The Casper Solution

By Tony Duffy

Major Mike Collins is a retired SAS soldier trained as a sniper living in Johannesburg. He owns his own small security company and is bored.
He gets approached by a mysterious, powerful man to head up a small team of ex military specialists to rid the country of drugs and arms trafficking. He takes on the Nigerian Mafia as well as corrupt government officials in a no-holds-barred war. The action flows from Pretoria, Johannesburg and Durban, with car chases, gunfights and lots of action. It has all the elements of action, tragedy, love and humour. It is South African in flavour in both characters and plot. (eBook)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jan 20, 2016
• ISBN: 9781329844407

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The Casper SolutionC:\Users\john\Desktop\JustDone Books\Tony Duffy\caspersolution_lulu-web-resources\image\Caspersolution_proof-bizlink.png

Copyright © 2015 Tony Duffy

The rights of the author of the Work have been asserted by him.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher or the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental

First Edition 2015

ISBN (Paperback): 978- 1- 920702 -19- 9

ISBN (eBook): 978- 1- 329-84440-7

Just Done Productions

Publishing

Durban

2015

[e-mail]

http://www.justdone.co.za

Typesetting and Layout by Just Done Productions

Dedication

To אדון ישוע

With whom anything is possible.

To Cheri, my wife, my muse, best friend,

thanks for always

believing in me

Chapter 1

Durban, hot, humid and dirty and at one o’clock on this mid-summer morning it was typically so. There was a slight breeze coming in from the ocean, bringing with it the possibility of rain. The moon was hidden behind light cloud, not that he was going to need it, as there was more than enough ambient light from the glitzy street. The shooter was tired, he had been lying stretched out on the roof of an apartment building opposite the Golden Beaches nightclub on Durban’s beachfront for three hours now and was becoming fed up.

Even at this hour, he could hear the muted sounds of thumping music and general party sounds emanating from the club. He had been watching carloads of people arriving and leaving for the three hours. Men dressed to the nines with beautiful young women on their arms, wearing short skirts that were so short they would have raised the blood pressure of a saint.

It seems that underwear is optional, he mused.

The Remington XM 2010 .300-magnum sniper rifle was a thing to behold. Skeletal, it looked like something assembled with an erector set. From the sound suppressor to the adjustable butt, it was all metal and composite material. With a powerful scope that could pick up a fly at 500 meters. Loaded with fragmentation rounds and at a range of a little over 200 meters as the bullet flies, the results were going to be spectacular for the target, even with his Kevlar vest.

He glanced up and looked to the southwest and he could just see the beginnings of the warehouse district of Maiden Wharf, where the rest of his team were busy laying thermal charges on about a ton of drugs and guns destined for the streets and export into the rest of Africa.

As he watched, the charge blew, lighting up the sky like a rising sun, the phosphorous base burning white hot and a column of smoke started to roil up to join the clouds. The only sound from the charge was a deep crump. Seeing as the warehouse and its contents belonged to the target in the club below, the shooter was sure he would exit the nightclub at a rush, as soon as he could get his pants on. His target would be moving quickly when he came out, so he knew he had to be quick. He would have only seconds to lay down one 0.300 calibre 190-grain boat tail round and then he could get the hell out, get to the pick-up point on the Bluff and go home.

A movement to the right caught his eye; he trained the scope on it and saw two men sitting in a car staring at the same nightclub front door that he was. His instincts kicked into gear and the adrenalin pumped into his veins like a busted hosepipe. Bliksem he muttered to himself. Something was wrong. He scanned the street and his sphincter tightened up a notch. The van at the end of the street became suspect, as well as the other one at the opposite end. The black guy rummaging in the rubbish bin had been there too long. How could he have been so stupid, how could he have missed them and most importantly, who the hell were they? What the hell was going on? His mind racing, he searched the rooftops to see if his position had been compromised. He found nothing, all was as it should be and his escape route was still clear. Back past the air-conditioner cooling tower, across the flat roof and down the fire escape to the third floor through the door that he had already jimmied open and into the building’s car park, where the Audi 8 was waiting for him. ‘So who-the-hell are they?’

The target deserved to die. Lionel Jabuti, a drug lord who was responsible for many deaths and capable of unbelievable violence. He ruled the city with an iron fist and was the main supplier of hard-line drugs, prostitution and money laundering. He was untouchable, due to having some high living people in Government and the police in his pocket. He even had a Supreme Court Judge in his power.

