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[Sundance]

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.”

[Sundance]

“Mohammed Khan,” the other non-white guy finally said. “Everyone calls me ‘Mo’. 2 Para. I’m from Oxford.” Mo certainly sounded well educated, several of the others thought.

“Who’s left, then?” asked Melanie looking about.

“That’d be me,” said another black-haired guy next to Mick. “Kenneth Long. Call me ‘Ken’. I’m the other helicopter pilot. I’m from Durham.”

“And where’s our Captain from?” asked Melanie.

“Sheffield.” He looked around. “Privately educated, but please don’t hate me. Unlike the knobs running the country, I happen to have had working class parents who sent me to a posh school. Sandhurst didn’t help with this accent either.”

“What about you, Lisa?” Carwyn asked. “I can’t figure your accent out.”

“Stoke,” she replied. “Undercover work is undermined by having a distinctive accent at times.” She cleared her throat, “Ah can do three different American accents,” she went on, sounding like she’d just escaped from Alabama or somewhere.

“Or I can do an Aussie twang,” she went on, sounding more Australian than Kylie Minogue did. “No worries.”

Lisa stepped closer to Carwyn. “Or, perhaps Monsieur would prefer la Francais, oui?” she purred in a seductive French accent. “Or maybe Russian?” she said, sliding effortlessly into a sexy sounding Russian accent.

Carwyn made an odd noise in the back of his throat. His face flushed.

“Okay, Lisa, knock it off before the poor guy shoots his load,” Daniel said. “Let’s go and get a drink down the pub, eh?”

This idea got unanimous approval and the group headed out.

05:00
Next morning

The colonel entered the barracks intending to rouse the commandos for some PT. He was rather disappointed to find all but one bed empty. The colonel kicked the bed and Mo pulled the blanket off his head and sat up. He rubbed his face and then realised who was standing before him.

“Sir!” Mo said, scrambling out of bed.

“Where’s everyone else, Khan?” the colonel asked.

“Out on PT, sir. Captain Windsor took them out about twenty minutes ago.”

The colonel frowned. “Why aren’t you out there too?”

“I’m still trying to get over my jet-lag sir. I only got back from visiting my grandparents in India two days ago. I was still on leave when I got the orders to report here immediately.” Mo coughed and rubbed at his eyes again. “The captain said I could skip his morning PT routine today.”

The colonel recalled a memo pinned to Mo’s file, which had stated he was currently on leave, confirming his story.

“Fine. Get showered and dressed. Then get some breakfast. We start weapons training at 07:00.”

Mo saluted, despite being dressed only in a t-shirt and his underpants. The colonel returned the salute and left.

Two hours later, the men and women of Black Sword were met outside the mess hall by the colonel after they’d had breakfast and he led them to an indoor firing range.

Inside, they gathered around as the colonel picked up a carbine assault rifle.

“This is the weapon you will all be using as your standard weapon. The L119A1. Those of you joining us from UKSF will be familiar with it. For the Marines, Paras and the RAF guys, you’ll soon get used to it. It’s, frankly, a better weapon than the L85. If you’re not familiar with the name, it’s also known as the C8 or as the M4 in America.”

The colonel paused to give the soldiers an evaluating look. “Some of you might know it as the M4 if you play Modern Warfare.” There was a short pause during which someone in the crowd snorted. “Please, don’t insult my intelligence by saying you don’t play Call of Duty, I know perfectly well several of you guys do.”

“I don’t play that Activision shite,” someone muttered. “I play BF3!”

That prompted laugher from several of the soldiers. The colonel smirked.

“Regardless, this is your new weapon. I want everyone to get used to it. There are magazines over on the firing lines. Shoot a few rounds off and see how it feels. If there are any problems, give me a shout.”

The soldier collected the carbines and moved off. None of them needed a lecture on weapons safety. They all checked the guns were unloaded, that the safety was on and the chamber cleared before loading, cocking and taking the safety off before firing.

The colonel put his fingers in his ears as the room filled with the sound of gunfire. Several of the UKSF members had immediately selected three-round burst fire and were firing away. The Marines and Paras were split between those firing bursts and those firing single shots. The colonel noticed the group didn’t take long to start competing to see who was the best shot, although Cameron and Liam proved they were better than anyone else, even using a carbine instead of a dedicated sniper rifle.

Lisa and Melanie were close to matching them, however, out-shooting the Marines, most of the Paras and all but two of the other soldiers. The colonel could see respect from most of the men, grudging in a few cases, open in others and determination on some faces to do better. Good, he thought, don’t want them getting slack.

Five days later
Black Sword briefing room

Lisa, Ado, Cameron, Saint and Steve stood in the briefing room, around the table. The colonel stood at the head of the table.

“We have our first mission for you,” the colonel began. He passed around several photos. “This man is James McCullen. The twenty-fourth Laird McCullen of Scotland, kicked out of the family by his father for becoming an arms dealer. McCullen is also known by the name Destro. His father perished in a boating accident two years ago, but James hasn’t returned to the family home.”

“What’s with da face mask, boss?” asked Saint. He was staring at a photo, clearly a surveillance photo, which showed McCullen wearing a metal mask over his face. “He looks like a bloody comic character.”

Lisa and Ado laughed as they looked at similar photos.

“Unknown. Rumour has it that he was scarred somehow and now wears the mask to protect his face. There’s another that says he wears it to hide him from his father’s thugs. Regardless, he is a high value target. He supplies weapons and ammunition to Cobra as well as to other groups around the world, including the rebels in Trucial Abysmia.”

The colonel looked around the group, seeing recognition at the name. “That’s right, the Mid-East country currently in the second year of a civil war between pro-democracy groups and the ruling dictator Colonel Sharif and his forces. Sharif built up a nice stockpile of weapons from the West, since his country sits on the southern edge of the Arabian peninsular with vital sea-lanes near by. The rebels have seized some of those from the Army or the police, but they need more and have bought them from Destro. Both the CIA and Secret Intelligence Service want words with him, so you five are going in to Trucial Abysmia along with a six-man team from America. SIS has an agent in Trucial Abysmia who knows where Destro’s next meeting with the rebels will be.”

“We gotta work with the bloody Yanks?” interrupted Steve.

“You do. Trucial Abysmia is bordered by Yemen and Benzheen. Neither is particularly friendly towards us at the moment. Though both are friendlier with America. Thus, we need the Americans’ help to catch Destro and they need us, because we know where the meeting will be.” The colonel paused. Steve still didn’t look impressed, but said nothing else.

“You’ll fly out to Benzheen on an aid flight, delivering supplies to refugees who’ve fled the civil war in Abysmia. Once on the ground, you RV with the Americans and then infiltrate across the border, meet our man and then capture Destro. We need him alive.”

“What security is he going to have?” asked Lisa.

“Most likely Cobra Vipers.” The colonel flipped open his folder and passed out a new set of photos. “Cobra operatives fall into three broad categories; basic level troopers are the lowest on the pole. The guys you’ve seen in the videos online I showed you. Converts and recruits from other groups or radicals from around the world with no real military training. They can generally be relied upon to be carrying a Kalashnikov or one of its copies or an FN FAL. They might, if they’re lucky, get a helmet. The next level up is the Vipers. If a recruit or convert is good enough, they might get promoted, but most of these guys are professional soldiers or mercenaries with real training. They get helmets, tactical radios, body armour and better weapons. They might still carry Kalashnikovs or FALs, but they might have a scope attached or a grenade launcher. They might also have a better weapon like an M16 or a Dragunov. Next up from them are the Cobra specialists; Vipers with extra training, such as communications, urban warfare, night combat or light machine guns. The Vipers are the ones you really need to worry about. They’re going to know military tactics, they’re not going to panic and run when they come under fire and they’re going to be a coherent unit.”

