testing on the Brecons was about.'
They went back to the hidden encampment, Jackson pushing the boy along in front of him. As Villiers stripped his excess gear, he said to Elliot. 'You follow with the boy. Don't bother about this stuff. Just bring the radio and your own gear.'
'Very well, sir.'
'And the kid,' Villiers said. 'I want him to arrive with you. No stories about how he made a run for it and you had to cut him down, understand?'
'Do I look as if I'd do a thing like that, sir?' Elliot demanded.
'Yes,' Jackson said sourly. 'So don't. I'll give you two and a half hours to join us and let you choose an easy route out of consideration to the kid. Five minutes over and I'll have your guts for garters.'
'All right,' Villiers said. 'Let's go, you two,' and he turned, moved out of the hollow and started to run across the hillside.
* * *
It has been said that out of every fifty soldiers who volunteer for transfer to the Special Air Service Regiment, only one makes the grade. The culmination of a savage and punishing selection procedure is the endurance march across the wilderness that is the Brecon Beacons.
The would-be recruit is required to march forty-five miles across some of the worst country in Britain, loaded down with a pack of around eighty pounds and a belt kit weighing another fifteen. His eighteen pound rifle has to be carried because SAS weapons are not allowed slings, so that they are always available for instant use.
Scrambling up through the mist, Villiers was reminded of his own selection purgatory when he'd first volunteered. Jackson came up beside him, panting.
'Just like sodding Brecon. All it has to do is rain and we'll be right at home. Why all the rush? I mean if the kid was sent for more stuff, they must be taking their time.'
'Bad feeling,' Villiers said. 'Right down in the gut. You know me. Always right when I get that.'
'Enough said,' Jackson replied, and turned and called to Korda who was twenty yards behind. 'Come on, you lazy bastard, move it!'
* * *
Instead of working his way diagonally up the steep hillside, Villiers went straight up and the others followed him. The slope lifted until it was almost perpendicular with rough frozen tussocks of grass sticking out of bare rock.
As they came to the foot of an apron of loose stone and shale, he paused and glanced back at his companions.
'Okay?'
'No, bloody awful, actually,' Jackson said.
Korda said, 'The things I do for England. My old mum will be so proud.'
'You never had one, son,' Jackson said and as they started forward, it began to rain a little.
'Watch it,' Villiers said. 'A bit treacherous from here on in.'
He stuffed the sub-machine gun inside the tunic of his camouflage uniform and zipped it up. Awkward, but it left his hands free. Once, he heaved strongly on a boulder and it tore free and he swung quickly to one side, crying a warning. It bounced and crashed its way down the mountainside, disappearing into the mist.
'You two all right?'
'Only just,' Jackson called.
Villiers started to climb again and a moment later, found himself standing on the edge of a broad plateau. Jackson and Korda joined him.
'Now what?' Jackson demanded.
Villiers pointed across the plateau to the great rock wall which faced them, draped in mist. Fissures and cracks branched across it in dark fingers. He led the way over the plateau at a jog-trot, picking his way between boulders. When they reached the base of the rock, it became apparent that it wasn't actually perpendicular, but tilted back slightly in great slabs.
'Dear God,' Korda said, looking up.
'He helps those who help themselves,' Jackson said. 'So let's get moving.'
Villiers led the way, climbing strongly, concentrating on the rock in front of him, not looking down, for a secret he had nursed to himself for years was his fear of heights. If the selection board had known that, he would never have served in the 22 SAS, that was certain.
He paused at one point, braced against the
They went back to the hidden encampment, Jackson pushing the boy along in front of him. As Villiers stripped his excess gear, he said to Elliot. 'You follow with the boy. Don't bother about this stuff. Just bring the radio and your own gear.'
'Very well, sir.'
'And the kid,' Villiers said. 'I want him to arrive with you. No stories about how he made a run for it and you had to cut him down, understand?'
'Do I look as if I'd do a thing like that, sir?' Elliot demanded.
'Yes,' Jackson said sourly. 'So don't. I'll give you two and a half hours to join us and let you choose an easy route out of consideration to the kid. Five minutes over and I'll have your guts for garters.'
'All right,' Villiers said. 'Let's go, you two,' and he turned, moved out of the hollow and started to run across the hillside.
* * *
It has been said that out of every fifty soldiers who volunteer for transfer to the Special Air Service Regiment, only one makes the grade. The culmination of a savage and punishing selection procedure is the endurance march across the wilderness that is the Brecon Beacons.
The would-be recruit is required to march forty-five miles across some of the worst country in Britain, loaded down with a pack of around eighty pounds and a belt kit weighing another fifteen. His eighteen pound rifle has to be carried because SAS weapons are not allowed slings, so that they are always available for instant use.
Scrambling up through the mist, Villiers was reminded of his own selection purgatory when he'd first volunteered. Jackson came up beside him, panting.
'Just like sodding Brecon. All it has to do is rain and we'll be right at home. Why all the rush? I mean if the kid was sent for more stuff, they must be taking their time.'
'Bad feeling,' Villiers said. 'Right down in the gut. You know me. Always right when I get that.'
'Enough said,' Jackson replied, and turned and called to Korda who was twenty yards behind. 'Come on, you lazy bastard, move it!'
* * *
Instead of working his way diagonally up the steep hillside, Villiers went straight up and the others followed him. The slope lifted until it was almost perpendicular with rough frozen tussocks of grass sticking out of bare rock.
As they came to the foot of an apron of loose stone and shale, he paused and glanced back at his companions.
'Okay?'
'No, bloody awful, actually,' Jackson said.
Korda said, 'The things I do for England. My old mum will be so proud.'
'You never had one, son,' Jackson said and as they started forward, it began to rain a little.
'Watch it,' Villiers said. 'A bit treacherous from here on in.'
He stuffed the sub-machine gun inside the tunic of his camouflage uniform and zipped it up. Awkward, but it left his hands free. Once, he heaved strongly on a boulder and it tore free and he swung quickly to one side, crying a warning. It bounced and crashed its way down the mountainside, disappearing into the mist.
'You two all right?'
'Only just,' Jackson called.
Villiers started to climb again and a moment later, found himself standing on the edge of a broad plateau. Jackson and Korda joined him.
'Now what?' Jackson demanded.
Villiers pointed across the plateau to the great rock wall which faced them, draped in mist. Fissures and cracks branched across it in dark fingers. He led the way over the plateau at a jog-trot, picking his way between boulders. When they reached the base of the rock, it became apparent that it wasn't actually perpendicular, but tilted back slightly in great slabs.
'Dear God,' Korda said, looking up.
'He helps those who help themselves,' Jackson said. 'So let's get moving.'
Villiers led the way, climbing strongly, concentrating on the rock in front of him, not looking down, for a secret he had nursed to himself for years was his fear of heights. If the selection board had known that, he would never have served in the 22 SAS, that was certain.
He paused at one point, braced against the
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