Background:- The Leighton Report and its sequel The final Chapter, deal with a time when Special Air Service operations, were still clearly defined under military terms/rules of engagement (for example). Search and destroy or advance to contact missions. Since the late 50's and early 1960's, this mandate has changed to include highly sensitive operations, known initially as "Keeni-Meeni." At the time they were regarded by some back-bench members of the House, (and still are to some degree) as nefarious. While among many of the military fraternity, they were considered outside David Stirling's (accepted founder of the Special Air Service) perceived operational role for the SAS. The role of any man serving with the SAS they argued, was that of a highly trained soldier. The operative word being "Soldier." They were not spies; clandestine agents or James "bloody" Bond. During this early period the SAS would develop into the benchmark by which all other Special Forces are judged. It was also a time when they would outline and perfect their highly efficient CRW units (Counter Revolutionary Warfare). While "The Leighton Report" essentially follows the story of 4 troop and the career of Mike Pengelley. It also touches on the SAS growing involvement with civilian police authorities and other undercover units, both at home and abroad.

The Leighton Report opens in early spring of 1954, on the Czechoslovakian side of the border with West Germany. Soviet troops from a penal battalion are completing the burial of ammunition caches and fuel dumps in the Bohemian Forest. Assigned as an observer, a young Russian Captain of the 6th Guards Tank Regiment (David Tarkoff) is under strict orders to keep his distance from the Officers and men of the work detail. His assignment is to document the grid references of these locations and report back to his Commanding Officer. In the closing pages of chapter one, unanswered questions fall into place, as he becomes the unwilling witness to the murder and mass burial of the enlisted men. In fear of his life, he returns to his regiment and learns that he has been posted to the Moscow headquarters of the GRU. Shortly after this the reader leaves Tarkoff and the story moves forward to 1956.

Top secret plans for the Anglo/French invasion of Suez (code name Musketeer) are being worked out between the unlikely alliance of Britain, France and Israel. An RAF intelligence Officer working out of JARIC (Joint Air Reconnaissance and Intelligence Centre), uncovers massive structural changes to an old British base in southern Egypt. With the invasion of Suez imminent, he brings the information to the attention of senior staff Officers. Under the direction of Group Captain Leighton, a briefing is held at the Ministry of Defence and the findings detailed in a file aptly named The Leighton Report. It is suggested (in the report) that the intended use of the base should be considered as a threat to the future stability of the Middle-East and that drastic action should be taken to eliminate the potential danger.

Operation code named "Smash and Grab," calls for a team from the SAS to use the early morning hours of November the 5th (the date chosen for the Anglo/French invasion of Suez) to be dropped behind enemy lines. Their mission is two fold. Destroy the newly constructed bunker, and second. Abduct Petrov and bring him out for interrogation by British Intelligence. Captain Richard Palmer (22nd SAS) is chosen as OC for the operation and the reader now follows the sequence of events as men from the 22nd are brought in from Malaya to carry out the mission.

The main character in the novel is Mike Pengelley. Selected as a member of 4 troop, we first meet him on the island of Malta where the team is resting up prior to the mission. From here the reader follows the raid, beginning with the night drop into enemy territory and the harrowing withdrawal to the RV point. During this part of the raid, the team is attacked by enemy ground forces, and MiG's of the Egyptian Air Force. Pengelley is wounded and several members of the team killed, including a Sergeant "Chalkie" White.

* * *

Part two is currently under construction. Although the story line is clearly sketched out, some loose ends need to be addressed.

Both novels are set against actual events, taking the reader behind the scenes as the SAS plan and rehearse their missions. You are with them during training, and "O" groups. Leap with them into the dark abyss of night as they parachute silently into enemy territory. Or lie up with them as they wait in silent ambush.

In 1993, the Special Air Service in conjunction with M.I.5 and several British police agencies. Carried out a combined three day training exercise at the disused RAF station, Chessington in Surrey. Their purpose was to prepare for a possible hostage taking incident involving members of the Royal family. Sources close to the exercise claim the joint venture involved some 9,000 personnel.

Along the walled area in front of the arches, (top right) two of the main characters view the build up of the Anglo/French invasion fleet in The Grand Harbour. "Operation Musketeer" is underway.

West German Border,
Czechoslovakia,
March of 1953.

The young Captain of the 6th Guards Tank Regiment, tugged at the high woolen collar of his greatcoat, pulling it closer around his neck and ears in an attempt to keep warm. Even though it was early spring and the snows of winter had turned to the large puddles, that now spread across the area, the wind was still biting and the frost was barely out of the ground. It was here inside the vast Bohemian forest, that the military high command had chosen for this specialized task. His role was merely to observe and submit a detailed report.

Here among this mass of pine trees that stretched well inside of West Germany, he watched as the work crews carried out their laborious role, putting the final touches to the last of the large trenches they had dug throughout the sector. It was over sixty feet in length, fifteen feet wide and roughly eight feet deep, large enough to hold the third and final fuel container. The men had become experts in their jobs, some waiting as the army lorry moved alongside, while six climbed aboard, struggling with the huge synthetic rubber container that lay rolled to one side. He watched as they pushed and shoved it into place, while the rest of the crew leapt into the ditch, its sides cold and slippery, thick muddy water freezing their legs as they sank to their waists. Gradually the container was eased toward the side, and then with one mighty heave it fell slipping and sliding its way into the ditch, a giant plume of that soup like mess splashing high into the air. Then like so many ants, they pulled and maneuvered the container into its final resting place, unrolling it along the full length of the ditch. Moments later the sound of an auxiliary motor chugged to life and the transfer of fuel began.

He gazed up at the camouflage nets covering the better part of an acre, hiding everything needed to complete the exercise. There were several large vehicles that had brought the work crews and supplies, along with two scout cars and a unit from the mobile defence corps. He watched as the "V" beam early warning radar antennae swept along the border. It's electronic ears alert to any threat of intrusion by enemy aircraft. Since the men had arrived some weeks ago, there had been several alerts, but each amounted to nothing more than American fighters buzzing close to the air corridor, only to veer off at the last minute and resume their part in the game of cat and mouse, in what had been called the cold war. Tarkoff actually believed it would have been impossible for an aircraft flying overhead, to spot anything on the ground, as the security restrictions were most stringent on those working here. No one was allowed to venture out from beneath the canopy during the day and use of naked flames or exposed lights was strictly forbidden at all times.

The orders for this operation had been prepared in utmost secrecy and lacked nothing in their thoroughness. For Tarkoff's part, he was required to do nothing more than observe and fix the bearings of where the ammunition and fuel had been buried, his calculations expected to be accurate to within inches. In addition he was required by his Colonel to do a survey of the terrain and file a written report upon his return to the regiment. There was an addendum, one that his Colonel had stressed. He was to keep apart from the other officers and only liaise through a Captain Bartok. Under no circumstances was he to talk to the enlisted men, or interfere in the running of the operation. He was, in essence along for the ride; having been assigned his own specific orders.