The five soldiers passed the photos between themselves, which showed the basic Cobra troops in their blue fatigues and head scarves, Vipers in black and blue fatigues with blue helmets, black body armour vests, gloves and shin and knee pads and various specialists, like the signallers with radio packs on, the machine-gunners with the larger guns and heavy body armour or guys who looked like riot cops, with shields, sub-machine guns and helmets with clear visors protecting their faces.

The colonel handed Lisa a sealed envelope. “That contains details on our source, including three locations and times to meet him. If he fails to make any of those times, consider him lost and abort the mission. There’s also a challenge and response code to verify he’s who he says and he’s not being coerced.”

Lisa nodded and tucked the envelope into her pocket.

“So, who’re these Yanks we’re working with?” asked Saint.

“Six members of the American equivalent unit to us. They were formed last year.” The colonel paused as he rifled through his folder. “Uh… Here we go, ‘Joint Services Special Task Force Black. Code-name ‘G.I. Joe’.”

“GI Joe?” asked Steve. “More typical American gung-ho rubbish.”

“Oh, it gets better. They don’t use their real names for security. So you’ll have to get used to working with… Let’s see… Sergeant-Major Duke, Sergeant Snake Eyes, Sergeant Hit&Run, Master Chief Petty Officer Torpedo, Sergeant Flint and…” The colonel’s voice trailed off, then he rolled his eyes. “Lady Jaye.”

“Lady?” asked Lisa. “Since when do the Americans have bleedin’ ladies in their Army?”

“Don’t ask me,” the colonel replied.

“They sound like characters in some stupid kids’ show,” Saint complained.

“Yeah, well, just try to get along with them and bring Destro in.”

“What about the Vipers, or whoever he has for security?” asked Ado.

“They’re entirely expendable. We want Destro. If you can take them alive too, fine, but don’t worry about them.”

Two days later
Refugee Camp 33
Benzheen

The American military transport plane landed on the rough airstrip next to the refugee camp. The five Black Sword members, all dressed in non-descript plain tan fatigues, floppy bush hats and carrying sanitised weapons from a non-NATO country, lounged against a two-ton truck near the runway. The transport taxied to a hangar and shut down its engines. The rear ramp was lowered and after a few minutes, the American commandos emerged.

“Easy to tell they’re our guys, eh?” Steve said.

Lisa snorted derisively, agreeing. The six Americans were easy to identify as soldiers. Four of them were dressed in the US Army’s ‘Army Combat Uniform’, in the horrible grey tone ‘Universal Camouflage Pattern’. They stuck out like camels on an ice floe, Lisa thought. The one woman in the group, Lady Jaye, was wearing a long sandy brown poncho over tan trousers and a brown baseball cap. The sixth member of the group was dressed in black from head to toe. He wore black boots, black gloves with the index finger cut off, black fatigue trousers and tunic, a black holster on his hip holding his sidearm, a black balaclava covered his head, with his eyes covered by tinted goggles on a black strap. Unlike the rest of the group who carried M4 carbines, the black clad soldier carried an Heckler & Koch MP7 submachine gun.

The blonde haired soldier leading the group looked like he was in his forties, Lisa noted, whilst the others looked to be in their early to mid-thirties, much like the British team.

“Sergeant-Major Duke,” the man said. “Senior NCO. I presume you’re the Brits.”

[Sundance]

“You better bloody hope so, mate,” Saint replied. “Seein’ as you just tole us your codename.”

Lisa snorted again.

“Someone not tell you we’re supposed to be doing a covert op?” Steve put in before Duke had a chance to respond. “You’re not exactly bloody subtle dressin’ in UCP gear and carrying bloody M4s.”

“Aye, ye’s gonna stick out like the bollocks on a bloody baboon,” Cameron put in.

Lisa tried hard not to laugh at the incomprehension on the faces of Duke and the other unmasked men. Lady Jaye looked like she was fighting not to laugh herself. Clearly the Americans were having trouble understanding the Scouse and Scottish accents, she decided.

“What’s the matter, Sarn’t-Major? Do you not speak English or what?” asked Saint.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” one of the others asked. “I’m having trouble getting past the accents.”

Saint rolled his eyes, “Oh, for the love of Shanks, these bloody idiots don’t even speak English!”

Lady Jaye finally laughed. “I do, actually,” she said in a slightly Irish-accented lilt. “I spent my college years at Trinity in Dublin.”

“Ah, well, at least one of ye can ken what we say, den.” Cameron said.

“You’re putting this on, aren’t you? To wind them up?” Lady Jaye asked, looking at her comrades still confused faces.

“Not at all, love,” Saint said. “We always talk like this. We’re not all bloody Dick Van Dyke or Mary soddin’ Poppins.”

Lisa finally decided to put the Americans out of their misery. Adopting her best American accent she spoke up.

“I’m Sergeant Lisa Nichols. Call me ‘Lisa’. The guy with the sniper rifle and the Scotch accent you could saw wood with is Cameron Travis, our sniper. The Black guy with the radio pack and the Valmet RK62 is Ado, our radio operator. The two Scousers you can’t understand are Saint, the recon expert and Steve, the rifleman from the SBS. He’s also our medic.”

“Oh, one of you does speak English then,” said the same soldier who’d spoken earlier.

“Oh, for f..” Lisa quickly spoke over Saint before he could swear properly.

“Ha, yes. I speak American English.”

“This is Flint,” Lady Jaye said. “He’s one of our senior sergeants and a Green Beret. You’ll have to excuse him, he’s a bit parochial.”

Lady Jaye indicated one of the others, “This is Torpedo, from the Navy SEALs, our grenadier.”

She pointed to the next soldier, who already had brown war paint smeared in a camo pattern across his face. “This is Hit&Run, he’s from The Unit, as is Snake Eyes,” she waved to the black clad soldier, who nodded. “Finally, I’m Lady Jaye, but I expect you already guessed that.”

“Shall we mount up, then?” Lisa said.

“Oh, yes, let’s,” Steve said snidely. “And maybe we can have a cuppa and a bloody scone too.”

The soldiers climbed into the truck and Duke took the driver’s seat, revving the truck’s engine before driving off.

As the truck drove off the airfield, Lisa studied the Americans. Hit&Run was staring across the landscape, looking bored. Torpedo seemed to be watching the British troops, with Saint, Cameron and Steve now deep in a conversation about football – the British kind, of course – whilst Snake Eyes seemed to have gone into a trance. Lady Jaye and Flint were sitting closer together than was strictly professional and were talking quietly.

Lisa suddenly felt Torpedo looking at her with the eerie feeling she got when she was being watched. She turned to him as he slid closer.

“So, the rest of your team really talk in accents like that all the time?” he asked.

“Yeah, we’re real British people, not some idiot actor trying to make sure some crackerjack redneck in Ass-bend, Alabama can understand us.” She nodded toward Snake Eyes.

“So, what’s the story with him? He hasn’t said one word since we met. Even Hit&Run managed to say ‘hello’.”

Torpedo looked over at Snake Eyes, as though wondering if he could hear. He turned back and spoke in a low, confidential tone.

