Thank you Graven for the LogoSteve Ashe is an Ex Special Forces operator, now working for The British, American and Russian Intelligence He is tasked tp carry out Deniable operations all over the world. He is now in Syria Protecting a Television Crew filming a documentary, but when the TV Crew is kidnapped and held hostage by a group of insurgents he must make a difficult Decision: Wait for the Authorities to negotiate the situation or Follow his mission out and save them himself.Chapter 1
Wednesday 21st of March, 2003, 0800 Hours, North East of Syria. The Heat, stench, noise and sheer f*cking Claustrophobia in the back of the Armoured Car were repressive enough, but now the armour was clanging 3 times a second as though the world’s strongest man was playing the drums on the side of our 157 Ridgback. We were being shot at more and more as the Ridgback rolled on,
this could only mean we were getting closer and closer to the target. “sh*t” The Yorkshire driver screamed down my PRR, “there’s a f*cking army of them” The captain screamed so loud I had to lift up the pad on my headset. “Stop the Car you c*nt, You’ll hit The f*cker!” The driver dropped the anchors and we came to a gut lurching halt. “Out, out, out!” The back door was flung open and myself and the captain were straight out, on the ground returning fire at the swarming
Soon there was a much larger bang to my half left, “RPG”. Rocket Propelled Grenades could punch through solid concrete walls, I knew it would just bounce off the skirt of bar armour that the Ridgback had, never the less, we had to move. I was on a 8 month job guarding a press team while they gave some “Harrowing” Report on the current state of Syria. The Captains name was Ray, the driver was Pete, the camera man was Carl and The Reporter was Paul.
“To the alleyway” bellowed Ray Down the PRR. Whilst we ran I reached up to my ear pad and turned down the volume, if I died I didn’t want some Idiot screaming down my ear.
“Steve, go to the Hotel, it’s round the corner and down the street. We’ll keep held off until 2 Yorkshire gets here.” I swung my holstered M16 from around my back, into my hands and off I ran. I got about 2 Buildings down when 3 of the Jundies spotted me and began shooting and screaming at me. I jumped behind a Skip and the frantic rounds either zoomed past me kicking up dirt or hit the skip. I took a deep Breath, Clicked my mini-me to Semi, aimed round the corner shot 5 controlled bursts at them, dropping them.
Tonight, the British army’s 2nd Yorkshire regiment were about to kick the sh*t out of a large group of Jundies controlling the outskirt region of Syria, which is where I was. The Regiments Mission was to do the Break in and ours was to “report” it. Paul Talked, Carl filmed him and I had to make sure they Didn’t get their faces blown off, Snatched or get run over by a gaggle of Bickering Northerners.
It wasn’t easy; when Paul started playing news boy he thought there was some sort of magic shield in between him and a group of angry, armed and agitated Jundies. Sometimes he even thought he didn’t need a helmet or any sort of extra protection, but in this war the Enemy did not give a sh*t if you were a high class officer or a pot washer. If you were British, they wanted you out, preferably after cutting off your head online. The sun wasn’t that high in the sky but it was still chucking out a bit of heat, but not enough to coax me out of my mink-like camo jacket. I gave my greasy stubble face a rub, stood up and ran into a seemingly empty house. Best not to let them know I’m here (it didn’t seem very likely that they’d offer me tea and biscuits.) I reached for my Golok, edged up to the nearest door and put my ear next the chipped, wooden door and heard hushed Jundy Voices. This post has been edited by Rofl50 on Monday, Jun 18 2012, 13:09