BACK AND FORTH-I

CHAPTER 12

                                                                            CHAPTER TWELVE

                                                                                      THEFT

         Back in the workshop, Paul, along with ten of our original inductees sat about discussing how we would pick out the trucks with the weapons we required.

       "They were all marked, identified, if you like, with a cross," said Paul, knowledgeably.

       "Yeah, and I did the marking. As they were loaded onto the trucks, I had half a dozen of my boys checking and ticking off every weapon." The voice of the Scotsman, MacDonald Trevor, boomed raucously across the table. He is a six footer, built like an outhouse of pure muscle, but with a brain as sharp as a Samurai sword. He laid a sheet of paper upon the table, then drew from memory, a map. Everything is laid out as it is, including the position of the trucks we are to requisition.

      Paul smiled.

      "Your photographic memory has always been a plus for us, Mac." Paul looked about the table, then he turned his gaze toward me. "Leave this job to us, Antony. This can become dangerous."

      "What do you mean, dangerous?" I replied. "I can't see how you can say that. I mean, the war is finished, over."

      "What Paul means," interjected Bill, "is that these men know where they were, and, could possibly shoot each other or himself. These men were psyched up. It takes days, weeks even for them to come down. They need to recall their exact positions, so that when this group go to pick up the haul, they don't bump into each-other or themselves. Nothing must go awry."

      There is a general nodding of heads. Bugger! I thought. I realised this is one trip I could not go on. Bill is right, of course. Then I had an idea.

      "Does anyone here recall a ship going down, called the Atlantic Conveyor? " My question might have seemed out of place, but all heads turned my way. "It was hit by a couple of exocet missiles, but sunk a couple of days later when it is being towed to safety. I'm looking up on line some details of the damage and losses to crew and equipment. From the Atlantic Conveyor, we can take four Chinook, six Wessex helicopters and all the fuel we can get away with. Do you think we could also do that, Paul?"

      "Tell me what you know, and I will consider what might be feasible."

      "He doesn't need to," came the voice of Doctor Bones, the groups trusted medic. "I brought it up on my screen. From what I read here, we could pull this one off with ease. All we would need is to get inside the cargo hold before the two exocet hit the ship. Having said that, only a fully trained Chinook pilot and his crew could fly those machines." I never could get used to fold-up laptops, slim as paper and light as a feather. I watched as Bones pushed his laptop around for the rest of our group to peruse. When Mac chirped up with an idea how to possibly enrol a Chinook crew.

      "I know the whereabouts of Carrot top Fred Baker. He was a Chinook pilot. I think I still have his number in my phone. Besides, there are no tarmac roads we could use in 1066, we would find it helpful to carry the heavy equipment to exactly where we want to place it. Would you chaps excuse me for one moment? This is going to be a delicate juggling act. His misses is a bit tetchy these days about him flying anything but a flag."

      Mac rose from his seat and, with his mobile phone in one hand, he took a stroll outside. He quickly returned. "Bugger!" His ejaculation took everyone by surprise.