“Word is, he was a Green Beret in Afghanistan when his squad’s Chinook went down. Some kind of mechanical failure. He was trying to rescue their CIA liaison they were escorting and took a load of burning fuel in the face. Burned him up badly and destroyed his vocal chords. He can’t speak. He went through major surgery for the burns, but they couldn’t completely reconstruct his face, so now he wears a mask all the time. He took a year out to recover and then rejoined the Green Berets. Then the Unit recruited him.”

“The Unit? I saw that show, Dennis Haysbert. It was quite good,” Lisa interrupted.

“No, the real Unit – Delta Force,” Torpedo explained. “Delta recruited him. He was, like, second on the list of people Hawk, our CO, recruited. He’s a badass mofo; he knows some amazing karate moves. He’s not, like a freakin’ ninja or none of that Hollywood garbage, but he beats down everyone who tries to fight him in the training room. He’s a crack shot. He ran our assault course, the Pit, in like thirty seconds or something ridiculous and the closest anyone else has got is thirty-five seconds and that was Duke.”

“So, if he was so badly injured, why didn’t he take a medical discharge?” Lisa asked.

“He ain’t got no family,” Torpedo said. “His parents and his sister were killed in a car crash on their way to Dover Air Force Base when he was being medevaced back to the States from Iraq in 2004, cuz he was injured when his unit walked into a Fedayeen patrol and were involved in a major fire-fight. Snake Eyes and one of our other senior Sergeants, Stalker, were two of the three survivors of the six-man Ranger patrol. Snake Eyes was injured when they were ambushed at their LZ during the extraction. They flew him Stateside for treatment and his family were on the way when they were killed. Snake Eyes didn’t have any other family, so after he recovered from the injuries, he re-upped and volunteered for the Green Berets. When the crash happened in Afghanistan, he turned down a medical discharge because he didn’t have any place to go.”

Torpedo leaned closer, lowering his voice further. “Him and our CIA liaison, Scarlett, are real close. I dunno if she was the CIA officer he saved in the chopper crash…”

Lisa nodded, thoughtful.

Several hours later, after crossing into Trucial Abysmia without incident, the truck pulled into a small town where Lisa directed Duke to the first rendezvous point for the British agent to meet them.

The RV was a car park at the back of a row of shops, several of which had been hit by shells from an artillery barrage.

The truck pulled in and the team climbed down from the back of the truck, grateful to have a chance to move around and stretch their legs. Duke quickly put his men to work, with Hit&Run and Torpedo being directed to conduct a recon of the shops, Flint to check out the larger department store across the street and Snake Eyes to secure the shop next to the parking lot. Lady Jaye, Ado and Lisa waited next to the truck, whilst Steve, Saint and Cameron moved to the roof of another nearby store to set up an over-watch position. Duke was hiding in the back of the truck as back up.

Torpedo radioed in to Duke after ten minutes.

“We’ve swept the buildings. No sign of anyone. We’re staying up on the top floor, where we’ve got a good view of the street the other side of the row,”

“Copy.”

“This is Flint. Department store is clear. No sign of life. I’m holding position on the fourth floor. I’ve got a good view down the street here.”

“Roger that.”

Snake Eyes jogged across the car park, handed Duke a hand-written note and then jogged off. The note read, ‘Building clear. Am moving to roof of building to provide cover.’

Duke nodded to himself and stuffed the note into a spare pouch.

Lisa checked her watch. The time for the agent to arrive was getting closer.

Moments later, Flint reported in, “I have a visual on a single foot-mobile. He’s unarmed, coming up the street from the west. Everyone hold fire.”

Lisa waved Lady Jaye and Ado back and then moved toward the entrance of the car park.

The agent approached cautiously.

“As-salam-o-alaikum,” Lisa greeted him, her Arabic flawless.

“Salaam,” the agent replied, much less formally. “The desert wind blows from the east.”

“The sun also rises there,” Lisa replied, completing the challenge and response phrase.

The agent nodded. “I was not told there would be a woman here.”

“Is that a problem?” Lisa asked. “We have two women in the team and I am the only one who speaks Arabic,” she went on.

The agent shook his head, “Not at all. I am merely surprised, but I know you Westerners are more…” He hesitated, apparently trying not to insult her. “Open, shall we say, about how women are allowed to behave and be employed.”

Lisa led him back  toward the truck, keying her radio as she walked. “Agent’s ID confirmed, guys. We’re good to go.”

“Joes, fall in. We’re Oscar Mike.” Duke’s radio response was brief.

The soldiers moved back to the truck. Duke met Lisa and the agent near the truck.

“So, you’re the Brits’ agent, eh?” Duke said. “You’re not exactly much to look at.”

“Try spending two years fighting to survive in a civil war and to find food to eat every day,” the agent replied. “Let’s see how buff you are.”

Lisa snorted in amusement.

“Destro and his confederates are meeting the rebels principal armourer in two days in the town of Sayhut. It’s about forty miles from here, but in rebel-held territory. We’re currently in Sharif’s territory. We will need to be careful, crossing the front-line.” The agent paused, looking around the group.

“I suggest I drive the truck, with the African.” Ado bristled at the terminology. “We will be the least conspicuous.”

Duke nodded, “Fine. Everyone mount up, let’s get moving.”

Within minutes the truck was on its way, heading north.

Although the town was only forty miles north of where the commandos had met the agent, it took them three hours to travel to Sayhut, as the agent had to evade the worst of the fighting as they neared the frontline, as well as having to avoid a government helicopter gunship that was circling overhead once they approached the lines. Once they’d crossed the front line, the truck had to make its way through another bombed out town and around the shattered remains of a rebel convoy, which had been obliterated by an artillery barrage. Ado had the best view of the situation out of the commandos and he quickly came to realise that Trucial Abysmia’s civil war was as bad as the Syrian civil war and worse than the Libyan revolution. In fact, he decided, it was worse than the state of Iraq after the Allied invasion in 2003 and he’d thought that was bad enough when he’d seen it first hand.

The truck reached Sayhut shortly before dawn. Once in the town the agent, who Ado realised he didn’t even know the name of, led them to a large derelict hotel. The windows had been blown out, the façade was pockmarked with bullet holes and shrapnel damage and the doors had been ripped off their hinges.

“No one shelters here,” the agent explained. “We’ll be safe.”

“Why not?” Lisa asked.

“Because the government were using this hotel as an interrogation centre during the fighting here. None of the rebels will come here now. Too many bad memories,” the agent explained.

The commandos exchanged looks at the news.

The agent led them upstairs, directing them to rooms that were at least vaguely habitable.

[Sundance]

Two days later

The agent returned to escort the commandos to where Destro’s meeting with the rebels would take place. The meeting was due to take place in the town’s Royal Hotel. Duke directed the commandos to different positions.

“Cameron, I want you on the top floor, providing over-watch on the lobby. Snake Eyes, you and Saint cover the back entrance. Lisa and Ado, you form the command post on the third floor with Lady Jaye and Flint. Steve, I want you and Hit&Run on the ground floor with me and Torpedo. We’re the grab team. Once we have eyes-on Destro, I want Cameron to target as many of the Cobras as you can. Snake Eyes and Saint, come in from the rear, target the Vipers. Me and the grab team come in from the restaurant and hit the other Vipers in a cross fire. We grab him and bug out to the truck.” Duke looked around. “Any questions?”

Saint put his hand up. “Why don’ we just toss some flash-bangs at the tossers and then snatch Destro while they’re all disorientated?”

