Timeless Revenge

By Frank Warburton

In 1972, the story begins and ends in 2002. After a covert operation in 1972 during the closing stages of the Vietnam War, a team of British SAS troopers was flown from their training base in Borneo through to Thailand to assist a CIA operation in Vietnam. The rendezvous was to at all times be of a covert nature and never exposed to media.
During this operation, the SAS uncover atrocities by the CIA team on local village communities. This leads to a fiery confrontation between the two groups resulting in casualties. The SAS team complete their mission objective of bringing out a prominent North Vietnamese official but because of the altercation between the teams, they were forced into an alternative evacuation plan.
The CIA having been faced with the fact of the atrocities being known and the loss of their colleagues by the SAS go on a mission of vengeance which lasts over thirty years.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Jun 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9781528998314

Frank Warburton

Frank Warburton was born in the UK and raised in South London. Losing both parents as a teenager meant becoming independent was really quick. He joined the British Army in 1968, serving his entire military career overseas as a specialist heavy vehicle mechanic on equipment such as Chieftan Tanks, M110 and their other associated equipment. He was attached to numerous regiments as REME such as 7 Armoured Brigade (Desert Rats) and 76 Maudes Battery RA. He left military in 1980, emigrating to Australia where he has since worked in mining, construction and manufacturing as an engineer and trainer. Now retired and settled in Queensland. Frank’s family consists of a combined seven children, eleven grandchildren and three great grandsons and two great granddaughters. Family is important and gives Frank and his wife great pleasure and purpose in life. The main thought he has in life that gives me sense of reality and purpose is: Blood is related. Loyalty is family.

Book preview

About the Author

Frank Warburton was born in the UK and raised in South London. Losing both parents as a teenager meant becoming independent was really quick.

He joined the British Army in 1968, serving his entire military career overseas as a specialist heavy vehicle mechanic on equipment such as Chieftan Tanks, M110 and their other associated equipment. He was attached to numerous regiments as REME such as 7 Armoured Brigade (Desert Rats) and 76 Maudes Battery RA.

He left military in 1980, emigrating to Australia where he has since worked in mining, construction and manufacturing as an engineer and trainer. Now retired and settled in Queensland.

Frank’s family consists of a combined seven children, eleven grandchildren and three great grandsons and two great granddaughters. Family is important and gives Frank and his wife great pleasure and purpose in life.

The main thought he has in life that gives me sense of reality and purpose is:

Blood is related.

Loyalty is family.

Dedication

It has taken me many years to put my words on paper. After so many funny, and not-so-funny, stories about my past experiences, I thank my dear friends and family for the gentle encouragement they have given me to complete this novel. This includes the many moods they had to bear while I searched through the brain computer for my history of military and non-military experiences.

This book is in memory of my parents whom I lost at such a young age, leaving me to gain an independent attitude and self-survival, which my peers were not subject to.

I also thank the family of friends whom I served with in the British Military, their camaraderie and true friendship we shared, both then and now.

Special thanks towards the men and women who currently serve in Her Majesty’s forces for their commitment and loyalty. May that trust, for which we have all given to our country, its citizens and the danger we place ourselves into, be rewarded and never forgotten.

Copyright Information ©

Frank Warburton 2022

The right of Frank Warburton to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, 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.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781528998307 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781528998314 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2022

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

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Acknowledgement

My thanks to Austin Macauley Publishers who have given that extra breath to put this book on the shelves.

Prologue

Brisbane, Australia 2000

I have been living a lie for nearly 30 years now. A changed name and a forced relocation to the other side of the world away from everything I knew. Life for me had been one disaster after another since 1972 and not even the Millennium Bug or Y2K bug as it was called, fixed the damn thing when it arrived at the turn of the millennium. Because the supposed disaster that all records and information on computers would be wiped clean never happened it meant all the details on me and my new life were never erased and the information that was to always pin me down by someone was still there somewhere in the worldwide web.

I often wonder how many people around the world were hoping for a clean and untraceable start in life when those clocks ticked over at midnight on the night of 31 December 1999. How many, I wonder, were as disappointed as I was that nothing happened to fix our problems.

Here I was in a country that really did not like me because as a Pom, I would always be the brunt of everyone’s jokes in Australia. Saying that though, I have had lots of fun in the time I have spent here since that fateful expedition in 1972.

I had arrived in Perth with a new identity and name, no longer Tom Warburton but Bill (William) Robinson, and my only contact with Old Blighty was now through a bespectacled little wanker who called on me to drop off information from the UK on relevant aspects of my family etc. He was just another face following many who had come before. Like those before, not even he knew who I really was or what the hell I was doing here. The first of my contacts was a young army lieutenant working for the consulate as part of the military attaché and he was with me for about six months, after which I headed for the mines of the Pilbara Region. From one mine to another over the next 10 years, Mary Kathleen Uranium in Queensland and Mt Gunson Copper in South Australia. Always on the move, never stay too long in one place was my motto for fear of someone tapping me on the shoulder. Rewards were good financially and that kept me in some kind of sanity.

