Sorry, no sex to speak of so you've been warned. Just a chunk of action and a bit of emotion at the end, and a decision to be made?
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Family, friends and others who thought they knew what I did for a living would have advised me to stay calm and leave it the experts.
The few people who really did know what my job was, advised me differently. They told me to be careful and not to leave any evidence! My handler told me that he couldn't sanction any action, and then promptly arranged for an airplane to get me home as quickly as possible.
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Officially I'd been away on one of my frequent business trips; this time just east of Paris. That being partly true if the word 'just east' could be stretched out to three thousand miles or so, to a place far hotter and dryer than Paris would be at that time, or any other time of the year for that matter.
My contract had been successfully and cleanly completed, a favour to our American friends I'd been told, who wanted to make sure our target didn't survive the drone attack that would be following closely afterwards to cover up what was really going on.
The helicopter was dead on time and within minutes of me packing my rifle away, I was being whisked back to safety. At least that was what was supposed to have happened, but we hadn't reckoned on passing low over the heads of a group of 'unfriendlies', or for that matter that one of them would react so quickly and spray our transport with a hail of metal. Miraculously missed the pilot and me, but didn't miss something pretty vital in the machinery above us.
"Prepare for a hard landing," shouted my pilot, something that I would have guessed anyway from the grinding sounds coming from above me, and the way the 'copter was swaying around. Then the engine stopped, the sound of tortured metal ceased, shortly followed by a loud crunch and the sound of broken glass as we hit terra firma.
Then utter silence, but not something that we were able to enjoy for very long. We both leapt from our stricken bird, and ran for cover, scuttling over the scrub and darting behind a pile of large boulders as if our life depended on it.
Which it did of course!
Jim, the American pilot, and probably not his real name maybe, shouldered the light machine gun he'd grabbed, while I, trying to remain calm, opened my leather case and carefully assembled my own weapon, aware that I only had a very limited supply of the very special bullets that I'd prepared myself just a few days earlier. My gun, a weird looking thing to anyone not in my line of business, had been made specifically to my orders, and in my line of work if I'd needed more than two shots I would count it as a failure.
We didn't have to wait long!
"They know what they're doing," I muttered as we watched them spread out and work their way towards us, one at a time darting from one of the boulders that were strewn along the gulley and sliding behind another one. Each movement bringing them closer to us, but beyond the extreme range of Jim's weapon, but not out of range of mine as they were about to find out.
I didn't have time to line up any of them once they'd made their move, so I simply focussed the telescopic sight in on one of the boulders that I'd seen one of them disappear behind and waited... and waited!
Then the kick into my shoulder as my rifle barked, and my bullet wasn't wasted. My preference at that range would normally be a head shot, but it was a moving target and death wasn't essential, so I settled for dead centre of the body, more concerned about taking my target out of the equation than actually sending him back to his maker.
Five bullets, five victims and our attackers, quite sensibly, decided to try another tack. The ground to our right was too steep and too open to attempt a flanking attack, so much as military commanders have done over the centuries, they dispatched a small detachment off to the left in order to try and outflank us. Their cover was much better, and I wasted one bullet trying to discourage them, but then decided to hold my fire and not use up my dwindling supply of ammunition.
We were left with two choices, if you don't count surrender. That was to try to defend on two fronts, which for obvious reasons didn't appeal, or to try to outflank the outflankers. So it didn't take a military genius to make that decision. While Jim let off the occasional short burst down the gulley, more to remind them that he was there than with any hope of hitting anyone, I gathered my gear and crawled from behind our boulder, and made my way uncomfortably back away from the scene of battle, praying that a lucky bullet wouldn't find me. I hoped that they'd think I was retreating and escaping leaving poor Jim to face the music, not grasping the fact that distance was my one advantage. A few hundred yards, and safely well out of the range of anything they seemed to have, I veered off course, and started the climb, intent on getting higher up the slope than the group working their way to get above where Jim was. I deliberately didn't try to get behind them, not having the time or energy left to do that, and not having to with the weapon I had. I at last found a suitable spot and settled down, waiting for my breathing to settle down, before shouldering my rifle, and zoning in to where I hoped the 'baddies' would be setting up their next attack.
Three shots and three down, but only one bullet left, which would leave me with my small calibre handgun, which in those circumstances might as well have been a pea shooter, distance changing from my best friend to my worst nightmare.
I wondered what they'd say to my wife back home who thought I was in France when I didn't make it home.
Then, right on time the drone struck!
An almighty 'KRUMP', and the skyline lit up as whatever had been dropped must have obliterated the camp that I'd been spying down on, what now seemed like ages ago. Made me wonder whether my input had even been necessary.
Then as suddenly as it had all started, it ended, our adversaries melted away to go back and find out what had happened.
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The wump wump wump of an approaching helicopter was never more welcome, and they looked like avenging angels, as three of them, a big twin rota job and two smaller gun ships, swept over the brow of the hill and down towards us. While the two smaller birds stayed up making sure nobody interfered with us, the big boy touched down, and we both ran towards it. Moments later we were inside and being flown off to safety, while one of the gunships blasted our helicopter to pieces, not wanting it to fall into the enemy's hands.
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The last person I'd expected to greet me when we got back to the American base we'd been operating out of, was my boss Gerald. That's Major General Sir Gerald Blunt (retired), late of the Coldstream Guards, not my regiment, and now a senior member of a somewhat more secretive department of the British government, and not someone who I expected to be there to congratulate me, especially since we'd misplaced one of the American's precious helicopters.
"Well done Tom," was all he had to say on that subject, before he launched into why he was really there.
"Bit of an incident back in your home town, Tom," he told me sombrely. "Two undesirables have got themselves into trouble and have taken some hostages."
"You want me back there Sir Gerald?" I queried. "If they're not terrorists then surely it's a police matter and we shouldn't get involved."
"Normally not," he sighed back, obviously something being wrong. "The trouble is Tom, they're holding the hostages at the nursery school where your wife works."
"Is she Ok?" I shot back, an icy fear gripping my insides. "Have they got her?"
"Afraid so Tom, but she's ok as far as we know," he replied, reaching over to prevent me from rushing out to do something stupid, though quite what I have no real idea.
"It seems they've shot the school janitor who tried to tackle them, and they're threatening to kill someone else. But everything has gone quiet for the last few hours."
"I've got to get there," I growled, pushing his hand away.
"I know Tom," he tried to calm me. " But you realise the department can't be involved. It's out of our jurisdiction."
"I've got to go," I repeated, trying to work out the best way to get home quickly.
"Of course Tom," he smiled almost fatherly. "There's a jet waiting outside on the tarmac for you. Get kitted up and you take the navigators seat. The Yanks are thankful for today's piece of work and are happy to provide it."
Talk about breaking just about every rule in the book, but all I was concerned about was getting back home, and a jet fighter/bomber was about the quickest way of doing it!
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In super quick time we were landing at Brize Norton, where a car was waiting for me as I exited the plane, no questions being asked about what was in the leather case I was carrying. Then half an hour later and I was dropped off on the town square of the market town where we lived.