A cursory glance at the terrain would have left the impression the ground was far too soft for armoured vehicles, but as Tarkoff walked throughout the region, closer inspection revealed that once the frost melted, the ground would drain rapidly, providing a firm base roughly two to three inches beneath the surface. Frankly he admitted to himself that this type of ground was not to his liking. He much preferred the wide open expanses of flat or undulating countryside, somewhere that his tanks could stretch their steel legs, run free hurtling against enemy defences, destroying all that stood in their way. Here it would require the use of specialists, commanders who spent many hours learning how make use of ravines and gullies, while being able to read the land as they made their surprise attack. The Russian Army excelled in tank warfare, priding themselves on driving through area's that the enemy considered unassailable. It was an art that he and several officers in the 6th Guards Tank Regiment had learned, and it certainly wouldn't take an entire battalion to carry out what the High Command had in mind. To this young Captain, whatever those intentions were, they remained a mystery. He would do as ordered and not allow his mind to speculate upon other things.

Now as the last of the containers took on fuel, he glanced at his notes, making a few additional calculations, when something caught his attention out the corner of his eye. Quickly he turned, focusing his eyes along the edge of the forest, knowing that it was here that thousands of rounds of heavy machine gun ammunition had been buried, along with tons of shells for the tanks. Whatever it was, it had gone and his thoughts came back to earth as the sickly odor of diesel fuel swept around him, that foul smelling liquid that clung to his clothes, yet was the very life blood of his tanks.

He watched as the men climbed out of the ditch, their clothes soaked with mud and diesel fuel, bodies stained with the damned stuff, while those who had worked aboard the lorry, began shoveling earth back over the ground, hiding any evidence of what lay buried just beneath the surface. Nothing had been left to chance. It was a tribute to those who had thought this out. He recalled mentioning at one point to Captain Bartok that the men should be allowed to bathe, but Bartok laughed aloud, commenting that obviously the good Captain had never dealt with members of a penal battalion. Then he turned away, commenting something to one of his fellow officers. From there Tarkoff became the brunt of their humor, as the word spread rapidly among them. In truth it was the first time he had ever been exposed to these unfortunate wretches. He had heard about them, men who for one reason or another had run afoul of the system, bringing the wrath of God down around their ears, but he had discounted much of what he heard as rumour and only now could he see the truth. Most of them looked like old men, while in fact he doubted whether they were much older than himself. Yet their bodies were bent, their faces haggard from hours of hard labour, little food and sleep. He was more disgusted by their officers, a brutish lot who had no regard for these disgraced men. In the main they were arrogant, overbearing and assured of themselves in a way that left nothing to be desired and after a short time he was glad that his orders stated he was to keep to himself.

Again that movement caught his eye, a dark shadow flickering across the corner of his vision. Now out beyond the camouflage he could see a lone hawk. A magnificent bird of prey drifting on an updraft of air, wings extended to gain the most from a soft breeze, the large feathers on its wing tips spread like the fingers of a hand. It was moving slowly just at the edge of the forest, it's eyes ever alert for the faintest movement in the tall brown grass. Suddenly it folded its wings and fell like a stone toward the ground, disappearing momentarily from sight, an instant later rising majestically, a struggling creature gripped firmly in its powerful talon's.

Fascinated he watched as it rose higher into the grey misty air, then turned south toward its nest hidden deep within the forest. He smiled quietly as it became nothing more than a dot, finally disappearing from sight among the low clouds. It had landed almost on top of one of the ammunition caches, a spot that was now already blending into the countryside as once again the spring weeds and grass forced their way up through the ground. It was at this fleeting second his mind lingered on what all of this could mean, but quickly he shook those thoughts away, reasoning that it was more prudent to complete your own assignment and not theorize upon the plans and goals of others.

* * *

In the early hours of the following morning, he awoke from a deep sleep to the unmistakable sound of an automatic pistol. Quickly he grabbed his own weapon and reaching for his greatcoat, stumbled out into the cold grey light of predawn, his senses alert to any sound. He stood silently for the moment, hearing his own heart beat, the misty film of his breath drifting before his eyes. But there was nothing, only the cold breeze met him, sending a shiver along his spine as it brought with it the last dying moments of winter. It was the same breeze that hissed softly through the netting above his head, adding to the stillness of the hour. He heard it again, a single muted shot echoing from somewhere in the forest to his left, quickly followed by two more and the sound of voices shouting in anger, the words unintelligible, drowned out by the wind and the tree's.

It crossed his mind that perhaps the enemy had sent a commando team to learn of their secret, but there was no return fire, only a quiet stillness filled the air. His eyes had now grown accustomed to the darkness and as he scanned the edge of the forest, he saw the grey shape of a man break into the open. A man who ran as though all the devils in hell pursued him. He heard the grunts come from his body as he stumbled panic stricken into the night, heard the fear etched in those painful gasps. Then a second man appeared, he paused for a moment as though trying to find the one who scurried for cover in the short underbrush. Then there came another round and this time the running man fell headlong to the ground, the final gasp of death and the heavy thump of his body reaching Tarkoff as he stood horrified by what he'd seen. For a brief instant he tried to gather his thoughts, then moved forward cautiously, lowering his body into the grass, his pistol grasped firmly in his hand. He heard, rather than saw a third man enter the scene, joining the one who now stood over his dead victim. There was another shot, this time fired at point blank range into the body and one of them laughed aloud as they each grabbed a leg and dragged their victim back toward the woods.

Tarkoff kept in a parallel line some thirty yards away, close enough to hear them curse each time the body became entangled in the underbrush, watching as they gave it a hard tug, eventually breaking it loose to resume their path. There could have been nothing to prepare him for what he saw in the faint light of that early spring dawn. A group of men stood around an old pit that had been dug several days ago, one that Tarkoff had mentioned at the time, as being dug at the wrong grid reference. The Major in charge had argued violently, shouting that Tarkoff's plans were wrong and that this was the right the location for the final ditch. He was not used to such abuse from a senior officer, especially when he knew he was right. Somehow a mistake had been made and eventually the Major agreed, turning his rage on the officers under his command, screaming at the top of his lungs that they were trying to sabotage his work. He even hit one them with his cane, then stormed off saying they would all have to work harder, in order to bring the exercise back on schedule. For some reason Tarkoff thought the pit had already been filled, but realised that he had never actually witnessed the act. Now to his horror he watched as it was finally filled, watched sickened as bodies were thrown into the deep hole one upon the other, by officers of the Penal Battalion. He heard them laughing, as they passed comments about their actions this night, seemingly oblivious to the grizzly work they undertook, while the Major stood some distance away giving orders to his men. The two he originally saw from his tent now entered the scene, greeted with derisive comments from the others, someone yelled that they only had themselves to blame and that they deserved all of their running around the countryside in the dead of night.

"Only a fool would have to chase a prisoner around on a night like this," there was more laughter and someone else shouted.

"Or a bad shot. Better spend some more time on the ranges Lieutenant."

This comment drew more laughter than the first, adding a Circus Macabre atmosphere to the scene.

The two heaved the body into the pit and Tarkoff distinctly heard a moan from one of the victims and watched as one of the officers leapt down onto the bodies and discharged his weapon into the head of a man who refused to die. With the aid of his friends he scrambled out and laughingly described how the impact of the round had almost destroyed the head. Someone mentioned it was a waste of the States money, using a good bullet on someone who was about to be buried alive. The officer laughed as he replied that he had always wanted to see what a bullet would do this close, so why not experiment on trash like this.