The shooter pondered his position. Should he abort? Or should he do as ordered? He pressed the button on his com. unit. Overwatch to Eagle One, do you copy?

Go Overwatch.

It looks like we have a third party showing interest in the target and I think they could be Friendlies.

You certainly have picked a fine time to discover this. Can you complete the mission?

Yes, Eagle One but I may be coming in hot, Overwatch out.

Just then, the front door of the Golden Beaches opened and out stepped a short, muscular, black man, dressed in a good- looking blue suit. His right hand was buried in his jacket and his head was on a swivel.

Body guard, the shooter murmured.

The bodyguard raised his left hand and a black Mercedes materialized at the curb. If the shooter was going to take the shot, he would have just over a second to do it. Decision made, orders were orders. He steadied his breathing and glued his eye to the scope image. Whoever these other guys were, they would just have to watch the show. The bodyguard beckoned to someone in the doorway and out stepped Jabuti. All hell broke loose. The shooter stroked the trigger of his rifle and sent the 190 grain bullet on its deadly way. One of the men in the car leapt out and shouted, Lionel Jabuti, you are under arrest, most of which was drowned out by the still loud tock of the suppressed high powered rifle.

On impact, the 190gr boat tail projectile was travelling well in excess of 2500 feet per second and all that the Kevlar vest did was assist the bullet to disintegrate, depositing all its kinetic energy into his body. As it entered Jabuti’s chest, most of his chest jellified from hydrostatic shock, as the disintegrating bullet broke up into smaller pieces, each piece doing its job by destroying heart, lung and tissue.

Down on the street, the people in the vans, car and the garbage scratcher, were scrambling for cover, except the one who had shouted the order. He remained standing and was totally alert, his feet well placed and his handgun weaving back and forth, looking for the source of the rifle fire. The bodyguard had taken shelter behind the Mercedes and was busy on his cell phone. The man with the gun started screaming orders to anyone who would listen. Shooter on the roof, vans one and two around the back, he’s got to come out there.

Temba, grab the bodyguard and take that bloody cell phone away from him.

The garbage man lost his shamble and ran for the bodyguard. More people started to arrive and some were sent to lock down the nightclub.

Meanwhile, on the roof, the shooter had backed away from the edge. He packed away his rifle into a tailor-made case and then ran quickly to the fire escape and climbed down to the third floor. At the open door, he looked down over the outside railing and saw the two vans entering the alley behind his building.

Bliksem, I don’t need this. Who are those guys?

In three minutes, he had dumped the gun case in the trunk and was behind the wheel. He keyed his com. unit. Yes?

Eagle One, we may have a small problem.

And what the hell is that? said the voice.

The other party that was interested in the contract; I think they were some sort of ‘Legals’ and they were not happy.

Have you been compromised?

Negative but they are closing in fast

Can you exfil?

Yes.

Then you had better get a move on and please try not to kill anyone else. We will meet at the pickup point, do not be late.

Will do.

He eased the Audi down the ramp, heading to the street and ran slap bang into the two vans."

Oh shit, was all he could get out, before flooring the gas and accelerating away, burning rubber as he went. He blasted through the traffic lights and onto Point Road with the two SUVs in hot pursuit. He hung a right and headed for the Southern Freeway, hoping to out-distance them.

The Audi growled into the night, the SUVs started to drop back and the shooter started to relax. A fresh set of headlights started to creep up on him. Then he realized that it was the car at the hit. They were obviously in radio contact. He keyed his com. unit. Eagle One do you copy?

Where are you? said the disembodied voice in his ear.

About to take the Edwin Swales off-ramp but we have a bit of a problem, a Beemer has joined the chase and it is going to be close. I may need some help.

We will be waiting for you; just move it.

Will do.

The off-ramp for the Bluff came up very fast and it took some very fancy driving with howling tyres to make it but the shooter eased off the power just enough and then blasted through the traffic lights onto Edwin Swales Drive.

Beat that you bastard. he muttered.

A quick glance in the rear view mirror confirmed that the BMW had in fact done just that. The only thing that made the shooter feel better was the fact that the BMW had not gained any ground. About five kilometres away on the sea side of the Bluff, (a long finger of land like a lover’s arm protecting the harbour from the sea) in a disused whaling station, seven pairs of eyes strained into the darkness, trying to get a glimpse of the Audi head lights, coming down the winding coastal road.