Apart from my contacts with the embassy in Canberra, I never got too involved with anyone for too long as I always felt I may be giving them a death sentence by association. I was a hunted man from what the embassy always kept telling me. Don’t try and contact anyone from the past as to do so would put them in danger. Whenever they contacted me it was usually to tell me it was time to move on or an underlying meaning that someone was trying to find me and were getting a bit close.

Great feeling for a person to have, a feeling that I was worse off than a convict that would have been sent here years ago. A lonely existence that was otherwise frustrating, to say the least.

I had, however, broken protocol since 1972 as I did have contact with someone in Malaysia, someone special. I shouldn’t have gotten too close but I did. She was 9 years my junior when we first met in 1972 in the jungles of Vietnam.

Over the following years during secret visits, two to three times a year, to the Malay Peninsula, we became closer and closer till in 1980 when she, at the age of 22, and me at 31 became something of an item, something that was very special.

At this stage of my life, I honestly believed I had fallen in love, well and truly head over heels. For me that was life-changing. I had for once in my life, the feeling that things were looking normal. The whole of this daunting lie I was leading was liveable at last till 1984 when I was abruptly reminded by a new minder that the Firm (MI6) was aware of my movements and associations and told me to back off as the link between the both of us could possibly lead to being caught out as the travel movements between countries were being monitored in great detail. You just could not evade the spooks of this world; big brother unfortunately is the biggest certainty that we as normal humans tend to ignore.

Again, another disaster for me, no longer being able to visit Malaya or anyplace else for that matter. I was a prisoner now, locked into one large cell…well, a large continent at least, nice as it was.

Another disaster had fallen upon me and just try explaining to the love of my life that I truly did not want to put her in any danger and therefore we had to end our liaisons. I returned that one last time swearing never to go back again for fear that to do so would risk her life but we agreed to keep in touch through mail and secret electronic mailboxes. She was the most understanding female I had met since losing my own mother.

From 85 till 95 I just kept working and kept fit, staying out of the limelight as much as possible. No party weekends, no wondrous group gatherings, just a lonely secluded existence. That was me being a total loner and loser in the first degree.

Ten years of hell, to my mind. That seemed to be how the powers that be from the British Embassy wanted it, as they kept reminding me to keep it simple. Their visits during this period were slowly beginning to drop off as if to remind me that I was becoming a forgotten entity after all these years but they did encourage me to try and find a partner to at least appear normal to folk. In 1995, I became involved with a local Brisbane lass who had a young daughter. Perhaps the problems that started it all in 1972 were now becoming history at last.

Nadine was 33, slim and petite. Small-boned, some would say, with glistening brown shoulder-length hair and some 13 years my junior but very mature for her age; she had been through a vicious and mentally frustrating marriage that had ended some five years earlier. She had a beautiful daughter, Caroline, who was 14, blond hair and eyes that you could die for. They used to just flow a certain type of message to you without saying a word and very cheeky when she wanted to be with those eyes as her most powerful weapon. I think it was young Caroline who was the instigator of our getting together initially. Our relationship was more one of companionship rather than anything else. I still could not bring myself to love anyone else; my heart was still with that special person in Malaya.

Two adult people who obviously were lonely but unwilling to get totally involved with anyone else through the fear of let-downs. No one objected on my side, that is the Firm, so we just became a couple to beat the loneliness that had built up over many years. Children were a new thing for me but I must admit I enjoyed the role of Dad somewhat, although it always reminded me of the young girl from Vietnam who came under my wings in 1972, only to be torn away from me again in 1984. I had made my mind up to never want any children of my own as I always felt that the world in which I was living was not a place to bring kids up in; it was fearful and thankless in my experience.

I felt at this point that all was okay and I could finally relax and not have to keep looking over my shoulder as I had for so many years. That feeling when there is a knock at the door and your whole body goes rigid and your mind jumps into some supernova gear of defence.

Just a knock at the door could mean that there was someone looking for me and then again, it could just be those Jehovah’s Witnesses who seem to be getting more and more numbers in their congregation looking for more lost souls to convert. I don’t know how many times you had to tell them that you were not interested but they still persisted, must either like me or they could see the troubled mind I seemed to be carrying inside, something they do well though and that is they get you into a place in your mind that appears friendly and safe. Perhaps they too were looking for me to become one of their many rescued converts.

Either way, whoever knocked put me on edge even after all these years, it just felt that someone had found me.

It had become quite rare now to even get a message from anyone at the embassy. Their visits started petering off over the years and by the late eighties, they were few and far between.

I never once dreamt that getting involved with Nadine and her daughter would hold such a horrific future; this action was the beginning of a death sentence for these two lovely girls and I felt the minders didn’t realise that the long memories and revenge of some people could last over thirty years.

