wreckage of their vehicles. Their radio message was cut off as they were trying to call for help. We found four of our infantrymen dead. Sergeant Santillana, Sergeant Brazzi, Sergeant-Major Van Eyck and Corporal Porter were missing. We now believe they’re in Cobra’s hands. A Space Force recon satellite has located the Cobra camp.”

Eagle stepped forward. “We leave no man behind in Action Force. We will rescue these guys. Quickfire, Sparrowhawk, Bodycount and Double-Tap will HALO jump into the camp and neutralise their air defences. An assault team will then be dropped in by Z Force Tomahawk, led by me. A ground unit led by the Panther jeeps will come in to provide fire-support and to extract us.”

Eagle produced a series of overhead photos of the camp.

“They’ve got four ASP units, four Stinger jeeps and a flight of four FANG helicopters as air defence. Ground support consists of several Ferret ATVs and a pair of STUNs.”

Eagle looked across at Quickfire and Sparrowhawk. “Hitting the Stingers, FANGs and the ASPs is your main priority. If you can hit the STUNs as well, that’d be a bonus.”

“There are four of these bunkers as well. Armed with 7.62mm machine guns, they form defensive hard-points in the camp perimeter,” Eagle went on. “They’ll be a priority target for the assault force. The prisoners, we believe, are in the larger central bunker.”

Scott stepped closer to study the photos. “How do we take out the air defences? Are we going in loud or are we going covert?”

Eagle looked across at him. “You’ll be given demolition charges, plant them on the ASPs, FANGs and Stingers and then retreat to a safe distance and detonate. That will be our cue to come in with the assault force.”

Eagle paused and smiled. “Unless of course, you feel like going in on your own and taking the whole camp on?”

Scott shook his head. “Sixty to one odds were long enough for me. Looks like this place must be packing in two hundred Cobras at least. I may be good, but I’m not that good.”

“Well, that’s reassuring,” Sparrowhawk said. “Just what you want to hear from an FNG, ‘I’m good, but I’m not that good’.”

Scott span toward him, “You ever take on sixty armed drugs dealers, alone, in hostile territory after trekking over a mile through a goddamn rainforest?”

“No, but I did once take on forty Cobra Vipers with only one guy to back me up in a skyscraper.”

“Well, matey, I did. Sixty guys against me, with two M16s and an Uzi. I came out with just one scratch. If you really want me to, I’ll take the entire damn camp on.”

“Knock it off, you two,” Eagle snapped. “We don’t need this macho rubbish.”

Scott turned away from Sparrowhawk, glowering as he did. In contrast, the Belgian just smirked.

Two hours later, the four commandos were freefalling toward the Cobra camp, inside Libya.

The four popped their chutes a thousand feet up. Scott steered himself in to land a few feet behind one of the ASP units. After quickly pulling off his parachute harness and bundling up his chute, he unslung the suppressed MP5 he carried and trotted toward the towed anti-aircraft battery.

Approaching from the operator’s blindside, he carefully leaned around the rear of the cockpit, to see a Cobra foot soldier, one of the type commonly called ‘blue-shirts’, sitting in the armoured seat. A pair of night-vision goggles obscured his eyes.

Scott moved around to face the soldier. He spotted the movement and started to turn toward Scott as the commando raised his SMG and fired a single bullet into his chest.

The blue-shirt slumped in the seat. Scott unhooked the demolitions charge he had attached to his left leg and set the arming mechanism. Reaching inside the roll-cage, he put the charge under the ‘dashboard’ control panel and sprinted clear.

Looking around, toward the second ASP, he spotted Quickfire. Scott ran over to him.

Quickfire halted in the dark and aimed his own MP5SD at Scott. “Rock!” he hissed.

“Roll!” Scott hissed back, returning the counter-sign.

Quickfire relaxed slightly as Scott joined him.

“Set your charge?” he asked the younger man.

“Yeah.”

“Gut,” Quickfire answered. “Let’s move.”

The pair jogged across the camp toward where the four FANGs were parked. Both stopped in the shadows of a large fuel tank and took a pair of charges from their packs.

A single Cobra Viper was standing guard over the helicopters. Scott snuck up behind the Viper and jammed his MP5 into the trooper’s back before firing a three round burst.

As the Viper collapsed, Scott caught him and lowered him to the ground. He and Quickfire then planted the four charges before moving off.

As they jogged toward the large open-ended garage where the STUNs were parked, Double-Tap joined them.

“Charges set on the Stingers,” the third man reported.

“Good. We’ve set them on the FANGs,” Scott told him.

“And we’ve set them on an ASP each,” Quickfire added.

Double-Tap retrieved a demolitions charge from his own pack and planted it between the two Cobra assault vehicles. They were parked close enough together that a single charge would destroy them both.

The trio jogged off toward the agreed upon rendezvous point. Sparrowhawk was already there.

“I’ve planted my charges on the ASP and on two of the bunkers,” the paratrooper informed them.