He’s cutting it fine, said one of the men.

They were all dressed in black combat fatigues with balaclavas rolled up on their heads. All were armed with MP 7 sub-machine guns. Their leader was of medium height and whippet-thin with piercing grey eyes that saw everything and gave nothing away.

Here he comes, someone shouted.

All right, everyone, stations please, you know what to do, was the command.

The group leapt to the command. The big steel gate was opened just wide enough to let the Audi through and the rest dispersed into the darkness. In the stillness, they could hear the thrum of the Audi motor and the tortured squealing of the tyres drawing closer.

The shooter had driven like a man possessed all along Edwin Swales, thanking his lucky stars that it was so early in the morning. He blew through red traffic lights at about 160kms an hour. The BMW was about half a click behind him but not gaining. However he was worried that once he got onto the winding road to the beach that the more nimble BMW would be able to catch him.

As he power-slid the Audi onto Bluff Road, he saw two young Indian men with fishing rods leap over a low wall on the corner, screaming obscenities at him as they went. If the shooter had had the time, he would have found it quite funny. At last, he threw the car into the beach road and accelerated hard, blasted past the army barracks, waking up the gate guard as he went by. He passed two lovers getting it on at the view site. I hope you are practicing safe sex, he managed to get out between gritted teeth. Now was danger time, the road was very narrow and the Audi was a big car. ‘If I had known I was going to have a car chase, I would have stolen a Ferrari,’ he thought.

On the seaward side of the Bluff at last and he could catch glimpses of his destination. I hope you are ready for me, he screamed into his com. unit.

Into the car park and straight across, he aimed at the big steel gate looming out of the darkness. He risked a look in his rear view mirror to find that the BMW was still the same distance behind. The driver must have known the area and knew his prey had nowhere to go. He had trapped his prey. Or so he thought. He squeezed through the gap in the gate and brought the Audi to a screaming, juddering halt and before he could even wipe the sweat from his eyes, the gate was slammed shut and a thick chain locked in place.

For a few seconds the silence was almost tangible, broken only by the ticking of the cooling Audi motor. Then the BMW burst into view, screamed to a halt about twenty metres from the gate, and sat there idling.

Eventually, after what seemed ages, the driver switched off. In the distance, howling tires and screaming engines announced the arrival of the two SUVs. They approached more cautiously but parked either side of the BMW. The driver’s door opened and the driver uncoiled from the car. He had obviously switched off the inside light, so he was in shadow. He cautiously approached the gate. When he was ten metres away, a command from inside barked lights and two spotlights zeroed in on the driver, pinning him in a blaze of light. He was tall, slim and athletic in build, dressed in a pair of black jeans, a dark blue polo neck sweater and a well-worn leather jacket. The driver was also sporting a pair of drop earrings that sparkled as they caught the light, a pair of well- developed breasts and a Glock nine-millimetre handgun. The ‘he’ was a ‘she’ of African descent and very tense.

No way, whispered the shooter. No woman drives like that.

The leader of the group stepped forward into the light and she zero-ed in on him with the Glock.

Who are you? she demanded, her voice flat with tension. Behind her came the sounds of the doors opening and closing and the rest of her crew arrived on the run, all armed and high on adrenalin.

That is the million dollar question, isn’t it, answered the leader in a clear ringing tone. But I would rather know who you are first.

You see you have just interrupted something way above your pay grade and at this stage I am not sure how or why.

Well, I do not care who you are. I want the driver of that car, she demanded, indicating the Audi. I want him for questioning; he was involved in a shooting earlier in town.

Oh dear, I was afraid you were going to say that, said the leader.

He made a sign with his right hand and four ghosts, armed with H&K Mp 7 sub machine guns, stepped into the light and then back into the shadows.

He raised his voice and called, Snipers, sites please, and immediately, two red dots from laser sites pierced the darkness and pinned themselves to her chest, the one began to lazily circle her left breast. That will do, barked the leader and it froze over her heart.

This I believe is what they call a Mexican standoff.

I don’t care, she said. I want to question the driver of that car in connection with a murder in town. -- I am Lieutenant De Santos of the Organized Crime Division and I demand you hand him over.

Well, Lieutenant, here’s the thing, it is not going to happen. In five minutes or so we are going to leave, him included and I will deal with the person you are indicating, said the leader.