That was where I was and all was good, I thought. The next set of disasters was about to be dropped on my plate slowly over the coming years and I was to find out about some other disasters that had happened back in the UK and elsewhere that I was never told about.

Some people we can trust and then there are some we cannot, but how do you ever find out who they are? We just learn by time and experience.

Choices

Chapter 1

June 1972

Brunei Jungle

The line of trees that surrounded us was dense and wet. Long strands of creepers hung from the trees and the noises from the local insects were penetrating our eardrums. Sometimes, looking at this environment, I would wonder how the hell Tarzan had put up with it for so long. We had had some monsoonal style rains, which were not altogether uncommon in this part of the world.

Sat around in our group, we were at the end of what had been a long and arduous exercise. Now it was completed and we were awaiting our next batch of orders which we hoped would be some R and R (rest and recuperation), and then off back to Stirling Lines and some UK social life.

Thank God that’s over with, I thought it would never end Gov, was the remark of a sleepless and rather sad-looking figure of Geordie.

Well, that’s it then eh! Jdub chimed in.

Certainly were the longest 6 weeks I’ve had in a few years, commented Jock We just sit and wait now till the truck comes and picks us up and then showers and proper food, he continued.

Cut it out Jock, you’re making me salivate too much, Jdub came back.

That would be the women you’ve got lined up, you randy bastard, Jock replied with a tinge of jealousy in his voice.

Patience, boys, relax and dream, I remarked.

The thought of showers and food cooked in a kitchen were the best feelings anyone could have after completing six gruelling weeks in jungle training here. After all, we had had to care for ourselves naturally with cooking and food collecting. The survival expert that had given us a rundown before our little trip out had been really knowledgeable and we had heeded all his advice and must admit we were never under any pressure of hunger. Survival skills we seemed to shine with and we had had many times in the past where we only relied on what was around us as on most occasions we carried very little.

March and April being the hottest months of the year in Brunei and now May was the start of the wet season. Humidity in this part of the world was normal at 79%. Humidity tends to drain your whole body and after a day’s trekking, it can push the body into retreat in many ways.

Boy, just the thought of getting back to base camp was getting me revved up and no thoughts remained of the lack of sleep we had had to endure during this particular exercise. We had been one of the first teams to have tested out this new location for the British Army Jungle Warfare School. It had been tough but we had expected no more than the toughest for the Regiment.

I was brought around to reality as the MK Bedford slowly pulled up alongside our place of rest followed by a short wheelbase Land Rover. Out of its passenger window bellowed a familiar voice, which got all four of us turning and smiling.

Okay, you smelly, grotty lot, time to move. In the back with yer gear boys and let’s get back to base, yelled our favourite and most welcoming instructor at this point, Sgt Major Crouch.

Pete Crouch, a stocky ex-Grenadier guardsman who was a veteran of the Regiment for the last 12 years. An old hand at explosives and one of the few who tended to remain on as an instructor to the young newbies that would be following us. He had seen action in operations in Africa, Middle East, Asia and Central America. A tough nut who was one of the fairest men you could ever meet. He was approaching the end of his army time and he had jumped at the chance to be able to pass on his collected skills to the rest of us and accepted the posting to Brunei with open arms.

Well, lads, you can be assured you are very capable and as a reward for your efforts… Sudden silence fell as we four poor excuses for jungle rats stood ready to throw our gear into the arse end of the Bedford and dream of beer, girls and food after a welcome bath and feed. You have been asked for by the colonel to go on a short trip, but unfortunately it is without the usual wash and brush up, boys. They want you as you are, Pete continued with what I detected as a sly grin appearing on his face.

But— Jock was stopped with a sharp look and lifted hand from SM Crouch’s large plate-like hands.

No buts lads, you know the score; when needed, we respond. The powers to be are the only ones who can answer your questions at this stage. Sorry lads, but proper work calls and you are on the list and the closest by all accounts. Rover is coming to pick you up from base in thirty minutes so pack up your gear and let’s get ready to move, you are off to the airfield quick smart as soon as the Rover gets there.

You’ve probably never seen such a change come over a human like this before but Pete was right, we had signed up for this type of quick action and without further complaint we got ourselves up and running and boarded our truck.

Getting back to base camp wasn’t too bad after being on our feet for so long. Whoever said that to use Shanks’s Pony was good for you hadn’t imagined the length of time some of us spent on them.

The Rover pulled in just after us at base camp and we had only a few minutes to get our weapons back into the armourer’s shed and throw most of our kit into boxes which would eventually find their way back to our billets in Hereford. Boy were they going to stink before we got to deal with them. We had this habit of spraying any deodorant we had around the kit as we threw it in the boxes to try and isolate the eventual smell that would erupt when opened.