Duke stared at him for a second, before looking at Lisa. She repeated what he’d said. Duke still couldn’t get past the Scousers’ accents, although Flint and Torpedo were beginning to.

“Or are ye just desperate to slot the bloody Cobras?” Saint added.

“I want to make sure we take the Cobras out of the equation so we don’t need to worry about them chasing us down.”

Saint shook his head, before heading toward the back of the hotel’s ground floor, with Snake Eyes following him. The others began to move off to take up their places.

Twenty minutes passed before the Cobra delegation walked in the front doors of the hotel. Destro led the way, with six Vipers following him, Kalashnikovs at the ready.

“Eyes on,” Cameron whispered into his throat mic.

“Roger that,” Flint said.

Seconds later, Cameron fired the first round from his Sako TRG-42 sniper rifle. The first Viper went down, hit between the eyes.

The other Vipers immediately began shoving Destro down and raising their weapons to fire back.

A second Viper was dropped by Cameron before he had to duck back from a hail of AK-47 fire.

Snake Eyes and Saint charged forward from the rear corridor, Snake Eyes dropping one of the Vipers with a three-round burst in the face.

More Vipers charged into the hotel lobby as Saint fired his Daewoo K2 assault rifle, dropping a fourth Viper. The Vipers laid down cover fire as four half-led, half-dragged Destro out of the hotel.

Duke, Torpedo, Hit&Run and Steve charged out of the restaurant, firing their assault rifles. Six Vipers were cut down in the fusillade as Destro disappeared out the door. One Viper tossed a flash-bang as he ran out before he could be hit.

The stun grenade detonated in a thunderous roar and blinding light. Flint, Ado, Lisa and Lady Jaye were racing down the stairs from the third floor before the echo had faded as the others tried to regain their equilibrium.

Flint and Lisa dashed out the front door, just in time to see Destro’s SUV racing away up the street, a second SUV leading the way. Flint raised his carbine and fired off a burst, but the vehicles were rapidly clearing his range.

Back inside the hotel lobby, Saint stared at Duke as the sergeant major shook his head.

“So, you’re a fookin’ Sergeant-Major, eh? A fookin’ Green Beret?” Saint said stepping closer to him. “You useless tosser, you don’t deserve to be a fookin’ lance-bloody-corporal bastard sign writer, you utter Muppet.”

Saint turned away, shaking his head. He saw Flint and Lisa come back in. “Oi, pal, you wanna have words with your bloody colonel. This prize wassock just cost us our best chance of catching that Destro fooker and now our bloody agent’s probably dead meat when word gets to the rebels that a buncha fookin’ Yanks and mercs tried to take him. Y’ought to get shot of this tosser and put the bloody mute guy in charge. He’d do a soddin better job of givin’ orders.”

Duke darted toward Saint, grabbed him by the shoulder and span him around. Before the American could throw a punch, Snake Eyes grabbed Duke by his collar and hauled him back. The older man struggled to get free.

“C’mon den,” Saint said, “You wanna piece of me, try it, pal. You sure seem to un’erstand my bloody accent alright now I’m telling you what a dumbass you are.”

Flint and Hit&Run grabbed Duke and pulled him back. “Ado, call for the extraction bird, now, tell them we need immediate evac before this idiot starts a proper fight.”

Ado nodded, he keyed open the radio channel. “Tomahawk 1-1, this is Sword 2-2, request immediate evac. Coordinates as follows,” the radio operator read off the string of numbers he’d written on his hand after taking a GPS reading two days earlier.

“Tomahawk 1-1 copies all, Sword 2-2,” an American accented voice answered. “We’re on route, ETE thirty minutes. Please advise status of LZ, over.”

“LZ is cold, over,” Ado replied. “Mission is a bust, say again, mission is a bust.”

“Solid copy, Sword.”

Thirty-two minutes passed before the sound of an aircraft engine could be heard in the distance.

Torpedo and Steve went outside, where the SEAL popped a blue-smoke grenade and tossed it into the street. Luckily for the commandos, the hotel was next to a large public square.

“Tomahawk 1-1 to Sword 2-2, I have a visual on blue smoke, over.”

“Roger that, Tomahawk, blue smoke marks LZ, over,” Torpedo replied over his short-range radio.

“Stand by.”

Steve watched in surprise as what appeared to be a small cargo plane flew over the nearby buildings, before the large prop engines on each wingtip rotated from horizontal to vertical and the aircraft slowed down.

“Wow,” he said. “Never seen a real Osprey before.”

Torpedo smiled. “Beats the hell out of a Black Hawk, mate.”

The Osprey circled the square, before drifting sideways and lowering toward the ground. Steve trotted inside the hotel. Flint and Hit&Run were still standing next to Duke, whilst Lisa, Ado and Snake Eyes stood close to Saint. Cameron was standing between the two groups, his rifle not quite casually cradled in his arms.

“Our ride’s here, let’s go,” Steve said.

The commandos jogged outside, Lady Jaye bringing up the rear, as the Osprey hovered a few feet above the ground, rear ramp lowered. The commandos boarded the tilt-rotor aircraft and found seats. Flint and Hit&Run made sure to keep Duke at the front, whilst Steve and Ado steered Saint into one near the back. Torpedo slapped the pilot on the shoulder.

“We’re all on board, let’s go, Lift-Ticket.”

The pilot nodded and took the aircraft upward, pivoted it around and then lowered the engine nacelles and accelerated away. He glanced over at his co-pilot who was watching the radar screen and threat warning systems.

“Bust mission, huh, Wild Bill? What do you reckon went wrong?”

The co-pilot looked up, briefly, “Beats me, pardner, but I’d guess either they met heavier opposition than they expected or someone screwed up somewhere.” He shrugged. “I’m just worried about us getting back to the ship in one damn piece.”

Lift-Ticket laughed, “Don’t worry, I got this.” He shoved the throttle forward and the MV-22 Osprey sped through the sky, heading for the coast.

Black Sword Ops room,
SAS Regiment HQ, Hereford
The next day

The colonel read the after-action reports once more, before looking at the assembled group who’d been on the mission.

He didn’t look happy, Ado thought.

“Well, that went well, didn’t it?” the colonel said sarcastically. “The American colonel in command of the Joes has informed me Duke is refusing to work with our unit on any other joint operations. Hawk has, however, said he still wants to cooperate with us in future and if need be will send one of his other sergeants or his executive officer, Lieutenant Falcon to command the mission.”

The colonel shook his head. “Stupid bloody American sergeant-major can get stuffed. I don’t give a toss if he doesn’t like us. That was a waste of an opportunity and a stupid plan. Next time, I think we send MY executive officer, Captain Windsor. Bloody rank can be pulled.”

One week later,
SAS HQ

The colonel walked into the briefing room to see the team was assembled.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. You will be pleased to hear I have a mission for you. Even better news for you, the Americans aren’t going to be involved.” The colonel reached the front of the room and turned around to face them.

“So, pop quiz: Who’s heard of Kalingaland?” the colonel added.

Jacko raised his hand. The colonel waved to him to stand up. “Go on, then, what do you know?”

