SAS Regiment Headquarters
Herefordshire, England
The present day
The soldiers, sailors and airmen eyed one another as they sat around the large briefing room they’d been directed to. Some of them knew some of the others; a few didn’t know anyone else. They were all dressed in non-descript woodland camouflage clothes and plain black berets. The door opened and a sergeant in the uniform of the Parachute Regiment walked in.
“AH-TEN-SHUN!” the sergeant barked. The assembled company stood and snapped to, several of them in a sloppier fashion than the others. A Colonel walked in next.
“At ease, men,” the colonel said, ignoring the fact that two women were present. The company relaxed. The colonel looked around at them all, “Be seated,” he finally added.
The sergeant conspicuously locked the door after shutting it. He then moved to set up a laptop connected to a projection screen.
“Good morning, everyone. I am your new commanding officer. You can call me ‘colonel’. My name is classified and that should tell you something about why we’re all here before I go any further. Other than Colonel, I will answer to ‘Zero’ or to ‘guv’, ‘boss’ or ‘sir’.”
One or two of the soldiers muttered comments to one another.
“Kindly shut up, gentlemen. I don’t want to have to repeat myself and we do have a bit to get through.”
The colonel nodded to the sergeant, who pressed a button on the laptop. A freeze-framed video appeared on the screen, showing a man in a black balaclava. He was wearing a black jacket and was seated behind a desk. A stylised red cobra’s head was on the black flag behind him.
The sergeant moved quickly to shut the room’s curtains.
The soldiers exchanged glances, but kept quiet.
The video began.
“Greetings,” the man in the video began. “One again, the Cobra speaks to the masses.”
The man had a distinct American accent as he began a long-winded rambling speech, decrying the capitalist system, the governments of various countries and several companies including Google, Amazon, Starbucks, HSBC, Barclays and Shell. After five minutes, the speech wound down, as the man spoke over footage of men in blue uniforms with the same emblem on the chest running an assault course, shooting pictures of Barack Obama, Françoise Hollande and David Cameron on a firing range.
“COBRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!” the man cried as the video ended.
The colonel began speaking once more.
“This man is known only as Cobra Commander, he is the leader of a terrorist group which, as you’ve no doubt gathered, is called Cobra. The organisation is known to have been linked to the kidnap of oil workers in Saudi Arabia, Nigeria, Yemen and the UAE. They’ve supplied arms to the rebels in Syria as well as various other groups including al-Qaeda, Boko Haram, the Janjaweed militias in Darfur and so on. They’ve also been behind car bombings in the former Soviet states in the Caucus area, the assassination of a French minister in Toulouse and a train bombing in Australia. They’ve also been linked to at least three mass shootings in the US and a failed car bombing in New York. Most recently, despite what the media’s been told, they were behind the recent bomb attacks on the Glasgow underground.”
The colonel paused to look up. As he’d been speaking, the sergeant had been flicking up photo after photo on the screen, showing the aftermath of several of the incidents mentioned.
The men and women were raptly listening.
“The government has declared the Cobra organisation to be an illegal organisation and a terrorist group. To this end, the Defence Minister directed the Director of UK Special Forces to form a new task group specifically directed to hunt down and eliminate this organisation.” The colonel paused once more, meeting the eyes of several of the soldiers. “That is why you’re all here. Your unit is classified ‘top secret’ and will operate outside the normal chain of command, under my supervision.”
Silence greeted his news. “From now on, you are members of Black Sword. We will begin training in the morning. You have the rest of the day off. Dismissed.”
The group stood as the colonel and sergeant gathered their stuff and left.
“All right, then, boyos, who’s the senior member of the group, ‘ere?” asked one of the soldiers in a thick Welsh accent.
“Who are you, mate?” asked another soldier in a Scouse accent.
“Carwyn Jones, from the Paras, innit?” the first soldier replied. “2nd Battalion. Who’s asking?”
“Andrew McQueen,” he replied. “Everyone calls me ‘Steve’. Special Boat Service.”
Another man cleared his throat. “I’m Captain Daniel Windsor, 22 SAS. I happen to know that makes me the senior SAS man here. These three,” he indicated the men nearest him, “Are Hywel Jones, David Cottrell and Matthew Jackson. Everyone calls him ‘Jacko’. They’re all sergeants. Jones and Jacko were in my squadron before we got tapped for this outfit.”
Windsor had a posher accent than the rest, but didn’t sound like he was too posh, Carwyn thought.
“I’m Robbie Stephens,” another man put in, in a Birmingham accent. “Flight Lieutenant, RAF.”
Daniel shook hands with him. “I’ve met you before, Robbie. You’re with the JSF Aviation Wing, aren’t you?”
“Right, I fly the Hercules mostly, so I guess I’ll be chauffeuring you mob about.”
“So, who’re the birds, then?” asked another soldier in an Irish accent.
Both women turned and glowered at him, “Flying Officer Melanie Vincent, JSFAW, you Irish knob,” the brunette said in a Manchester accent. “So you can stand to attention and show some respect, soldier!”
The Irishman stood to attention, but didn’t look happy.
“I shouldn’t mind him, ma’am,” Carwyn said. “That’s Connor O’Donnell, from Belfast. He’s 2 Para, like me, worse luck. He’s always getting into trouble with that gob of his.”