The rough 20-minute trip to the airport was fairly solemn and we all just looked at each other wondering what was the urgency for this call in this area of the world. The Brits had no problems to solve at present in Asia; we were mostly bouncing between Africa and Central America now with a bit of work in the Middle East.

We knew we had a few teams covering SE Asia to extract downed pilots and recce supply lines in Vietnam, where the Yanks and their allies were being stretched to their limits, and apart from that to assist in recon and intelligence matters for them.

No more was said to us from when Pete had spoken to us on pick up and we of course couldn’t try to surmise what was going on. That would not be good and would only lend us to doubts and misapprehensions. Just wait and see till we were briefed and we could get on with it, that was our normal way and it was the way we believed in.

At the airstrip a United States Air Force C130 Hercules stood idling, all four engines, just waiting for us to board. With a short farewell from SM Crouch, we boarded and as I passed him, he grabbed my arm.

Good luck, son, he said, you are leading a good team and I know you’ll do us proud. He had a serious look in his eyes which made me feel he knew more than what he had made out to us.

Thanks Boss, we owe you heaps, you are one of the best, I replied. Pete and I had struck up a friendship closer than most within the Regiment. He was like a big brother to me and had helped me through some difficult times back in Hereford and now in Brunei where he had taken the role of senior trainer for 6 months. He was one of the most stable and seriously experienced men you could want on your side, that was for sure.

Catch you back at the Mess, eh Boss? I hinted.

Sure thing. I’ll have ’em lined up on the bar for you lads, stay safe, he shot back as he turned away and began to swagger across the airstrip to his Land Rover.

We boarded the Hercules; I loved the old beast, its special way of using short take-offs on these jungle airstrips. It was a special way of sitting there and putting on the revs and feeling the whole plane shake and shudder and if you were fortunate enough to be able to peer out of one of the few windows, then you could watch the wings appear to flap like a bird as if it was trying to lift itself vertically. Then the feeling of being thrown to the rear of the plane as the brakes came off and the whole lumbering thing began trundling down the runway. The feeling you had as you knew the trees were approaching fast and perhaps we were running out of room to clear them and you look around and everyone was doing the same, pretending to lift their arses up off their seats to help the plane lift off the bloody ground. Then before you knew it, she was up and climbing fast, a truly remarkable piece of aeronautical engineering. God bless America.

The Loadmaster came towards us from the direction of the cockpit with an expression of disgust on his face. His nose was all screwed up as if he had just been trapped in a room when a stink bomb had been let off.

Any chance you Limeys can move down the plane as the pilots are getting a waft of your presence, which isn’t very pleasant?

Sure thing, pal. Sorry for the aroma but we’ve been rather busy these past weeks and this trip wasn’t at all planned or on our travel itinerary. I replied and nodded to my three compatriots. Where are we heading, pal?

All I can say, buddy, is that we are dropping you guys off at Ubon Air Base.

Where the hell is that? Geordie asked inquisitively.

Thailand. Came the Loadmaster’s response.

What the fuck are we doing going there, Gov? Geordie blew back at me.

Don’t know, Geordie, you know the score—we wait till the big boss talks to us. No questions, guys, we need to just relax and wait. Enjoy our first-class flight.

What movies have we got on this flight, pal? asked Jock with some sarcasm. And I would like wine with my meal, thank you.

As the Loadmaster was walking away from us after moving us to economy minus at the rear of the plane, we overheard him comment to one of his crew about how the Limeys didn’t seem to have any hygiene ethics these days. I just felt then a small part of me wanting to tell him that some of us have to do the dirty work while he resided in luxury between jobs.

Air crews the world over, even the RAF, act like spoilt little brats and snobs at best. I would love to change roles with them one day but thinking about it, their job is too boring for me. They do a job and someone has to so I suppose they serve a worthwhile purpose.

One of his subordinates came back to us with a shitload of rations, which were extremely welcome, but unlike the Loadmaster, he did not hang around to offer any words. In fact, he kept his mouth so tightly closed I think he feared that to open it would end up with him getting a mouthful of what we were wearing on our person.

The noise in a Hercules doesn’t promote any talk so with earplugs in and a parka coat to keep you warm in the higher reaches of the airways, we just all snuggled down to catch up on some missing sleep. Going through my mind were the recent years where life had changed so dramatically for me and now I was linked with people who were genuine friends and mates and in my eyes, my family.

Chapter 2

As Thomas Warburton, I was born in London down the Old Kent Road—yep, the cheapest place on the Monopoly board and grew up on the Lambeth Walk where the old pubs used to have frequent visits from the Pearly Kings and Queens. Not that I was any part of that just a proud little cockney Londoner at best.

Life was great, my parents were hard workers and Dad was ex-Royal Horse Artillery from 1930 till after 1944. He often used to tell me how, when he was on his way back from the northwest territories of India (now Pakistan) in 1939 and as he came off the boat looking forward to being a civilian again he was drafted straight back into an artillery unit as a sergeant gunner and had been sent off to war.