Jacko stood. “Kalingaland is a central African country, formerly part of the French Empire. It was once a small kingdom, but was conquered by France prior to World War One. Following the Second World War, Kalingaland gained independence in 1960 and became a monarchy again, ruled by King Ngoto. Ngoto was the last survivor of the old royal family until the birth of his son in 1962. A civil war erupted in Kalingaland in 1964. Ngoto’s son was taken to France by the boy’s mother. The civil war ended in 1966 with the Soviet-backed communist Kalinga-Rouge movement taking power. Ngoto the Younger, as he was known, remained in France and is currently a lecturer at the Paris-Sorbonne University. The commies remained in power until 1993, when the government collapsed following a withdrawal of Soviet support, what with the end of Soviet communism. The country was then ripped apart by civil war, which was due to clashes between the surviving Communists, a force backing restoration of the monarchy and those wanting a democratic government who receive the tacit, if not actual, support of America.” The SAS rifleman paused for breath before going on, “The Communists were defeated by the opposing forces by 1999 and the war continues to this day, between the democratic forces and the monarchists.” He paused once more. “It’s like Somalia, but without the pirates, famine and the religious angle.”

“How the hell do you know so much about it?” David asked.

“You ever watch Pointless?” Jacko asked. “The quiz show.”

“Yeah,” David replied.

“Kalingaland’s been a pointless answer on there sixty-seven times. So, I looked the place up on Wikipedia. Just to see why it’s so damn forgettable.”

“They’ve had a twenty year civil war?” asked Connor. “Bloody hellfire, that’s a long time.”

“Says the guy from a part of the UK which had a thirty-some terrorist campaign going on,” commented Peter.

“Yeah, but a twenty year war no one’s heard of,” Bunny cut in. “What’s up with that?”

“Well, like I said,” Jack spoke up as he sat, “There hasn’t been a huge famine or a genocide there. Not like, say, Yugoslavia or Somalia or Rwanda. I mean, not every conflict in the world gets on the news. Ever hear of the Toyota War? The civil war in Sierra Gordo? The Borovian Civil War? The South Ossetia war?”

“Oo, I’ve heard of that last one,” Bunny cut in, “That one was on the news.”

“Yeah, cuz the Russians beat the snot out of the pro-Western Georgian government and it made the news. No one outside of Africa really gives a monkey’s about Chad and Libya having a scrap in the Sahara in the ‘80s. No one cares about a titchy little former Spanish colony that can’t hold itself together peacefully for more than six months before the latest ceasefire collapses and everyone starts fighting again. Everyone was too busy paying attention to ethnic cleansing in what used to be Yugoslavia to pay attention to Borovia when they went to hell in a hand-basket. Same thing with Kalingaland. Who cares about a buncha Africans scrapping over several thousand square miles of savannah in the middle of Africa other than their neighbours?” Jacko looked supremely ticked off by now.

“Settle down, sergeant,” the colonel said, cutting off any banter. “The debate about the priorities of the news can wait ‘til later. Back to Kalingaland.”

The commandos returned their attention to the CO, the sideshow no longer important.

“As Jacko said, Kalingaland is involved in a civil war. Intelligence has determined Destro has been involved in supplying arms to the democratic forces. You’re going to try to find Destro, but instead of apprehending him, I want him tailed. Let’s see where he disappears to and see if that leads us to Cobra.” The colonel looked around at the group. “Since this is a covert op and recon, Lisa will again be involved. Since Jacko seems to know about the place, he can go too. Ado, sorry to bow to some sort of racial profiling, but you’re going to be part of the surveillance element since you’re the only one who can really blend in.”

[Sundance]

The signaller shrugged.

“Jacko, Liam, Paddy and Wee ‘Eck, you will be the support team. Your job is to provide the muscle for the surveillance element if they need it. Ken and Mels, you’re going to be the transport element. Your job will be to fly the team in and out and if need be tail the target by air. I’m going to try to get you a pair of Desert Hawk UAVs to help surveillance.” The colonel looked around the group. “Your principal objective, as I said, is to tail Destro, find out where he’s heading and we’ll see if we can’t intercept him somewhere and apprehend him. Do not engage Cobra forces or Destro unless absolutely unavoidable.”

Kenya
Three days later

The Black Sword unit had flown out to Kenya on board an RAF transport, flying regular troops to the African country for a training exercise. Once there, they’d left the normal soldiers behind and headed off to other parts.

Now, they were in Eldoret, a town in western Kenya. They’d purchased weapons from a black market dealer in Nairobi and a van that they’d used to travel to Eldoret.

Ado handled negotiations with the locals as he haggled for a plane. Finally, he cut a deal and bought a small transport plane.

At the Eldoret airport, Mels made a thorough pre-flight inspection of the aircraft as the rest of the team loaded their weapons and the dismantled Desert Hawk UAVs. The plane was an elderly DHC6 Twin Otter. Mels finished the walk-around and then climbed into the cockpit with Ken who was familiarising himself with the controls.

“How you doin’, Ken?” Mels asked. “I’ve never flown anything this small before.”

“Neither have I,” Ken answered. “Not counting trainers, anyway.” He shrugged. “I think I’ve got the layout sussed.” The rest of the commandos finished loading up and found seats. Mels radioed the tower for clearance before Ken taxied out on to the runway.

Once the plane had authorisation to take off, Ken took the controls and they were soon airborne.

As the Twin Otter cruised northwest toward Kalingaland, Wee ‘Eck was staring out the window.

“I’ve never been to Africa before,” he commented to Paddy. “It’s amazing, innit?”

The Irishman nodded, but was too busy playing a video game on his laptop to pay much attention to the scenery, much to Wee ‘Eck’s disgust.

Kalingaland hadn’t had much of an Air Force or an air traffic control system even before the war began, so Ken simply flew the plane into the war-torn country and steered toward a rough airstrip that the colonel had provided coordinates for, landing at the field with no radio contact. There was a rather dilapidated hangar at the side of the airstrip, so Ken taxied the Twin Otter into it. The team set about unloading their gear.

Paddy launched one of the Desert Hawk UAVs, throwing it into the air, so it’s battery-powered engine could send it into the African sky. Whilst he scouted the area with the small UAV, Ado set up the solar-powered charging station for the laptops he and Paddy would use, prepared the second UAV for launch and waited for Lisa to get ready. She was busy changing into African clothing, in particular a long brown cloak, which was common to Kalingaland and would help disguise her appearance. Liam, Wee ‘Eck and Jacko set up defensive positions as Ken and Mels checked the plane over.

Finally Ado and Lisa set off, heading for the nearest town. Both were wearing the long cloaks, with Lisa wearing her hood up, and carrying FN FAL assault rifles.

The town was a mile away and it took the pair twenty minutes to trudge their way there. The town was barely worth the name. It consisted of barely two dozen buildings, rough roads and wandering goats and chickens. Few people took notice of the pair as they walked in to the town.

Lisa looked around, noted the number of people outside one of the larger buildings, and then headed that way. “Looks like a bar, come on.”

Ado followed her, before slipping by to take the lead. One of the men sat outside the bar stood up and disappeared in to the bar. Moments later as Ado and Lisa reached it five men strode out, carrying AK-47s. Four of them levelled the rifles at the commandos.

“Who are you?” demanded the fifth man in French. “What do you want?”

“We’re not looking for trouble,” Ado replied, glad of the fact the guy hadn’t spoken in Kalinga, the local dialect. “We’re just looking to buy a vehicle.”

“You come in that plane that landed earlier?” the man asked. “Who are you? Mercenaries? You want to bring the war here, eh?”

“No, we’re not mercenaries. Our plane had engine trouble. My friend and I need to get to a big town to get help to fix it,” Ado answered, using the agreed upon cover story.

