Whinger was dragging on one of his filthy, home- rolled fags. He'd had an amazing haircut that left his head covered.with short, tow-coloured fuzz and made him look like a coconut. To everyone's amazement Norm had shaved off his moustache, on the grounds that a Mexican appearance might not do him much good if the Libyans caught him. ('You never know,' said Tony, who'd picked up the vibes of the team very quickly, 'it may loosen his tongue. By the time we make it into the desert he'll be talking his head off.') Stew, also, had had a fancy haircut — a flat-top.job, in imitation of Tony and was taking stick from everyone about his girlfriend.
'Managed to slip her a length, did you?' sneered Whinger.
'Bollocks, mate.'
'You mean she wouldn't have it? Must be your technique that's at fault. Puts the wind up her something chronic.'
'Take her by surprise,' said Norm — and I thought, By God, Tony's right!
'Belay her to the bed-head,' I suggested. 'Then she wouldn't have much option.'
Poor Stew had gone red as a beetroot, and I lifted my chin at Whinger to say, 'Hey, leave him alone.' As for me, I kept thinking uneasily of my best-ofthree-falls with Karen, and hoping she wouldn't try to take it out on me while I was away. But to have mentioned that episode to the lads would have made my life not worth living, so I kept mum.
Now it was operational details that mattered. I'd already made one last check to ensure that everyone was properly sterilised — that is, not carrying anything, however insignificant, which might betray our origins if any of us was killed or captured. One box of matches, a chocolate-bar wrapper, a bank note or coin, an envelope, a label on a shirt-collar or the tongue of a boot — any of these would be enough to give us away. In keeping with Regimental practice, preparation had been left to individuals, and nobody had done anything so old-fashioned as line the team up for inspection: I'd just asked everyone to make doubly sure he was clean.
As for me, I made yet another mental check of my possessions: AK-47, spare magazines, Browning, spare mags, Semtex, detonators, det cord, clackers, Magellan, covert radio, torch, spare batteries, camera, binos, Commando knife, PNGs, ski goggles, medical kit, water-bottles, food, extra fuel, cam-net, poles, shovel, sand-bags, shamag. My only personal item was a tiny silver St Christopher, given me by Tracy, which I wore on a chain round my neck. Seeing it one evening in the shower, Tony had suggested I'd do well to leave it behind; but I pointed out that no Arab would know what it was, except some kind of good-luck charm, and therefore it wasn't a risk. By then I was really attached to the little figure, which seemed to have protected me in Colombia, and with things being how they were I wanted to preserve any possible connection with Tracy and Tim.
Our departur6 from Hereford was by no means routine. Except for a few small items in day-sacks, all our kit, including weapons and ammunition, was packed and strapped down on to the quads or in the trailer, and we didn't intend to touch it again until we were over Libya, about to come out of the chopper and start driving towards our target. We were wearing desert DPM fatigues with Parachute Regiment berets, so that as we staged through Cyprus we could pass as umpires taking part in Exercise Bright Star; but we carried no money, no passports, and no means of identification. Our desert clothes had been packed up in one large bundle, and we planned to change into them once we'd taken off from Akrotiri on the last leg of the flight. We all had shamags to wrap around our heads, and our shirts and trousers were the kind of cheap cotton, drab olive or grey or brown, that low-grade Arabs wear to work.
An intelligence update during the past few hours had reduced our window of opportunity to a dangerously narrow span. Some bright int guy had belatedly realised that the Arab weekend consists of Thursday and Friday, rather than Friday and Saturday as our briefing had laid down. This meant that our target might well leave the camp on Wednesday afternoon or evening. Since we weren't going to reach our location until very late on Monday night we'd have only Tuesday night on which to get him.
We'd just taken this news aboard w'hen yet another update came in, emanating from the sleeper-agent within Ajdabiya itself. This last message said that al- Khadduri had a very important visitor coming to see him for secret discussions on Thursday morning, so that he'd definitely be around on the Wednesday night.
That evened the score a bit — it gave us two possible chances — but the tightening of our schedule naturally made my adrenalin flow all the faster. And of course, the sooner we got through our business in the desert, the sooner I'd be back to sort out the mess at home.
The quads went on ahead by four-tonner, and a minibus collected us at 1530. For me, leaving camp seemed like an echo of the recurrent dream in which my left arm kept getting caught and dragged backwards; although I was departing in the general direction of North Africa, part of my mind was stuck fast in Hereford, anchored there by the fact that Tim and Tracy were in enemy hands. As we drove offeastwards, I felt as if the knowledge was tearing me apart.
At 1KAF Lyneham, Hercs were lumbering off the runway every few minutes, and a whole line of them was drawn up on the pan, but one aircraft stood apart from the rest in a distant corner of the field. We drove straight out to it, and found that our bikes had already been loaded. The trailer had been backed in first, and the quads had been strapped down to rings in the steel deck, facing the tail-gate in a zig-zag line so that we could ride them straight out when the time came.
The flight crew greeted us like old pals. Pineapple Pete was his imperturbable self, and All the head loadie — a huge guy with arms covered in tattoos — gave me a run-down of all the units taking part in the exercise.
'You lot are never part of it,' he said teasingly.
'Of course we are. Can't miss out on the chance of getting ourselves some decent suntans.'
Although All didn't say any more he winked, and I saw that he knew we were up to some special villainy.
In spite of the high level of activity everyone seemed relaxed and happy. Our take-of[was scheduled for 1830, and at 1810, as Pete and his co-pilot walked out, I fell in with them.
'Once we're airborne you're welcome up front any time,' Pete said. 'Make yourself at home.'
I thanked him and climbed into the back, where the lads hadn't waited for any invitation but had been busy slinging para-silk hammocks from the cargo nets on the sides of the fuselage.
Soon the engines were turning and burning, but we could tell at once that something was wrong: one of the motors kept back-firing, and ran so rough that after a while the crew shut all four down. A few minutes later they tried again, but the result was the same: one explosion after another shook the aircraft. Eventually, after a second shut-down, word came over the intercom that we were to abandon ship.
'This fucker's no better than a heap of scrap metal,' said Pete contemptuously as he stood on the tarmac and kicked one of the aircraft's tyres. 'I'm not flying the bastard anywhere, least of all to the middle of bloody Egypt.'
To the consternation of the movements officer he demanded another Here immediately — and so forcefully did he state the importance of our deployment that after only half an hour he got one taken off the main exercise rota and seconded to us. Naturally that left someone else in the shit, but it was no business of ours.
Then, of course, all the paperwork had to be redone and the load transferred. Among our own guys there was a good deal of honking as they dismantled their sleeping accommodation and bundled it away — but after a delay of two hours we were at last airborne and on our way.
The noise in the back of a Here — a high, ringing scream — is so punishing that talking requires a major effort. The result was that nobody bothered to make conversation. Anyone who wanted could pull on one of the head-sets dangling from the sides of the fuselage and listen in to the crew, but that soon palled and we generally preferred to get our heads down, aiming to doze or sleep the seven-hour flight away.