Tarkoff was sickened and turned away, the taste of bile strong in his mouth, he could not have believed that even these officers could be this callous or heartless. To have worked with these men over six weeks and now butcher them in this fashion. Yet as the last officer had remarked, they were trash, no longer soldiers or men, they were something to be used, destroyed and buried in this mass unmarked grave. The rest of the night he only slept in fits and starts, the deep tranquil peace would not return and he lay wrapped in his greatcoat and blankets, his pistol gripped tightly in his fist. Hours later he heard them return, at first laughing and joking, the result of cheap Vodka, then someone made a sound for them to be quiet as they crept past his tent, apparently not wishing to awaken the young Guards officer. There was a soft drunken chuckle and someone said.

"Let's not awaken our friend, he might want us all to take baths," again muffled laughter and their shadows passed by the tent. Through half opened eyes he saw a head appear through the flap, the eyes looking straight at him, it was Captain Bartok. Then slowly he withdrew and joined the others, saying quietly,

"He's sleeping like a baby."

He never heard the answers but he could imagine what was said, as once again silence returned to the camp, the faint silver and gold of a new day peering out from beneath clouds once more leaden with rain. Only the breeze made any sound, a soft hiss as it blew through the netting, while the tent opening flapped gently, a soft gentle sound where the Captain had failed to secure the strings.

At breakfast nothing was said, it was as though the nightmare never happened. When he asked where the men were, he was told they had left during the night, but he noticed one or two of the officers seemed amused by this answer, containing there laughter as they ate heartily, apparently untouched by what had occurred. He looked toward the compound, saying it looked as though all the lorries were still there, but as he glanced toward Bartok he saw him shake his head.

"You must be mistaken Comrade." Bartok interjected.

Tarkoff smiled and nodded in agreement, then turned his attention to the bowl of thin porridge now getting cold. After all he reasoned, if those men could disappear, then so could he, even officers are killed on exercises and he had no wish to join the men who now lay buried deep under the earth of this forest.

* * *

The return to his unit was a mixed blessing; it was both a pleasure and a lonely affair, even though his friends pressed him for details he remained guarded in what he said. They realised the project had been sensitive, but it was quite unlike their friend to be this introverted and he soon found solace in a bottle of strong Vodka. The heady liquid brought fitful sleep and the memories of the past seemed eventually to slip away. He would never reveal what he had seen, or discuss the events with anyone, it was far too easy to arouse the interests of the GRU and from there it would be a short walk to a firing squad. Perhaps if he was terribly unlucky, he might wind up in what now seemed like a living hell, serving in one of those dreaded Penal Battalions.

His report was precise and to the point. The C.O. being from the Old School liked nothing better than having things done the army way. Brevity was the word. Nothing flowery, just the plain simple facts, that was the way the Colonel liked it. So several days later, dressed in his number 1 uniform, his boots shining like the burnished steel inside the gun barrel of his tank, hat raked at precisely the right angle, he stood to attention before his Colonel, waiting as the older man read slowly over his report. Eventually he looked up, leant back in the chair and placed the now closed file face up on his desk. If Tarkoff looked for some sign of approval in the Colonels eyes, he would have been disappointed. Then slowly he saw a smile cross the man's face, softening the corners of his eyes, gradually revealing the solid gold filling to the left front tooth, that glistened under the light.

"You have done well Captain," he continued to smile, leaning forward onto the desk as he spoke slowly. "Your report lacks nothing and I am especially pleased with your comments about the terrain. . . . Good work, most observant." His eyes moved up over Tarkoff's uniform, finally resting on his face "And so Captain, perhaps you would indulge me. . . . Why is it you seem to have aroused the interest of someone in high places?"

For a moment Tarkoff was stunned, he felt the sudden rush of blood to his face, his heart pounding in his chest. He was unable to speak as his mouth went dry and he had trouble finding words. Cursing silently beneath his breath he stammered out his reply.

"I'm sorry sir. I have no idea what you are referring to?"

"Come, come now Captain, modesty does not become you." The Colonels voice was raised, but not in anger. "You are without a doubt the most decisive, most assured of all my junior officers. If that were not so, I would not have selected you to be my personal tank commander." He placed both elbows on the desk; his fingers intertwined as he pressed home with his question, his voice now barely above a whisper. "Captain David Tarkoff," he said with emphasis to each word. "Someone in Moscow has quite suddenly taken an interest in you. . . . . In fact I would say more precisely, that they have become extremely interested in boosting your career," he paused again, then added. "How long have you been in my command?"

"Four years comrade Colonel." Tarkoff bristled as he spoke, his eyes straight-ahead, backbone almost cracking as he tried to stand even straighter.

"And have you been happy with us?"

"Yes comrade Colonel." His replies were most formal, wondering whether he was about to be placed on trial.

"Good, good. Well, as it appears you are not about to answer my question. I can only conclude that it must be an intimate friend. . . . . . . . . . . You are to report to Moscow within twenty four hours." He said abruptly, smiling as he looked up into Tarkoff's eyes. "Either way Captain, it must be someone with tremendous influence, because I can do nothing to stop your posting. That being the case, I can only say that I wish you the very best and ask that when you reach the pinnacle of power, you remember this lowly Colonel and have me shipped to Leningrad so that I might retire in comfort, surrounded by my grandchildren." The Colonel rose to his feet shaking Tarkoff's hand. "Good luck Captain Tarkoff, you will make a fine Major and I confess I'm sorry to lose you." The gold filling flashing brilliantly beneath the harsh overhead lights as he smiled. "If you proceed to the orderly room, the duty Sergeant has your travel documents ready . . . . . . . There is one other thing before you leave."

Tarkoff came to attention, clicking his heels, the sharp crack echoing around the room. "Sir."

"Allow this old man to have his dreams. Let me believe you have some beautiful princess hidden away in a private dacha, and let me believe it is her influence that brings this sudden attention."

Tarkoff relaxed slightly, looking down into the steel grey eyes of his Colonel and for the first time smiled.

"Yes Sir. . . . . It is as you say comrade Colonel"

* * *

Tarkoff left this command the following day and caught the first train to Moscow. He chose a corner seat and wiped away the grime on the inside of the carriage window, trying to ignore the older woman who sat in the corner seat of the compartment. It was a long trip to Moscow and he had no desire to enter into a lengthy discussion with her, but he acknowledged her smile, suddenly aware that she was very attractive. Her clothes were expensive by Soviet standards and her hair and make-up had a European touch. Perhaps French or even English. Her age he guessed was early to mid forties, an age when a woman know what suits them, know how to please a man and above all, know how to please themselves. Conclusion, she was the wife of a minister in government, or a senior staff officer. He shook his head over staff officer. No serving officer in the military could keep a woman such as this. He always had good luck with older women and felt comfortable in their presence, they were assured of themselves and for some reason were drawn to him by what had been called, his boyish charm and good looks. In the glass he saw her reflection, she still smiled at him and he brought his hand up to his face, shielding the faint smile that lingered on his lips. The skies over the Ukraine were clearing, promising a warm day. With any luck the summer would be filled with warm days, and night's filled with laughter and drink. Nights when the local girls in their beautifully printed peasant dresses would stand waiting for him near the river. Waiting patiently for the young officer of the 6th Guards Tank Regiment. This year they would miss him, he would be in Moscow breaking the hearts of the city girls. Girls dressed in the more severe clothes of city people, but beneath it all they were still girls whose hearts could fall for a handsome young officer stationed with Army Intelligence. His mind worked overtime as he gave thought to all that had occurred. Only a few chosen people knew the exact location of those caches and even fewer knew why they were placed at those precise spots. He felt a shudder run through his body, almost as though someone walked on his grave. If that list were so short and only a privileged few had any knowledge of the exercise, then he was among them. The train lurched and moved ahead slowly, the shunting of the carriages soon gave way to a more metered action and they were on their way, leaving the town and marshaling yards behind. Now the fields and scattered villages of the collective farms swept by, and fear of execution filtered through his mind. Tarkoff allowed his mind to dwell on that thought for a moment, but had that been in the cards he would not be here, he would certainly have been placed under close arrest the moment he returned to base and he certainly wouldn't be traveling in this carriage unescorted. After all a seat on the train was far to valuable to waste on a dead man, and if nothing else the GRU were most practical in those matters.