“Ja, ist gut.” Quickfire replied. He pulled out the remote detonator and pressed the button.

Twelve explosions rocked the night simultaneously. The three ASPs were blown apart, the STUNs thrown off their wheels and into the garage walls, whilst the FANGs were shredded. The Stingers were racked by secondary detonations as their missiles exploded.

A mile away, the explosions were visible to Eagle as he leaned between the seats in the cockpit of the Z Force Tomahawk.

“That’s our signal,” he said to Evac, the pilot. “Let’s go!”

The American pilot nodded and shoved the throttle forward. Either side of the Tomahawk, four SAS Force Hawk helicopters raced forward, outpacing the larger machine.

Flying the lead Hawk, Chopper activated his radio. “Hawks going in hot,” he announced. “Follow me in, boys.”

The small single-seat helicopters dropped in toward the camp and opened fire with their rockets. The remaining bunkers were hit first, then the Hawks looped back and opened fire with the machine guns on their nose.

Standing in the shadows of the lavatory block, Scott watched as the four helicopters danced across the sky, spraying bullets at the running mass of Cobra troops.

He spotted the door to the central bunker being opened by a Cobra blue-shirt, who disappeared inside.

“Follow me,” he snapped before running toward the bunker.

As Scott crashed in the door, Double-Tap and Quickfire were close on his heels. Inside the bare walls, the bunker was divided into a large operations room and a corridor leading to a staircase. Scott threw a grenade into the ops room, before heading for the stairs. Double-Tap followed him. Quickfire paused only long enough to rake the ops room with a long burst of automatic fire before following

At the bottom of the stairs, Scott found another corridor and a pair of Vipers. He shot both as they started to raise their rifles. The corridor had six doors off it. One was a medical bay, which was empty. The next was a radio room, which Scott threw another grenade into. The last four doors lead to cells.

Inside the first, a man was tied to a chair and slumped over. Quickfire moved past Scott to check on him. In the second cell, another man was tied to a chair, a Cobra officer standing over him, pointing a pistol at his head as Scott kicked the door in

Scott didn’t even let the man finish turning toward him before he fired a three-round burst into the man’s chest.

The man in the chair spat blood on the dead officer’s body as Scott moved to untie him.

“Thanks, mate,” the soldier said in a strong Leicestershire accent. “Who are you?”

“Bodycount,” Scott answered. “SAS Force. I take it you’re Corporal Porter.”

Rubbing his wrists, the man nodded a bloodied head, “Yeah, Z Force infantry.”

Scott pulled out the suppressed Browning pistol he carried and held it toward Porter, handle first.

“Think you can use this?” he asked.

Porter smiled, revealing a few missing teeth. “Is the Pope Catholic?” He took the pistol, checked it carefully and then adopted the Weaver stance, right hand holding the pistol’s grip, left hand steadying the right.

Scott turned and moved back out of the cell. In the corridor, Sparrowhawk was holding another man upright. His left leg was clearly broken.

“Wheels? Is that you?” Porter asked.

The other man raised his head, “Bet your damn ass, Porter. They broke my leg, but they didn’t break me.” His accent identified him as Dutch.

Double-Tap moved out of the last cell, cradling another soldier in his arms. “They’ve broken both his legs and his arm,” Double-Tap said. The soldier’s right arm hung limply from his shoulder. His left was around the Irish soldier’s neck, gripping his uniform tightly.

Scott turned back to the first cell to see Quickfire. “Nice to see you made it, in one piece, Raoul.”

“One broken and bloody piece,” the soldier in Double-Tap’s arms answered in a weak Spanish-accented voice.

“Where’s Brazzi?” Scott asked, having deduced who was missing.

Quickfire’s expression was grim. “He didn’t make it. You get upstairs and call in Eagle. These guys need a medivac fast.”

Scott nodded and headed back up the stairs, his MP5 at the ready, with Porter close on his heels.

Back at the entrance to the bunker, Scott pulled out his radio and began transmitting.

“Bodycount to Eagle, Bodycount to Eagle, come in.”

There was a brief burst of static and then Eagle replied. “''Eagle to Bodycount, I read you, over.”''

Scott paused before speaking again as the rattle of automatic weapons fire overpowered anything he could say. He glanced up to see two of the Hawks race overhead, before looping around and heading back toward their targets.

“Eagle, Bodycount. We’ve located the prisoners and freed them. They need medivac, fast. Sergeant Santillana and Sergeant-Major Van Eyck are both in a bad way. Porter is walking wounded, but looks like he lost a fight with Mike Tyson, over” Scott reported.

There was a moment’s pause before Eagle asked, “''What about Sergeant Brazzi?''”

“He didn’t make it, over.”

“Stand by, we’re coming in towards the main bunker, over.”

Scott looked up as he heard the familiar whine of a multi-barrelled rotary machine gun spooling up.

