We wouldn’t know, of course, if any of this was feasible until we saw the disposition on the ground. There might be four TELs together, which would pose problems of compromise as there would be many more targets. Or maybe there’d be just one TEL which we couldn’t get in to attack, in which case we’d do a stand-off attack with lots of firepower-but not at the expense of the patrol to take out only one objective. In a stand-off attack we wouldn’t get “hands on” but would use 66s to try and destroy the target. Such an attack must be short and sharp, but whether or not to carry one out would be a decision that could only be made on the ground. It’s only when you have seen the problem that you can make your appreciations and work out what you will do. We would always try a covert target attack if at all possible.

The third option would be an air strike. Deciding between a stand-off attack and an air strike would be a fine balance, probably swayed by the numbers involved. Both, however, would advertise the fact that we were close by in the area. The compromise would be bearable if the numbers were high enough to warrant it, but if we were successful in cutting the cable, there would be no need for this at all.

By now the place was stinking of sweat, farts, and cigarettes. There were bits of paper everywhere with pictures of Scuds and matchstick men and fire-support group movement diagrams. Planning is always exhaustive, but only because we want to work everything out to the finest detail. When we got to the TEL and the door was closed, where was the handle? How did you operate it? Which way did the door go, out or in? Was it a concertina door? Did the door hinge from the top? Would the door be padlocked as it is on many armored vehicles? What would we do then? People didn’t know, so we studied pictures and tried to work it out. Detail, detail, detail. It’s so important. You might be pushing a door when you should be pulling. Minor detail missed equals fuckup guaranteed.

We moved on to thinking about the equipment required to execute our plans.

You can destroy a power station with a shaped charge of 2 pounds of explosive in just the right place; you don’t have to blow the whole installation into the sky. It can be done by a small specific-to-task charge, because you know the vulnerable point you’re going for. With Scud we knew the vulnerable points, but not for sure how we were going to get at them. I was keen to take just charges of PE, each weighing about 2 pounds, rather than specific-to-task explosives, because we might not be able to use specifics any other way. Again, we wouldn’t have the information until we got there on the ground.

We’d need PE4 explosive, safety fuse, grip switches, nonelectric and electric dets, timers, and det cord. You don’t put detonators straight into plastic explosive, which is how it’s portrayed in films. You put det cord between the detonator and the explosives. We’d make up these charges in advance, and just before the attack place the dets and timers on to them.

Vince and Bob disappeared to go and organize these items, and came back a quarter of an hour later.

“That’s all squared away,” said Vince. “It’s all under your bed.”

All the main points had now been covered.

We would be on foot, carrying everything in, so we’d need a cache area, which would be our LUP (lying-up point). Ideally, the LUP would provide cover from fire and cover from view, because we’d be manning it all the time. It’s very dangerous to leave equipment and go back to it-even though this sometimes has to be done-because it might be ambushed or booby-trapped if discovered. We’d work from a patrol base and move out from there to carry out our tasks. It might happen that we’d find a better site for our LUP during a patrol, in which case we’d move all the kit again under cover of darkness.

We now worked out the E amp;E plan. We would be 185 miles from Saudi, but only 75 from neighboring countries. Some were part of the Coalition, so in theory would be perfect places to head for.

“What are the borders like?” Vince asked Bert.

“I’m not entirely sure. Might be like the border with Saudi, a tank berm and that’s all. But they could be heavily defended. Whatever, if you cross a border, for heaven’s sake make sure they don’t think you’re Israeli-it’s not that far away.”

“Fair one, Bert,” said Stan, nodding his head in Bob’s direction and grinning. “But I’m not going across any border with that spick.”

Bob certainly looked the part, with tight black curly hair and a large nose.

“Yeah, well, who’d want to go with Zorro there?” Bob pointed at Mark’s big nose.

Everything was going well. It’s when people stop the slagging and start being nice to each other that you have to worry.

“What’s the ground like going up there?” Mark asked.

“Much the same. Basically flat, but when you get up to the areas of Krabilah and the border there is some high ground. The further west, the higher the ground.”

“What’s the score on the Euphrates?” Dinger said. “Is it swimmable?”

“It’s almost a half mile wide in places, with small islands. It’ll be in fierce flood this time of the year. All around there is vegetation, and where there’s vegetation, there’s water, and where there’s water there’s people. So there’ll always be people around the river. It’s rather green and lush-Adam and Eve country, actually, if you remember your Bible.”

We looked at the options. If we were compromised, did we tab it all the way south or did we move northwest? We’d probably have a lot of drama getting across any border, but we’d have that going south as well. They’d guess we were going south anyway, and it was a hell of a long distance to run.

Dinger piped up in his best W. C. Fields voice, “Go west, young man, go west.”

“Nah, fuck that,” Chris said, “it’s full of rag heads. If we’re on the run, let’s go somewhere nice. Let’s go to Turkey. I went there for my holidays once. It was rather nice. If we get to Istanbul, there’s a place called the Pudding Club, where all the international travelers meet and leave messages. We could leave a message for the search and rescue team and then just go on the piss while we wait for them to pick us up. Sounds good to me.”

“Bert, what sort of reception committee would we get elsewhere?” Legs asked. “Any info from downed pilots yet?”

“I’ll find out.”

“Unless we’re told otherwise, Bert,” I said, “we’re not going south.”

You always keep together as a team for as long as you can, because it’s better for morale and firepower, and your chances of escape are higher than as individuals. But if the patrol were split, the beauty of choosing north was that you could be the world’s worst navigator and still find your way there. Due north and hit the river, hang a left, heading west. But even if we managed to cross the border we couldn’t count ourselves as being on safe ground. There was no information to suggest otherwise.

The one fixing we dreaded was getting captured. As far as I knew, the Iraqis were not signatories to either the Geneva or Hague Conventions. During the Iran/ Iraq War we’d all seen reports of atrocities they’d committed while carrying out interrogations. Their prisoners had been flogged, electrocuted, and partially dismembered. I was very concerned that if we were captured and just went into the “Big Four”-number, rank, name, date of birth-these people wouldn’t be satisfied and would require more from us, as their gruesome track record had shown. I therefore decided that, contrary to military conventions and without telling my superiors, the patrol should prepare itself with a cover story. But what should it be?

We were clearly an attacking force. We would be stuck up in northwest Iraq, carrying the world’s supply of ammunition, explosive ordnance, food, and water. You wouldn’t need the brains of an archbishop to realize that we weren’t there as members of the Red Cross.