Operation Lavivrus. John Wiseman
the interior of the car; Tony thought, If it lands on my ear, it’s war. The tenderness of his ears was another reason Tony didn’t wear sunglasses. One ear was split along the entire length of the outer fold, and the other was ripped where it joined his head, distorted by trapped blood so it looked like a piece of pastry thrown on at random by a drunken chef.
He favoured his neck, carrying his head in a fixed position with his strong chin tucked in. When he wanted to look sideways he pivoted the whole of his upper body, trying to avoid any stress on his neck. His eyes pivoted in their sockets as he constantly checked the mirrors – offside, nearside, interior. From time to time he also checked on his lifeless companion, wondering with consuming jealousy how he could sleep so innocently. Every now and again he would try rotating his head, keeping the chin tight to the chest, but the pain and the gristly grating forced him to stop.
The snoring went on uninterrupted, regardless of Tony’s frequent glares, and although he had played in the same team his friend didn’t have a scratch on him. This rankled Tony because he was a forward who fought for every ball, taking the knocks so he could pass the ball to the backs. His work at the coalface went unnoticed, but the backs were in the spotlight, sprinting up the touchline with the encouragement of the crowd. Tony’s companion was the product of a public school where rugby was more of a religion than a sport. His handling and speed would get him a start in most teams: he was a fine player, and yesterday he had scored two tries seemingly with almost no effort. He was always in the right place at the right time, another sign of a good player. Tony’s first love was football, and he didn’t play rugby till he was in the army. ‘Typical!’ Tony thought. ‘Here I am, battered and driving, while fancy pants is sleeping like a baby.’
Apart from the discomfort he was happy. The build-up training was going well, and the rugby match, although intense, was light relief from all the night exercises, tactics and skills training that his squadron was engaged in. Inter-squadron games were normally banned because of the high casualty rate. Victory made the pain more bearable, and he smiled to himself as he remembered the looks on the other team’s faces when the final whistle blew. The slumped figure next to Tony had played a big part in the win; they started as underdogs, but surprised everyone by lifting the Inter-Squadrons Rugby Shield.
Traffic was building up as they skirted the capital, and Tony noticed how aggressive the drivers were compared with Hereford. Everyone changed lanes, often without any warning, and glared when the same was done to them. Tony just smiled and mixed it with the best of them.
‘This should be an interesting visit,’ he thought, looking forward to meeting the boffins at the research establishment where they would arrive shortly.
Tony Watkins was thirty-four and had been in the army for sixteen years. He joined the Paras initially, and couldn’t stay out of trouble. When he signed on at Blackheath he had never heard of the SAS, as few people had.
As soon as he started his basic training with the Paras in Aldershot, Tony realised he had made a big mistake. The Paras were definitely not for him. His sense of humour and loathing of discipline didn’t go down well with the staff of Maida Barracks. Things didn’t get any better when he was posted to a battalion; in fact they got worse. He was super-fit, a natural athlete, and enjoyed all the physical stuff, but all the bull was like shackles around his body. Cleaning, sweeping and polishing were not for him. He had to get out.
Salvation came in the form of a soldier who was in transit from the SAS, just returning to Malaya after inter-tour leave. Tony got talking to him and was introduced to the Regiment. He soon became mesmerised by their exploits in the jungles of Malaya. Tracking down the bad guys, living in swamps and parachuting into trees – that was more to his liking than cleaning dixies and picking up leaves.
Selection for the Regiment was tough, but Tony loved every minute of it. Six months flew by. He had finally found a use for his endless energy and was soon recognised as an outstanding soldier. It was an individual effort, and he soon learnt self-discipline. This helped him to control a quick temper and think before reacting. As a kid he was too keen to lash out at anyone who upset him.
After his tough upbringing in South London he found the life easy. He tackled all the training with a passion, excelling at everything. Promotion came fast, and he was already the troop staff sergeant of 2 Troop A Squadron. The intense regime of regimental life was natural for him; he wouldn’t change it for anything. 2 Troop was the free-fall troop, and they prided themselves on being the best and fittest troop in the Regiment.
Signalling early, Tony pulled into the nearside lane and turned off the motorway. The silky-smooth V8 engine of the Range Rover pulled strongly as they climbed a steep road cut in the side of a chalky hill. The scarred white landscape was evidence of a road expansion scheme, and the volume of traffic justified this. It was all heading to London, two lanes bumper to bumper, with most cars having only a solitary driver in, usually with a face longer than a gas-man’s cape.
Near the top of the hill was a slip road that led to the main entrance of Fort Bamstead. Tony slotted in between the slow-moving trucks and turned off.
The establishment nestled around the hill, sprawling down a deep gulley. It was screened by trees and shrubs, with no signs to advertise its location. The locals had long forgotten its presence, and were not aware that some of the best brains in the country worked here. Rows of majestic oaks lined the lane on both sides, and the unusually large silent policeman caught Tony out. He was looking for hidden cameras and hit it going too fast, causing the vehicle to shudder. He took more care when he reached the next ramp, but at least he got a reaction from the living dead lying beside him.
Stirring for the first time, the crumpled figure alongside Tony started to sit up. He opened sticky eyes, running his tongue over dry lips. His mouth opened wide in a yawn that Tony had to copy. He stretched slowly, unwinding to his full length with arms extended above his head, playfully pushing Tony on the shoulder. ‘Here already, Tony? That was quick.’ He yawned again and ground his teeth, using his tongue to search his mouth for moisture.
Tony stopped in front of a pair of heavy iron gates, waiting for someone to come out of the guardroom on the right. His companion was still yawning and sorting out his footwear. It took ages before a uniformed figure appeared, clipboard in one hand and pen poised in the other. The policeman marched smartly towards them, bracing himself against the freshening wind. He looked through the gate, comparing the vehicle’s registration number with the memo on his clipboard, before finally saying, ‘Park your vehicle over there,’ indicating a large lay-by, ‘and bring your ID to the window over there,’ nodding towards the building. He noted down the time, skilfully using the wind to keep the pages flat.
‘You’re not looking your best this morning, Tony,’ his passenger commented.
Tony had to bite hard on his tongue. He had been driving for three hours while Peter, his passenger, slept. ‘It’s all your fault, Pete. I was ready to turn in at midnight, but you had to order another bottle.’
Ignoring the arguing couple, the policeman fumbled with a large bunch of keys to open a small side gate before scurrying back to his warm refuge like Dracula at sunrise.
Ministry of Defence policemen all come out of the same mould. They are usually ex-servicemen with an exaggerated military bearing, sporting a regulation short back and sides, with a small, neat moustache. If they have a failing it is for being too officious, and a reluctance to be parted from their kettle and electric fire.
Tony said, ‘You stay and rest, Pete, while I go and sign us in.’ As he walked towards the window it was second nature to examine his surroundings. He noted the closed-circuit cameras and the powerful spotlights. The close-linked security fence with razor wire on top brought back some painful memories. On many occasions he had spent time climbing and cutting it, trying to avoid its painful spikes.
A portly sergeant with a clipped moustache, displaying two rows of colourful medal ribbons, greeted him at a window. ‘We’ve been expecting you, sir. Just fill in these passes while I phone Dr Jenkins that you’re here. Your mate will also have to come and sign himself in.’
Tony left the policeman, who was busying himself with an internal phone list,