Blown up a couple of times in North Africa but still managed to last it out till the end. Never spoke much of the war, just did not want to think about it I suppose as it took away a lot of time from his family. He was always my greatest hero and someone I knew I could always confide in.

Unfortunately for me, I lost both my parents within a short time of each other when I was 16, which was the biggest shock to my system I could ever imagine. I became an angry young man and blamed the world and God for my loss.

My mate’s Mum and Dad took me in even though I had elder brothers. But the two eldest were married and had their own families to worry about without having their little brother cramping their style of living. They certainly didn’t need this aggro-centred teenager on their books that was for sure. I remained close to them though even with the age gap of 17, 11 and 5 years. You could tell Dad was a military man of days when they were away for long hauls.

At 18 I joined the REME and trained as a mechanic in A class or tanks and everything else the army was able to put into the field. I was already partly qualified in earthmoving equipment after taking a job with an equipment hire company in Balham.

Three years and speedy promotions saw me rise to the dizzy rank of corporal and living in Germany and enjoying the lifestyle that went with living there and of course, the local overseas allowance, which wasn’t to be sneered at.

I was always looking for different stuff to do, adventurous and had no interest in getting hitched with a girl as I felt that being close to people hurts too much, especially when someone dear is taken from you. Being a loner at times at mess events and get-togethers indicated that I was mentally scarred from the loss of my parents somewhat. I was always looking for a family but not allowing them too close and the army gave me that type of family.

To get extra thrills and extra pay in REME, you had to go away on courses like parachute courses, which I completed in Aldershot in 1969; it had been something I had really enjoyed doing, being grouped up with guys in a team, especially carrying a telegraph pole around Aldershot for training purposes. Mad, you might say, yes, you would be right, but the training was great for us and built up a great team ethic which I refer back to even nowadays.

I did not get attached to the Parachute Regiment as my skills were required in other more important theatres for the army hierarchy, which meant just wearing the Pegasus wings but not the red beret but having to complete a certain amount of jumps each year to keep my wings and extra pay.

I applied for selection for the SAS and after a gruelling winter entry, which was devastatingly freezing, conquered the Brecon Beacons and finally completed the, mysterious to outsiders, Fan Dance. It is hard to explain to people how tough it really is out there but the figures give an indication as only about 10% of those who applied got through it and then there was the follow-up training that tends to weed out more to-be-RTU’d (returned to unit). An achievement I am especially proud of and it was how I met these other three smelly guys who were part of this band of brothers. We were brought together in Northern Ireland as a team attached to DET in Londonderry and had been together for about 6 months now.

I certainly felt my life had turned around from the angry young man who hit first and asked questions later to a man who was patient, motivated and thought things through. Now 23, I still missed my hero but was, I suppose, trying to prove my worth for him.

The guys called me Gov because they felt it was a better nickname for a cockney.

John Weatherhead, or Jdub, was like me from London but further south, around Crystal Palace. We had been on the same selection course and had built up a friendship while getting the treatment from the Regiment.

Built like a brick shithouse, he was the big guy to hide behind when there was a fight in the pub. Only thing was, he could always talk people down before there was any aggro, his size maybe, who knows.

His dark hair and eyes gave him an overall serious outlook and when he looked deeply at you, you felt the eyes penetrating you.

Jdub came through the Paras where the majority of Regiment guys tended to come from. A year older than myself and bigger in stature, he was the first to befriend me on our selection course and we had many common interests.

We both supported Chelsea FC, a football club who were never at the top of anything and we used to always joke how we were the ones to support the underdogs. Many times, if we had a weekend off we would shoot off and try to grab a match somewhere around the country.

We also enjoyed the same music in the Beatles and a London group called the Kinks. I reckon supporting such a club built up our sense of humour.

Jdub was good with the big bangs, especially C4 and we had some really memorable times while in training but daren’t talk about them as we might have had to face the music about some of the silly pranks we used to pull on the others.

Danny Philbet, or Geordie to all who knew him. A Newcastle lad, 23 years of age, about the same size as myself, 5'11" but wiry. Geordie was Speedy Gonzales, he could outrun us all and he could do it with stealth as well.

He joined the army at the same time as me and enlisted into the tank regiment of the Queen’s Dragoon Guards. His only explanation at trying for the regiment was the fact that people kept telling him that a tankie’s lifespan in battle would be about 3 minutes and the fact that he sometimes became stir-crazy sitting in the tank at times, so he thought the regiment would give him at least a few more minutes of fame.

Sometimes, the reasons we join can seem absolutely ludicrous but there you have it. Geordie’s weaponry skills were top form and he was also a dab hand with explosives. He also had a brown belt in Karate so we tended to avoid arguments with him when things got cranky at pubs and clubs.

