as he slipped in the ignition key and gunned the powerful BMW into life.
Davies walked away from the bar after paying for the drinks – a small brandy for himself and a double gin and tonic for Piggy. He had not deliberately let Piggy win, he told himself. Perhaps it was just that he was a little more cautious these days, with a little more respect for things like speed limits. Or perhaps it was simply that Piggy still had that extra something to prove to himself. Either way, he actually felt quite good about buying the drinks. Reaching the table, he set them down and sat eyeing Piggy over the rim of his balloon glass, waiting for him to open the conversation.
Piggy picked up his cue. ‘First thoughts?’ he queried.
Davies sipped at his brandy. ‘Two four-man patrols, over the same route but spaced about two hours apart.’
His companion nodded thoughtfully. ‘Sweep and clean. And back-up if necessary. Makes good sense. Any thoughts on personnel yet?’
‘Mike Hailsham springs to mind.’
Again, Piggy seemed in general agreement. ‘Yeah, Major Hailsham’s a good CO. Any special reasons?’
‘Two main ones. Firstly he has intensive experience of anti-bacteriological equipment and techniques from the Gulf War. He skippered the frontline undercover raids on the Scud bases when we still thought Saddam was going to start dumping anthrax on the Israelis.’
‘And second?’ Piggy wanted to know.
‘And he has fluent Russian,’ Davies said. ‘Although how much use that’s likely to be, I’m not too sure at this point.’ He broke off to look questioningly at Piggy. ‘You’ve studied the region. What’s likely to be the most common language?’
‘Russian’s probably as good as anything,’ Piggy said. ‘The native Kazakhs do have their own tongue, basically derived from Turkish, but most of the younger ones have probably been taught Russian as a second language by now. You can forget the older generation. Before 1917 they didn’t have a written language at all – no books, no schools, no permanent records of any kind. It was just a very simple nomadic culture, and basic storytelling or folk song were about the only ways of communicating information.’ He tailed off, realizing that he was starting to ramble a bit. ‘Anyone else in mind?’
‘Andrew Winston would be a good bet, I think,’ Davies said. ‘Again for the basic reason that he was with Hailsham in Iraq and knows the score. ‘And he’s a tough bastard. If anyone can nip up a mountain with a full bergen on his back, that big black sonofabitch can. In fact, he’d probably beat everybody else just so he could have ten minutes on his own to sit on the top and write a couple of poems.’
Piggy listened to his friend’s eulogy without really understanding it, not knowing the mild-mannered but combat-lethal Barbadian sergeant. Soldiers like Winston were the members of a new breed of SAS men – thinkers and idealists rather than the hardened death-or-glory boys of his own early years.
‘And Cyclops, of course,’ Davies was going on. ‘If you’re right and we’re going to have shoot down bloody eagles to stay alive, then I want the best sniper in the Regiment.’
Again, Piggy was not personally familiar with the man, but his shooting prowess was legendary. Already five times Army sharpshooting champion, Corporal Billy Clements was the undisputed king of the L96A1, otherwise known as the Accuracy International PM. In his hands the 7.62mm calibre weapon was as accurate and as lethal at 800 yards as a stiletto is at six inches. It was a skill born of almost fanatical practice on the firing range, and one which had given Clements his odd nickname since he appeared to be almost constantly squinting down the eyepiece of a telescopic sight. However, stories that he was incapable of reading even the largest print at less than arm’s length remained unproven, since no one had ever actually seen Cyclops trying to read anything.
‘Well, that’s three names to conjure with for a start,’ Davies said as he turned his attention back to his brandy. ‘I’ll issue recalls this evening and we’ll set up a prelim briefing in the Kremlin for 09.00 hours the day after tomorrow.’
He drained his glass after swilling the last few droplets around the bowl and inhaling the fumes with genuine appreciation. Placing it back on the table, he pushed it in Piggy’s direction.
‘Your round, I think. If we’re going to get religiously pissed, we’d better get a move on.’
To an outsider, it would have been inconceivable that the apparently ill-assorted bunch of men assembled in the briefing room in the ‘Kremlin’ could function as the most cohesive and effective fighting unit in the world. But they knew, and that was what counted. They knew themselves as few men ever do; and they knew each other, and each other’s capabilities.
Major Mike Hailsham glanced around the room at the small gathering with almost paternal affection. Not that any of them really needed fathering, he reflected. Used strictly as a term of endearment, the word ‘bastards’ fitted them all rather neatly as individuals. But collectively, that was a different matter entirely, and it was from this standpoint that Hailsham’s sense of pride emanated.
Considering the short notice, he had done rather well, Hailsham told himself. Davies’s brief had been nothing if not explicit. ‘Imagine the shittiest, toughest assignment you can and get me two teams by the day after tomorrow.’ The names of Sergeant Andrew Winston and Corporal Billy Clements had already been dropped into the hat. The rest were his own personal choice, only arrived at after a great deal of thought. Given a brief like that, a man picked his companions very carefully indeed.
Piggy sat directly beneath the large stuffed water-buffalo head which decorated one wall of the briefing room. A memento of the Regiment’s days in Malaya, it was also a symbol of unity, of exclusivity – the totem of a closed and quasi-secret brotherhood. For the SAS was indeed a brotherhood, and Stirling Lines was their highly exclusive lodge.
Piggy also reviewed the assembled men, but from a slightly different perspective. Most were strangers to him, and yet he felt that he knew them all as intimately as he knew his own family. Personal acquaintance did not really enter the equation, and time meant nothing. There were blood ties. These unfamiliar faces were direct descendants, the inheritors of a strict line of succession which stretched unbroken from the summer of 1941 to the present day. A quietly spoken Scots Guards lieutenant named David Stirling had conceived a crazy idea, and the idea had spawned a legend.
Yes, they were all brothers under the skin, Piggy thought – and it helped to fill the void of knowing that his own direct family line would end with his death.
Davies respected them all, but he envied them too. They would go, and he would stay behind. Ahead of them, these men faced danger, incredible hardship and conditions that a man would not want to inflict on his worst enemy. But to them it was life, Davies knew. A life that they had chosen to live, sucking out every precious moment and savouring it until it ran dry of juice and the clock stopped ticking. With his own safe, desk-bound job and retirement looming up, Davies might be seen by others to be one of the lucky ones, a man who had survived the odds and finally beaten the clock. Yet he feared the day as it drew inexorably closer. The end of his service career might not be a death, Davies thought bitterly, but it would be an amputation. His eyes strayed briefly to Piggy’s mutilated body in the wheelchair, and he drew uncomfortable comparisons. With a conscious effort, he pushed away his thoughts and tried to concentrate on the job in hand.
Cyclops