“You lie!” the man snapped. “You are mercenaries and you’re going to bring the war here! We don’t want trouble! We don’t have anything here!”

Lisa stepped up next to Ado. “Listen, friend, all we want is a motorcycle or a car. We just want to get to the next town.”

“No!” the man snapped. He turned to the others, “Kill them!”

Before any of the gunmen could react, Lisa whipped her FAL up and put three rounds in the nearest gunman’s chest. He dropped before anyone could react. Lisa didn’t even blink as she pivoted to the right and shot a second gunman.

Ado brought up his rifle and fired as the third gunman clicked off the safety and went to fire. The gunman dropped, hit by all three rounds in the head. Ado fired at the fourth gunman as Lisa shot the leader. It took barely fifteen seconds for them to drop all five gunmen.

“That went well,” Ado said as he lowered the FAL.

Before either of them could move, more gunmen poured out of the bar and several of the other buildings.

“Oh, hell,” Ado said.

Two gunmen from the bar opened fire. The bullets were badly aimed and missed the commandos. Lisa’s return fire didn’t miss.

“Move it!” she shouted as Ado fired his own rifle, cutting down another gunman.

They ran away from the bar as bullets slapped the dirt behind them. The pair charged toward the nearest other building, which was some kind of farm. Lisa dove over a trough and hit the ground as bullets pinged into it. Ado leaped on to a hen house before dropping off the other side and hitting the ground.

“Well, this is just great,” he commented. “Now we’ve got the whole village after us.”

Lisa didn’t answer, she simply pushed herself up to one knee, took aim down the iron sights on her FAL and began firing, taking down gunman after gunman.

“Base Camp, this is Recon 2,” Ado called over his short-range radio, “Base camp, Recon 2, we’re in deep poo and need assistance, over!”

“Don’t bother calling for help!” Lisa shouted at him as she dropped flat behind the metal trough and reloaded. “Start bloody shooting back, you idiot!”

Ado gave her a baleful glare before leaping up, firing his FAL and cutting down another five gunmen. He dropped back down behind the waist-high hen house.

“Looks like another ten tangos,” he called to Lisa as she readied herself to pop up.

“Fine, I’ll cover right, you cover left.”

“Got it,” Ado replied.

Both sprang up and fired as the gunmen ran closer. All of the gunmen were dead in less than a minute.

Lisa safed her rifle, slung it back across her chest and stood up. “Nice shooting.”

“Recon 2, this is Base Camp, what the hell’s going on?” came Paddy’s voice from Ado’s radio. Seconds later, as Ado picked up the radio he’d dropped, one of the Desert Hawk UAVs flew overhead.

“Camp, Two. We just had to slot a load of hostile natives, over.”

“What the hell did you do that for?” asked Wee ‘Eck.

“Because otherwise they would’ve slotted us, why’d you think?” Ado snapped back. “We tried to buy a vehicle and the locals didn’t like it and some prize prat decided we were mercs going to bring the war down on them. He told his guys to kill us!”

Lisa shook her head. “I’m going to see if there’s anyone else around,” she told Ado before flipping her hood off and walking back toward the bar. The signaller followed, clipping his radio handset back on to his belt.

Lisa walked into the bar, which was empty aside from the barman. He was cowering behind the bar, which was simply four tables shoved together in a line along one side of the room.

“So, who’s a girl gotta kill to get a drink around here?” she asked in French, as she put her rifle on the bar, the barrel still steaming.

“No one!” the barman said. He hastily grabbed a clean glass and poured her a drink from an unlabelled bottle.

“What is it?” Ado asked as he stepped up next to her.

“Local brew,” the barman replied, relaxing slightly. “Brewed from grain.”

Ado gave Lisa a look that clearly said, ‘you first’. She shrugged, took the glass and sipped some of the drink.

Ado raised his eyebrows. Lisa shrugged once more and took a bigger gulp.

“Mm, not bad,” Lisa said. “Tastes like whisky. But not as nice.”

The barman poured a glass for Ado. He tried some.

“Better than the hooch someone offered me in Kenya,” he commented.

Lisa smiled at the barman. “We’re after some transport. Wheeled, motorised, transport,” she clarified after a moment. “Anything like that around here?”

The barman shrugged. “Building at the end of the street. Big truck. You just killed the owners.”

“Are there any men left in the village besides you?” Ado asked, as Lisa finished her drink and picked up her FAL.

The barman gave another shrug. “Two or three.”

“Good luck with the widows,” Ado said and walked out. The barman frowned at him.

At the end of the street, the commandos found a building with a large Russian-built truck inside. The Ural-375 had clearly seen better days.

“Can you drive that thing?” Lisa asked. Ado shrugged; he hunted around and found the keys, climbed in and started it up.

“Let’s see, eh?” Ado said. He drove the truck out of the building. Lisa quickly climbed in.

They sped back to the airfield. Wee ‘Eck, Jacko, Liam and Paddy climbed in and the truck sped off, heading north.

Two days later, the commandos were nearing the front line in the civil war. A town loomed ahead of the truck on its way along the road.

Paddy was driving the truck, allowing Ado a break from driving. The Irishman slowed the truck down. He could hear the distant crackle of automatic weapons fire, so familiar from his time in Iraq and Afghanistan. Next to him, Lisa woke from her doze and looked around.

“Wassup?” she asked, sounding half asleep.

“I can hear gunfire,” Paddy replied. He pulled the truck to a halt at the side of the road.

The commandos climbed down from the truck to have a discussion.

“This town’s on the frontline,” Lisa said, consulting the map on the laptop Paddy had set up. “Most recent intel reports suggest that the monarchist forces are holding off the democrats from capturing the town.”

Before anyone could say anything further, there was the distant sound of mortar shells falling.

“I seriously suggest we don’t drive into that,” Jacko said.

“No kidding,” Lisa said. She turned to Ado. “Launch a Desert Hawk and let’s see what the area’s like.”

[Sundance]

The corporal nodded and moved to fetch one of the foam UAVs from his bag. He quickly assembled it, launched it and Paddy switched the laptop over to control of the UAV as it flew slowly north.

The UAV soon reached the town, where it flew overhead unnoticed by the factions fighting in the streets of the town. The UAV’s cameras relayed images of raggedly dressed fighters exchanging gunfire in several streets, a few trucks and jeeps moved about behind the battle-lines.

Paddy recalled the UAV before its battery ran down as Lisa made her decision as team leader.

“Okay, we’re going to carry on north, but divert around this town,” she told them. “It’s open country and there’s no indications anyone’s mined it or anything. Mount up, let’s go.”

The truck made it way onwards, skirting the town by a mile or so, before rejoining the road and pressing on to Kalingaville.

Kalingaville
Two days later

The commandos arrived in the democrat-held capital city undercover of darkness. Ado parked the truck in a partially collapsed shop, the shelled façade helping to conceal it.

Liam watched as Ado and Paddy, working in an intact room of the shop, set up their laptops and other equipment. Jacko and Wee ‘Eck were keeping watch as Lisa studied a map.

“So, I gotta ask, how the ‘ell are we going to find this bloke? I mean, when you tried to snatch him in Abysmia, you at least had a guide to where to find him, yeah? We got sod all to go on here,” Liam said.

“Good question,” Lisa replied. “It’s down to the tech geeks now. They’ve got to try and find him.”

The sniper looked at the two Signallers. “How you goin’ to do that, then?” he asked.