In that case I will have no choice but to use deadly force and my first round will be through your head, she said grimly.

The leader smiled and said, That would be a mistake, Lieutenant, because ten seconds after you fire, you and all your crew will be dead, he replied.

You would not dare. We are police officers and you will be hunted down like dogs.

Are you prepared to take the chance? he asked. Scarecrow, he called.

Yes sir, someone answered out of the darkness.

In a clear voice the leader ordered, If I should be killed, wounded or incapacitated by this person in any way, you are to assume command and terminate all witnesses, sanitize the area and exfiltrate.

Yes, sir, the voice acknowledged.

Now, Lieutenant, the choice is yours, die alongside your crew, or holster your weapons and allow us to prepare for our departure. Either way, I cannot afford the time for a pissing contest. Put up or shut up.

Who the hell are you? she demanded.

As I said before, above your pay grade but if it is of any consolation, I have no wish to harm you. We are leaving now and I have a feeling we will meet again somewhere. Goodbye, said the leader.

Lights, he shouted and the whole area was plunged into darkness.

Nods, he called and all the men switched on their night vision units. The men made their way to an open area and the snipers joined them.

The leader took one of the men aside and said, Sparky, place your magic box near to the gate and meet us at the exfil point down by the water.

Yes, sir, the man said and he double timed away.

Boomer, have you placed the charges in the car? he asked another man.

Yes, sir, was the reply.

Two minutes later, they heard the steady thwup, thwup of a helicopter and out of the darkness slid the slippery shape of a mat black helicopter like a shark. It was flying so low that the wash from the rotor was kicking up spray from the surf. Go, Go, Go, was the command as it touched down and the men ran forward and leapt aboard. It was off the ground in less than thirty seconds. It backed away to about 200 metres and hovered at the leader’s instruction. He looked back; saw that the Lieutenant had climbed the fence and was standing with feet planted in the firing position; she was aiming an automatic rifle at them. He could see the little flashes from the barrel as she systematically squeezed off short bursts at them.

Naughty, naughty, shouted the leader above the noise of the chopper. I thought she was going to do that.

He pulled a little black box from a pocket in his tunic and pressed a button. The Audi erupted in a ball of fire from the thermal charge that Boomer had set. The woman had been within 20 metres of the car and the blast blew her through the air and she did not get up straight away.

Once the Leader saw her move, he said, Let’s go home gentleman; I think that is enough excitement for tonight.

The chopper banked away and headed down the coast, at very low altitude to be below the radar. I would not like to be near her when she tries to use her cell phone or tries to start her car. Sparky’s magic box will have taken out all the electronics in a 200- yard radius, said the leader.

The chopper nosed down the coast, hugging the shoreline at fifty feet. It was nerve-racking for the pilot but the years of experience all over the world stood him in good stead. Dawn was making its presence felt when they reached their destination, this after a very interesting flight up the Umkomaas valley, following the river so low that they could have gone fishing. They landed in a clearing on a timber farm near the small town of Ixopo and quickly transferred all their gear and uniforms to the back of a medium- sized delivery truck. Portable showers had been set up and the men cleaned up and dressed in civilian clothes. The pilot of the chopper peeled away the spray on rubber skin that covered the registration numbers and the name of the company that owned the bird.

While doing this, he noticed a small hole near the rear rotor. Hey, Major, the bitch hit us, how about that.

The leader, Major Mike Collins, came over and said, Well, she was pretty damn keen, I must admit.

Let’s check the rest of the bird.

They all went over the chopper and did not find any more damage.

Thank goodness for that. said the Major. You had better get out of here, it is getting late and the sun is already up.

The pilot said his goodbyes and climbed aboard. He fired up the chopper, lifted off and banked away. The men split up into pairs and walked over to the three cars parked on a dirt access road.

The Major went with the shooter and Scarecrow. They started up and drove in convoy to the main road where the lead car turned left and headed for the Eastern Cape town of Umtata. The other two turned right and headed for Pietermaritzburg and Durban. Two and a half hours later Major (Mad) Mike Collins, Captain Benny (Scarecrow) McAlister and Lieutenant Piet (Skiet) Kruger, were sitting in the business class lounge at the Pietermaritzburg airport, sipping cold beer and discussing the night’s proceedings. The other two cars had gone to Durban and East London airports respectively.

Chapter 2

Successful but stressful," said Scarecrow.