Over his head, the Z Force Tomahawk was dropping toward the bunker. Its chin-mounted gun turret opened fire, spraying several hundred rounds over the bunker’s roof at something Scott couldn’t see.

The helicopter pivoted as it approached, the 20mm gun traversing to keep firing for a few more seconds.

The Tomahawk touched down, muzzle flashes from the gun battle illuminating the green and black camouflage scheme and the large red Z insignia on the rear.

Two men leaped out of the helicopter and gestured towards Scott. The commando turned to wave Porter forward. As the Corporal ran toward the helicopter Double-Tap emerged next, carrying Sergeant Santillana. Sparrowhawk came out of the bunker, helping Wheels to the helicopter. Quickfire was last, carrying Sergeant Brazzi’s body over his shoulder. Scott followed him to the helicopter. On board, three Z Force medics were treating the wounded soldiers. The two crewmen scrambled aboard as Quickfire and Scott moved to stand behind the cockpit seats. Eagle looked back from the co-pilot’s seat, toward the crewmen and Scott looked around to see the larger, muscular man waving his finger in a small circle. Eagle said something to the pilot over their intercom, which Scott didn’t hear, then the Tomahawk lifted off.

The burly man handed Scott and Quickfire headsets, plugged into the intercom.

“Welcome aboard the Tomahawk,” the man said in a strong Texan accent. “I’m your door-gunner for the flight, Tex.”

Scott smirked at the flip comment.

“Your pilot for this mission is Evac. Rest assured, he’s one of the best pilots I’ve worked with.” Tex gestured toward the third man who was standing by the controls of the heavy-lift helicopter’s winch.

“Our winchman for the flight is Rappel, a former US Coast Guard.”

“Knock it off, Tex,” Eagle cut in. “I want a report on what happened down there.”

Quickfire began to explain what had happened and Scott filled in his part of the story.

Finally, Eagle asked, “I presume Paolo was killed by the officer you found in Porter’s cell?”

Scott shrugged, “That’s my guess.”

The helicopter raced south, heading for a Duna Army airfield.

As the helicopter entered its final approach, Eagle called in to the airfield and had ambulances standing by.

Once the Tomahawk landed, the wounded were transferred to the ambulances and rushed off to the base hospital. A ground crew refuelled the Tomahawk and it lifted off, leaving Eagle and the four SAS Force troopers behind.

Scott and Double-Tap waited as Eagle conferred with Quickfire and Sparrowhawk.

Finally, the squad leader came over to them.

“You both did well out there, I’m going to request your permanent transfer to Action Force once we get back to Britain. Welcome to the SAS Force.”

Eagle shook their hands and then headed off.

Scott looked confused as Quickfire came over to shake their hands.

“I thought Action Force was based in Europe?” he said. “They made a big deal on the news about Z Force coming over from France during that London thing.”

“We’ve got bases all over Europe and beyond,” Quickfire replied. “The main command base is co-located with NATO in Brussels. Operational bases are in France, Spain, West Germany and Britain. We’ve got other facilities all over.”

“Where in Britain are you based?” Double-Tap asked.

“Main facility’s in Birmingham,” Sparrowhawk replied. “Three floors below the National Exhibition Centre.”

“We opened a London base after the Cobra assault on the city,” Quickfire added.

Poland, 1990

Bodycount concluded his story as the VC-10 entered the landing pattern to arrive at a military airfield in eastern Poland.

“So, after that you joined Action Force permanently?” Digger asked.

“Yeah, I became part of Quickfire’s commando squad, with him, Kukri and Boonie. Unlike the Attack Troopers who are specialists in Close Quarter Battle and hostage rescue, we don’t have a speciality. We’re trained in CQB, mountain and Arctic warfare, desert warfare, marksmanship, advanced driving and demolitions. We can handle anti-armour weapons and we’re all airborne qualified, but we don’t stick to one thing. It’s why Eagle relies on us so much. I’ve even done a couple of undercover ops with Deep Cover,” Bodycount explained.

Digger nodded, “I see why the Attack Troopers were so impressed with you.”

Bodycount shrugged, “I’m good, but Kukri and Quickfire are better. My problem is I tend to get fixated on completing a mission. Even if I go up against ridiculous odds to do it.”

Digger laughed as the plane touched down. “Which is why you’re called ‘Bodycount’, because you go up against the odds and leave a high body-count.”

“Pretty much.”

Eagle came forward at that point. “When you’re done reliving your life story, let’s get off this plane and stretch our legs, they’re going to be refuelling for a while before we head out to Russia.”

Bodycount nodded. “Suits me,” he said. “I’ve never been to Poland before.”

Eagle smiled, “Make the most of it, it is only a layover after all.”

Digger spoke up next, “Still seems bizarre, us heading to Russia and helping the Oktober Guard and all…”

Bodycount grinned. “Well, we are international heroes, we ought to make our name behind the Iron Curtain.”

To be continued…