"So." He began, his smile sparkling as he turned toward her. "Are you going all the way?"

"That would all depend Captain." She was adept at the art of flirting and crossed her long legs one over the other. She knew from the quick look in his eye that he hadn't missed the move and without saying a word she removed a cigarette from a silver case, placing it firmly into a slim onyx cigarette holder.

"On what?" He asked.

"On just how far this might actually go. After all I've never been one to get off too soon. . . . . . . . Have you?" She smiled as she placed the holder between her lips and he leant forward, lighting the cigarette for her.

"Certainly not," he answered, "perish the thought dear lady. . . By the way, my name is David."

He spoke quietly as he looked into her blue eyes, a smile flickering across the corners of his mouth. It was going to be a most pleasant trip to Moscow, he thought and he slowly drew down the blinds to the corridor. A most pleasant trip indeed.

Royal Air Force Station Farndale,
Farndale Moor,
Yorkshire,
October 15th.

It was late in the afternoon of a bleak Yorkshire day. When the vehicles carrying 4 troop wormed their way along the secondary road leading across the North York moors. At the gates of the camp they stopped and two men leapt to the ground armed with bolt cutters. No-one challenged them as the case hardened jaws sliced through the old locks and no-one turned to watch as the heavy chains clanged against the steel fencing. A hard shove and the gates groaned from years of accumulated rust, as they were forced open. With nothing more than a wave ahead, the lorries sped through the gate and a new padlock secured the chain. A quick glance around and the men scrambled over the tailgate of the last vehicle, certain no one had seen their actions. Here there were no sentries to greet them, no curious faces peering out from the behind the grimy windows. The camp had been deserted since the late forties, no longer useful as a radar detection post. Farndale had outlived the glory days of the war, outlived the time when it gave an early warning of approaching Luftwaffe bombers.

The harsh Yorkshire climate and intervening years had not been kind to the wooden huts. The once painted surfaces had long ago peeled away, leaving rusted nail heads that allowed the boards to spring apart. They sat dead. Dull grey and white faded buildings resembling the skeletal remains of beached whales. You could see the interior beams and rafters protruding like huge ribs, while the only sound was the banging of a door somewhere and the howl of the wind as it swept among the buildings. It was a lonely sound, made all the more empty by the silence of the moors.

The men were lucky. The rain held off and the forecast for the next two weeks called for bitterly cold temperatures with strong icy winds blowing across the region. But no one complained, they had all suffered far worse in their careers and in many ways this was paradise.

On the long drive up, some had renewed old friendships. While others struck up new ones. In the main Richard was pleased, if for no other reason than there appeared to be no Prima Donna's among them. Team spirit was the order of the day and there would be very little time for replacements at this late date. So it was with a sigh of relief, when the first sign of life twisted and swirled it's way out across the cold uncaring moors. The two stoves in the best of the huts, gushed forth large amounts of smoke, mingling with the sweet appetizing aroma of Irish stew and tea. Two large pots of the stuff now chirped away merrily, the odd overflow bubbling from the spout, hissing as it hit the red hot metal. Magically a semblance of home comfort seemed to grow in the abandoned camp. A warmth that could be felt as life returned to these aging wooden huts. If ever there was a true British secret weapon, it was tea. It can mend broken minds and bodies and miraculously restore the soul. But if man ever invented a chemical substance that defied analysis, it was army tea. Now as the men stood in a semicircle around Palmer and the Sergeant's, each of them grasped a mug of that steaming brew, sipping it as they waited for Palmer to brief them on the upcoming weeks.

"Well first off lad's. I would like to welcome you all to Yorkshire. I'm quite sure that you will find the accommodations adequate. The view delightful and the camaraderie of your fellow guest's, outstanding." He paused as he took a large swig, the warmth of the brew coursing through his body. "And of course no briefing would be complete without a mug of this, this. . . . . . Well you all know what it is." Laughter broke out around him and he waited until it died down before continuing. "So I ask you to give thanks to the men responsible for the tea and the meal they have created. . . . . . . . . . Which I understand, is fit for a King." Someone commented they had a dog called King, and the rest of the group laughed. "So without further ado," Palmer continued, while laughing himself. "I think we should take a break and try some of the stew before it congeals." More laughter. "We will resume the briefing at 18:30. . . . . In the meantime I hope most of this nosh will have been digested by then. If not, take an enema and see the MO in the morning." More laughter rang out as he continued. The mood of the men was building the way he wanted it. "Now on a more serious note. I want each of you conversant with all aspects of this operation." The words," each of you", was emphasized as he looked around at their faces. "Your section leaders will go over it from front to back, but take the time to listen. Learn and inwardly digest. . . . . . . We don't have time for cockups on this one and we can't afford to keep repeating things"

"Correct." Palmer added. "And this one's no different. . . . . . . You're all more than capable of completing the task, or you wouldn't be here. But I do assure you that once this is out of the way, we'll be toasting our success with something better than tea." The laughter turned to cheers and he waited as the noise died down. "Finally, I'm sorry to end on a sour note, but the local village and its pub, such as they are. Are out of bounds for the entire period we're here. And that includes the females of the species Corporal Pengelley. I hear you're something of a stick man. So keep it in your pants for the time being please." His remarks drew a few moans of anguish from the men, but all knew the reason's behind it and would have been surprised if things had been any different. "Now I'll shut up and let you eat."

* * *

Over the next few days had any of the locals ventured near the camp, they would have been surprised by what they saw. Certainly they would have wondered what the hell was going on. Wherever you looked, small groups of men could be seen moving through the camp. Each armed with a submachine gun, faces covered with woolen balaclava's. Yet perhaps the eeriest part, was that everything was done in silence. Only hand signals were given as each group moved swiftly through the huts toward the center of the camp. By the end of day ten, Palmer was satisfied that they were well ahead of projections and he called for the first of the night rehearsals.

Only Palmer and the Sergeants knew that Colonel Thoms would be arriving later in the day. Thoms was being pressured from above and had to see things for himself. He specifically asked Palmer, that no importance should be attached to his visit. The operation was paramount. Palmer and White waited at the main gate fifteen minutes before he was due, praying he would be on time. The night wind was cold enough to freeze the marrow in your bones, causing the grass to crunch under-foot, when the black Humber finally drove into the camp.

"Good to see you Richard." Thoms shook Palmer's hand, then turned to Sergeant White, his hand still extended. "Sergeant White, good to see you. How are the lads doing?"

"Very well sir. I think you'll be impressed."

Thoms smiled. "Good, I'm looking forward to this evenings entertainment . . . . . . .Oh by the by. This is Major Griffiths of the Welsh Guards. He said turning to the officer accompanying him. "Major Griffiths, Captain Palmer," he said then waited as Palmer shook the Majors hand. "And this is Troop Sergeant White. . . . . known better as Chalkie. . . Isn't that right Sergeant?"

