you and leave you here Mo? Me and the missus have some Mission Impossible shit going on.’
He shrugged. ‘No probs like. I can get back.’
‘Mo – stick around for a few minutes though mate, I’ll get you some folding green from my cache to ease you on your way. You get me?’
He grinned. He got me.
‘OK. Now we go forward to the cache. But you two, please stay by the truck for now. I have to disarm the booby trap.’
I went forward, with a rather rubbish Soviet army torch we’d found in the cab. It kept going off and I kept having to jiggle it. Right. Here was the rear of the shell of the car. I hunkered down and shone the light around. There was the fishing line and hook. I took it out then dug in the soil until I found the ringpull detonator. Very carefully, holding the line slack, I pulled it out into the night air and laid it to one side. The PETN should now be inert. I retrieved it and walked several paces and placed it on the ground. I whistled softly. Bang-Bang and Mo joined me.
I started digging in earnest and after a minute, I pulled go-bag one out. I unzipped it, rummaged in the spare clothes and medical packs, and pulled out some bricks of good old US dollars for Mo. He placed his hand on his chest in the traditional Salafi gesture of gratitude. He hugged me, and then bowed to Bang-Bang.
She spoke. ‘When you get back, Mo, look me up on Facebook. I’m the only Holly Kirpachi on there. You can also find dipstick there as my other half. Go.’
He nodded. ‘I owe you both. See you back ‘ome.’
And he left, walking away across the moonlit fields, carrying Bang-Bang’s compass and the maps.
‘Right’, I said, hauling out the other kitbag, ‘Babes, if you shine that light down here I’ll lay the kit out.’
She stood to one side and aimed the torch down onto the dirt behind the wrecked car. In the light I began to lay out the contents of a Secret Intelligence Service Packet Foxtrot. Another set of Afghan clothing for me, and an Afghan passport and national ID. Foil-packed rations, which I discarded. A wad of Afghanis, the national currency. Several more wads of stained dollar bills. An old, worn Afghan belt, with some 500-Euro notes secreted inside. Two locally-bought mobile phones with Roshan network SIM cards preloaded. Some Gizi Maps of the area, also suitably folded and stained. A Russian night-vision scope. A Garmin handset loaded with the latest, restricted TOPO maps of the country. A loaded Walther pistol with ankle holster. This was standard issue to RAF aircrew and SAS. They called it the Disco Pistol.
Bang-Bang was watching all this curiously. ‘Where’s my stuff, babes?’
‘Aha!’ With a David Blaine flourish, I opened a bag to reveal the AKS-74U carbine she’d taken from Iqeel al-Afghani. She whooped and took it from me to check the magazine and safety. I then opened the other packet to reveal a passport, money, internal ID and a bright blue Afghan burkha. She growled. ‘If you think I am putting…that…on, you can think again.’
She gripped the AKS-74U and glared at me in the light of the high moon.
I held my hands up. ‘OK babes, it was…just an idea.’
‘Hmmph.’
She turned away to check the perimeter.
I reached for the final package in the bag. The Dagger System. This had been invented by the CIA in the Cold War, and improved upon until it literally looked like a magic trick. I whistled at Bang-Bang.
‘Doll? Come and watch this.’
She glared back at me and eventually came over and sat down in the dirt, cross-legged, to watch. She started to roll another evil cigarette. ‘OK fiancé, impress me.’
I turned away from her and started putting the various pieces on, grinning to myself. I stopped grinning as the mouthpiece went in and started drooling. Couldn’t be helped. I put the glovesleeves on. I donned the turban with its nest of real hair. And I turned to her and went ‘TADA!’
Bang-Bang flung her fag away in shock and scrambled
He shrugged. ‘No probs like. I can get back.’
‘Mo – stick around for a few minutes though mate, I’ll get you some folding green from my cache to ease you on your way. You get me?’
He grinned. He got me.
‘OK. Now we go forward to the cache. But you two, please stay by the truck for now. I have to disarm the booby trap.’
I went forward, with a rather rubbish Soviet army torch we’d found in the cab. It kept going off and I kept having to jiggle it. Right. Here was the rear of the shell of the car. I hunkered down and shone the light around. There was the fishing line and hook. I took it out then dug in the soil until I found the ringpull detonator. Very carefully, holding the line slack, I pulled it out into the night air and laid it to one side. The PETN should now be inert. I retrieved it and walked several paces and placed it on the ground. I whistled softly. Bang-Bang and Mo joined me.
I started digging in earnest and after a minute, I pulled go-bag one out. I unzipped it, rummaged in the spare clothes and medical packs, and pulled out some bricks of good old US dollars for Mo. He placed his hand on his chest in the traditional Salafi gesture of gratitude. He hugged me, and then bowed to Bang-Bang.
She spoke. ‘When you get back, Mo, look me up on Facebook. I’m the only Holly Kirpachi on there. You can also find dipstick there as my other half. Go.’
He nodded. ‘I owe you both. See you back ‘ome.’
And he left, walking away across the moonlit fields, carrying Bang-Bang’s compass and the maps.
‘Right’, I said, hauling out the other kitbag, ‘Babes, if you shine that light down here I’ll lay the kit out.’
She stood to one side and aimed the torch down onto the dirt behind the wrecked car. In the light I began to lay out the contents of a Secret Intelligence Service Packet Foxtrot. Another set of Afghan clothing for me, and an Afghan passport and national ID. Foil-packed rations, which I discarded. A wad of Afghanis, the national currency. Several more wads of stained dollar bills. An old, worn Afghan belt, with some 500-Euro notes secreted inside. Two locally-bought mobile phones with Roshan network SIM cards preloaded. Some Gizi Maps of the area, also suitably folded and stained. A Russian night-vision scope. A Garmin handset loaded with the latest, restricted TOPO maps of the country. A loaded Walther pistol with ankle holster. This was standard issue to RAF aircrew and SAS. They called it the Disco Pistol.
Bang-Bang was watching all this curiously. ‘Where’s my stuff, babes?’
‘Aha!’ With a David Blaine flourish, I opened a bag to reveal the AKS-74U carbine she’d taken from Iqeel al-Afghani. She whooped and took it from me to check the magazine and safety. I then opened the other packet to reveal a passport, money, internal ID and a bright blue Afghan burkha. She growled. ‘If you think I am putting…that…on, you can think again.’
She gripped the AKS-74U and glared at me in the light of the high moon.
I held my hands up. ‘OK babes, it was…just an idea.’
‘Hmmph.’
She turned away to check the perimeter.
I reached for the final package in the bag. The Dagger System. This had been invented by the CIA in the Cold War, and improved upon until it literally looked like a magic trick. I whistled at Bang-Bang.
‘Doll? Come and watch this.’
She glared back at me and eventually came over and sat down in the dirt, cross-legged, to watch. She started to roll another evil cigarette. ‘OK fiancé, impress me.’
I turned away from her and started putting the various pieces on, grinning to myself. I stopped grinning as the mouthpiece went in and started drooling. Couldn’t be helped. I put the glovesleeves on. I donned the turban with its nest of real hair. And I turned to her and went ‘TADA!’
Bang-Bang flung her fag away in shock and scrambled
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