Yes and I want to know why we did not know about their operation, mused Collins. It could have been a lot hairier, we were lucky."

Skiet just stared into his beer for a while and said, I just want to know where that bladdy woman learned to drive like that.

What’s the matter, Skiet? Can’t handle being bested by a woman? asked the Major, while he winked at Scarecrow.

Whoa, boss, she never caught me, even if she did have a car that could handle better than mine.

Are you making excuses again, Skiet? asked Scarecrow. What would have happened if we weren’t there to save your sorry ass?

Hah! I would have carried on driving and would be in Pretoria already.

Oh yeah sure, with a cop two hundred metres behind you and with the clout she seems to have, with a helicopter riding shotgun, said Scarecrow. No, I agree with the Major. We were lucky this time and we need to look into the matter.

The Major sat back, and watched the banter between the two men and pondered the future. He had done wonders with the men in the six months training but keeping them motivated was going to be a challenge. Well, he thought that is what he was good at, a challenge.

Michael Collins was born in Cape Town, thirty-nine years previously, to an English father, and a South African mother. He grew up in the southern suburbs of Cape Town, went to SACS High school and got his degree in Engineering at The University of Cape Town. He was academically gifted and excelled at school and university as well as at sports. He and his parents then emigrated to the U.K, where they still live in a retirement home in Essex. Much against his parents’ wishes, he joined the British army and went through officer’s training. Graduating as second Lieutenant, he was seconded to the First Engineers Battalion, based in Salisbury.

He found that being a sapper, building and blowing up bridges and the like, was boring, so he applied for active duty and was accepted into the 21st Paratroops Battalion and reported to Aldershot for training. He excelled at leadership and joined special ops. In two years, he joined the SAS where he worked his way up to the rank of captain. He spent a year in Bosnia and did two tours in the Middle East, chasing down weapons of mass destruction that were not there. Disillusioned, he resigned from the SAS and came back to South Africa, where he started his own security company in Johannesburg.

One night working late, he suddenly realized that he was not alone in his office. He looked up and stared at the biggest man he had ever seen. He was impeccably dressed in a dark three-piece suit and a white shirt. His shoes shone like black mirrors. His black face showed no emotion but his eyes were never still. When he moved, it was with the grace of an athlete. This was no lumbering behemoth, this man meant business. The bulge under his jacket was testament to this.

Collins took a breath and asked, Can I help you?

That depends on you, sir, the man had a surprisingly gentle voice.

Oh really, said Collins.

Yes, perhaps I should introduce myself? My name is Max and my employer would very much like to talk to you but due to certain circumstances, he is unable to come here in person. So he asked if it would be at all possible for you to join him for a late nightcap. This was said with a smile, making it quite clear that it was not a request at all.

Do I have a choice, Max?

I would rather it was voluntary, sir, I abhor violence, still with a smile fixed on his face.

Am I ever coming back, Max?

Of course you are, sir, in what condition is entirely up to you. This sounds intriguing, can we lock up before we go?

Certainly, sir, I will help you.

They locked up, set the alarms and walked out to the car park to a large black Mercedes limo. Max, ever so gracious, opened the back door for Collins. Please feel free to help yourself to a drink. We should be there in about thirty five minutes.

In no time, they had left the industrial area of Isando behind and were heading into Midrand. They swung left off the freeway and travelled for ten minutes and finally turned in to a gravel driveway that led to an old farmhouse, set among some scraggly trees. The house appeared to be in darkness, except for a dim light from a window on the left hand side of the house.

Max opened the car door and escorted Collins through the front door, down a dark corridor smelling of dust and dry rot. At the door of the lighted room, he knocked gently, opened the door and ushered Collins in.

Collins stepped into a dimly lit, sparsely furnished room, with a table and two straight chairs. On the table was a bottle of good scotch and two glasses. A bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling provided the light. A man in a rumpled three-piece suit was staring out of the only window into the darkness, with his hands clasped behind his back. He was tall and wide-shouldered but was slowly turning to fat. He looked about fifty to fifty five years of age and was of mixed race. He had a lighter skin tone than Max and a round face, giving him a well-fed look.

Ah, come in, Captain Collins, he said in a deep baritone voice.

Please pour us a drink; I know you are fond of Chevas. Collins was intrigued, no-one had used his old rank in a long time and someone knew of his preferences. He stepped up to the table, broke the seal on the bottle and poured two generous measures.