"Yes sir."

"I should point out that the Major is not impressed by elite units. He tends to think they're nothing but a bunch of misfits. So I'm hoping our lads will change his mind. . . . . . Nothing like a bit of a challenge to get the blood pumping. Is there Sergeant?"

White frowned as he answered. "I'm damned sure the men will perform to their usual standard sir." He couldn't help a touch of sarcasm in his voice. He hated others casting aspersions on his men. Especially when most of them had never been involved with SAS, or knew a damned thing about them.

Thoms didn't miss the inference and smiled. "Good, I'm certain they will. . . . . . Now Richard why don't you get us out of this bloody cold. I don't know about the Major, but I could do with a good hot cup of tea."

They moved quickly up the steps leading into the one and only hut in use. As the door opened they were met by a cloud of smoke that hung four feet above the floor, along with the unsightly collection of various articles of equipment. Bergen's lay strewn around in apparent disorder, as did weapons and other pieces of kit. It was something that did not miss Major Griffiths attention. The smile on his face said it all. It was as good as saying I told you so.

"If I might correct you Colonel." Griffiths began. "All I said was, that in my opinion disciplined troops perform much better than undisciplined men. Quite frankly I've never been exposed to what we now call Special Forces. So I would prefer to reserve judgment until I've had a chance to evaluate things."

Most of the men were standing around one of the stoves, filling their large mugs from the kettle of constantly brewed and rebrewed tea. Thoms walked among them, smiling as they stepped back out of the way, allowing the officers access to some of the warmth.

"That smells bloody good lads, anyone got a spare mug?"

"Here you are sir, hot thick and sweet. It's made with condensed milk." Thoms took the mug that was thrust toward him, first removing his British warm, throwing onto the nearest bed.

"Thank you. Just how I like it. . . . . . Well Captain this is a very cozy place." He said glancing around. "In fact I would say that it's a veritable palace." The comment drew instant laughter from the assembly. "Not a bad brew lads, not bad at all. Perhaps next time you should remove the label before dropping the can of condensed into the tea urn."

Another cup had been shoved into Major Griffiths hand and he smiled wanly, thanking the soldier who handed it to him. The trooper hadn't shaved in days and from the looks of them, neither had the rest. Griffiths was now certain that at the very best these men were nothing short of rejects from a Boy Scout Jamboree.

"Richard, didn't you say one of your lads spent several years in the Guards. Who was it?" Thoms glanced around the hut as he waited for Richard to reply.

"Trooper Mathews sir."

"Ah yes, that's right, trooper Mathews. . . . . . . Where is that chap?"

Mathews stepped forward smartly, his left leg rising parallel to the ground as he brought his foot down hard onto the bare wooden floor. It reverberated loudly around the hut and several of the lads smiled, holding back their laughter. While Mathews action was pure Guards, his appearance wasn't. He wore a Denison smock that looked as though it had been dragged through a pigsty and with his unshaven face and balaclava rolled up on his head, he resembled a refugee from a 1940's war movie.

"Sir." He called out Guards style. "I spent six years with em."

"Which regiment?" Thoms asked.

"Welsh Guards sir?"

"There you are Major," Thoms said turning to Griffiths. "One of your own chaps volunteering for duty with us and by George he can still perform drill to the standard of the Guards. What d'you say to that?"

Griffiths smiled as he stepped into the limelight, his eyes moving over Mathews as he tried to ignore the man's general appearance.

"It only proves my point sir. Sound training and a good grounding in military discipline always stands a soldier in good stead."

Thoms made a noise that sounded as though he cleared his throat, but Richard knew it was one of his notes of disapproval. He turned back to Mathews, a smile spreading across his face.

"And would you go back to the regiment trooper?"

"Permission to speak freely sir?"

"Of course."

"Then begging the Colonels pardon sir. The answer is not bloody likely. I love this mob. For me it's SAS all the way sir. I've had enough Guards bullshit in my time. Besides I have plans."

His remark drew a few snickers from the men as he acted out his part. Most of them knew Mathews as a good soldier; few had ever seen him in the role of Guardsman.

"Plans. Just what might those be?" Thoms asked.

Mathews smiled as he answered proudly. "Once I'm done with this lot sir, I don't ever intend to go back to the bullshit. . . . . I'm going to retire and open a bed and breakfast in Aberystwyth."

* * *

At precisely 21:00 hours the men were already in place, and with the dark clouds of night covering the moon and stars, it was impossible to see your hand in front of your face. They had all been outside for the past thirty minutes, allowing their eyes to become accustomed to the dark. Huddled in small groups around their Land Rovers, they waited as the sweep second hands on three synchronized watches moved up past the forty second mark.

"Everyone on board." Chalkie shouted.

The engines fired to life. The hands on the watches went to fifty, fifty one, fifty two; the full rehearsal was now only seconds from getting underway. Richard sat with Thoms and the Major in the staff car, immediately in front of the area outlined as the bunker. From here they would experience the full impact of how it would feel on opening night.

"Five, four, three, two, one."

Palmer counted down. Instantly the entire area seemed to explode with life as three Land Rovers converged from out of nowhere. The sound of blank machine gun fire cracked loudly on the cold night air, as shadows hurried in giving covering fire to the men about to hurl thunder flashes into the bunker. It was like a silent ballet, the absolute perfection of the exercise was pleasing to the eye, as each man knew his part in this deadly game. The hours of hard training paid off and Thoms felt a sigh of relief escape his lips as it all came together. There was a sudden explosion of light, followed by the thunderous roar of the charges adding a touch of realism to the action at this close range. Palmer glanced at his watch, checking off the seconds.

"Now," he said quietly.

The vehicles reversed, the men leaping aboard as they swung away from the stricken area. A quick look at Griffiths and Palmer was smiling to himself, as he noted a look of utter surprise on the mans face. Flashes still blinded the eyes and Palmer heard Griffiths mutter something under his breath, but ignored him. His eyes watching as the second hand hit zero. By his count the entire operation had taken thirty four seconds. At the same time White and Page checked their watches independently. All of them had hit thirty four seconds precisely.

"Good God."

Griffiths said, allowing his thoughts to be put into words. His eyes had been opened, but he still had trouble justifying this highly professional action, with the rag tag unit he had met earlier.

Without turning Palmer responded. "I'll take that as compliment Major."

"And you deserve it Captain." Griffiths replied. "You can mark me down as a convert. . . That was brilliant. Well executed and carried off in a most precise manner. Allow me to apologize to your men personally."

Richard shook his head. "No Major, that won't be necessary. Your remarks earlier would have done nothing more than piss them off, and in all honesty they would have put it down to your ignorance. . . . . . . . No offence intended."

"None taken Captain. I was wrong and I admit it."

Thoms chuckled quietly as he listened. "Well, well. I love hearing comments like yours Major. It means we're winning converts and that's the important thing. . . . . Perhaps we could arrange for you to go along for the ride?"

Griffiths shook his head. "I would welcome the chance sir, but I couldn't go along just as an observer. These men are highly professional and the last thing they need is a dead weight. . . . Perhaps the next time you have an opening I could volunteer and find out whether I could make it on my own?" The car now moved slowly away, turning out of the area. In the glare of the headlights men could be seen converging on the main hut. Their blackened faces highlighting the elation that showed in their eyes.