“Lisa Nichols, Special Reconnaissance Regiment,” the black-haired woman put in. “Sergeant. Used to be with I Corps, ‘til the Det recruited me. I specialise in undercover operations.”
Nichols pointed to three other men, “Liam Norris, Cameron Travis and Ian Johns, all from the Det like me. Everyone calls Ian ‘Saint’, so get used to that.”
“Why do they call you ‘Saint’?” asked Melanie.
“Cuz I’m a Scouser, la. Me dad named me Ian after the Liverpool footballer. Ian ‘Saint’ John, see?” he shrugged. “Can’t play the game worth a damn, though.”
“What’s your speciality then?” Daniel asked.
“Recon, la. I’m the guy who goes in and finds the stuff for the rest of the squad to blow up or the people for these two t’kill. They’re snipers, Cam and Liam. Two of the best we’ve got in the Det.”
“Cameron Travis? You gotta be Scottish with that ‘andle, right?” put in another soldier in a Scots accent.
“Tha’s right, pal. Where you from, den?” Cameron replied.
“Aberdeen,” the other man answered. “Alec McDonald. 42 Commando, Royal Marines.”
“Oh, a boot-neck, eh?” Cameron replied. “I’m from Edinburgh.”
“You’re called ‘Alec’?” asked another man who towered over him, his accent also indicating his Scots heritage. He looked to Alec like he was about six foot five.
“Aye, big man, what of it?”
The other man put his hand out, “Alexander McLaughlin, 3 Para. From Glasgow.”
Alec laughed. “Better call ye’s ‘Big ‘Eck’ then, pally.”
“Call me ‘Big Eck’ all you like, sonny, I’ll call you’s ‘Wee ‘Eck’,” the newly named Big ‘Eck answered.
“Fine by me,” Wee ’Eck answered. “I’ve been called a damn sight worse than that.”
“So, who else is a haggis muncher, then?” asked another soldier in a London accent.
“Me for one,” replied another, ginger-haired muscular man. “Lieutenant Mick Johnson JSF Aviation Wing. Helo pilot, so watch it with the haggis muncher comments or you’s can walk home.” He looked ready to put the Londoner’s head through the wall. “I’m from Arbroath.”
The Londoner held his hands up in surrender. “Fine, fine, sorry. Richard Harrison, by the way,” he said slapping his chest. “SBS. Everyone calls me ‘Harry’. This is Brian Cooper and our coxswain boat specialist, ‘Bunny’.”
Several of the soldiers looked at the short, slightly pudgy looking blonde haired guy.
“Bunny?” asked Daniel finally.
“Mark Bunn’s my name. Everyone calls me ‘Bunny’,” the commando answered, rolling his eyes. He spoke with a Yorkshire accent. “Cooper, here is from Newcastle, so don’t be surprised if he’s barely intelligible.”
“Sod off, Bunny,” Cooper replied, in a thick Newcastle accent.
“So, besides Carwyn and Hywel, who else is Welsh?” Lisa asked. Carwyn thought it was interesting that she didn’t seem to speak with any particular accent at all, making it hard to tell where she was from.
“Me,” said a soldier standing behind Wee ‘Eck. “Paul Griffiths, 40 Commando, Royal Marines. Everyone calls me ‘Griff’. I’m from Swansea.”
“Oh, aye?” Carwyn said. “I’m from Merthyr.”
“No kidding,” Griff replied. “I got that from the accent.”
“I’m from Cardiff,” Hywel replied. He didn’t sound remotely Welsh. “English Mum, Welsh dad.”
“So, what about the rest of ye’s then?” asked Big ‘Eck.
“I’m from Somerset,” Jacko chipped in. His thick West Country accent marked that card for everyone.
“I’m from Gloucestershire,” said Cottrell. His accent was just as strong. “Any of you tossers calls me ‘farmer’ and you’ll be in Casualty with no teeth.”
“Whereabouts in Glos?” asked Jacko, contracting the county name.
“Place called Cirencester.”
“Oh, I know it. Me sister lives there. I’m from Taunton,” Jacko replied.
“I’m Pete King,” another chipped in. “From Kent. 42 Commando Royal Marines.”
“Oh, yeah, where in Kent?” asked Liam. “I’m from Dover.”
“Deal.”
“Nice town.”
“I’m not even from Britain,” chimed in a taller, broad-shouldered soldier. “Greg Randall. 40 Commando Royal Marines. I’m actually from Gibraltar.”
“Mate, I got you beat,” said a swarthy looking man beside him. “Satya Tikaram, RAF Regiment gunner. I’m from Fiji.”
“No kidding,” Greg said. He looked at the other two distinctly non-white guys. “So what about you pair? Any of you from outside the UK?”
“Not hardly, mate,” one replied. “I might be Black, but I’m as English as they come. David Adowele. Everyone calls me ‘Ado’. My parents were Kenyan, but I was born in Essex.”
“As if anyone could miss it with that accent,” Satya said.
“I’m from 18 Signals Regiment, so I’ll be your radio operator,” Ado said. He indicated the red-haired, freckle-faced guy next to him. “This is Padraig O’Leary. He’s from the same unit.”
“Everyone calls me ‘Paddy’,” he put in. “Understandably enough. I’m from Londonderry.”
“I’m Irish too,” chipped in another man next to Satya. “RAF Regiment gunner like the big guy, here. Tom Murphy. Straban.”