I always remember a time back in Derry (Northern Ireland) when we were there together and we had a task to watch and report and it put us in a pub environment, which was okay. This day though, there happened to have been a problem in the local Catholic enclave and a few youngsters came in obviously looking for trouble and started questioning everyone in the bar as to their religious leanings, to which we shrugged and said we didn’t have any. Three burly guys then surrounded us and before I could even get to my feet, Geordie had despatched them to various areas of the bar and then cheekily returned to his seat and started sipping his beer. Reminded me of one of those Chinese or Japanese movies that showed everything in slow motion.

The last guy in my team was Dave McCreadie, a Glaswegian from the Gorbals district, the roughest part of Glasgow you could ever encounter. Jock, as he was to us, was 5'2" of sheer mental torture. Sharp red locks, a typical Jock with heritage from the Vikings, he was the ultimate rape and pillage lookalike.

Anyone looked the wrong way at Jock and he would lay right into you. But for all that, he was a great team player and the sort of guy I always appreciated at my back.

Jock had two notable tattoos (normally not welcome in the Regiment as it tended to give away part of you and give the enemy some ammunition if you got captured). His were so obvious, a highlander from ankle to knee on the right leg and a lowlander on the left. Jock had joined the Argyle and Sutherland Highlanders and then moved onto the Regiment after fears they were being disbanded. The Argyles were always in the firing line with Government and MOD when cuts were talked about for some reason.

Just before Jock came to the regiment, he was 6 months attached with the Ghurkhas in Hong Kong, which really put the icing on his adept covert ways.

We were a band of brothers and we have never had a blue between ourselves, which was unusual for most teams.

Chapter 3

My thoughts came to an abrupt end when we were nudged by the loadmaster to let us know we were coming into Ubon and he yelled instructions to us that we must not leave the plane till he gave the order; when we did, it was into a covered truck to take us to a prearranged area.

This secrecy shit was really playing havoc with my mind, let alone the others’. Obviously, we were into something that no one was allowed to be able to see us or even the fact that we weren’t US soldiers. Not that you would know who the hell we were, unshaven and dressed in clobber that hadn’t seen a wash in 6 weeks. We never wore insignia or head gear, other than beanies.

After landing, we taxied to a remote part of the airfield. Through the windows we saw many of the birds that flew out from here.

Ubon was the nearest US airbase to Hanoi during the Vietnam War so the big birds were here, the B52s. Plenty of ‘frogs’ or ‘hogs’ as they were sometimes called, the Huey helicopters that either used as gunships or were carrying personnel into and out of the war zone. That included the Thai Army as well as the Yanks.

As the tailgate came down a truck with a rear curtain pulled up at the rear of the plane. We were ushered into the truck and the curtain was pulled down on us. Before we pulled away from the plane, we overheard the Loadmaster telling his guys to spray around the plane belly inside; we must have made quite an impression on this trip, smell and all.

The truck rumbled away and I peered through a gap at the front left side of the canopy.

The view ahead was pretty much a deserted area with what I could see in the distance about 50 metres were two demountable cabins that looked as if they were connected together with a short corridor. Surrounding the cabins were tall palm trees that seemed to be waving to us as we arrived. About the only welcome we had had so far. The cabin sizes would have been about 3m x 6m each and they were interconnected in a ‘T’ formation.

When the truck pulled up to the complex, it turned then reversed back up to the main door. Before the flap was lifted, we heard a number of Yankee voices calling to others to stand clear.

On opening the flap, a Marine master sergeant poked his big head in and told us to quietly and quickly get out and make our way through the front door as fast as possible.

Poxy secret squirrels, eh? piped up in the Scottish brogue from Jock.

Quickly, you guys, no noise now, barked the big Marine.

Yes Mummy. Jock was always into having the last word with people he did not know too well. All we got from the big Marine was a daggered look, especially to what he considered as a little squirt like Jock.

On through the door and we at once found ourselves facing a number of people behind a table and four chairs on our side of the table which naturally must have been intended for us four.

We moved to sit down but just before we got to the chairs, we noticed that one of the civilian-dressed personnel was our own Major Hardman from the Jungle Warfare School. Sitting alongside him to his left was another civilian and a young Thai Marine lieutenant. To Major Hardman’s right were three other guys—one a US colonel and two other civilians that looked Yank.

The room was painted in a cream colour and all around the walls were posters of weaponry and maps of various areas, both in Thailand and over the borders of Cambodia and Laos.

This was obviously some briefing or training room kept out of the way of the main base personnel.

Sit down, lads, said Major Hardman.

Thanks Boss, I replied.

Bit disrespectful there, Major. I thought all you Limeys used the Sir for senior ranks, remarked the US colonel, looking decidedly awkwardly at the four of us.

In our outfit, we rather avoid the ranks, Colonel, in favour of polite recognition. It helps when we are on station and the enemy doesn’t know who to shoot first because as you know, they always go for the big boys first. We also have respect for each other, Colonel, believe me, came back Hardman with a distinct smile spreading across his face.