“Satellite phones,” Paddy replied, looking around at him. “In this neck of the woods, there’s no mobile coverage. No landlines, since most of the telephone exchanges got destroyed in the war. That leaves radio and satellite phones. We’re going to be monitoring the most common frequencies. We’ve also got decryption gear for the satellite phones, so we can listen in.”

Liam looked impressed. “Wow. That’s cool.”

“We’re not just secretaries, you know,” Paddy commented. 

Liam chuckled at that. “Okay, so we find him by listening to his calls, but how are we going to follow him when he leaves here?”

Ado finished setting up a compact, fold up satellite dish and then spoke, “Simple, we can follow him to his plane or helicopter with the Desert Hawks, or in the truck. Once we see his plane, we’ll just have to track that, unless we can get near it before it takes off. In which case,” he fished out a small black disc from one of his web-gear pouches, “We use this. Latest bit of kit from the techy guys in the Secret Intelligence Service.”

Ado paused before going off on a tangent, “You reckon the colonel’s from SIS? I do. He won’t tell us his name, he gets all this cool gear and top intel from them and that just seems weird to me.”

“What, you think he’s James Bond or something?” Paddy asked.

“No, I think he might’ve been James Bond in the past. He’s, what, forty-eight or so. Bit old to be humping your ass around the boonies, but the right age to be masquerading as a colonel and recruiting spec ops guys to form a shadow ops team to chase international terrorists.”

Paddy shook his head, snatched the small disc from Ado and turned back to Liam, “So, anyway, this thing’s the dog’s bollocks, right? It’s got a small battery of the type from a mobile phone, an extremely low frequency radio and a GPS chip. The chip can detect its location and then broadcast it on the ELF to us, when we ping it. It only comes on when we activate it, so the battery lasts longer. We plant one of these on Destro, or on his plane and we can follow the bugger any where in the world.”

“Nice,” Liam commented.

One of the laptops chirped. Paddy and Ado immediately moved to look at it.

“Lisa!” Paddy called, “We’ve got an incoming sat-phone call!”

Ado was already busy tapping keys and using the mouse he’d plugged into the laptop to issue commands to the compact computer. Paddy quickly plugged a lead into the laptop that was connected to a radio handset.

“Yes,” said a thickly African accented voice.

“It’s Destro, my Aero-Viper pilot informs me we’re ten minutes out from landing. Where am I meeting you?” The arms-dealer’s voice was just as heavily accented in Scottish tones.

“I’ll have some men meet you at the airfield. They will escort you to our meeting place. I take it you will have some of those Vipers of yours with you?”

“Naturally.” The call disconnected.

Lisa turned to Ado and Paddy. “Get a Desert Hawk up and over to the airfield fast. Track Destro to his meeting place. Have the second UAV ready to cover them flying out. Ado, Liam and I are going to the airfield to plant the tracker. The rest of you stay put and monitor what they’re doing.”

Ado and Paddy quickly launched the short duration UAV and sent it flying toward the Kalingaville airport. Ado, Liam and Lisa then drove out of the ruined building in the truck and made their own way toward the airport, doing their best to avoid any attention.

The trio pulled the truck into a little used corner of the airport. Paddy reported in that Destro and his escorts had headed to Kalingaville’s Hilton hotel. At the airfield, it was easy to sport Destro’s plane. It was the only jet-powered aircraft on the field and surrounded by six Vipers.

Lisa and Liam studied the aircraft from a distance, whilst Ado was watching the picture from the Desert Hawk UAV on his laptop.

“Old model Gulfstream III,” Lisa commented as she studied it through her binoculars. “Probably picked it up cheap from someone upgrading to a four.”

“No one’s approaching it to service it,” Liam added, looking through the scope of his sniper rifle. “They must’ve flown in from somewhere nearby, like Chad or something and intend to fly back there and refuel.”

“So… How the blazes are we going to get this tracker planted?” Lisa asked as she watched the Vipers. “These wassocks are standing so that they can see one another in the edge of their field of view. They’re looking back and forth and not moving.”

Liam nodded, “I know. If I take one out and the guys either side will see.”

Ado looked around. “Someone’s going to have to create a distraction, lure some of them away and then someone else move in and plant it.” He snorted. “That or we wait for one of them to need a slash.”

Lisa and Liam exchanged looks. “He’s got a point,” Lisa said. “There’s no way one of them’s going to need a slash. We need a distraction.”

Liam went back to staring through his scope. “Well, I see three possibilities. One: someone moves around to the other side of the plane, makes a racket and tries to then avoid drawing their fire whilst someone else plants the tracker. Two: Ado goes out there and draws their attention, making out he’s a local begging for money or something and then someone plants.”

Lisa nodded thoughtfully as Liam paused.

“What’s three?” she asked as the pause lengthened.

“You won’t like three,” Liam said.

Ado looked around again, interested.

“Tell me.”

“Three: You go out there and use yer feminine wiles and distract them,” Liam replied. “Make out your desperate to get out of the country and you’ll do anything to get a ride out of here. That or just play the hooker, offering them favours for money.”

There was an extended pause. Ado had a huge grin on his face as he watched the UAV imagery of the hotel, which was frankly boring.

“You were right,” Lisa finally announced. “I don’t like three. So, we’ll do two instead.”

Ado’s grin vanished. “What?” he asked.

“You heard me,” Lisa replied. “You get your radio off, leave your gun here and get out there and distract them. I’ll take the tracker and move in from the other side and plant it.”

“You’re kidding me,” Ado said as he glowered at her.

“No, I’m not,” Lisa replied, looking around at him. “Think about it. This country’s ninety-some percent Black. I’m as white as they come. How convincing am I going to be, masquerading as a local bike?”

Ado started to reply, but Lisa silenced him with a glare. Finally, he pulled off the compact radio pack, his headset and set aside his FAL.

Ado made his way around a ramshackle building, before walking toward the Vipers with a pronounced limp.

Two of the Vipers immediately moved to block his progress, their AK-47s raised.

“Hold it, chum,” one of them said in English. Ado took another three steps, before halting as the Viper raised his AK47 to his shoulder.

“Please,” Ado said in French. “Money, kind sirs, I beg you. My family are starving, we need money to buy food.”

The Viper who had spoken half turned to his partner.

“Yo, Claude, what’s the guy babbling about?”

Lisa was on the move herself, sprinting from concealment to cover to move around the plane. The Vipers had broken position; one was now covering the far side of the plane from Ado; the one at the tail and the one at the nose were turned toward Claude and his partner.

There was a discussion going on between Claude, the English-speaking Viper and Ado about whether the Vipers would give Ado money. Lisa was making her way toward the tail of the plane. Her approach was masked by a large burned out oil barrel. She was near the plane now as the guard at the tail moved toward Claude and the other Viper.

“Look, if you two twats won’t give him some money, I will,” the Viper said as he pulled out two twenty pound notes.

Lisa darted toward the plane, ducking under the tail. She moved forward to the nearest landing gear, she quickly stuffed it into the wheel well.

Ado took the money and thanked the Viper profusely as he backed off. Lisa dashed back out from under the plane as the Vipers turned back to their posts.

The three commandos moved away from their observation post and back to the truck.

“Nice,” Ado said as he took the driver’s seat. “Forty bloody quid better off. Sorted.”

Ado drove the truck back to the team’s hiding place. Once they arrived back, Paddy and Ado packed up their kit after retrieving the Desert Hawk UAV and the rest of the team packed up their gear.