The final get together was high spirited as Thoms stood on a couple of ammo boxes, urging the men to quieten down.

"Alright chaps." He began. "I have a couple of things I'd like to go over with you. . . . . . First of all I heard one or two of you moaning about being stuck out here. But I think it's important for you to realize there are two reasons why Farndale was chosen. Number one is the undeniable fact that the place is well and truly off the beaten path." Moans and groans of agreement echoed around the room. "But more importantly," he said continuing. "As you now know. It's almost exactly the same layout as the target area. . . . . . . So you see as usual there's a method in our apparent madness. . . . . As for tonight's exercise. . . . You did bloody brilliantly. I'm proud of each and every one of you. Do this on opening night and things will go like clockwork. . . . . . . Now I have one final announcement to make." There was a good hearted cheer at this, then the noise slowly abated as he cast his eyes over the assembled faces. "On my way up to this God forsaken place. I heard a rumour. Just a rumour you understand, but someone said you lot enjoy a glass of beer. . . . . . I even asked my driver whether he thought there was any chance it might be true and you will be pleased to know he said 4 troop has no taste. So in all probability, they were quite capable of drinking the filthy stuff." A great peal of approval went up and he waited until it once again leveled off. "And so I decided to do a little test for myself." With that he turned toward the door. "Gentlemen if you please."

The door opened and Sergeants, White and Page along with the Colonels driver entered. Carrying between them several crates of beer. All hell broke loose, the cheers that rang through the room threatening to lift the already insecure roof from its frame. "Your show tonight was first rate and you deserve to enjoy a good bottle of English beer. . . . . . It is English isn't it corporal?" Thoms looked over at his driver, hearing the man say that it was. "Good, I'm so glad. I'd hate to have brought that Scottish stuff, what's it called? Oh yes, McEwans. "His remark drew groans from the Jocks and northerners among them. But it was all in good fun and everyone enjoyed the next few hours.

The mugs now served as beer steins and no one seemed to mind, that tea stains lined the once white enamel. It tasted great any way you drank it. It was just after 02:00 when the staff car prepared to pull out of the camp and begin the tedious journey back to London. Griffiths shook hands with Palmer and the Sergeants, making one final comment before he climbed into the back.

"Captain, it's been a privilege to see this. It was very impressive. You're to be commended on a job well done." A smile crossed his lips as he continued quietly. "I confess I'm left wondering whether the founder and driving force behind this regiment didn't somehow instill Guards principles into the training program. . . . After all Captain. I understand David Stirling was a fellow Guards officer." He watched Richard's face, the smile breaking wide. He had made his point. "Goodnight Captain, break a leg on opening night." He stepped back and saluted Richard, then without waiting for the return, climbed into the back seat with Thoms.

"I'll see you later Richard." Thoms said from the interior of the car. "When do you expect to be cleared up here?"

"It shouldn't take more than a few days sir. I want a couple of more run throughs, then we can start clearing the area."

"Good, good. . . . . . . . . Contact me once your back in town and we'll get together." Then with a curt. "Drive on." Thoms leant back in the seat and began a conversation with Griffiths. They still had many hours to go before they would arrive in London.

* * *

One hour after they left the restaurant, six Ilyushin transports made their way along the bleak perimeter of the Soviet military base at Murmansk. An icy wind blew hard across the open field, bringing with it brief gusts of snow that danced and snaked it's way inches above the ground. The first aircraft slowed as it turned onto the runway, pausing as the crew went through their final checks. Now the main camp could only be seen briefly between the savage bursts, while the running lights reflected back off the gusting clouds of snow. The turbines rose to a scream as she inched slowly forward, the nose wheel dancing lightly on the hard packed ice, then gradually she lifted, climbing up into the cold arctic air and with it the first sixty men were airborne, beginning their journey out across the frozen Barents sea, on a heading that would take them between the Norwegian mainland and Spitzbergen. She banked to port as the remaining aircraft were already leaving the runway in their wake and now the full compliment of 360 Spetsnaz were enroute to carry out their part in operation Troika. Somewhere out across the broad range of the North Atlantic, ships of the Soviet navy maneuvered into position, ready to close the door on the supply routes into Europe. Before the final order could be given to draw the net tighter, the airborne assault had to be accomplished, then the rest would fall easily into place.

Soviet scientists were years ahead of the International Geophysical year (July of 1957 to December 58) in their studies of the Aurora Polaris. Over the course of several years, they had studied the cause and effect on all forms of electronic transmissions. This information coupled with probes by Bison and Bear aircraft, confirmed a momentary weakness in Britain's electronic defences. Their scientists had accurately predicted on several occasions, the precise time and coordinates where the highest intensity of atmospheric disturbance would occur. They could analyze the unmistakable signs of sunspot activity that preceded the onset of the Aurora Borealis in particular, and understood how their spectacular dance across the northern sky disturbed all forms of electronic communication. Their findings had shown that this natural phenomenon is triggered by explosions occurring near sunspots on the solar surface. This violent activity causes bursts of electron clouds to be emitted, which arrive in the upper layers of earth's atmosphere some twenty four hours later. Once they penetrate the magnetosphere and bombard the lower Van Allen belt, the excess amount of electrons are discharged in an area roughly within 20 degrees of the centre of both magnetic poles. It was this natural phenomenon that the Soviets counted on to open a window allowing the six aircraft to slip in under the radar curtain. The coordinates and times given to the pilots were critical, once inside British air space they would drop to an altitude that would make detection by low level radar almost impossible.

"When were you last in Scotland Starshina?" Captain Malater stood in the aisle between the two rows of canvas and tubular steel seats, leaning forward as he spoke to his CSM. His English was almost perfect, with only the faintest trace of his Slavic background.

"January of 55 sir," the man replied. "I came over with the Red Army soccer team. . . . We started in London and toured most of the country, Wolverhampton, Birmingham and finally Glasgow," he chuckled softly as he continued. "I don't think the British had any idea what we were up to, or they would have cut the goodwill tour short." He laughed aloud as Malater smiled and nodded in agreement.

"Did you play for the team?"

The Sergeant Major shook his head. "No, I couldn't kick a soccer ball the length of this aircraft, at least not in a straight line. . . . . . . How about you sir, when were you there?"

"I came over twice. Once with the choir in 1953 and later in the spring of 1955. 1 couldn't sing a bloody note, but it made no difference, they stuck me at the back. Fourth man from the left, second row from the rear. I enjoyed it actually, London, Bournemouth, all the major cultural centres and eventually we wound up in Edinburgh, singing before the Queen of England. . . . . . Well Sergeant Major, I look forward to meeting up with you on the ground." He glanced at his watch and smiled as he moved further down the aircraft. Within a matter of minutes they would be descending to less than one thousand feet and he prayed silently that the interference would be all the scientists claimed. The guided tours they spoke of, allowed the advance parties of special units to physically see where the primary targets were located and in many cases meet face to face with dignitaries targeted for assassination. He remembered the last briefing, of hearing the instructors final address.