The colonel sorted out some papers and then gave a floating glance across us four, a look of virtual disbelief, probably our appearance was a shock to him, let alone the waft that must have hit his huge nostrils. We sat down on the chairs in silence.

Major Hardman proceeded to tell us that we were being seconded for a task to lift out a person of interest from Vietnam for the Americans. He would leave the details to the Yanks now to be able to fill in the spaces. Before he handed over to the colonel, he filled us in on our other friendly faces.

Pointing to his left, he said, This is Adrian Osman from the Firm (MI6), alongside him is Lieutenant Badington Bhuvanath from the Royal Thai Marines, who goes by BB to make it easier. To my right are Colonel Blesmeir, US Special Forces, and the two gentlemen to his right are Jai Townmoth and Sy Cummins, CIA. Hardman took a deep breath and then went on, Gentlemen, before us are Tom, Jock, Geordie and Jdub, fresh being the operative word, from Brunei and one of our best teams in SE Asia at this time.

The four of us began to grin as we got the joke about FRESH from Brunei, more like RIPE in most people’s eyes. British humour at its best and obviously above the Yanks’ station as they did not even flinch, not even a flicker of a smile.

Blesmeir was your typical Yank army officer, brought up and fed on the army rations and discipline from birth. He probably never had civilian clothing and slept, ate and lived in his uniform with so many ribbons on it you’d have thought this bloke had served in the Civil War and every other war that the Yanks had participated in since. His father was probably a Marine or something. He was rounded and looked like he had had his fair share of Big Macs sometime in the past. His head was large and round and was topped with that typical stupid-looking short back and sides that always put the fear of Christ up us squaddies at the barrack barbershop. He was your typical Ooh Ahh Marine.

Okay, started off Colonel Blesmeir, "you guys may or may not know but we are at present engaged in a campaign which is threatening Hue in the northern area of South Vietnam. The North supported by the VC are rallying thousands of fighters to try and push us back. At present, we are holding but it is only a matter of time before something has to give. It is taking all our available resources to hold and fix our line so you understand that we are short of our own personnel to complete the task in hand and that is to get a prominent North Vietnamese out of the theatre of operations and on his way to the US. This is a most important mission for us as the man in question has information that could help us win this damn war.

"We want to bring him out through the western provinces and across Laos to Thailand and we need to move fast before he is found missing and the hunt is on, if it hasn’t already started, that is.

"Our Thai friends do not have the manpower to extract under covert type ops and we need to get our men back to where they are needed most so we have asked your Government to assist, knowing you have assisted in the past with extracting downed allied pilots and supplying recon for us throughout Laos and Cambodia.

This is not going to be an easy task but it needs to be done quickly in the next few days. Major Hardman has insisted that we ask rather than demand your help as your Government is not an active member of our alliance in this area. So guys, what do you say?

We looked at each other and glanced over to Hardman who just winked at us. With just a nod from all four of us, we had been taken on board and you could hear and see the sigh of relief that came over the US colonel. We would have already been on board anyway as whenever the Regiment led you to someone, it meant the hierarchy in our mob had already thought about the consequences, that was the trust we had throughout.

Then guys I will leave you with these two men who will give you the rundown and what we need to do and where all points of the operation stand. BB will also be part of the operation but only as a link with Thai Military and transport. I shouldn’t need to remind you all that this is top secret and not one word must leave the walls of this building.

Same Old, Same Old. Jock was into it yet again.

That was the last we got from the colonel as he stood to leave the room.

Tom, when you have all the information, put down your plan and options and we can chat over them at 1800 hours tonight. I know we usually have longer to plan but unfortunately this time we have no time so it is off the cuff, I suppose. These men will give you all available resources and BB I know is keen to get you over the Laos hurdle. Till tonight, Tom. Hardman stood ready to leave the room.

Okay boss, no problems, we will be ready for you by 1800 hours, was my reply.

Hardman and the colonel left the room and chairs started to move around so that maps and all the intelligence information could be laid out in front of us. We had just 8 hours to sort this out and that, as we all knew, was really insufficient and could lead to a dead outcome.

Osman, about ten years our senior, with his proper speech and college education cutting through all the glum idle chatter that had begun, took the lead straight away and gave us the rundown with intelligence the Firm had to offer, which covered areas used by the VC to move supplies.

Main area of their concern was the infiltration trail area that stretched from the north of the demilitarized zone along the border with Laos and into Northern Cambodia.

With this so-called Easter Offensive going on, this whole area would be a hive of activity and we would be meeting in the middle of it all. Highlights, which weren’t many, were mainly options out, should the shit hit the fan. Seemed that it would be every man for himself, which sounded somewhat familiar from spooks when something went wrong. Everyone runs for cover with the priority of covering one’s own arse on the way.