Ado put a call out to Mels and Ken and the pilots flew the Twin Otter to Kalingaville once Destro’s Gulfstream had departed. The commandos met the plane at the airport, abandoned the truck and board the Twin Otter.

The Twin Otter headed north across Africa, trailing the Gulfstream by several hundred miles.

The two planes passed over South Sudan, the Central African Republic and into Chad. Both stopped off for refuelling at different airfields. Destro’s plane headed onward, across Libya toward Europe. Mels and Ken took the Twin Otter northeast to Egypt, refuelling in Cairo before heading on to Greece. Destro’s plane made a brief stop in Italy before heading northeast toward Eastern Europe.

Ado activated the tracker again as the commandos gathered around his laptop at the side of the plane, in a hangar in Athens.

“Beacon’s location is over Bosnia,” Ado reported. Mels and Ken immediately turned their attention to the Google Maps display on Paddy’s laptop.

“What’s his heading?” Ken asked.

Ado gave him the number.

“Looks like he’s heading for… Serbia… Romania… Darklonia… Ukraine… Huh, could be any of them,” Ken said.

“Where the hell is Darklonia?” Jacko asked.

[Sundance]

“It’s a small principality in the Carpathian mountains,” Ado replied. “Bordered by Romania, Wolkekuckukland and Borovia.”

“Volky what now?” asked Wee ‘Eck.

“Cloud Cuckoo Land,” Ado replied. “The name’s derived from the locals’ Germano-Slavic language. Only East European democracy to never go Communist. Friend of mine in the US Army served a tour out there. The US has a small base in the country. Rumour has it, it was supposed to be a forward base for spec ops troops if NATO and the WarPac went to war.”

“Fascinating,” Wee ‘Eck said sarcastically. “What about this Darklonia joint?”

“It’s a principality ruled by the Lord Darklon,” Lisa said. “I read up on it during the flight to Kenya, after Jacko was going on about Kalingaland. The Lords Darklon have ruled the country since the 15th century. No one ever knows his name; the son inherits the title from his father and prior to accession is known as the Hereditary Prince only. The Lord Darklon wears a black mask on all public and ceremonial appearances. Only his closest family and any prospective bride are permitted to see his unmasked face.”

Ado interrupted, “Destro’s plane is over Serbia.”

“Interesting as all this is,” Ken said, “Let’s file a flight plan and get airborne.”

“Flight plan to Romania,” Mels said. “We’ll fly there and then decide where next after we know where Destro’s going.”

Two hours later

The commandos were crammed back aboard the Twin Otter, travelling north across Romania. The pilots had filed a new flight plan to over-fly Darklonia and Borovia and land in Poland.

Destro’s Gulfstream had apparently landed in Darklonia. The tracker beacon indicating its presence in the country hadn’t moved. Mels and Ken had decided either this was where Destro was staying, or that the plane would remain there until the next day to give the flight-crew a chance to rest, since they’d been flying for several hours with only short breaks.

“I don’t bloody believe it,” Lisa suddenly announced. “I’ve been reading up on Darklonia on the laptop. Guess who happens to be second cousin of the current Lord Darklon?”

“Prince Charles?” asked Jacko.

“David Cameron?” asked Wee ‘Eck. “That fat faced shite seems like the type to be related to a dictatorial monarch.”

“Prince Philip?” asked Paddy, referring to the Duke of Edinburgh.

“No, our mate the Laird McCullen. The thirteenth Laird McCullen’s sister married the eighteenth Lord Darklon in the 17th century,” Lisa explained.

“Huh,” Wee ‘Eck said, “So, the bugger’s connected, what of it?”

“They’re cousins, moron. Destro’s hiding out in his cousin’s country.” Lisa shook her head. “Primo intelligence and I get it by reading bloody Wiki-freakin’-pedia…”

The Twin Otter passed over the border, into Darklonian airspace. The plane continued unmolested at first.

Suddenly, the radio crackled. “Attention, unidentified aircraft twenty miles north of Darklonia border, you are in violation of Darklonian airspace. Descend to two thousand feet, lower your gear and flaps and prepare to be intercepted. Failure to comply will result in you being fired upon.”

Ken and Mels exchanged worried looks. Ken looked down at the radar screen.

“Oh hell. Two bogies coming in from the east, fast.”

Mels turned to see two SAAB ‘Viggen’ fighter jets screaming toward them. The fighters flashed past at several hundred miles an hour, barely a mile in front of the Twin Otter.

The plane shook and bounced in the turbulence.

“Darklonia Air Force, this is Twin Otter 5-Yankee-Sierra November Foxtrot, we are a civilian aircraft on an international approved flight plan to Krakow, Poland. We are unarmed and travelling in internationally recognised air corridor,” Mels radioed.

“Five Yankee, Darklonia Air Force, descend to two thousand feet AGL, lower flaps and gear. You will be escorted to a secure airfield for questioning. Do not deviate from current heading.”

Next to Lisa, Ado was frantically typing on his laptop’s keyboard.

“What are you doing?” she asked as Mels began to put the plane into a gentle descent.

“Emailing the colonel, telling him we’re in deep pony and where we are,” Ado replied.

“Pony?” asked Jacko.

“Rhyming slang,” Lisa replied. “Pony and trap. You work it out.”

Jacko merely nodded.

The two Viggens appeared on either side of the Twin Otter as it continued to descend.

“Five Yankee, this is Despoiler One-One, follow my lead to a secure airfield.”

The Viggen slowly pulled in front of the Twin Otter and Mels altered course to follow.

“Got any great ideas on how to get out of this?” Mels asked Ken.

Ken consulted his map. “We’re about twenty-five miles from the Wolkekuckukland border,” he said. “Retract the gear and flaps, cut to port and accelerate and we try to cross the border.”

“We’ve got another of those Swedish fighters on our ass,” Mels pointed out.

“Got a better idea?” Ken asked. Mels shook her head.

“Everyone strap in and hold on,” she called over the intercom.

The Twin Otter banked sharply left and dropped as Mels retracted the landing gear and flaps and put the plane into a sharp descent before levelling off and accelerating.

The trailing Viggen turned after the twin-prop plane, lined up its cannon and fired. The 30mm shells shredded the starboard engine nacelle as Mels banked to avoid the hit. The engine began spewing flames and smoke as Mels immediately shut down the engine and reduced power in the port engine to compensate.

“We’re going down,” she announced to the commandos. She keyed her radio.

“Mayday, mayday, mayday, Five-Yankee Sierra November Foxtrot, over Darklonia. We’ve been shot by Darklonian Air Force fighters and are going down, mayday, mayday, mayday.”

Ken looked at her incredulously. “What’d you do that for?” he asked.

Mels managed to get the Twin Otter levelled off before she replied. “We’re supposed to be a civilian flight, remember? A civilian would report being shot up and make a mayday call.”

The Twin Otter passed over the edge of the forest below and into a mountain meadow area.

“Brace for impact,” Mels announced over the intercom, “I’m taking us down.”

The Twin Otter crashed into the grassy meadow, bounced, slammed down again and then flipped over. The right wing snapped off. The plane crashed down upright, the left wing breaking.

The two Viggens screamed across the sky, engines roaring.

“Tower, this is Despoiler One-One, bogey aircraft is down. Fuselage appears intact. No sign of survivors.”

“Despoiler One-One, remain on station. We have two Dominators en route with a platoon of Iron Grenadiers. They will secure the site and apprehend survivors.”

“Solid copy, Tower.”

To be continued…