"Fear and terror bring about change, but not always of a positive nature," he said. "Create enough fear and terror among any given population and they panic. Watch ants after you expose their nest. Poke a stick among them and watch as they run around in a state of confusion. However it only takes a matter of minutes and you will see that they quickly organize themselves into groups and set about restoring order to their lives. People are no different, at the moment panic is created, they become highly vulnerable and at that moment can be controlled and manipulated before organizing even a token form of resistance. . . . . . . . When you encounter pockets of resistance, focus your attention on that area and annihilate the individuals responsible and I stress this must be done with no consideration for the niceties of life. The exercise has to serve as an example to the rest of the population. Under no circumstances allow even the slightest form of resistance to take place and never imprison intellectuals in groups where they can converse. Intellectuals, military personnel, the clergy and government officials are to be, wherever possible, imprisoned in isolation and only then for the purpose of gaining information, once you have achieved your objective, eliminate them. By now you should have everything honed to an edge and remember that while we have practiced over and over again, practice does not make perfect. It makes permanent. . . . . . . . . . . So only repeat those thing that will make the operation successful. . . . . . . Finally remember those two important words. Fear and Panic. If used wisely, they are the enemy of your enemy and therefore your friends."

Malater felt an involuntary shudder run through his body and it wasn't brought about by the sudden rate of descent. He now finally realised the importance of their mission and that everything hinged upon the success of these few men. It was critical that they complete the first phase of the operation and allow for heavier reinforcements of Soviet airborne troops to be brought in. He glanced at his watch, they had already gone well beyond the point of no return, they were committed to continue their venture into British air space and with each mile came the greater danger of being attacked by enemy fighters. 

The Hunter Squadrons stationed at Lossiemouth and Leuchars in Scotland, numbers 54 and 43, were always on one form of alert and tonight was no exception. Flying Officer Thayer ran his hands over the arms of the old leather chair, a chair that mess history dictated had seen far more service than any of the youthful members of 43 Squadron. He particularly liked the story about the WRAF, who tradition said, had yielded to the temptations of the flesh in this very chair. It was a tale that went back to the days of the war, a glorious story about a young fighter pilot who used one of the oldest tricks in the book. He told the naive airwoman, that the upcoming sortie was going to be dangerous and he didn't know whether he would come back alive. As an added touch, he told her that he lived in mortal fear of going to his death a virgin. His heart wrenching story was apparently so good at this point, that she clutched him to her breast and did her bit for King and country. Thayer lowered his copy of the "Times" and smiled as he thought about the crafty sod who got away with it, although he found it hard to believe that an unwilling female, would simply fall for one of the oldest tricks in the book. But he gave the chair a hard slap, muttering well done that man, then resumed reading the newspaper for the third or fourth time. Finally he turned to the crossword, bent upon a course of cerebral activity that was doomed to failure from the start. Attempting such a daunting task when he was wide awake was difficult enough, but to even consider it while suffering from hours of boredom was purely and simply mental suicide.

He had no idea exactly what time the balloon went up, but it was shortly after 20:00 hours when he found himself running toward the waiting Land Rover and climbing aboard on legs that were stiff and tired. He tried to read the latest Met forecast that had been thrust into his hand as he left the ops hut, but with the bad light and the bouncing around he received in the back it was impossible. All he was able to read was. Cloud base 1,500 feet. Visibility poor. Once again they would have to rely on ground control and instrumentation. He screwed the sheet up into a ball and threw it on the floor, looking up as the pilot sitting opposite laughed.

"Not even any good for toilet paper, old boy." He said.

Thayer nodded. "And not much good for what it was intended."

"Now now, remember what we were told at the briefings."

"Yeah I know," Thayer chipped in. "The Met sheets are designed to be an added service to the pilots." He laughed as the Officer joined him word for word in the last sentence, then with a screech of brakes the Rover shuddered to a stop at the first Hunters on the flight line.

"Happy hunting," Thayer shouted after them. "See you at 10,000 feet." he heard one shout back, then the vehicle resumed it's short journey across the apron.

"Oh well Tony," he said turning back to his friend. "Here we go again, Piccadilly Circus next stop."

He looked ahead and in the bright beam of the vehicles headlights he saw his fighter coming up. There would be four aircraft scrambled tonight from Leuchars and another four from Lossiemouth. Air Traffic control would coordinate both wings onto the same heading, then direct them onto the target, it was a tried and true method, one that had been practiced over many flying hours. The Squadrons best time for a scramble was just under four minutes, but the way things were going tonight it didn't look as if they would be breaking any records.

"I wonder what the hell it is this time," he shouted as he leapt out onto the tarmac.

"Probably some fucking Russian wanting to defect," Tony shouted back.

"In that case let's shoot the bastard down."

Thayer scrambled up the ladder and slid into the tight cockpit, as his flight assistant reached in and secured the harness.

"Everything O.K.?" The airman nodded, then disappeared out of sight, leaving Thayer wondered briefly what would happen if the airman said no and then disappeared.

"Rooster three, tower. You are cleared for take-off. Switch channel 46."

"Roger control, Rooster three taxiing now."

He glanced to his left making sure the ladder had gone, then slid the canopy forward. He barely remembered much after that, other than seeing the first two Hunters take off ahead of him. So much of it was a series of well rehearsed movements that the next thing he recalled was the sudden pressure of the G forces and the rush of adrenaline as the fighter responded instantly to his every command.

"Sword, this is Rooster Three, airborne."

"Roger Rooster three, Sword, radar contact. Continue your climb to 10,000 feet on vector zero four two, repeat zero four two." He remembered the only words held read on the Met report. Visibility poor. That was an understatement if ever he saw one. A dense cloud base covered the entire region of north east Scotland. At eight hundred feet the wispy cloud swirled around him and at fifteen hundred he could see nothing. Thank God for instruments and GCI. he thought.

He saw a window in the cloud and rushed toward it, on his starboard wing he could see the flashing navigation lights of Rooster One and Two and a quick glance over his left shoulder and he caught a brief glimpse of Four.

"Sword, this is Rooster three. Thanks for your help, you're spot on tonight." He said referring to the fact that all four were in tight formation.

"Rooster Three, maintain correct radio procedure at this time."

Ouch, someone didn't have a very good sense of humour tonight. "Roger Sword. Rooster Three out," and fuck you he added quietly.

"Rooster Three this is Fiery. Glad to have you along, you little ponce. Stick close to me."

Thayer's heart stopped as he heard the gruff voice of Squadron Leader Phillips, known to all as Fiery Phillips. He was stationed with 54 at Lossiemouth, known as being one of the toughest Squadron Commanders in the Royal Air force. How the hell he ever managed to fit his six foot three inch frame into the office of a Hunter was a mystery, but fit in he did and once there he became one with the aircraft.

"That's a roger sir. Good to have you along."

For the next few minutes Phillips took over the channel as ground control directed them onto the bogies. Six suspected Russian aircraft were inside British air space, now only forty eight miles off the Scottish coast. Thayer listened in, wondering how the hell they could have got this close before radar picked them up.

"Rooster Three, tuck in behind me now. . . . . . . . . Rooster One take over. Usual approach lads. Breaking. . . . . . . Now."

At his command he peeled away from the main group with Three stuck to his tail. In Phillips terminology a usual approach meant two aircraft in a high speed head on pass, while the main force would approach from the rear at a slightly lower altitude. At a distance of one mile the two fighters would throw on their landing lights, then at the last minute roll out high. One right the other left. The instant the maneuver was complete the others would move up into position alongside the intruders and turn them for home. It wasn't exactly an approved NATO procedure, but Fiery liked to put some spice into it and besides it kept the bastards awake, as well as scaring the shit out of em. He never mentioned the fact that it also had the same effect on the passengers and crew of civilian airlines who had accidentally strayed off course. In this business you're bound to piss a few people off, he would laughingly comment in the mess. There was a rumour that he had a Russian translator listening in on the enemy frequencies and that was how he knew the effects of the maneuver. Whatever the truth, there was no doubt that he was well known to the Soviet pilots who made these runs.