Do we know each other?

The man turned and smiled, Oh you don’t know me but I know all about you.

Then you have me at a disadvantage.

Yes, this is true and I always will have but I am getting ahead of myself. Please, sit, he said, pulling back a chair for himself and easing his bulk down onto it. He reached down and picked up a briefcase at his feet, delved around and pulled out a file.

Collins took a pull at his whisky.

Perhaps I should introduce myself. My name is Brigadier Peter Pandor, oh and don’t rack your brain trying to work out who I am, as you will never find me in your memory banks. I am South Africa’s best and only kept secret but enough about me, let’s talk about you, Captain Collins. I do apologize for all the drama in getting you here but later you will understand why. Now let’s see, you have a very impressive file, Captain, with just one rather big blot on it. He looked up at Collins expectantly.

First of all, you must have a hell of a lot of juice to have my complete file; the SAS doesn’t just give out that kind of information to anybody. Second, if you have my file, you know what happened in Bosnia, said Collins, starting to get a bit hot under the collar.

This is true. However, I would like to hear it from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.

Collins took a deep breath. "I was still a lieutenant then and my partner and I crawled for miles on a recce patrol. We ended up on a hill overlooking a village that was crawling with bad guys, setting up an ambush. We noticed a small British light-armoured column with support troops approaching from the North, about three miles away.

We jumped on the radio, raised the Commanding officer of the column and warned him not to enter the village, due to the ambush. He stopped the column about a mile from the village and glassed the place with binocs. The rebels, well hidden, could not be seen from the road but from our vantage point, they were very clear. Then this idiot Captain decided to overrule me and decided to push forward. I was screaming at him over the radio but he would not listen.

Well, the short version is, they drove straight into the ambush, the first two armoured troop carriers were hit with RPG fire, killing most of the occupants and the other three managed to turn and run, leaving the few injured survivors to fend for themselves. Some men were still trapped in the wreckage and we could hear them screaming. I called in an air strike and some choppers came in, flattened the village and picked up survivors.

My spotter had videoed the whole episode, so we withdrew and got the hell out of there. We got back to base the next day and we reported in. I reported the whole thing to our CO and gave him the video. That night, I was having a few quiet beers with some fellow Sasmen in the officers’ mess, when in walks this prick of a Captain with a few of his fellow officers. They were in high spirits and having a great time, as if nothing had happened. Eventually I could not stand it and I walked over to them and asked how many men he had lost the day before. He looked me over as if I was a specimen and asked me what it had to do with me and who-the- hell was I. I told him that I was the person that warned him about the ambush and the one that stayed behind to mop up his cock-up and to listen to his men screaming. Well, the whole place went very quiet.

The SAS is not very popular with regular army types as we work to our own set of rules. He slapped his drink down and told me I was out of line, and to go and sleep it off before he wrote me up. Then there followed a series of insults back and forth with me casting aspersions on his lineage and the fact that he was totally incompetent. It all deteriorated into an all-out brawl with my colleagues joining in, the four of us and six of them. They stood no chance against us.

When the dust had settled they were all down. Two ended up in hospital and the rest, including the Captain, were the worse for wear. The MPs arrived and took us all to the stockade. At the hearing, my CO presented the video and pleaded a case of extreme stress at the negligence of the Captain. I was severely reprimanded, for striking a brother officer but at least I kept my rank. I spent the next six months out in the field, living like an animal to keep me out of temptation. Eventually I shipped back to the UK, where I served out my time and retired from the Regiment as a Captain. I still keep in contact with my old chums; the SAS man code is, ‘He who dares wins’ but also ‘Once you are in, you are never out. They are the best of the best. And that was that, I still hear the screams of those men in my dreams."

I see, said Pandor with a wry smile. However, you left out the part where the Captain, who shall remain nameless, received a broken jaw, two broken ribs and various contusions. He was later brought up on charges for the village incident, demoted and sent home in disgrace.

Yes, said Collins not my finest hour but tell me, what is this all about? This walk down memory lane was all fun but it has been a long day and I get the feeling that the other shoe is about to drop.

Pandor smiled and topped up their drinks.

Captain, I asked you to come to this meeting because I have a proposition to make to you.

I am not looking for a job, I am self-employed and very happy. Captain, please hear me out.

OK, give me the sales pitch.

"Thank you,