I know I don’t have to tell you gentlemen that this is top secret as mentioned before, covert and Her Majesty’s Government has and will not have any recollection of what goes before and what happens during and after. I need to ask you to hand in all ID materials such as dog tags and any photos or recognisable information that could implicate Her Majesty’s Government.

This was the point where we became deniable assets and felt like we were to be thrown to the wolves waiting at the table next to him.

I didn’t know if this would have been the right moment to ask Jock to chop off his legs with those incriminating tattoos but decided not to complicate matters as the Yanks didn’t look as though they could take a joke at all. We all just dumped our dog tags and a couple of family photos that Geordie carried when on training exercises. With that done, good old Adrian excused himself from the fray.

Now we were left with the two CIA spooks who had slightly relaxed somewhat and the young Thai Lieutenant who had remained cool and silent thus far.

All the while we were in the room, we could hear constant roars of aircraft from the runway as jets of the 45th Tactical fighter squadron were sent off to missions over the North Vietnam combat zone. This information of who was at the base was plain to see around the walls of this room.

Bloody place was busier than Heathrow airport, I was sure.

Okay. Operation Sidewinder, guys. This is a delicate and sensitive operation so let’s get into the details. Sy Cummins came forward with a serious look on his otherwise plain boof head. Another big guy. They must feed these spooks on raw meat and protein powder or something.

This is the best map of the area we have at the moment, Jai said as he opened up one of the best graphic maps we had seen for a while. Nearly every track, let alone road, was displayed on it. This area here is where we are looking at your meeting with our team of Delta Force people. A team of six with one of our operatives included. Seven persons in all with our package, he continued.

Started sounding like we were going to transport post for a minute, flaming package, still no names. Obviously, they did not even want us to know the identity of their bloody PACKAGE!

That’s right in the middle of the NVC trail areas, I commented.

Yep, that’s right. You leave here at 2200 hours tonight via Thai Army Huey. We have initially lain a meet time of 1800 hours, day after tomorrow, here. If you fall out of that schedule, then we have an alternative point here at 0100 hours the following day. Our guys will be on post before your arrival and will wait for one hour only before moving to the next point. Jai pointed to two small villages as he spoke.

Our speed is going to depend on activity in the trail areas, but going by your and our intel, it should not be too great a problem, I returned and looked at the team. Do you have any questions, boys?

You could hear the cogs whirring in their heads as they looked at the distance and the times we had to meet. All three slowly nodded approval and I could see they were now analysing exit strategies in case they were needed. That’s what we do best, prepare for any outcome and not wait for the shit to actually hit the fan.

The other spanner in works was that the monsoon season was about to kick off in this part of the world. Sometimes it rained, sometimes it belted down, but weather forecasts that were available pointed to just a slight rain possibility through the following week.

Okay Jai, seems we are a go here on the initial plan. Are these villages occupied or are they deserted? We need all that info to help us with identifying tactics, etc.

We have found out over the last 48 hours that both are unfortunately occupied. Our guys on the ground will clear the area surrounding whichever one you use and will contact you via scout prior to you getting within 100 yards of any village huts. This team uses a signal system which comprises of an old Chinese hat on a stake just off to the side of the track. There will be no communication availability used in this area.

No comms to be used? I interjected.

Definitely not on this job, we don’t know which North Vietnamese units are in the area yet and some of them have some sophisticated equipment like ours that can pick up transmissions from a great distance, Sy came back sharply.

Well, we had better prepare our plan for the boss then look at weapons.

No problems there as we have a selection next door along with some gear you could wear to cover your identity or at least looks.

How efficient; all prepared and waiting for us to just arrive and be ready, Sy. Perhaps you can take Jdub, Jock, Geordie through and sort out their needs and I’ll get sorted out after I have done an initial assessment for the Boss.

The four men moved swiftly through the door that connected the two demountables and disappeared. BB stood in front of the map and started to discuss the move from Ubon.

BB was not like the others; apart from being Thai and not Yank, he was polite and slimmer built. His face was a pleasant shape and he had some hair on his head, again unlike the others. His English was exceptionally good and he spoke in a way that if he was a car salesman, you would definitely want to immediately sign up for that car.

Tom, we will leave Ubon at 2200 hours and the Huey will take you firstly north out over the border and then fly east just south of the Ban Hieng River. Fifty miles inside the Laotian area, the flight will then head southeast towards a drop-off point here, which is 30 miles southeast of Saravane, some 30 miles southwest of your target. We have done this so that no indication of target point can be assumed during the flight if anyone does see the chopper. BB’s English was excellent. This also puts you over the Kong River, thus avoiding any large river crossings, which would be dangerous and would slow you down.

I nodded approval at his explanation and directions on the map. Taking note of grid points and references. Debus point, target point, alternate target point.

And return, BB? I queried.

"Twenty-five miles northeast of your