"Alright lad's this is it. Time to round the sods up. Let's turn em to starboard. . . . . . . . . . . And stay in tight formation, I don't want any of you sods fucking off on your own. . . . . . . . . . Sword we have bogies at 2,000 feet and descending. Confirm over."

"Affirmative leader. Bogie's now at 1,500 continuing to descend. Bearing 036 from your position over."

The cloud had broken up out over the North Sea, but as they turned back toward the coast, it swept over them once again and visual contact became impossible. Rooster Three locked on to Fiery and followed him down, watching as the altimeter dropped and his air speed increased up over 570 knots.

"Rooster Three."

"Roger."

"Still with me?" "On your tail sir."

"Good. Bogie's six miles ahead, altitude now 1,200 feet. Let's get these sod's turned around and all get home in time for a quick pint. . . . . . . . . Here we go. . . I have two, no make that four bogies dead ahead. Tally ho, heads down you lot."

They were on top of the target in a split second, four large transports in a staggered V formation. Thayer threw on his lights and swore he could see the enlarged pupils of the first pilot as he screamed overhead. Then everything became a blur as he pulled around in a tight arc following Fiery back over the target. The cloud had broken up at this low altitude and he could make out the second wave of Hunters as they swept beneath him, he could even see the white heat from the Squadron Leaders aircraft, but could see nothing of the enemy.

"Rooster One. Did you pick up the other two? over."

"Leader that's affirmative. Rooster Two and Four have the Bogies about four miles astern, bearing 053 and turning hard for the coast."

"Roger. What the fuck are they up to? Turn them around before they get any closer."

"Leader, this is Rooster Two, proceeding to turn."

They were now back over the four leading aircraft. He saw Phillips drop in tight to the first lluyshin, waggle his wings then move as though he were going to peel off to starboard, but the Bogies ignored him. Thayer slid in on the other side and flashed his landing lights on and off, but received the same treatment.

"Well well, it looks as though our friends want to play. What d'you say we have a little fun?"

Thayer wondered what Phillips might come up with, but answered in the affirmative anyway then waited for instructions.

"Let's go laddie, hang on."

Thayer watched Fiery's aircraft suddenly accelerate almost vertically, disappearing up into the cloud cover. He played follow the leader, watching the altimeter move from 1,500 feet to 4,000 in a space of seconds as he performed a rolling loop.

"Still with me?"

"That's a roger sir."

"Good. . . . . . . . . Here we go, guns armed, safety off. . . . . . . . . . . . . Sword, give me a bearing on Bogies."

"Roger Leader, Bogies are now at bearing 098, height 1,200 feet and over land, repeat, over land."

"Wilco Sword . . . . . . Rooster Three, on my count fire a one second burst. Do you copy?"

"Loud and clear."

By now they were running five hundred feet below the bogies, trailing some five miles astern. Fiery cranked up the speed, nearly catching Thayer off guard and the distance reduced instantly as their air speed overhauled the slower transports.

"Now."

Fiery shouted over the channel and Thayer followed his maneuver to the letter. It was as though the Squadron Leader flew both aircraft. The one second burst of tracer lit up the sky no more than fifty feet in front of the lead aircraft. Phillips had calculated the timing with absolute precision and Thayer shook his head in disbelief as his body shook with excitement. In this daze he heard Rooster Two come back on the air. The second string had turned and were now heading out of British air space.

"Roger One, stay with them. Watch your fuel, radar has them on screen . . . . . . Sword this is Leader. Bogies broke contact at 20:18, following coordinates."

Phillips gave the references indicating the transports had turned back over the Cheviots and Rooster Two finally reported that his pair were now at an altitude of 6,000 feet and climbing. Position somewhere over Berwick upon Tweed. The panic was over he said happily, the Bogie's were on their way home.

Thayer pressed his body back in the seat and let out a shout of pure unadulterated pleasure. In Fiery Phillips terminology it had been one fuck of a night.

The brutal assassination of a popular VIP is favoured by many terrorist groups, especially those who were trained and funded by Soviet organizations. It serves to clearly establish the vulnerability of any given society, by openly murdering those in the public eye. The example is obvious. If someone in a high profile position is so easily murdered, then there has to be an inherent weakness within the system and therefore, no-one is safe. In August of 1979 the murder of Lord Louis Mountbatten by the IRA (Irish Republican Army) was a classic example of this terrorist technique. In 1983 the same group attempted to murder Prince Charles and Princess Diana, by planting a bomb in a washroom at the theatre they were attending. The attempt was fortunately doomed to failure as the individual enlisted by the IRA was a paid British informer. Subsequent to this many attempts have been made on public figures. Including a bomb intended to kill the British Prime Minister (Margaret Thatcher) at a Tory convention and the mortar attack on Number 10 Downing Street.

In 1993, members of the Special Air Service in conjunction with M.I.5 and various police agencies. Carried out a three day training exercise at the disused Royal Air Force base at Chessington in Surrey. Their purpose was to prepare for a possible hostage taking incident involving members of the Royal Family. Sources claim that the joint venture involved some 9,000 personnel.

Authors Postscript.

Captain Richard Palmer retired in 1984 as a Brigadier and now lives on his farm at Winterborne Monckton in Dorset. Tony Williams (Taffy) was posted missing, presumed dead while on a quote, normal operation into the Middle-East (1979). In 1964 Mathews resigned from the military, but didn't buy the boarding house in Aberystwyth he once referred to. Instead he purchased a greengrocers shop, in the Rochdale Road Manchester and for almost a year did nothing more dangerous than argue with little old ladies about the price of potatoes. Eventually he re-enlisted and with the help of Palmer, returned to the regiment. While in England, he was one of the original members of 4 troop that I attempted to contact. Upon my return to Canada, I learned that he and his wife had retired to Portugal in 1989. Trooper Fuller was killed in 1972 while serving in Northern Ireland. No details were released at the time and even now, some twenty plus years later, the incident is still shrouded in secrecy. Michael Pengelley married twice, his first wife was killed in an IRA attack on his home and he continued to serve with the SAS until 1985 retiring as a Colonel after taking his commission in the late 1950's. It was a career that covered a tour of duty with US Special Forces in Vietnam as an observer (1967/68) and the Falklands (1982). Among his other distinctions, he served as advisor on both the Mogadishu raid (1977) and the Iranian Embassy take over, Princess Gate London (1980). I met with him last summer at his home in Fowey Cornwall and as we sat on the lawn, enjoying the warm sun, watching sail boats glide silently in and out of this delightful harbour. I asked him what he did for excitement these days. He replied with a smile that he spent most of his time with his grandchildren, sailing, fishing, or as he put it. Just "buggering" around doing the things that normal people like to do. On the subject of his career, I found him to be open to questions most of the time, but silent on issues he still considered sensitive. Toward the end of the interview he mentioned that he had few regrets and given the power, there were very few things he would change in his life. It was only when I mentioned Taffy Williams that his attitude changed. He looked away for the moment and shook his head. "Oh I'm confident he'll turn up," he said softly. "He always did you know." With that he smiled quickly and I closed my notebook, placing it on the small table to my right. The interview was at an end.

Danton Adams,

August 20th 1997

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